How to Be a Proper Lady: A Falcon Club Novel (5 page)

T
he harbor constable pursed his lips, looked Jin up and down for the third time, and demanded gold.

Jin produced a vowel. The port master’s lips curved upward. He locked the office and went to the bank himself. Jin waited without concern. The Massachusetts Bank account of Mr. Julius Smythe, merchant, boasted a hefty balance.

In short order the port master returned, all smiles.

“Congratulations, Mr. Smythe.” He bowed as though Jin were actually the gentleman he pretended to be when he did business at the bank. “You and three of your men may go free.”

Back on the docks with the late-spring morning sun shining through masts and rigging onto worn planks, he told Matouba, Mattie, and Billy to take themselves off until he needed them. The boy and Matouba went off bickering as usual. Mattie cast Jin a dark look, then lumbered away as well.

He walked down the quay, scanning the scene already busy with the traffic of carts, sailors, and merchants, and found what he sought: a sparkling new vessel, the railings not yet even affixed. The sounds of hammers smacking at wood echoed from atop. A pair of boys sanded the main deck, still fresh wood without varnish or tar.

She was not the
Cavalier
. Nothing would ever be the
Cavalier
. But she was a beauty, small and fast, just as he’d heard she would be when he passed through Boston six months earlier and saw the plans for her. She would suit his needs perfectly.

But a man could not purchase a ship appearing as though he’d spent the night in jail. He turned and made his way toward his bank.

T
wo hours later, freshly shaved and clothed, Jin folded the letter that had awaited him at his bank these four months, and tucked it into his waistcoat. He nearly smiled. The Admiralty occasionally managed to send him correspondence via commanders in the field. This letter, however, had not come from the navy.

Viscount Colin Gray was still looking for him.

For years Jin had labored on behalf of another servant of the crown than the Admiralty, a secret organization buried deep in the Home Office, known to only those who required its assistance. The Falcon Club.

The Club had disbanded the previous year—rather, nominally so. Only five of them to begin with, four yet lingered. Jin’s fellow agent and sole contact with the Club’s shadowy director, Colin Gray, had not given up on the organization’s mission, a mission dedicated to seeking out lost souls and bringing them home. Not any lost souls, though; the Falcon Club’s quarries were those whose disappearance, even existence, threatened the peace of the kingdom’s most elite and whose absence and recovery must not become public knowledge. For the safety of England.

Jin had not quit—not in so many words. But for the present, he hadn’t the time or inclination to humor either Gray or the Admiralty. He had finally found the quarry he had chosen for himself two years earlier. Another lost soul. A woman gone for so long that she no longer knew she was lost.

Moving along the quay, he came to the ship that had brought him into port. Resting in her berth like a swaybacked carriage horse in the traces, the
April Storm
had to be twenty years old if she was a day, a mid-sized brig, square rigged for speed but too heavy in the hull for true maneuverability.

His gut ached. Having been taken by such a ship after outrunning nearly every other vessel on the Atlantic was nothing short of travesty.

His gaze alighted on a girl working at a pile of rope on the dock beside the ship, and his jaw relaxed. She bent to her work, her back to him, revealing a backside perfectly rounded for a man’s hands. Snug breeches encased thighs that stretched sweetly to shapely calves. A white linen shirt pulled at her shoulders as she worked, defining delicate bones and slender arms.

His boot steps sounded on the planking and she glanced over her shoulder. She paused. Then, straightening, she drew off her hat and passed the back of her hand across her damp brow.

Jin’s blood warmed with the appreciation of a fine woman, all too infrequently enjoyed these days since he had bent to his current mission. Her brow was high and clear, dark eyes large and shaded with long lashes, nose pert, and her mouth a full, rosy invitation to pleasure. Strands of richly brown hair curled upon her brow, the rest of the long, satiny mass pulled back in a leather thong. She looked vaguely familiar. And pretty. Far too pretty to be laboring dockside.

“Is the master of this vessel about?” He gestured to the
April Storm
.

She nodded. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the spring sunlight. Jin smiled slightly. It was an age since he’d had a woman beneath him, and the way this one stared him straight in the eye looked promising.

“Fetch her then.” He allowed his grin more rein. “And be quick about it.”

“I can be quicker than you imagine, sailor. She’s already standing in front of you.” Her voice was as smooth as her satiny hair. She set her fists upon her curved hips and Jin’s gaze dropped to the dark spot just beneath her lower lip.

His grin faded.

A smile like Christmas cake curved across Viola Carlyle’s alluring lips.

“So they let you go free, did they? More the fools they.” She laughed, then turned back to her work. “I see you found some clothes.”

“I did indeed.” And hers still clung to her damnably feminine body the same as a moment ago when he did not know she was a madwoman and a lady. “I bought my way free.” Along with Mattie, Billy, and Matouba. The rest of his crew would have to wait. He could not be seen to be throwing about gold too freely. But they were accustomed to tight quarters, and without charges to hold them the harbor master would release them soon enough.

She shook her head. “Port officials will do anything for a sack of coins.”

“And a good word from a trusted privateer. Thank you for your assistance.”

She straightened up again and gave him a slow, assessing stare from boots to brow. She did not move, but her very stance shouted swagger, sun-gold hand resting upon the long knife at her hip as though born to be there.

But it was not. That hand had been born to wear kidskin gloves. To have a dance card ribbon wrapped about the wrist. To find its place upon a gentleman’s arm.

“I don’t like to see sailors trapped on land,” she said. “Even pirates.”

An honest response. He had to admire that.

“I have not pirated on American ships for years.” Only during the war, and only those ships carrying supplies to England’s enemy, France. The
Cavalier
’s first master, Alex Savege, had preyed upon wealthy English noblemen’s vessels. “But you know that, don’t you?”

“Perhaps.” Her mouth twitched up at one edge.

“This does not bring us even.” He held her gaze steadily. “You sank my ship.”

“What do you think I owe you, sailor? Mine?” She laughed, a rich, throaty release of pure pleasure. “Think again.”

She liked to laugh, and that silken laughter acted like a caress right down Jin’s chest, straight beneath the front fall of his trousers.

“Your ship isn’t worth it.” His voice sounded unnecessarily hard even to his own ears. “You owe me the opportunity to regain some of what I have lost, and I haven’t a ship now with which to do that.”

Her brows tilted up. “Don’t tell me you expect me to hire you on.”

“I do. And three of my men.”

“I said don’t tell me. I don’t believe it. The Pharaoh wants to join the crew of a privateer in the pay of the state of Massachusetts? Tell me another tall tale, sailor.”

No easy riposte came to his tongue. Damn but that golden voice could distract a man.

“You had the funds to buy your freedom and clothes,” she added.

“I have spent all the credit I have in these parts.” Not even a quarter of it. “I put a down payment on that vessel by the slipway yonder.”

She sucked in a whistle through her teeth and wagged her head. Clearly she had lost every last vestige of ten years of upbringing in a nobleman’s household.

“She’s a beauty.” She peered into the bright day toward the dry dock. “She’ll be fast too. Possibly faster than the
Cavalier
.”

“I will need to settle the balance once she is finished. I hear you are heading south when you put to sea in a fortnight.”

“I am. But I’ll not be picking up prizes along the way, unless I come across one I can’t turn down. I’m carting a cargo on this trip.”

“I have assets in Tobago I intend to collect to purchase that ship. I could use the ride in that direction, and you could use me aboard.”

She seemed to mull, a wary glint in her dark eyes. Then she pivoted around back to her work.

“I will consider it.”

Jin’s shoulders got hot and prickly. He moved forward, his boots halting within the fall of her scant noonday shadow.

“You will consider it now.”

She looked up at him, eyes narrowed, but the pulse at her tender throat leaped. “Come any closer, sailor, and you’ll be eating my long knife for lunch.”

“Deny me my due, madam, and you will regret it for longer than it would take to make this dilapidated old barge into a seaworthy vessel.”

Her cheeks reddened. “This dilapidated old barge sank your ship. And didn’t your mother and father ever teach you manners, Seton?”

His mother had not taught him anything that had been of use once he had been sold into slavery. And his father, the Englishman whose name he had never known . . . Well, that was another stop he would be making in Tobago.

“I guess not.” He kept his tone even. “Will you hire me and my men?”

“Move off my back and I’ll let you know.”

He obliged by a pace, withholding his satisfaction. Already she was bending. This might not take as long as he had thought.

She pushed her hat back on her brow again and stood.

“My quartermaster has gone on furlough,” she finally said. “And this morning my mate and cook signed on with a naval frigate. Can any of your men wield a pot?”

They would now. He nodded.

“Truth be told, I could use an experienced first lieutenant.” Her eyes narrowed again, squinting as he had first seen in the rain. “But how would you like it after commanding your own vessel?”

“I will not give you trouble.”

She frowned. “I doubt that.”

Jin allowed himself a grin. This woman had not won her own command by making mistakes.

Now she scowled. “This isn’t a pirate ship, Seton. My men are loyal to me. You won’t steal my vessel out from under me if that’s what you’re imagining.”

“I do not want the
April Storm
.” He wanted Miss Viola Carlyle upon his ship come July, sailing east toward England. “Will you take me on?”

She seemed to study his face, her eyes keen. “I will come to regret this, I suspect.” But she moved forward and extended her hand.

He grasped it. Her palm was rough, fingers slender, grip tight. Sailor and lady both. And up close prettier still. The spring sun showed her features to be finely shaped. By accounts she was nearly five-and-twenty, but despite the sun-tinted tone of her skin, she still looked like a girl. It could be the twinkle in her rich eyes that shouted confidence to the world in the face of the constant uncertainty of a sailor’s existence. That confidence had been engendered in her during the first decade of her life in which she hadn’t a care in the world.

“You will not regret it.” How could she? A lady belonged in a gentleman’s house. Jin would make certain she got there.

Chapter 4

V
iola allowed her crew a fortnight’s furlough stirring up trouble in alehouses about town while she fitted out her ship, did noisome paperwork, and argued with the clerk who worked for the merchant whose goods she would carry to Trinidad. Once she unloaded the cargo and enjoyed a few weeks of Aidan’s company, she would return to northern waters and scouting out enemies of her adopted country, as the state of Massachusetts had commissioned her to do nearly two years ago when her father died. She had been de facto captain since his illness grew debilitating two years before his death. But he had never wanted to leave the ship, and aboard she had been able to look after him.

Finally the cargo was loaded—barrels of flour, beans, hams, apples, and a vast quantity of furniture that filled the hull but provided little ballast. The
April
sat so light in the draft now, they would make the journey quickly, in less than a month if she was clever and they didn’t run afoul of brigands along the route.

But that’s why she had hired on the Pharaoh. Her own personal assurance. If trouble came looking for her, she would have the right man at her back.

When finally she climbed aboard, a single traveling case in hand, he was already amidships handing out orders to her men. Everything atop was industrious preparation.

“Cozening up to the crew already in hopes of a mutinous promotion, Seton?”

“No, sir.” His very fine mouth barely tilted up at one corner. “Merely doing my job.”

She forced herself to look away from that mouth to the decks and rigging and dozen sailors heaving the capstan round, weighing anchor, getting under way just as she would have it. Her crewmen took to Seton’s leadership naturally. She couldn’t blame them. His very stance suggested command—confident yet easy—the sort of mien she’d struggled for years to perfect so that when her father’s long illness finally took him, she was able to be an effective master over five dozen men.

The sky sparkled bright blue, the bay water inviting, the breeze fresh and promising. But a frisson of unease tickled her neck swaddled in thick fabric.

“Everything in order?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All hands aboard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve never sailed under a woman before, have you, Seton?”

“No, sir.”

Of course he hadn’t. She could count on one finger the female shipmasters she had met in her life.

“You may call me captain.”

“I will call you whatever you wish.” His tone was unremarkable enough, but a glint lit his light eyes.

She didn’t trust him. He’d said she would not regret taking him on. But pirates lied as a habit. She doubted he intended revenge. He seemed more the sort to demand what he wanted—as he had demanded she hire him on.

He had not yet called her captain.

She met his stare as she had in the rain when, nearly naked and strapped to the mizzenmast, he’d been her prisoner. Now he wore neat trousers, a pristine white shirt that complemented his tan skin, a simple linen waistcoat and cravat, and an expression of ever-so-mild challenge on his handsome face, as if he needn’t even bother with a more threatening air.

She broadened her stance, the comforting weight of the pistol on her sash bumping against her breast.

“What are you staring at, sailor?”

His ice eyes did not flicker. “My captain, ma’am.”

“Get back to work, Seton.”

He bowed.

Bowed?

Then he did as she ordered. Viola drew in a long breath and headed toward her cabin. They hadn’t left port and already he was mocking her. She had made a foolish mistake taking him aboard. But she certainly would not admit it now, even sitting at dock while she could still send him packing. Perhaps once they were seaboard she could throw over some of the cargo, make her load lighter, and run down to Trinidad that much quicker. Or she could throw Seton over.

H
e had never seen anything like it. And the more he observed, the more astounded he became.

They worshipped her. From her bit-sized cabin boy to the mountain manning the helm who made Big Mattie look like a child’s doll, every one of her crewmen treated her like a queen. Like a queen they could not get enough of. When she was out of hearing they spoke of her in reverent terms. Complimentary terms. Affectionate terms. When she was atop they alternately fawned on her or snapped to her orders without a grumble. Mattie and Billy were already head over ears, the two-faced idiots. But even stolid Matouba seemed to be coming under her spell.

Jin was not a man to be befuddled. But he was.

To a certain extent, he did understand their besotment. Most sailors saw few women in the course of things, and even fewer women without rouge, brass-tinted hair, and sickly white skin from days spent sleeping off the night’s work. When she removed the hat that gave her the look of a witch crossed with a sandbag, Viola Carlyle’s cheeks glowed with life. The hair she bound in a braid or knot was richly dark and curling in satin twirls everywhere it escaped its bonds. And her skin was smooth and fine despite her years at sea. She was a taking woman, even if she never showed a glimpse of the sweet, curved figure he’d seen dockside. Her crewmen were bound to admire her.

But there was more to their devotion. It required no more than several days in the men’s company to understand that.

“Cap’n says as she’ll read to us tonight like she done last cruise.” A narrow, salty fellow going into his sixth decade mounted a yardarm, making ready to strike a tattered sail.

“I likes that one ’bout the fellow what’s got nicked in the heel with the arrow,” his partner, a dark youth, replied as he climbed the rigging. “His mum better’ve dipped him in that river up to her elbow instead.”

They chuckled.

“Did ye know, Master Jin, Cap’n can read?” The youth’s eyes gleamed down at Jin with unmistakable pride.

“Can she?” Naturally. She had been schooled in a gentleman’s nursery.

“Yessir. Read to us all ’bout that there horse made of wood and them dolts what didn’t see the trick till it was too late.”

Jin had never heard of a lady reading about the Trojan War. The heel of Achilles—and the rest of that bloodthirsty warrior—were not typically considered suitable fare for gently bred females. But a man who kidnapped his daughter and set her to work on a smuggling ship at ten years of age would not fret over niceties.

“Though usually it’s them preachers’ sermons.” The older fellow nodded with a smile.

“Captain’s a God-fear’n woman.”

God, perhaps. But she did not yet fear Jin. When she spoke to him she held her chin high and gaze direct. On the other hand, she spoke to him infrequently, and never when she needn’t. She took her meals alone in her cabin. Likewise, she did not linger about deck in the fair weather when the sea was clear of company and the men were relaxed enough to pipe a tune or sing. Whether it was due to his presence he could not know yet.

But when she passed him on deck or the companionway, she did not pause to converse. That was as good a sign as he could wish for so early in their journey. She was uncomfortable with him. If she feared him, eventually she would do his bidding. They always did—both women and men.

“What are you standing around for, Seton? Waiting for someone to come along and carve a statue of you?” Violet la Vile’s smooth tones came from the quarterdeck above. “Oh, I mistake it. You’re already still as stone. A statue would be redundant.”

Definitely no fear yet.

He tilted his gaze up to the rail. The afternoon sun slanted behind her, casting her in silhouette. Clothed in canvas bags and a ridiculous hat as usual, she looked like a sack of potatoes.

He knew better. He had seen her curves. He had imagined them at his service.

He nodded. “Seeing to this torn sail, ma’am.”

In the shadow he could barely see her eyes narrow to their usual squint. Ladies did not squint. That habit would have to be broken once she resided in her father’s house again. But amid the piles of neck cloth stacked high around her cheeks, the squint did not render her features less attractive. Only more provoking.

“It’s not torn sufficiently to risk losing the wind by switching it out now.” She gestured. “Wait until dark.”

The sailors halted their work, casting uncertain glances back and forth between them.

“Respectfully, ma’am,” Jin replied evenly, “the wind at present is negligible. When it picks up at dusk you’ll want her full ready.”

“Are you questioning my orders, sailor?”

Jin drew in a slow breath. For two years he had been his own master. Before that he was independent most of the year when Alex was on land and he captained the
Cavalier
in its master’s stead. For over a decade he had never had an argument with his superior.

But before he had signed on with Alex, the last commander Jin sailed under taunted him aplenty, questioning his authority with the men, and his decisions. That particular pirate captain’s disrespectful attitude had come to an abrupt halt when, after he attempted to take a stick to Jin, instead he bled to death from a wound inflicted by his own knife.

Jin had been borrowing the knife at the time.

But Viola Carlyle was not a pirate. She should not even be a sailor. However much she behaved and looked like a high-handed ruffian, she was a lady, and his current project was to rescue her from this existence. Even if she got under his skin in a way no other sailor quite had. Or woman. Then again, he’d never known a woman sailor with a voice like brandy and a penchant for saying precisely what he did not wish to hear.

He swallowed back the response that rose to his tongue. “No, ma’am.”

“No . . .
Captain
.”

It was a damned good thing the sun was setting swiftly. In the slanting shadow he could not discern her eyes now. Big, dark eyes with thick lashes even her foolish costume could not hide.

He slid his gaze to the sailors balancing on the spar. “Mr. French, Mr. Obuay, unfurl that sail and come on down.”

The men hoisted the torn canvas back into place, the light breeze snapping through the fissure in it. Without glancing at her again, Jin turned and crossed the deck to the forecastle.

“Keepin’ it real friendly like with the captain, hm?”

“Cork it, Mattie.” Jin waved a pair of sailors loitering nearby toward the foremast. They hopped to it, lowering the colors for night.

“So, this be your plan?”

“It is.” He unsnapped the spyglass from the cradle on the rail in which he had set it earlier. A sail had breached the far horizon just after dawn, and Jin assigned Mattie the watch all day, with sharp-eyed Matouba in the crow’s nest. She might be the most contrary female on the seven seas, but Jin would not let anyone near her. Until he had her safely aboard his ship, no vessel would come within range of Viola Carlyle—friend or foe.

He peered out over the darkening horizon, the current lifting the bow in easy dips and rises beneath his feet. The ocean in all directions was perfectly clear.

“Seen anything today?”

Mattie leaned his bulk against the rail and picked at his teeth with a stick. “Fish. Swells. Clouds.”

“Clouds?” The sky was wide open, clean blue darkening to pink and lavender.

“Just testing. You seem over distracted lately. Didn’t know if you’d notice.”

“Mattie,” he said quietly, “I have killed men for offering me less grievous insults.”

Mattie glowered then pursed his fleshy lips. “Ain’t ever kilt no lady, though, have you?”

Jin turned about and strode toward the stair, then down into the brig’s belly. The air was close below, the low-ceilinged deck lined with sixteen heavy iron cannons tail to tail. Hammocks hung between their hulks, the lumpy shapes of sailors resting in preparation for the night watch. The
April Storm
was much larger and considerably less graceful than the
Cavalier
, an inelegant, aged brig. Its boards creaked beneath his footsteps as he moved forward toward the officers’ closetlike quarters, the shipmaster’s cabin dead ahead. She liked to spend dusk atop the quarterdeck. Now he could return the spyglass to her quarters without confrontation.

He moved into the narrow corridor between the officers’ bunks and almost collided with her.

Without hat and cravat obscuring it, the shape of her face was nearly a heart. Dark curls swept back from the peak of her brow, revealing quite clearly her delicate chin, soft mouth, and big eyes staring up at him as though he were some sort of monster. A swift flutter of black lashes dipped over violet pools, and slowly, like a rising tide, a pink flush stole over her cheeks.

As though in choreographed response, heat funneled into Jin’s groin.

Inconvenient. He should have seen to that particular necessity while in Boston. He didn’t need a woman aboard turning him into a randy lad, a sailor after a long cruise confronted with an unreasonably pretty face.

Not merely a pretty face. She wore only a plain white cotton shirt now. No coat or waistcoat disguised the edges of the useless undergarment beneath it—an undergarment that did nothing to hide the round beauty of her breasts pressing at the laces of the shirt. Breasts the perfect size to fit into a man’s hand.