“Aye.” Beau didn’t want to discuss it. He leaned back against the carved bar and peered around the room, seeing a few familiar faces. The same unsavory characters still jammed the place: seaman, speculators, shipping agents, financiers, Union spies, Confederate officers, former British Navy men, reporters, con men, and women. If one needed information, for the price of a drink or two, this was where answers could be found.
“With all the changes in town, it’s good to see the place is still the same,” Beau said.
“Aye, man.” Felix grinned. “Same, same, except prices…only go up. Lots of easy money. Many people come. All the time they build homes and warehouses. Still not enough.”
Beau snorted. “I did notice all the cotton overflowing the docks.”
“Are you staying at Royal Vic?” Felix asked.
“Wouldn’t stay anywhere else.” A pair of soft, warm hands covered Beau’s eyes from behind. Gardenia perfume wafted about him. “And who do we have here?” he asked.
“Cher, you must guess,” a lilting, dark-honey voice purred in his ear.
“Only one person I know has hands that soft. Could it be Sweetapple Nell?”
Beau turned on his stool. Dressed in her trademark red silk gown, the handsome, shapely madam slid onto his lap, circling her arms about his neck. The warm, sweet scent of flowers rose from the deep crevasse of her generous bosom. Kissing him square on the lips, she rubbed noses. “My handsome captain. It must be a dream. You are still alive. Those dirty Yankees cannot best an Englishman, even if he is faithless and inconstant.”
“I take it you’re happy to see me?”
She kissed him again with the slow, practiced caress of an experienced fille de joie.
While Nell skillfully pressed her generous lips around his, he felt a shift in the atmosphere. Pulling away from her, he gazed about the room. The crowd had parted in front of him. An open path now led straight to a group of well-dressed gentlemen.
At its center stood C.C.
He watched her jaw go slack and her beautiful eyes grow large as her gaze traveled over him and Nell. One nostril flared. She turned back to the men and smiled brightly.
It had been four weeks since their disconcerting good-bye kiss on the London wharf. The image of her dazed, dark eyes had been imprinted in his mind. But the woman in front of him appeared different. Instead of tightly laced purple, she now wore a flowing peach gown. The shade flattered her, warmed her color. Or was she blushing?
He looked between the men, suddenly annoyed, wondering which one had made her blush.
C.C. laughed and said something to the men. They laughed in return.
Nell pressed her breasts into Beau’s chest and began a slow trail of kisses up his neck. Unwanted emotions conflicted with unwanted arousal.
Kissing C.C. good-bye had been a bad idea. He’d been irritated with how she’d slyly gotten him to sign the agreement and wanted to impress upon her that he was in command. Somehow their simple kiss had caught fire and soared, primal and urgent. He’d paid for it every day since. That rash, ornery impulse in London had prompted a spate of heated dreams that plagued him all the way across the Atlantic.
Pulling his heart another direction were his memories of Millie and Freddie. He felt disloyal thinking of C.C. when everything around him reminded him of them. The conflict had begun to twist his insides so tight they’d soon be creaking like a mainspring under pressure.
He grabbed his glass of rum and tossed it back, relishing its burn, as he gazed at the men surrounding C.C. Every one of them radiated puffed-up arrogance. His fingers itched to land a blow into one of their haughty noses, get some fists flying.
C.C’s gaze drifted over to him and Nell and then quickly darted back to the U.S. Consul. She leaned in, smiled and said something in the man’s ear.
A chill crawled up Beau’s spine. Didn’t she know the consul sent detailed instructions through the state department to the Union fleet about the ships ready to run the blockade? The man had spies on the docks, for God’s sakes. They nosed out the nature of the ships’ cargos and their time of departure. It wouldn’t be wise to put it about she knew Beau or was traveling on the Redemption.
Nell ran her tongue around the rim of his ear and pressed her warm bottom heavier into his groin. He shuddered unwillingly. Nassau’s finest madam had been a friend since before Millie, but seeing C.C.’s expression made him feel, what? Inconstant? Like Nell had said?
Of course, she’d summed it up quite accurately—inconstant, untrustworthy and unreliable. Remembering how he let Millie and Freddie down sent a sharp pain careening through his chest.
An image formed of a bull pawing the ground and tossing a red cape and matador off to the side. He jerked his head away from Nell’s to gaze at C.C. This time he noticed her usually tight ringlets had loosened. One or two hung nearly to her creamy bosom. The low-cut silky gown flattered her slim waist and belled in several frilly flounces over a very full hoop. The total effect transformed her, made her softer, more alluring.
“So, you have noticed Nassau’s latest beauty.” Nell followed his gaze. “She is very pretty, no? All the men have been panting, hoping she will favor them with her bed. I wonder if she knows how to please a man as well as Sweetapple Nell.” She leaned in to give him a clear view of her cleavage.
Beau sat motionless while the madam ran a finger along his jaw to regain his attention.
“I see she has you spellbound. A little advice, cher. A woman like her is pleasing to the eye, but her heart may be as cold and hard as her porcelain skin.”
The spectacle before him so consumed his attention, he barely noticed Nell slide off his lap and move down the bar.
C.C.’s entourage appeared captivated. Her smile and movements had a grace and appeal that could almost be called…seductive? She spoke and made eye contact with each man. They grinned, they laughed.
He’d never felt more like slamming his fists into a paunchy gut or two. And then it dawned on him. “Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “The woman is charming them.”
As he sat there, he realized she’d not made one odd outburst, strange laugh or unusual affectation. On the rare occasions he’d observed her in England, the men tended to be of two camps: those drawn to her beauty and wealth while trying to impress her with their titles and bloodlines, and those still smarting from her skewering. These men, however, seemed to be hanging on her every word. She was conducting herself with poise, decorum and dare he say, charisma?
A loud cheer at the other end of the bar finally pulled Beau’s attention away. Nell and a group of men stood rolling dice, their money piled on the counter. “You wish to test your luck, cher?” Nell called, giving him a come-hither smile.
“No thanks. My luck is already spoken for. I’ll need every ounce of it.”
“So you intend to make a run on that beautiful Yankee doll?” The deep, gravelly voice came from a fellow who’d taken the stool at his side.
Until he spoke, Beau hadn’t paid attention to the rough, vaguely familiar mariner. The brute was big and clearly three sheets to the wind. Beau only grunted, sensing hostility.
“I’ll wager she can be had with a proper spank and a coin or two.” The mariner screwed up his face and drew his bulbous lips into a flinty sneer, deepening his ugly pockmarks.
Beau came off his stool and dragged the imbecile up by his collar.
The fellow reared back, clenching his fist into a mallet of gnarled knuckles.
A wide paw slapped Beau on the back and nearly knocked him into the bar. “Captain Beau!” The familiar scent of George’s cherry cheroot circled around him.
Teeth clenched, Beau didn’t remove his gaze from the pockmarked brute in front of him.
The drunken gleam in the fellow’s eyes said he, too, was itching for scuffle.
“It’s been an age and a day,” George barked cheerily behind him. “Will you share a drink with your old friend?”
Beau continued to glare at the lout as
he smoothed the man’s dirty collar back into place. “There now, fixed that wrinkle for you.” He turned and grabbed the big harbor pilot’s outstretched hand. “George! You old waterlogged piece of driftwood, how’ve you been?”
“Tolerably well, and you?” George grinned.
“Another glass please, Felix,” Beau called to the bartender.
They made their way over to a small table where Beau filled their glasses. He lifted his chin toward the revelers. “Looks like everyone’s loafing about town. Not many ships making runs these days? You know how I always liked the ocean to myself.”
George’s brows pulled together. “There is much to get in your way. Armed Union vessels have grown very thick of late.”
“Anything I should know?”
“Aye.” George smirked and counted on his fingers. “You’ve three cordons of ships to sneak through: the one that crosses the sailing paths from Nassau to Wilmington; the group that edges the Gulf Stream, and the squadrons making a forty mile half-moon from New Inlet to Old Inlet. At least thirty ships sit ready to dance at that point. Then there’s the free-roaming Yankee cruisers between here and Wilmington…a bold bunch these days.”
Beau rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “I met one of them sitting at the entrance to Nassau’s harbor. Had to wait two days for him to move.”
“Aye, he’s a stinker, that one.”
“Is that all I have to deal with?” Beau exhaled. “And here I thought I’d driven a hard bargain with my pay.”
George poured himself another shot of rum, his expression suddenly sad. “I never got a chance to offer my sympathies for your loss. I should have been with you. My ship was stuck in Wilmington.”
Beau gazed around the crowd, not wanting to meet George’s sorrowful eyes. “Luck smiled your way when you missed that run with me. A fast cruiser harried us on and off throughout of the voyage. My engineer said the constant outmaneuvering in heavy seas strained the engine. We used all our anthracite coal and had to use the smoky North Carolina rock. After we crossed the Gulf Stream we slowly began losing more power and speed.
“Did you try the usual tricks?”
“Aye.” Beau took a sip of his rum. “Even threw in turpentine-soaked bales of cotton and rosin lumps, but they barely nudged the steam gauge.”
“The Roundabout was a dasher.” George frowned.
“Aye, she could do fifteen knots, easy. By the time we’d come within a hundred miles of the coast, she could barely make eight. At about two in the morning we neared New Inlet, with a high tide, no moon and a scattered mist.”
“Ideal conditions.” George nodded.
“I figured if we ran at full steam, we could sneak through. As soon as we lined up with the channel’s signal lights, a gunboat moved to block our path. They sent up rockets. Two more cruisers came charging out of the dark and closed in fast. Bullets and shrapnel began bouncing around us like a gravel bin had been dumped over the ship. I told the engineer to give her all she had. That’s when the engine blew.”
“The Roundabout was a good, sturdy ship,” George said. “Odd for her engine to fail the moment bullets started flying?”
“So it would seem. Yet her engine acted strangely the whole voyage. We kept lightening her up. She’d gain speed only to slow again. The Yanks’ ships were fast, faster than the usual Union cruisers. We outmaneuvered them but didn’t have the speed to shake them.”
George’s expression hardened. “Sounds suspicious to me. Who was the engineer?”
“Floyd Warren. He came well recommended when my regular engineer never showed.”
“Don’t know the name,” George said. “Could be an alias. Did anyone see anything? Do you know what happened to him?”
The muscles constricted in Beau’s shoulders. He knocked back the rest of his drink. “Once the Yanks captured the Roundabout, they separated me from the crew. Haven’t seen Floyd since. I’ve run into three crewmembers from that run. They verified they’d all been released, but hadn’t been anywhere near the engineer to see if he did anything to foul the engine.”
Beau fingered his empty glass and leaned toward George. “Which brings me to another question. I’ve a new ship, the Redemption. Took her through her paces and she’s a wonder. I need a good pilot for a run to Wilmington and back. Pay is four thousand dollars in gold, round trip.”
George’s brows went up. “Good money and a good ship. That answers two of my questions.” He bit his lip. “Can I bring my own lead man?”
“Yes.” Beau nodded.
George threw out his arms, grinning, “When do we sail?”
“I’ll send word.”
George’s attention shifted to a woman who’d entered the bar. He quickly stood and shook Beau’s hand. “I’d be happy to pilot her. Much obliged for the drinks.”
George made his way through the throng and strolled out the door with the woman on his arm. Beau sighed. Some things never changed. George still liked the ladies.
Since C.C. had already seen him, he supposed he better say hello. Grabbing his bottle, he slowly searched the saloon for her and then went out onto the crowded patio. Through the hum of voices, one rose piercingly above the rest.
“I don’t owe you a thing!”
Only one woman he knew spoke with such prim authority. The voice emanated from behind several woven palm screens. He’d used the secluded place himself to negotiate ‘business.’
Threading through the throng, he positioned himself next to the screen.
“See’n as I spent the last ten years in Sing Sing, I’d say you do and plenty!” a deep, gravelly voice rasped. The man hacked loudly and spat.
“Your business was with my father, not me!”
“Aye. And he took the easy way out, now didn’t he. Up and died ’afore he paid the piper. An’ you been livin’ like a fancy little princess, like you always did.”
Her voice grew quieter, more ominous. “It should have been you, not him.”
“Now don’t talk so pretty, princess. People tell me I’ve a limited sense of humor. We both know you can afford it and you’re his heir, so you best post the pony, and square his debts.”
“He owed you nothing and neither do I!”
“Your father wasn’t the saint he tried to make everyone believe. There’s other ways to get what’s comin’ to me. I know things, things you and your family might want kept secret. The newspapers would love—”
Her laugh shrilled dark and bitter. “You have been up the river a long time. It’s already been printed, pages and pages of the stuff. When they ran out of facts they started making up fiction. We probably have a whole section in the New York Public Library devoted to incriminating articles about me and my family.”
“I will get satisfaction!” A loud pounding punctuated his threat. “I will get paid if I have to take it out of your hide and everyone you care about! Do you recall a Mr. Rives?”
A chair scraped heavily across the stone flooring. “Enough,” she said. “I will not be party to your extortion. You have no power here.”
“Where do you think you’re go—” His words ended in a rasping cough, followed by deep hacking.
As he continued to whoop and gurgle C.C. declared, “Do not ever contact me again!”
Beau quickly moved into the shadow of a large silk tree as C.C. appeared from behind the screen and made her way back into the saloon.
Had he heard correctly? The man had said the name ‘Rives.’ Sipping his rum Beau waited for the blackguard to emerge. He always made it a practice to know who the villains were.
After a few moments the pockmarked mariner from the bar, the man he’d almost fought, stepped out from behind the screen. Beau took a closer look at the fellow and felt a chill. No, it couldn’t be. Captain Shamus Hargreaves was supposed to be dead. How on earth could C.C. be acquainted with such scum?
Chapter 11
A soft knock sent C.C. tottering to the door of her Royal Victoria Hotel suite. After a moment of fumbling with the loc
k, she managed to pull it open. Blinding sunshine flashed off Nassau’s turquoise harbor.
“You sent for a messenger, miss?” a boy asked.
She shaded her eyes against the morning light and held out an envelope and a coin. “Would you please deliver this to Captain Tollier? He’s a guest at the hotel. There’ll be another coin like this when you bring back his answer.” The boy plucked the money and envelope from her fingers and trotted off.
C.C. closed the door and plodded across the elegant room to collapse on the oak and velvet swooning couch. It was stifling. She pressed a hand to her temple and fanned herself. Her head pounded like an anvil choir practiced inside.
Last night’s encounter with one of her father’s more dangerous cohorts disturbed her sleep. Waves of shivers still crawled her skin. The odious sewer rat. The man was ruthless and a leech. Well, she would not play his game. He looked ill. It might be bad luck to wish someone dead, but she hoped he’d meet his fork-tailed master soon.
Captain Tollier, another major aggravation, also upset her sleep. The Redemption had put into port yesterday morning. She’d waited patiently all day for his message. A captain had many duties, after all. But by last evening with still no word, she decided to investigate.
“Foolishness,” she berated herself. “You knew better.” A man like him probably forgot about her the moment he bounded up the gangplank in London.
The front desk told her he’d arrived. Yet her eyes refused to believe it when she saw him sitting at the bar. He barely resembled the man who’d kissed her on that chilly London wharf. How different he looked in a Nassau white suit, long, sun-kissed hair and a red-clad bovine sprawled across his lap.
In England he’d worn the conservative dark-tailored attire of the upper classes. Except for his kisses and that unfortunate meeting in his bedchamber, he’d appeared a gentleman.
She should have seen through his formal British façade. The man was a rogue. She knew his history. Now back in his usual haunts, of course he would seek out his old bed partners. A sketch kept playing over and over in her head of him and his strumpet rutting like two oxen. How could she talk to him with that image running through her mind?
The Trouble With Misbehaving Page 10