I Kissed an Earl: Pennyroyal Green Series (27 page)

She watched him go. And even as he was fortunate there was nothing within arm’s reach she could hurl between those retreating shoulder blades, she felt bereft, tugged after him as surely as if he’d wound her round with a web.

She realized then she was shaking.

Blast. Bloody tears. She dashed at them furiously with her knuckles. But even as she watched him walk away, she knew several things for certain:

No one who trembled was unmoved.

And Captain Flint had indeed trembled when he’d touched her.

And Captain Flint had pressed a jasmine blossom into a copy of her brother’s book. And she knew that flicker across his face for what it was: awe. Oh, Captain. My dear earl. I suspect I can toy with you.

She realized fully then that he was just as afraid as she was. But somehow knowing she had this sort of power over a man who seemed invincible frightened her even more than if she’d none at all.

Chapter 18

T hree days later the ship’s bell rang, announcing their arrival in the benign, spectacularly blue bay that eased them into Brest.

The Olivia was anchored among a number of other trading vessels. Looking gay and enigmatic and sleek…apart from her four guns, of course.

The Caridad, due in Brest after sailing from Le Havre, they saw nowhere.

For the three prior days, Violet had astounded Hercules by spending almost the entirety of her time in the galley. He watched, gaping, as she scrubbed it spotless. She ground grain. She peeled and chopped whatever was placed before her to peel and chop. She stitched sails. She’d hoped to exhaust herself from her soul outward so thoroughly that sleep would be a black, dreamless escape.

As it turned out, her body wanted sleep less than it wanted the Earl of Ardmay. It chose to toss and turn in a fever of resentment and desire, rather than oblige her with soothing dreams.

She wasn’t hiding in the galley, she told herself.

She’d never hidden from anything in her life.

Of course, the moment she saw the Earl of Ardmay she realized this wasn’t true. The sight of him clubbed her breathless.

But she had to admit, within the past few days he’d begun to look a trifle…disreputable, she decided with critical surprise. He’d missed a minuscule row of whiskers beneath his chin, when usually his face was scraped scrupulously smooth. Blue smudges of fatigue arced beneath his eyes. Perhaps he’d taken to drinking the nights away.

He took a long, long expressionless look at her. She bravely, coolly met this stare, while her knees struggled to hold her up.

He’d clearly decided he needn’t waste words on someone who had told him, quite clearly, to go to the devil. Because he said nothing at all. As they were lowered into the launches, he spoke only to the crew, and only to issue orders: Lavay would row out to The Olivia with Greeber and Cocoran to see if Hardesty were aboard, or whether they could discover anything else of interest about The Olivia or her crew; and then, if possible, they would query sailors on the docks to see if they could learn anything about the owners or crews of the ships that Le Chat had thus far plundered.

He and Miss Redmond would visit Mr. Musgrove, as promised.

From the rowdy dockside inn they sent word via messenger to the merchant of their arrival and the purpose of their visit. Within the hour he’d sent his own landau to take them through Brest’s handsome, crowded streets to a villa of pink stone twice the size of the usual London town house. The least he could do for an earl, and so forth, according to his reply. And what a cold, silent, albeit mercifully short journey that was. Violet and the earl sat opposite each other and watched a portion of town roll by out of the windows adjacent to their seats, like polite, mute tourists.

Mr. Musgrove himself greeted them at the door, beckoning them in.

“My apologies for the poor quality of the wine I’m about to serve you, Captain Flint. Sent Fenton running off to fetch it. Le Chat sank The Caridad in the Bay of Biscay and stole the beautiful sherry I was expecting just two days ago. You are lately styled an earl, I am to understand? Forgive me. Allow me to congratulate you and make my bow before I complain to you of my own tragedies. I have it all backward, the social niceties, but I have had a traumatic, traumatic time of it indeed.”

They’d been too late to save The Caridad.

The shock of the news landed in her gut.

Followed by an odd thrill, odd because her feelings about it were decidedly mixed: she’d had indeed been right about Brest and about The Caridad.

She glanced sidelong at the earl. His fingers twitched, then flattened hard against his thighs. His profile was granite hard.

Angry likely didn’t go far enough to describe how he felt at arriving too late. Musgrove didn’t notice. “And who is this young lady?” He belatedly turned to her. She was destined to be an afterthought for everyone today, she thought irritably.

“My ward, Miss Violet Redmond.” Five curt, inflectionless words from the earl. Ward? Very well. She was his ward, then. She curtsied.

“Ah, your ward?” Mr. Musgrove was clearly too distracted to feel any curiosity about her, and the Redmond name didn’t ring any particular bells for him. “Pleasure, my dear.”

The buttons of Mr. Musgrove’s exquisitely tailored coat strained to hold it closed. Violet stood back warily when he bowed, lest one fly from it like a pistol shot and take out her eye. But he carried his belly before him like a trophy of his success; he strutted. They followed him.

For quite a long way, as it turned out. The house was large.

From the looks of things, he’d acquired or copied taste, as his home was furnished with pieces doubtlessly purchased from French aristocrats fleeing the guillotine. Everywhere her gaze snagged on gilt and the fancifully turned legs of table and chairs too spindly to hold him. They were trophies, too.

But Mr. Musgrove’s complexion was an unhealthy cherry color and he was sweating like a blacksmith in Hades. He dabbed at the rivulets racing down his forehead with a delicate handkerchief at rhythmic intervals.

It wasn’t very hot in Brest. He was clearly suffering from nerves.

“Your loss is devastating, Mr. Musgrove,” the earl agreed coldly.

“I should say so, Lord Flint! I should say so! Five thousand pounds worth of cargo, easily! I would love to guillotine that bastard Le Chat. It’s the second of my ships he’s captured and sunk. I feel persecuted,” he moaned. “Persecuted! Do you mind if I sit?”

He dropped into a high-backed chair that gave an alarmed squeak and hoisted his feet up onto a plush red stool. Violet noticed his little feet bulged over the tops of his finely stitched shoes.

“Thank you, Fenton,” he said to the be-wigged, dazzlingly liveried footman, silent as a cat, who brought in a bottle and two more glasses and then crept out again. The earl and Violet settled into their seats slightly more gingerly than their host, because Mr. Musgrove had taken the sturdiest chair, leaving them to the spindly satin-covered ones. He gazed at them, his thunderous expression and internal chaos distinctly at odds with the need to provide promised hospitality.

Understandably, the smile he finally produced was sickly.

“How do you know for certain it was Le Chat who sank The Caridad?” The earl’s voice was astonishingly calm.

“From what I hear, he lowered the crew of The Caridad into boats after he and his crew soundly trounced mine. Swords and pistols, they used. He wears a bloody mask, did you know?” He made circles of this thumbs and forefingers and held them up to his eyes.

“By way of disguise? Silly, ain’t it? Pirates!” He shook his head in violent disbelief, which sent his hair and jowls swaying spellbindingly. “But my men made it to shore in the launch, parched, starving and their trousers all but pissed in fear. But lived to tell the tale. I want Le Chat’s head! You’ve had a loss recently, too, eh, Lord Flint? Thanks to Le Chat? You were associated with Captain Moreheart?”

Associated with. The earl seemed to consider this as he took a sip of his port. Violet watched his hands. They shook when he touched me, she thought. Those powerful hands of this powerful man.

She imagined his fingertips skimming her throat.

Her eyes half closed against the shocking onslaught of sensation. His hands were steady now.

Hers no longer were. She carefully set her glass down.

“Yes. The Steadfast went down. Attributed to Le Chat. The crew hasn’t been found.”

Musgrove clucked, shook his head. “Moreheart was a damn good man, too. Begging your pardon, Miss Redmond. For the ‘damn.’ Oh dear, I beg your pardon once more. I did business with Moreheart, so I know. So we are united, then, in our determination to end this scoundrel’s scourge, and I wish you the best, Lord Flint, for from what I understand, you are certainly the man for the job. Here’s to retrieving Le Chat’s head.”

He raised his glass, and the earl raised his, but Violet sipped at her wine noncommittally, unwilling to toast to the decapitation of her brother, even in pretense.

“Would it be possible to speak to one of your crew about the incident, Mr. Musgrove? Do you know if they’re still in port or whether they’ve hired on to other ships? Do you recall who captained her?”

“The earl could use a cook’s mate,” Violet tried sweetly. “If one is available.”

“But the one I have now works so cheaply even if new to the concept of work, and is so devoted to work they scarcely see the deck anymore,” the earl replied smoothly. Still not looking at her.

He was at least very aware she hadn’t been on deck.

A pathetic thing to cherish. Nevertheless.

Mr. Musgrove was too immersed in his own woes to care about theirs, or notice any byplay.

“I don’t know what became of the crew, sir. Likely they’ve scattered to the four winds and could be on their way to Ecuador by now. Cannot even recall their names. Good luck and Godspeed to you. Wish you’d been earlier.” There wasn’t a shred of accusation in this sentiment. It was bitterly wistful.

“As do I, Mr. Musgrove.”

The earl pulled out his watch and reviewed the time, then slid it back into his coat pocket.

“I’m curious—did any of your men get a look at the pirate’s ship? So much of what we know about Le Chat is hearsay.”

Musgrove shook his head and winced at the flavor of the wine. Violet thought it was perfectly acceptable, though she wasn’t tempted to drink it down. Now, if it had been champagne…or sherry…

“’Twas night, of course; there was fog, as this was on the Bay of Biscay. No one could say for certain. It happened very quickly. Very professional,” he said snidely. And gulped down the remainder of his wine, made a face, and slapped the glass down rather too hard on a table that was likely a hundred years older than him.

Then gave them another weak smile. And sighed.

“Mr. Musgrove…” Violet began hesitantly. “You said you did business with Captain Moreheart of The Steadfast.”

The earl tensed almost imperceptibly.

“Yes, Miss Redmond.” Musgrove inspected her closely for the first time, his sharp brown eyes clearly approving everything from her coiffure to her slippers. No doubt tallying up the value of all of it with his mercantile heart, rather than lusting after her other feminine assets.

“Were you part of an investment group? My father is, and often likes to finance ventures such as these,” she said brightly.

“Does he? I’m down two ships now, but not entirely shed of capital. We may wish to have a conversation, your father and I, my dear.” He clearly found it endearing that she should bother her feminine head over business.

She leaned forward like an eager pupil. “Where do you invest your profits?” she asked almost breathlessly. Enjoying her own performance.

Mr. Musgrove poured more wine. Behind him, a clock pendulum swung. Once, twice. Only three times, but it was enough to convince her he was officially delaying his response.

“Into more cargo, of course, Miss Redmond.” He smiled again. “More wine?”

“No, thank you.”

She glanced at the earl to see if he’d noticed Mr. Musgrove’s hesitance. He had. And was clever enough to follow it with one of his own questions.

“Where was The Caridad bound after she delivered her goods here in Brest?” he tried.

“I’d planned to send her on to Cádiz on a mission to purchase sherry, you know. Amontillado. Marvelous stuff. Another of our investors will send a ship from La Rochelle instead. The Prosperar.”

“What kinds of cargo do you usually invest in?” she asked. It was an excellent question.

“It varies, my dear.” He leveled upon Violet a look reminiscent of Isaiah Redmond. Disciplinary and indulgent. She hadn’t missed those looks in the least for the past week or so, she realized. “I imagine you’re interested in the latest silks, and that’s why you ask?”

“Of course,” she decided to say. She gave a little laugh and lowered her eyes, pretending to be abashed.

Charmed, he smiled benevolently.

At least the earl was looking at her at last. The look was decidedly bemused, but he was looking at her, nevertheless.

He spoke. “I’m curious, Mr. Musgrove. Have you spoken with Mr. Hardesty whilst he’s in port? We were to dine with him in Le Havre but we unfortunately missed each other, and we’ve business to discuss.”

“Ah, Hardesty.” Musgrove leaned back in his chair. “Apparently if you want to see Hardesty all you have to do is look for your best friend’s wife, and he’ll be alongside her in bed.” He chuckled richly, then gave a start when he remembered Violet. “Good heavens, begging your pardon, Miss Redmond. A man has difficulty minding what he says, you know, when he’s lost five thousand pounds and a ship! It’s a shock,” he murmured. “A shock.” He dabbed at his forehead, as more sweat beads popped. “It’s all hearsay regarding Hardesty, too, and his, shall we say, amorous conquests. Begging your pardon, Miss Redmond. But I’ve heard of women weeping and rending their garments over him. Friend of Hardesty’s, are you, Captain Flint?”

He said his as though it were unlikely indeed.

“Acquaintance. I dined with Comte Hebert in Le Havre and we’d hope to discuss a particular matter of trade with Mr. Hardesty, but he sent his regrets. Was otherwise detained. I’d hoped to pass on a message from the viscomte to him in port.”