Almost a Scandal (10 page)

“It was your brother Matthew’s idea to use the time to study for our lieutenancy examinations. Ambitious, Matthew Kent was. Still is, I’m sure. Do you remember?”

“I do.” She remembered as if it were yesterday. She had been old enough to envy them their careers, had hung on their every word, Col and Matthew. But especially Col. “Everyone was home for the same fortnight. Matthew, Dominic, Owen, Daniel, and Father. It was the last time we were all there, together.”

“I recall it particularly. The way you were then, how you sat together in the evenings and sang songs and— One of you played the mandolin.”

It had been she who played the mandolin. Richard played the violin. The damn instrument was still taking up space at the bottom of her sea chest.

“You used to play that same song as Punch did this morning. ‘Dance to Your Daddy.’”

The damn song. She should have known. She should have anticipated that he
heard
everything with the same focus, the same acute attention that he
saw
. But still, she could not give in. “It’s a very old tune.”

“Yes,” he agreed calmly. “All the men seemed to know the words. It was a proper rousing send-off this morning.”

It was killing her, the waiting. The waiting for his condemnation. Knowing it was coming. Knowing she deserved it. The heat piling up in the back of her throat kept her from answering.

“I remembered the song.” He looked at her briefly then, and she could see the truth, the full understanding deep in his green eyes. “Do you remember that evening, when we caught fireflies in your orchard? The phosphorescent insects lighting up as the late twilight gave way to dark. Do you remember?”

“Yes.” The word tasted like misery, cold and ashen in her mouth.

He had instantly, with a few precise words, conjured up the soft magic of that evening. She could smell the pungent green of the long grass they crushed beneath their feet, tromping about the overgrown orchard to capture the glowing insects in an empty jam jar.

“And one landed in your hair, and I was obliged to brush it off, though it looked charming there, lighting up your ginger hair. The green against the orange glow.”

The heat behind her eyes felt blinding. It was worse, this slow, thoughtful meander into memory, than any torture he might have thought up.

“And we pelted your brother with windfalls for preaching at us so.”

“Yes.” The misery was pushing the hot tears into the corners of her eyes. She dashed them away with the edge of her sleeve. Devil take her. She would
not
cry. Not in front of Mr. Colyear. No matter the provocation.

It had been
she
—Sally. She had been in the back garden with him, sitting on the high orchard wall with him by her side, lobbing apples at Richard for his mealymouthed prating. They had laughed and laughed, and she had felt special to be allowed within the sacred circle of the young naval men. She had been proud of her arm, as if a young man like Col would notice such a thing in a girl.

And Richard had run away to the house and left them alone in the orchard together, she and Col, that long-ago evening. And she had sworn he might have kissed her, but at the last moment she had shied away, and laughed and thrown more sticks to cover her awkwardness.

The knowledge was there in his eyes. In the dark, uncompromising certainty of his gaze. In the way his mouth flattened into a tense line, the smile banished along with the warmth of the memory.

“Just so. Just as I thought.” He nodded briefly, but the warmth faded out of his eyes. He began to shake his head back and forth in maddened disbelief.

“You might have told me, Kent. You might have spared me the—” Something in his voice was off, rusted like a sword left too long in a sheath. The sound of betrayal. “You might have told Captain McAlden. You ought to have. But damn your eyes, you ought not to have done it at all.”

But she had. She had done it quite purposefully. And she would do anything to keep it from being undone. “Sir, please.” She had to make him understand. “I had no choice. I had to come. I felt as if I should suffocate if I had to spend another day ashore. You have to understand. You of all people—”

“
You
of all people, who was raised by Captain Alexander Kent, ought to understand the seriousness, the utter hell and be-damned gall of what you have done.”

He was right. She had known the chance she had taken. But she was a Kent. She had recklessness bred into her bones. Calculating risk came as easily as trimming a sail or riding the crest of a wave into the shore. As easy as breathing. And it had been worth it. The feeling she had gotten this morning, when she had been aloft—she’d never felt so perfectly right, so happy and useful, in her life. She had only to convince him.

“Please. You must understand. I know my duty—”

“There is nothing to
understand
. You have lied to me, from the moment you set foot on this ship. You have lied to me and to your captain. For fuck’s sake, Kent. We are an armed naval frigate, at sea, in the middle of a bloody war that has consumed the better part of both of our lifetimes. What in hell makes you think I don’t understand exactly what is at stake here,
Mister
Kent?”

The force of his anger, of his righteousness, bored into her, piercing holes in her audacity.

“Please, sir.” She didn’t care if she had to beg. She had to try. “I’ll do anything. Please. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

She grabbed his hand, heedless of his anger, heedless of the eyes that might be watching. Heedless of everything but the need to stop him. She had to convince him, she had to impress upon him the rightness of her cause.

The instant she touched him, she had to let go. Her hand, indeed her whole body now, felt prickly with static electricity.

He, too, drew back from her touch as if he had been scalded. As if she had slapped him, or punched him hard in the chest. The look he gave her was full of ferocious awareness. And anger. At her for putting him in such an abominably untenable position.

And she felt it as well, the seething chaos of her emotions. Another touch of a spark and they would both ignite like a loose powder cartridge scattering destruction across the deck.

Her voice was nothing but ashes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He sucked a deep breath through his teeth to bank the fire of his anger, but his voice was full of fierce, dark heat. “As you bloody well should be, Kent.”

“Will you…” She couldn’t finish her question. There were too many curious ears and curious eyes watching the strange agonizing interplay between them. “What will you do, sir?”

He jammed his cocked hat down upon his dark curls. “What I always do, Mr. Kent. My duty.”

*   *   *

Sally stayed at the forecastle rail, quiet and out of the way as long as possible, waiting for the horrible numbness to burn itself out. Waiting for the bo’sun or marine guard to come and put her adventure to an end. Waiting for it to be over. Mr. Colyear would go to the captain now and she would be put off. The best she could hope for was that they might do it quietly, so her family might be spared the scandal.

Sally thought of retiring to the cockpit, or seeking Pinky’s advice, but such evasion seemed cowardly. She was a Kent. If she was to be disgraced, she would face her disgrace bravely. No matter what else they might think of her, she wouldn’t have it said she was a coward.

And yet, such heroics did not prove necessary. Nothing happened. No one looked her way, or even spoke her name. No marine came to escort her to the captain’s cabin. The ship continued to rise and fall beneath her feet and make its way down the Channel without any correction or change of course. Everything around her was calm and easy.

While she was awash in contradictions—wanting to stay on
Audacious
as long as she could, and yet wanting the mortifying and unpleasant experience of her unmasking to be over as quickly as possible. She was no good at it, the waiting—never had been. Everything seemed worse with the sword of discovery poised so precariously over her head. But when the bo’sun piped the men to their dinners, there was nothing for her to do but return to the cockpit.

She trundled her way belowdecks without watching where she was going, still surly with the tension of waiting. Yet the moment Sally pushed open the flimsy bulkhead door to the cockpit, she knew something was wrong from the sudden stillness of the moment, and the curiously silent watchfulness of the other boys. No one met her eyes, or greeted her entrance, already intimidated into silence.

Damien Gamage sat at the far end of the table like a self-satisfied monarch. Seated thusly, he looked decidedly soft in the middle and his eyes had a heavy-lidded, tired look, which, when combined with his full lips, made him appear stupid. His complexion, which was still on the pale side, despite what must have been his years at sea, gave no aid to his appearance. Neither did his hair, which without his hat was a dirty blond that was bleached at the ends by the sun, giving it the aged appearance of ash gray. All in all, the man had all the appearance of a well-fed rat.

But then again, Mr. Gamage could have looked like the blond Apollo himself and she would have found him lacking. As it was his character that she already objected to so strongly, his looks could only serve as further confirmation of her dislike.

His smile, as he waited for her to take note of him, was full of nasty sneering anticipation. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction. The best way to deal with bullies was to avoid them if possible, and confront them only when unavoidable.

But he had made sure it would be unavoidable. Because there in the corner was her sea chest, with its top wide open. The lock had been broken and the contents ransacked.

Now, when it was already too late, she heartily wished she had taken the time to more closely follow Pinky’s instructions, for with some forethought she might have saved herself a great deal of bother and a great many stores. But she wasn’t going to dance around the situation. If Mr. Gamage wanted a confrontation, she would give it to him. If she could withstand the stony, detached cool of Mr. Colyear’s inspection, she could easily stand up to this soft man. After all, she had nothing to lose. If she was about to be set off at the nearest landfall, then she was going to put paid to whatever bully-boy tactic Mr. Gamage was playing among the midshipmen.

“You must be Mr. Gamage. I see you’ve broken into my dunnage. People warned me you would, but I had no idea you would do it so soon or so brazenly. I’m Richard Kent.”

“I know who you are. But I don’t particularly care. You’re all the same to me—snotty-nosed children. But you’re a boot-licking little brat as well.” Gamage said the words with a sort of wearied boredom, a callousness that was devoid of all true emotion. “Shut the door, sit down, and shut up. I’ve already explained my requirements to these snotty-nosed children and I don’t like having to repeat myself.”

He sat at the table—which Sally noticed he had all to himself, while the others perched or slouched atop their sea chests, and not on the benches surrounding the table—and took a long, deliberate sip from a glass of what looked like sherry or tawny port.
Her
sherry, devil take it. Gamage put his near-empty glass down upon the table and a servant boy—this must be Tunney—darted forward to refill it before Gamage spoke again.

“This is
my
berth, do you understand, and you’re just visiting here at my sufferance.” He didn’t even look around to see if there were any challenge to his statement, and indeed no one made the slightest objection.

Sally was disappointed to see Charles Dance, who was both old enough and physically large enough to stand up to Gamage, or at least to help her stand up to him, chose not to do anything. He merely looked pained, but quite resigned to the display. Ian Worth, poor child, was rubbing at his reddened face with his sleeve, as if he’d already had his turn being worked over by the Rat King.

Though she was quaking with indignation in her too-big shoes, Sally refused to be intimidated. Bullies always kept on until someone stood up to them. It was for the good of all the midshipmen that she had to stop Gamage.

“I don’t think Captain McAlden would call our presence onboard sufferance.” She kept her tone even but firm, to show him she was serious, and that she, for one, wasn’t about to be intimidated by such an obvious ploy, senior or no.

“I didn’t give you permission to speak.” In the dim light of the cockpit, his red-rimmed, hooded gray eyes gave him more and more the appearance of a malignant rodent.

“Don’t be absurd, Mr. Gamage. Clearly, you’re senior here, and I won’t begrudge you an inch of the respect due your experience and seniority, but I’ll tell you straight off, I’ll not stand for your bullying, or being told what to do in my own berth. And I certainly won’t stand for anyone stealing my stores.”

Gamage slowly brought his hands up to clap them together in an ironic show of applause.

“Oh, well done, boy, well done. Very brave speech. The bravest yet.” He dropped his hands and leaned back, all sprawling ease. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Exactly what you think I’ll do. I will report you to the captain.”

“Oh, you will, will you? The captain won’t hear of it, if you know what’s good for you, Kent. There’s a certain code of conduct that one must abide by in the cockpit. A certain rule. But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. It’s well-known the Kents are hardly
gentlemen
.”

The slur to her family was a low trick, and one intended to provoke her into rash stupidity. And she was more than provoked. She would like nothing more than to plow her fist into his soft skull and pound him insensate. She was a Kent and, girl or no, she knew how to use her fives. But physical fighting, however satisfying, would do her no good. Gamage was easily twice her weight. And he had engineered this scene quite on purpose. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had a cosh or some other low fighting trick hidden behind his capacious back. As tempting as it was to show him she had learned more dirty tricks at the knees of her ungentlemanly brothers than his mind could ever comprehend, let along catalogue, she refrained.