How to Be a Proper Lady: A Falcon Club Novel (7 page)

Chapter 6

V
iola’s throat seized up entirely.

“I don’t have a sister.”

“You do, and she has been waiting for you to return for fifteen years.”

“You’re mistaking me for someone else.”

His brow lowered. “Why haven’t you?”

She twisted her lips to control her sudden quivers. “Mistaken—?”

“Returned home.”

She had no response that she could share with this man. She’d barely even told her father as he lay dying, when finally after thirteen years he had asked her that same question.

“You could have returned to England at any time these past years. You have a ship of your own, and sufficient funds.” Seton’s regard remained constant. He had a way of doing that, holding her gaze as though he could wait an hour, a day, a fortnight for a reply.

Except in the corridor below three days earlier, when for a moment he had looked—strangely—impatient.

“I don’t have sufficient funds for anything. Why do you think I work for rich American merchants?”

His gaze seemed to sharpen. “So you admit to being English.”

“I admit to being born in England. But that doesn’t make me who you say I am.”

“You cannot deny it.”

“I can. Do you have any proof?”

“I need no proof. You give yourself away every time you open your mouth.”

She opened her mouth then snapped it shut. He leaned back against the rail, as though he had all day to pursue this conversation. Which he did. He had trapped her on her own ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Criminally clever, the Pharaoh.

“Your accent is nearly as flat as an American’s,” he said, “but inflections, certain vowels bespeak your origins.” He ducked his head. “And you speak words no lowborn sailor would know.”

“I don’t.”

“The first time I came aboard your ship you used the word
sobriquet
. A few moments ago you said
inveigle
.”

“I read quite a bit.”

“Why is that?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“You should. You are the daughter of a gentleman. A nobleman—”

“Everyone knows my father was a smuggler.”

“—and a lady.”

That, she could not deny. Her mother had been born into a gentleman’s family, well situated with a fine house and good lands. When Maria Harrell’s father gave her to wed to the quiet, book-loving Baron of Carlyle in order to improve the social fortunes of the family, she’d been but seventeen, suitably dowered, very pretty, and already in love with Fionn Daly—a common sailor she should never have even met let alone given her heart to.

They had never fallen out of love. Four years later, in a blooming spring when Lord Carlyle was in town for the session and Lady Carlyle at home tending to her firstborn, the Irishman had sailed into port and . . . made Viola. Ten years after that, Fionn returned again to finally claim his love and his child. With disastrous consequences.

Viola held her tongue. Nothing she could say now would suffice, and her heart beat too swiftly to allow for measured speech. She slipped her gaze across the deck, at the sailors about. All loyal to her, most she’d known nearly her whole life. Her life. Her reality.
Not
that world she’d been born into that now seemed a million miles away plus an ocean.

But not all the men aboard belonged to her life. Big Mattie stood at the base of the mainmast, glowering over a young sailor at the lines. An intruder in her home. Like the other two sailors from the
Cavalier
. And Seton.

She pivoted to him. He was watching her carefully. She tried to brush off the sensation of being known by him. He did not know her. He knew only a name from another time.

“Do your men know?” she demanded.

“Your true identity?”

“My past.”

“Only the three aboard this ship.” His expression remained sober.

“And my men? Have you told them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I have?” His brow was firm, his look honest. Unnervingly so.

She moved toward him swiftly, pulse racing, until she was as close as they’d stood belowdecks the day before. The gray sky framed his handsome face.

“Who are you?”

His clear gaze did not waver. “My identity has never been in question here.”

“Why have you sought me out? What business is it of yours whether I return to England or not?”

“Your sister is lately wed. Her husband wishes you found.”

Amid the tattering of thoughts and emotions, something sharp twisted inside her. He had come aboard her ship with gain in sight. But she had known that all along; it should not bother her now.

“You imagine that some stranger’s wish is sufficient to drag me back to England against my will?”

“I do. But I prefer you to come willingly.” He said it simply enough, but a glint of fierceness entered his eyes. Instinct told Viola to retreat. She did not. She could not show weakness. A man like this would use vulnerability to his advantage.

“Why can you not simply tell him—both of them—that you found me happy and hale, and leave it there? After all these years she must be satisfied with that.” If she cared at all. Serena had not returned any of Viola’s letters in those early years. Perhaps Serena had still loved her, but with Viola’s parentage known, her elder sister must have been ashamed. And her poor father . . . Rather, the baron.

A hint of hardness flashed at the edges of Seton’s beautiful mouth.

“Say her name.”

Viola blinked. “Whose name?”

“Your sister’s.”

There was a fastness about his gaze now, a swift, assessing penetration that sought her insides and made them quiver. At the fringes of her consciousness clung the remnants of memory again—of sunlit parlors scented with lavender and roses, of eyelet and lace and silks of pale pastels and ribbons of jewel tones threaded through hems and hair. Of the scent of dry, old wood and damp mossy cliffs, the dust of books in the library and polish on the banister, sweet polish, lemon and thyme. Of emerald fields dotted with fluffy white sheep and meadows of wildflowers. She saw a kind, wide-lipped smile and a pair of mismatched eyes surrounded by dark golden hair. Her sister, her fondest companion, her best friend, the girl with whom she had lived every single day of ten years of life and whom she still loved.

All this came to her with the mere thought of her sister’s name and the unrelenting gaze of an Egyptian pirate.

Not only Egyptian. And no longer a pirate. A British privateer. Sent to seek
her
out? The illegitimate daughter of a smuggler and an adulterous woman now deceased?

“Who is my sister’s husband?”

“The Earl of Savege, Lord Carlyle’s close neighbor in Devonshire.”

Viola’s stomach twisted. It just got worse and worse. A nobleman? A
lord
? She must be glad for Serena, and wish for her happiness, and that it was a match her half sister liked. But there was no place there for her now, and she did not want it.

“He will be disappointed when you return without me, no doubt. But he has no authority over me, even if he is an earl.”

“You will return with me.”

“I will not.” She broadened her stance and set her fists on her hips. The pose cut the edge from her agitation and made her feel nearly at home again. In her own place. A place that suited her.

“You belong there.” He spoke as though certain.

She laughed, but it sounded forced. “I belong here aboard my ship with my men. Accustom yourself to the idea, Seton.” She pivoted and strode to the stair and down, snapping commands as she went. But she felt his gaze on her, and inside she was a welter of confusion.

If she belonged here on her ship with her men, why was she so determined to settle down to life with Aidan Castle on his farm in the tropics, even for part of the year? She loved him, of course. She had loved him since he clerked in that Boston merchant’s office and her father brought him home to dinner one night. The night Viola discovered her woman’s heart.

She’d been but fifteen, still hoping someday to return to England but not knowing if it could be done. Her mother was dead; without that tie, Viola was nothing to Charles Carlyle. And Fionn always insisted she meant everything to him. His only child. His best little sailor. And someday, he hinted, Mrs. Aidan Castle.

He’d often left them alone. He loaned Aidan the funds to help him purchase the farm, even when his ship barely had sufficient canvas for sails. Clearly he regretted what he’d taken from Viola, a life of stable respectability, and he wanted better for her someday. He had seen better in Aidan Castle, self-made man, born in England like Viola, cousin to British gentry but now as American as Fionn. Like Viola. Her father had provided her at a tender age with the perfect match. And she had not disobliged him in falling in love.

Then why did the notion of meeting Aidan in mere weeks no longer fill her with anticipation? She was no fool. He hadn’t written to her in ages. But when he saw her again they would be as they were before, and he would ask her to marry him, as he had hinted for so many years. She should be happy.

Images of Seton standing so close in her cabin doorway steered her away from that refuge. She descended instead into the hold. Every crack in the wood, every sagging beam and worn plank loomed in her vision as her feet met the lowest deck. Stacked with barrels and crates and cloth-wrapped furniture, it looked like a merchant ship. The sailor guarding the powder magazine and his companion tipped their caps. She nodded, scanning the cargo.

Why was she carrying mercantile goods to Trinidad? She was a privateer, for pity’s sake. She ought to be searching out ne’er-do-wells, not carting flour across the Atlantic.

She breathed in the thick, close air and hated her unsettled thoughts. Seton was to blame. Everything had been perfectly fine until he boarded her ship. She could make a stop on Bermuda as the men wished, and put him ashore there. She didn’t need him to sail her ship for her.

She didn’t need him for anything.

“Sam!”

The sailor chatting with the guard at the powder magazine jumped to attention. “Cap’n?”

“Go tell Mr. Seton we will double our pace to Trinidad. I want to make port in sixteen days.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n.” He leaped to the stair. Viola stared blankly at the floor of her ship covered with another man’s property, and for the first time in her life felt trapped upon the sea.

“C
ap’n Jin?” Little Billy slopped a ladle of a runny stew into a bowl and proffered it. “I been thinking.”

Jin settled with the bowl at the tiny table at the edge of the mess. The cabin that passed for a kitchen wasn’t five feet square, but it was one place he had never seen Viola Carlyle on her ship.

He needn’t make an effort to avoid her; she was seeing to that well enough. For four days she had passed every order to him through her sailors. His revelation had made an impression on her. Now he only needed time to determine how to make that impression serve him. And to control his temper. Her foolish defiance still burned as though she had insulted him personally. He must dampen that anger before approaching her again.

He lifted a spoonful of stew. “Thinking about what, Bill?”

“ ’Bout them rebel Scots we chased in the North Sea. And that boy we brung home afore that, from Spain.”

Jin swallowed the flavorless goo and took another bite. Best to get it over with swiftly, as he should be dealing with Miss Viola Carlyle. But he had not counted on her outright refusal.

He should have. He realized that now.

“Have you?” he murmured.

“That’s right, sir.” Billy dropped a whole unpeeled potato into the pot and stirred. “Didn’t see a lick of swag from them, though the gover’ment paid us all nice like. But I been wondering what we done them missions for.”

For justice. To help those in desperate straits. To serve the crown. In service to the Falcon Club.

Nearly two years ago he had set aside the work of that exclusive club and set out to find a missing person whose family had long since presumed her dead. All but her sister. But Serena Savege did not know of his mission, nor did Alex. He had not told them.

“We did those missions because His Majesty asked it of us, Bill.” The partial truth was better than none. Perhaps he should have given Viola Carlyle only the partial truth. Perhaps he still had leeway to invent another story, one that would convince her of the wisdom of his intention.

No. He had spent far too many years of his life embedded in lies. He would not begin that again now, especially not with a lady, no matter how hardheaded.

He swallowed the remainder of his stew and set the bowl on the counter.

“Enjoy the grub, sir?”

“No. But you are doing a fine job of pretending to cook.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Bill.”

The lad’s face broke into a toothy grin. “Welcome to it, Cap’n.”