Barbara Metzger (5 page)

“Yes, that’s it. It seems that when Lord Harwood wrote his voucher at Hazlip’s he signed over the deeds to his London properties. Mr. Worbigger and I assumed he meant this property, Harwood House, and its contents. That was the nature of the wager, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“Well, some time after, during your early recuperation and before you had removed here, Mr. Worbigger and his—hurph—assistant came to collect his lordship’s papers. Among them they discovered another deed, to a small house in Kensington.”

“Why in the world would my uncle have another house in London?” Miss Swann wanted to know, to the lawyer’s chagrin and Captain Chase’s amusement.

“Do you know what a
bijou
is, ma’am?”

“A jewel? I don’t see—”

“If your sensibilities can take much more enlightening in one day, suffice it to say your uncle had more respect for his house than I did and other vices beyond gambling.” He couldn’t see the blush, but he heard the quick intake of breath. Satisfied, he turned back to his man of business.

“Go on, Mr. Gould. Did you settle the ownership of the, ah, small house?”

“There’s no question at all, sir. The house is yours. The uncertainty was if there were liens against it, and there were none that we could find. One of my clerks visited the property and found it had been turned into a boardinghouse. That was when I approached you, but you were not in condition to decide whether to keep the property, since it was in a decent enough location, or sell it, because it does not earn much in rental income.”

Captain Chase was delighted. “Do you mean that I own an establishment in a respectable neighborhood, one that could even be self-supporting?”

“Indeed, sir, you do.”

“Miss Swann, do you care to be a landlady? I’m confident you could make a go of it! You’d have a proper place to live and an income. I’m obviously in no state to oversee such an enterprise, so it appears the solution to both of our dilemmas!” Lord, what else could he say to convince her?

With the lawyers adding their encouragement, Miss Swann found herself and her harp on the other side of the door to Harwood House before the cat could lick its whiskers. Her head swimming, she clutched a pile of pound notes from the captain to help her get settled. Kenley Chase did not even listen to her vows to repay the money as soon as possible, considering a hundred pounds cheap at any reckoning to get that blasted woman out of his sight. Make that out of his life.

Chapter Five

If ever a person felt like a ship at sea, it was now, and not simply because of all the naval cant. Cristabel must have been the only one in the house who didn’t understand Captain Chase’s orders to clear the bridge, scuttle the scuppers, and mizzle the m’nsail—that’s what it sounded like, anyway—because the whole staff jumped to battle stations aye-ayeing him to distraction. She understood enough to know she was being hustled out of the house in record time, harp, cash, even a hamper of food from Mrs. Witt. A ship at sea? This was more like a row-boat in an ocean gale with the day’s ups and downs, her hopes dashed, her fortunes at low tide, then suddenly riding a crest, and “Clear sailin’ ahead,” as her companion in the captain’s carriage said.

“I’m to be your escort convoy through narrow shoals, miss,” he told her, climbing into the coach, near terrifying her at first with the hook he wore instead of a hand. “The captain says to see you snugged in safe harbor, ma’am.”

A tall woman could not really shrink into the cushioned seats so Cristabel sat up straighter. “And you are…?”

“It’s Jonas Sparling at your service, miss. Late of His Majesty’s Navy, able-bodied seaman, qualified to hand, reef, and steer. Now the captain’s personal man. His valet, you might say.”

At least that explained why the captain was unshaven, but not much else about the man. There she was thinking Chase the greatest beast in nature, a totally untrustworthy rakehell; here she was, her safety and comfort seen to, and her future secured by his generosity. She would never trust him, of course, not that she expected to see him again. The man had been as happy to be quits of her as she of him. Still, there was that debt, the hundred pounds. It was more money than she’d ever had at one time, more than she would accumulate in a lifetime at Miss Meadow’s. And there was the boardinghouse, which somehow did not have the same sense of obligation about it, as if the captain owed her something for having gambled over her inheritance and for winning. True, she understood about the card game now, yet couldn’t dismiss the feeling that real gentlemen did not play ducks and drakes with people’s lives. Whatever she felt, it was done, finished. Chase had invested a great deal in Harwood House, it appeared to her, while he didn’t even remember he owned the Kensington place. He certainly didn’t need the income from it, or the headache of it, and seemed glad to hand the property over to her. Maybe he had a conscience after all.

First, she told herself as the carriage picked its way through the busy streets, she would repay the hundred pounds, then she would see about the value of the house itself. She
would
make it profitable, she just had to. This wasn’t part of her wildest imaginings, running a hotel or whatever, but it was a lot better than her choices of a few hours ago. Sullivan Street in Kensington wasn’t Harwood House in Mayfair, but it wasn’t the stews and kennels of London, either. Cristabel didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry, so she blew her nose. Drat this cold and the sooty air that was making her eyes water.

“Here now, belay that!” Watching the changing expressions on Cristabel’s face, the grizzled seaman had been wondering at her fortitude. Fragile young thing looked like she’d capsize with the first breeze, and her standing up to the captain like few men would dare, despite the riot and rumpus heard clear across Grosvenor Square, nearly. They surely were amazing creatures, females, all pluck and backbone one minute, all watery-eyed weakness the next. It was a shame the captain hadn’t seen those blue eyes for himself. The color of sunlight on the South Sea, they were. Wellaway, he’d of given her the house and all. Meantime, what did an old tar know about weepy women? Jonas Sparling knew he’d sooner face a boarding party of cutthroat privateers.

“You’re already through the shallow waters, miss. No need to fret now. ’Sides, if you can face the captain, you can face anything.”

Cristabel smiled at that. “He is rather…ah, formidable, isn’t he?”

“Aye, he is that. Of course, he’s not used to having his ways crossed. In the Navy, you know, captain’s word is law. You’d have been flogged, argufying an officer like that.”

“Never say so! Not even Captain Chase could be so brutal!”

“Well, there’s the conscript, and them taking convicts on as hands; there’d be trouble on a ship lacking some sort of discipline. Skipper might make an example, say, of some young’n who doesn’t sing his favorite hymn on a Sunday…”

“Mr. Sparling, I do believe you are roasting me.”

“Aye, Captain Chase is the fairest man in the Navy, or was, at any rate. Right now he’s just blue-deviled, is all, aworrying about his eyes and if he’ll be blind for good and all.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Of course not, and he’d never say it outright. He’s just testy, you might say.”

“I’d
say he was a foul-tempered, loud-mouthed brute, but I see by your smile you wouldn’t agree. I cannot imagine what the man does to inspire such loyalty. Even Mrs. Witt was singing his praises and making excuses for him.”

“Well, I served under him for a good many years, even afore he made captain, and there’s no man in the Navy I’d rather sail with. There’s no one braver or more generous.”

Cristabel made sure her reticule’s strings were tightened securely around the precious bank notes. “Yes, it seems I owe him a great deal of money.”

“Begging your pardon, miss, I owe him my life.”

Miss Swann’s settling back on the squabs was all the encouragement Sparling required. There was a ways to go to Kensington, and a tale to tell about all the raging battles, the Azores, and Trafalgar against the whole French fleet, and then
Invicta’s
final battle. While she was engaged with one enemy warship, another loomed up in the fog to
Invicta’s
stern.
Invicta
fired all she could, broadside, before making a run to come about on the other ship aft. The cannon had to be re-aimed and recharged, though.

“And then? And then?”

“And then the first ship caught fire. You should have heard our men shout when they saw the flames and them frogs jumping overboard. And the cap’n, he stands there at the bridge telling the hands steady on, we’d another minnow to land afore supper.”

“And did you? Did you sink two ships at once?”

“Aye. And the men were cheering and laughing and dancing about… They were dancing.” Sparling’s voice faded in the memory until he remembered his audience.

“There was a third ship. The
Ducharde,
damn her. Excuse me, ma’am. We never saw her in the smoke and fog, we only heard the cannon. They hit the ammunition stores. Then there were explosions I never saw the like of, and pieces of ship flying all over, and the men…”

“And your hand?”

“Aye. The next thing I know, I’m in the water, and I can’t swim. But there’s the captain, who’s got a great gash on his head, and blood pouring all over his face. He holds me up till we spot a floating hatch cover.”

Cristabel let out her breath. “I can see where you would be loyal to him.”

“There’s more. The
Ducharde
cruised close, mayhap thinking we were Frenchies. They would have left any English sailors, but they recognized the captain’s uniform and picked us up. I would have died there again, but for his knowing what to do about the bleeding and all. The Frenchies tossed us in the brig and never looked at us, till they transferred us to a floating garrison. We stayed there for months, rotting, while the Admiralty dickered for Captain Chase’s release. I don’t know what they traded, but he made me part of the deal, said he needed me. He was in a bad way by then, too, with no proper medical care, so they let me go, to make sure he got back to England. I’d not have made it to the truce, else.

“Now I’ve got the softest berth of my life, so I suppose I can put up with his shouting a bit.”

“A bit? He was very loud.”

Sparling chuckled. “Captains have to be heard, don’t you know, even when there’s wind raging and surf pounding, and sails flapping.”

“Oh, you’d defend him against any charge. Did you hear that there was a…a woman,” she said, blushing, “in the house this afternoon?”

“Ma’am, everyone in all of Mayfair heard that there was a woman there this afternoon.”

Could she blush more? No, it was the fever again. “But…but in the afternoon, and in the front parlor, and on the floor!”

“You didn’t hear the woman complaining, did you?”

Cristabel knew Jonas was laughing at her, and at this highly improper conversation. A lady shouldn’t know about such things, much less talk about them. She hurried to change the topic. “Very well, you won’t speak ill of him, but even you cannot condone such wicked gambling.”

“No, ma’am, except it did win you this house in Kensington we’re aiming at. Pardon me for saying so, but without it you’d be shark-bait, make no mistake.”

That was close enough to the truth to give Cristabel pause. “Still,” she said, “it’s not right.”

“I’m naught but an old tar on permanent shore leave, miss. Who am I to say what’s right?”

If that were a gentle reminder that provincial, penniless school mistresses had no truck with London ways, Cristabel ignored the hint. The coach was slowing down so the driver could ask directions, and she looked around eagerly. They had long since left the narrow streets of the city which were congested with traffic, noisy vendors, and harassed pedestrians. These roads were wider, tree-lined, and almost empty of carriages. Some streets had attached houses, like rows of uniformed schoolgirls in their church pews. Other wider avenues held modest homes with neat little patches of lawn in front and coach-wide alleys between. Four or five of these buildings could fit on the grounds of the Grosvenor Square properties, but these houses looked comfortable, and comforting to Miss Swann. Tidy and unassuming, they had as little to do with extravagance and wild ways as Cristabel herself. If Fate hadn’t been kind, at least she’d been wise.

Fate could have been a little more choosy, Cristabel decided when the carriage pulled to a stop. Fifteen Sullivan Street was narrower than its neighbors, closer to the road, and its tiny front yard was a mud swamp instead of a lawn. The windows were grimy, the steps were hidden under layers of dirt, and the whole house was smudge-colored. No wonder the place wasn’t bringing in more income. No wonder the captain didn’t want it.

Jonas Sparling cleared his throat. The footman had been holding the coach door open, waiting to hand her down. “Steady on, miss. Take heavy weather bow-on.”

She still made no move. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Sparling.”

“Chin up,” he interpreted, smiling his encouragement.

“Yes, you are quite right,” Cristabel responded, indeed firming her backbone and her resolution. “I have been enough of a ninnyhammer for today. Time to, ah, raise the colors?”

“That’s it, ma’am. You’ll do. The lad and I will bring in the baggage; you go on ahead.”

Her skirts may have hidden wobbly knees, but her shoulders were straight as she walked to yet another new door. Instead of the Harwood crest nearby this one had a tattered, hand-lettered ROOMS sign in a window alongside. Cristabel’s knock was just as firm.

The man who opened the door was short and dark. His hair was spiky and he looked up at Cristabel from under bristly overhanging brows. His nose was squashed flat at the bridge, and a damp, chewed cigar stuck out of his mouth. His jacket was rumpled, his open shirt showing a ring of grime on the once-white collar. He was certainly not the type Miss Swann wished to see at her residence. The feeling was mutual. After an insolent perusal of the tall, thin, drab female on the doorstep, the small man announced “You ain’t our sort,” and shut the door in her face.

What a way to attract boarders! Miss Swann knocked again. This time he opened the door with a grin, not much more appealing with its blackened teeth. “Persistent wench, I’ll give you that. You’ll have to show me more’n that though.”

“I’ll show you the door, my man,” Cristabel answered, glowering down at him from her seven or eight inch advantage. “I suggest you learn some manners if you wish to keep your position here, whatever that may be. Doorman, I suppose. You’ll have to get a proper uniform and maintain a neat appearance. If possible,” she added doubtfully.

“Who the bleedin’ ’ell do you think you are, comin’ ’ere ’n tellin’ Nick Blass ’ow to go on ’n what to wear?”

“I am Miss Cristabel Swann, Lord Harwood’s niece, and I am the new proprietor of this establishment.”

“Like ’ell you are. ’Is lordship’s gone ’n stuck ’is spoon in the wall, all right, but ’e never left you in charge ’ere. ’E never even mentioned the likes of no scarecrow niece, so you get yourself back to your blasted convent or whatever, or by God I’ll—”

By now Cristabel had heard more curse words in this one day than she’d heard in her whole life, and she was tired of it. Obviously this Nick Blass had never had his mouth washed with soap, like the littlest girls at Miss Meadow’s did, for the merest hint of blasphemy. She doubted he’d had
anything
washed with soap in weeks. No matter what, she hadn’t been cowed by the belligerent, bellowing sea captain; she certainly wasn’t going to be intimidated by this beetle-browed runt. Little men were often bullies, her father had said, trying to make up in bluster what they lacked in inches. Her pious father was trying to make her more charitable toward one of his congregants, the one who chased the village children with a broom when their balls fell in his yard. Reverend Swann had taught his daughter to be more understanding of men’s foibles, so she supposed she’d have to give this Nick Blass another chance.

She pushed past the doorway and told him, “I am not going anywhere, but you may leave anytime you don’t like the way things are going to be run here—respectably and respectfully. I’ll hear no more of that foul language.”

“Why, you—” The furtherance of Cristabel’s education in gutter talk was halted by an arm around Blass’s throat. An arm which ended in a wicked hook lying alongside his face.

“Avast, mate. You heard the lady.” Blass avasted. He stemmed the spew of words to struggle against the larger man’s restraint. Sparling was bigger and stronger, but Blass fought dirtier. He bit the sailor’s wrist. Sparling loosened his grip, drawing his other arm back for a leveling blow, while Blass reached for his boot and the knife hidden there. Cristabel picked up the first thing she spotted, an umbrella stand. She emptied the contents on the floor and made ready to throw, when a new voice, soft and cultured, neither shouting nor cursing, called a halt to the melee.