The Bastard (8 page)

“I have no family,” she said. “The ship provides food and drink, does it not? That is more than I have here.” She kept her eyes lowered, afraid he might recognize her somehow, even though he’d never glimpsed her in the light.

“Take him on, Trey,” one of the men called, turning away from the innkeeper who had just emerged from the building. “Dade’s run off.”

“What?” Lieutenant Treynor swung around as though tempted to start a brawl.

“You heard me. He’s gone.”

“Bloody hell!”

Treynor’s curse caused the men to clear their throats and shuffle their feet. “The rest of us are here,” someone said.

“I’m not going back without Dade,” Treynor vowed. “Spread out and look for him.” But, cursing again, he promptly reversed his order. “No, Bill and Luke, you go. The captain is expecting his beef. The rest of us will see it aboard. If you have no luck and we’ve the time, I’ll come back later and see what I can find.” His gaze rested on Jeannette. “What is your name?”

Jeannette began to stutter before her mind could lay hold of the name she had decided to use. “J-J-Jean. Jean Vicard.”

“Where’s your dunnage?”

“I-I-I have none, sir.”

He looked down at the scrawny mongrel at her ankles. “Can that dog catch rats?”

“Of course,” she answered swiftly. She would teach it how if she had to catch a few herself.

“Then you can bring him,” he said. “We sail on the outgoing tide if the wind is favorable.”

Jeannette only half-heard him. A simple, black carriage had emerged from the fog a few yards away. It stopped on the other side of the street, and a tall, gangly man descended. He ducked into one establishment after another until fear prickled the back of Jeannette’s neck.

Was he looking for her? She bit her lip as something began to nag at her memory. She had seen him somewhere before—perhaps, she thought with apprehension, at her own wedding.

Jeannette watched as he made his way down the street, finally crossing to the Stag. He was probably asking about her even now, she thought.

Her identity would not remain a secret for long if the inquisitive stranger had met her as the baron’s intended.

Treynor and the others headed to the wharves. Not wanting to be left behind, Jeannette scooped up the dog and followed, but once they reached the dock they had to wait. The frigate rode at anchor almost half a mile out of the harbor, while skiffs and other small craft came and went—all spoken for.

Jeannette struggled to keep watch on the entrance to the Stag, but the wives, well-wishers, ragged children, and vendors mobbing the dock often obstructed her view. She put the dog down and fidgeted nervously, glancing seaward to survey the huge ship that was to carry her to London. What was taking so long?

The delay wasn’t caused by any lack of skiffs, she saw. Evidently, even fishing boats were converted into ferries when a frigate docked. Unfortunately, nearly all the smaller craft were at the ship, waiting to bring the many women crowding its decks back to shore.

The sun progressed in its daily ascent, burning away the fog and making Jeannette feel all the more conspicuous for being viewed in full daylight. She folded her arms across her body and tried to keep from tapping her toe, hoping to appear as at ease as those around her.

Please don’t let me be caught now
, she thought while fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. But the skiff owners seemed determined to thwart her. They refused to shove off until they had filled their crafts and collected the usual fare from each passenger.

Jeannette wished Lieutenant Treynor had the power to speed their departure, but there was nothing he could do. Seemingly as impatient as she was, he paced in front of their small group, motioning to those at sea until finally a boat headed back toward the dock. It was overloaded and sailing so low that water sloshed over the sides, but the women aboard didn’t care. They laughed and shouted and waved at those they left behind.

The going was slow. Twice the small vessel nearly capsized: once when a woman stood and bent over, lifting her skirts to the lot of cheering men on the frigate behind her, and once again when they all turned to wave and chant a farewell.

The prostitutes who serviced His Majesty’s Royal Navy were a motley lot. Buxom wenches jostled against thin ones; the middle-aged vied with the young. Some were barely twelve if they were a day. With filthy, torn dresses and faces more heavily painted than that of any actress, they made Jeannette sad, even though their bawdy talk and laughter told her that many of them were drunk.

The small boat bumped against the wharf and was made fast. Then the chattering women climbed out. The sailors who were with Jeannette patted a round rump here or there, seemingly pleased with what they saw. But, in Jeannette’s opinion, the prostitutes looked no better up close. One woman, who appeared a good bit older, though not quite so bedraggled as the rest, winked at Lieutenant Treynor and managed to brush up against him as she passed.

“In a ’urry, sir?” she asked.

Even a couple of paces behind, Jeannette could smell cheap brandy on her breath and clothes. But it was preferable to the stench it covered up, she decided, catching a whiff of unwashed skin and heaven knew what else.

Treynor raised his hand to wave her away, then thought better of it. Finding a coin, he flipped it to her before bending to hold the lighter while the others climbed in.

“My place isn’t far,” she said, a hopeful gleam in her eye. “A man ’andsome as yerself deserves somethin’ for ’is money.”

“Some other time.”

The woman began to saunter up the dock. “Send for Patricia when yer in, love!” she called back.

With a noncommittal smile, Treynor stepped back so Jeannette could get into the boat. She handed the little dog to one of the oarsmen, but before she could climb inside herself, the man who had entered the tavern reappeared.

The man stepped forward. Jeannette noted his odd attire— knit pantaloons and red silk waistcoat, which emphasized his narrow shoulders and ponderous hips. He did not deign to tip his tall hat, but cocked his head.

“I am Ralston Moore, solicitor for Lord Percival Borden, the Baron St. Ives,” he told Treynor.

His soft, insinuating tone curdled the blood in Jeannette’s veins.

“I am looking for a young woman who disappeared from Hawthorne House late last night. Perhaps you have seen her.”

Jeannette couldn’t help it. She caught her breath and bit her lip, waiting for the moment Ralston Moore would turn his attention on her.

Treynor glanced up. “Who is she?”

“The baron’s new wife. The barkeep at the Stag thought he saw an unfamiliar woman by the hearth last night. He said you men were there at the time.”

A fresh jolt of panic shot through Jeannette when one of Treynor’s fellow officers spoke up.

“Treynor saw someone, too, a certain woman he took to his bed last night. He says she had the body of a goddess. Unfortunately, she also had the makings of a good pugilist."

The others burst into laughter, and Jeannette let her breath go. They were teasing Treynor; they had no real information to give.

Treynor scowled at them, but the solicitor cut off whatever he was about to say.

“I am not searching for a harlot.” Peeved that the sailors had failed to take him more seriously, Moore sniffed. “She is gently born and bred!”

Treynor nodded at another lighter filled with prostitutes. “Then you are looking in the wrong place. They call this Damnation Alley for a reason.” He stepped into the boat as a passing wave made it rock and had to fight to keep his balance. The boat tipped wildly and Jeannette nearly went overboard. Reaching back, he grabbed her by the collar and pulled her down next to him.

The hard muscles of his thigh rubbed against her leg as she landed with a plop on the timbers of the sternsheets, but the solicitor scarcely looked at her.

“Still, I must search. The baron will not rest until he finds her. Should you have any information that could lead to her eventual recovery, please contact me.” Moore handed Treynor his calling card.

Treynor glanced at it, shoved it in his pocket, and signaled the oarsmen. One rose and hauled on the line to pull the boat close to the dock and cast off.

“The baron is offering a hefty reward,” Moore added, calling this information out over the slap of oars.

Jeannette turned her face to the sea. So St. Ives was offering a reward. She had expected him to go to great lengths. It looked as though he wasn’t going to disappoint her. But none of that mattered. She would be in London soon. With Lord Darby's help, certainly she could find a way to avoid St. Ives for good.

If only for a quick, uneventful voyage.

Twenty minutes later, Jeannette looked up to see the ship rising from the water. Much larger than it had appeared on shore, it looked to have eyes all around. As they drew closer, Jeannette realized they were portholes for the long barrels of cannons.

Until that moment, she hadn’t really thought of the
Tempest
as a fighting machine. Now the full realization hit her. She was about to board a ship that had been purpose-built for battle. Men fought upon her decks, were wounded and maimed. Some suffered terrible deaths. The ship could be blown to bits, burst into flame, or sink into a watery grave.

But not before they reached London, she reminded herself.

Gazing worriedly over her shoulder, she could just see Mr. Moore on the pier, his back to her, stopping passersby. She’d slipped right past him and would soon be safe with Lord Darby. Her family would, no doubt, join her there soon.

If St. Ives only knew how close he’d come...

Too close, Jeannette decided, but she was free. She had only to bide her time. With a silent and very mocking good-bye to Moore, she faced front again.

“The
Tempest
was built by your countrymen.”

Jeannette started at Treynor’s voice and turned to see him watching her. “Oh?”

“Yes, captured by the English
Flora
in 1780.” The wind ruffled the lieutenant’s thick, sandy hair as he spoke, and his eyes reflected the blue water surrounding them. He made a pleasant sight, but she forced her attention to the frigate. As they closed the distance, it loomed nearly straight up out of the water.

“C'est tres grand.”

“Not as big as some. She’s fair sized at almost one thousand tons, but she carries only fifty guns.” He pointed to the portholes Jeannette had noticed earlier and continued with unmistakable pride, “Thirty-six long twelve-pound cannon on the main deck, twelve twenty-four pound carronades on the quarterdeck and forecastle, and two long-sixes in the bows, along with a crew of more than five hundred men.”

They were so close Jeannette could nearly reach out and touch the top of the greenish copper plating that covered the lower portion of the
Tempest
’s hull.

“Why is the bottom covered with metal?” she asked.

“To keep worms from burrowing holes into the wood.”

Above the copper, a wide black band separated the gun deck from the others. Above the gun deck sat the main deck, cradled between the raised forecastle at the bow and the quarterdeck at the stern.

Jeannette shaded her eyes. Though she could see only their tips, three slender masts rose into the sky, looking like giant needles threaded with rope.

“The one in the bow is called the foremast,” Treynor explained, following her gaze. “The one in the middle is the mainmast, and the one in the stern is the mizzenmast. The large, horizontal poles that cross them are called yards and bear the sails, but because we’re in port, the sails are lashed down.”