by Brenda Novak
Cunnington spoke first. “As a friend of the baron’s, I feel it my duty to try and persuade you to return her immediately, sir. Lady St. Ives made our decision for us when she stole aboard this ship, especially when we consider that the baron tried to reclaim her before we left port.”
Cruikshank grunted. “Yes, I have thought of that. It certainly does not reflect well on us that she escaped notice for so long. The baron has friends in high places who will no doubt wonder what kind of ship we are running here.”
“Indeed,” Cunnington agreed. “The only way to avoid further embarrassment is by returning her posthaste.”
Jeannette tried to swallow the food in her mouth, but her throat seemed to have closed off.
Several of the others nodded their approval.
“Shall we return on the morrow then?” the captain asked.
Jeannette’s gaze lifted to find Cunnington smiling at her as if he knew she’d rather be dragged behind horses than return to Plymouth. And his smile widened when Treynor spoke.
“At the risk of being the only dissenting voice, I feel it is imperative that we keep our position along the coast until after the grain convoy tries to break through to France. Our squadron is counting on us to help hold a line that is already too thin.”
“Hear, hear,” someone muttered, but Treynor continued with scarcely a pause.
“Although I share everyone’s concern for the baroness—” he nodded his head politely in her direction “—I should hate to sacrifice the integrity of the blockade. We are, after all, at war.”
Jeannette lowered her lashes, refusing to study the lieutenant as she longed to do. Was he trying to help her yet again? Or did he care only for the blockade, as he made it sound?
Regardless, his words garnered immediate support from the master, the purser, and Toddy Pratt. For that, Jeannette was grateful.
“How noble of you, Lieutenant, to be so mindful of your duty,” Cunnington said. “Somehow I thought you might disagree. You have made a habit of looking out for the lady’s interests since you brought her aboard.”
“Meaning what, Lieutenant Cunnington?” the captain asked.
“Meaning that the two of them are playing us for fools, sir. Can you not see it? They are lovers.”
Forks stilled around the table. Even the captain looked as though he had to force down his last bite with a swallow of wine. “Excuse me,” he sputtered after a hacking cough, but his attention never left Cunnington. “On what grounds do you make such an accusation?”
The first lieutenant shrugged and picked up his glass. “I have observed both of them quite closely, sir. I would wager Lieutenant Treynor knew Jean Vicard’s true identity from the start.”
The captain’s bloodshot eyes widened and shifted, first toward Jeannette and then his second lieutenant.
Cunnington continued, “You all saw him step in and allow himself to be tied to the grate. He wanted to save her from more than a whipping. Her honor and her modesty were both at grave risk—”
Treynor interrupted him, but calmly. “You are forgetting one thing, Mr. Cunnington. As you are so fond of pointing out, I am a mere bastard. How could I convince a baron’s wife to run away with me when I can offer her nothing more than boy’s rags, a small cabin, and my nominal navy pay? What is more, why would I do it? Not only would it ruin her life and my career, but the legal implications are enormous. A marriage contract is no small thing.”
The others at the table were listening with rapt attention. Jeannette could feel their attention rest on her as if they were weighing the two arguments and did her best not to show her fear.
“Regardless,” Cunnington responded. “You are infatuated with her. I have seen how your gaze trails after her, how you protect her at any cost—”
“That is all very romantic, Mr. Cunnington, but I am afraid you overrate my powers of seduction.” Treynor smiled indulgently, as though Cunnington’s words entertained him rather than upset him. “If the two of us are lovers, why would Lady St. Ives suddenly give herself up to the captain?”
“That is the question, is it not?” Cunnington raised his glass in silent acknowledgment of the shocked faces around the table. “Perhaps you knew discovery was not far away. I would have figured it out eventually. The fact remains that the lady spent three nights in your cabin, and I am sure the baron will not be pleased to learn that.”
“The lieutenant had no idea the boy he sheltered was a woman, let alone the baron’s wife,” Jeannette argued.
“Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe, my lady.” Cunnington saluted her with his glass.
She attempted to stare him down. “The truth is not judged by its plausibility, sir. The truth is simply the truth.”
“Then, pray, tell us the truth for once,” he scoffed.
“Cunnington, that is enough,” the captain said. “We will get to the bottom of this when we have a bit of privacy, I assure you. But I will not have my supper ruined.”
Her appetite lost, Jeannette pushed her plate away. If Cunnington discredited her by spreading his lies to his parents and their friends, she would never get her annulment.
Strictly speaking, perhaps she didn’t deserve one. She hadn’t physically succumbed to Treynor, but she had him to thank for that fact more than herself.
“I apologize, Lady St. Ives.” A wry smile twisted Treynor’s lips. “Lieutenant Cunnington is suspicious by nature. He seems to consider you compromised merely by my reputation as a rake.”
“Which reputation is not completely undeserved,” Toddy Pratt volunteered.
Pratt’s jest seemed to ease the tension, and the conversation moved on to the possibility of a storm, but Jeannette could feel the men watching her when they thought she wasn’t looking. Even the captain became morose, saying nothing while drinking plenty.
As the servants cleared away the dishes, the fife player struck up another tune. The light, airy notes contrasted sharply with Jeannette’s mood. She wanted to excuse herself, to escape the vile Cunnington as soon as possible, yet she awaited the captain’s word. She had no idea where she was to spend the night, or what his final decision regarding their return to Plymouth would be.
The purser intruded upon her thoughts as he pushed away from the table. “I think a game of whist is in order. Can I entice anyone to join me?”
Toddy Pratt, Cunnington, and Bosun Hawker accepted his invitation and the four moved to a small table along the canvas wall that separated the wardroom from the cabins beyond it. Those who remained enjoyed the last of their wine. Once Captain Cruikshank emptied his glass, he slid his chair back and stood, then bowed to Jeannette.
“Will you do me the honor of a dance, my lady? It is not often we have the pleasure of feminine companionship.”
Jeannette accepted the captain’s hand. She wanted to glance Treynor’s way, but settled for singling out the deep timbre of his voice as he spoke with the ship’s master across the table, discussing matters of navigation.
As Jeannette wondered what type of dance the captain might choose, he slid his arm around her back and gripped her right hand high. So it was to be a waltz, she realized, surprised that the unpolished captain would know how to execute a dance that most of the English considered quite scandalous. Not only that, but there was only the fife to provide music. The player began with a run of notes that gave Jeannette a burst of energy—but slowed to a stately pace when the captain began to tire and glared his way.
Fast or slow, the steps she followed were far from a waltz, or any other dance Jeannette knew. They were more of a modified version of several that left her constantly wondering what the next move might be.
“You dance well, my lady,” he told her.
“Merci, monsieur.”
They turned about the floor for a few moments before he lowered his voice. “Tell me, is there anything to what Cunnington has said?”
Willing him to believe her, Jeannette forced her gaze to his face. “None, sir. I can assure you
that Lieutenant Treynor was as ignorant of my identity when he brought me aboard as you were yourself.”
“Indeed.”
“As a matter of fact, I had never met him before signing on. I lived in London for only a year after arriving from France, and as I said, I was in Liskeard for the past month while awaiting my wedding. I doubt the lieutenant has had occasion to visit London, at least in a capacity that would bring the two of us together.”
This seemed to bolster the captain’s confidence, and his steps quickened again. He even began to smile. “As I thought. Treynor’s conduct has always been exemplary.”
Mention of Treynor drew Jeannette’s attention to where he stood, leaning idly against one wall. As she and the captain moved, his gaze followed them, but he remained engaged in conversation with the fourth lieutenant and the ship’s master.
“Lieutenant Cunnington must bear some sort of grudge against Mr. Treynor, sir,” she said. “Why else would he spew such thoughtless slander?”
“They have always been at odds,” he answered simply. “But now that the accusation has been publicly stated I feel, for the welfare of all involved, we should return to Plymouth with all due haste. I hope you understand.”
He seemed intent on her reaction despite his earlier words in support of Treynor.
Jeannette prayed her smile looked far less brittle than it felt. “Certainly, monsieur.”
Winded, the captain stopped and released her. “I apologize for my first lieutenant, madam, but you can rest assured that you will soon be safely ensconced in your husband’s home.”
“Merci,” Jeannette replied, but silently cursed Cunnington. At Hawthorne House, there would be no one to stop St. Ives from doing whatever he wanted with her. By the time she could get help from Lord Darby in London, it would be too late. But she swallowed her panic and curtsied politely, knowing that arguing with Cruikshank would only make him doubt her credibility.
With a responding bow, the captain thanked Jeannette for the dance and told her he would have one of the midshipmen show her to a cabin when she was ready to retire. But before he had so much as straightened to his full height, which was several inches shorter than most of the other men in the room, the ship’s master approached and asked Jeannette for the next dance.
She turned about the floor with the master twice and the fourth lieutenant once before Treynor approached. Bowing, an enigmatic smile on his face, he extended his hand. “I believe the next dance is mine.”
And although Cunnington stared at them from the whist table by the wall, Jeannette could not bring herself to deny him.
Chapter 15
As Treynor took her into his arms, Jeannette couldn’t help noticing the difference between his erect posture and firm, confident embrace and the other men’s nearly apologetic stances. He moved about the floor with purpose, leading her with skill, his energy seeming to flow into her body at every point of contact.
“Do you think this is wise?” she murmured under cover of Pratt and Hawker’s raised voices as they wrangled over their card game.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I always claim what is mine.”
Staring at the buttons of his waistcoat so that their conversation would not be readily detected by the others, Jeannette lowered her voice. “I am not yours!” she protested hotly.
A fleeting glance revealed a sardonic smile on his full lips. “Easy, my lady. I meant the dance. You owed me a dance, remember?”
Jeannette felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. She was too aware of Treynor, especially now, with his fingers threaded through her own, his palm on her back. She knew those hands could stir a deep longing, the memory of which would always plague her.
“What of Cunnington?” she asked. “I doubt he will let his accusations lie.”
“It is not you he is after, my dear. It is me he wants to destroy.”
“But his parents know my husband. If Cunnington discredits me, my cousin, Lord Darby, may not assist me. My hopes for an annulment will be lost.”
“We can prove we are not lovers. You are yet a virgin—although how we have managed that, I cannot say. I have been entertaining the idea of dispensing with your maidenhead ever since I met you.”
Afraid he might have been overheard, Jeannette glanced toward the others. “You risk much, monsieur.”
“I would risk more if I thought we could get away with it.” He grinned.
The melody continued and they fell silent, but Jeannette couldn’t help worrying her lip. “Cunnington frightens me,” she admitted. “He hates us both.”
“My beautiful Jeannette, there is a solution to every problem.”
“And you found one for the man who beat me.” It was not quite a question.
Treynor squeezed her hand. “He deserved more than a bucket around his neck.”
It was as she had suspected then. Treynor had punished the petty officer for what he had done to her. “How did you know it was he?”
“I have ways of getting what I want.”
“Are you ever denied?”
“Not if I am determined.”
Exhausted, the fifer came to the end of his tune and ceased to play, saving Jeannette from having to make a reply. She didn’t know what to say anyway; she was glad she had left Treynor’s cabin and turned herself in to the captain. The way he looked at her made her knees buckle and brought visions of his hard, naked chest. She wanted to trail kisses over the entire expanse of it, pausing only to feel the strong beat of his heart at the hollow of his throat.
The room suddenly felt far too warm. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
The captain approached, and Treynor released her with a simple, “My lady.”
Cruikshank and the others bid her good night, but Jeannette barely heard their words. Instead Treynor’s voice echoed in her ears. Not if I am determined.
She would have to be as well, she decided. Or she would become his next conquest—and any hope of an annulment would slip away.
* * *
Jeannette tossed and turned in the narrow cabin the captain had reserved for her use. Besides the dress, he’d had his steward bring over a nightgown fit for a lady and some smaller items, no doubt also left behind by his daughters. She was grateful for his kindness, and for the privacy afforded by the lock on her door. Cunnington’s smug look as she’d bid the officers farewell haunted her still.
Unwilling to put out the lamp just yet, she stared miserably at the cannon below and to the right of her hammock. With its cold, dark muzzle pointed at the closed gunport, the wooden apparatus that cradled it tied securely into place, it became a symbol of how far she had come since leaving France only a year ago.
How had she gotten herself into such a terrible mess? She’d wanted only to help her family, to restore their happiness. But instead of being a dutiful daughter, she was letting Lieutenant Treynor consume more and more of her thoughts and dreams, torturing herself by wanting something she could never have.
“All’s well.” The sentry’s cry echoed more and more faintly from the various stations on the deck above.
Jeannette gave up trying to sleep and climbed out of her hammock. Rather than feel sorry for herself, she would see to Amelia. She hated to venture out alone so late at night, but she was under the captain’s protection now. No one would dare harm her.
She dressed, making sure to take a shawl against the cold and a handkerchief. As she headed out with her lamp, she listened carefully for footsteps that would indicate she had company. She knew the master-at-arms made a series of nightly rounds. She cared not if she saw him, but captain’s protection or no, she had no desire to run into Cunnington.
Everything was quiet and dark. Most of the lanterns were extinguished at night so the ship could not be seen from a distance. She walked as quickly as possible to the galley, where she filched a bit of cooked salt pork saved from someone’s dinner. Managing to garner a chunk of bread, as well, she wrapped it in her handkerchief.
Anyone else risk
ed the cat-o-nine for the theft of food—the theft of anything—but she knew she had no reason to fear the lash. Not anymore.
After descending two decks, she arrived at the hold, where the smell was no less pungent for being expected. Jeannette nearly gagged as she hesitated at the entrance, but managed to swallow her revulsion long enough to call Amelia’s name.
No answer. Thinking herself alone in the hollow-sounding hull, she was about to give up. She hoped Amelia’s beau had taken her elsewhere, found her a better place to hide. But she knew that wasn’t the case when she heard a soft moan.
“Amelia? Is that you?” Fear caused a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, dank air.
“Over ‘ere,” someone croaked.
Jeannette lifted her lamp high, using it to help search between the towering barrels.
“‘Elp me. Please.”
The voice was weak. What was wrong? Fear raced through Jeannette’s veins like wildfire. “I am coming, my friend.”
“Here…”
Jeannette wove her way through the maze to find Amelia lying on the floor, curled up on one side. She had Treynor’s blanket bunched beneath her head, but her face looked ashen in the yellow glow of the lamplight.
“What is wrong? What has happened?” Jeannette knelt to feel the girl’s forehead. It was hot and glistening with moisture.
“The baby …the baby’s comin’.”
“Now?” Jeannette set the food aside. “How long have you been like this?”
“Hours. I ‘eard the bells.”
Jeannette swallowed hard. “This is it, then.”
Amelia nodded, a short feeble movement.
“We have to get you out of here. Who is your man? Where can I find him?”
Breathing shallowly through parted lips, Amelia closed her eyes.
“Amelia!”
The girl’s eyelids fluttered open.
“You must tell me who he is.” Jeannette felt certain Amelia would die if she didn’t get her to a warm, dry place.