And now negotiations were almost settled, and the Maddy Rose was almost his. All they had to do was find one of Russell’s daughters to sign off on it. Every time he thought about the ship he felt a totally unaccustomed emotion swell inside him. The lines, the speed, the sheer beauty of the ship owned him as nothing else could. He’d sailed on many vessels, steam and sail, and commanded a large portion of them, but none of them moved him as the clipper ship did.
It was strange. He was used to lust stirring his privates, anger making his head pound, laughter in his belly. But his feelings for the Maddy Rose were in between, somewhere in the area that a heart was supposed to reside.
He didn’t have one, of course. Oh, the thing still did its job, thumped obligingly in his chest, but he’d stripped that body part of any feelings when he was seven years old and his stepfather had sold him to Morris the Sweep, who’d run the chimney sweeps. Eight pence had been his worth, and the old man had starved him. Luca was no use as a climbing boy if he was too big to fit in the chimneys, and he spent endless years edging his way up and down the innards of the chimneys of rich, happy families in their rich, happy houses. By the time he was twelve he looked half his age, covered with burns and the mark of the lash.
He’d run away, of course, and kept trying till he succeeded. Tried to run back home but his family had already moved on, as the Travelers did. His gypsy heritage was in his face, his dark skin and eyes, curling black hair always filled with soot. His heritage was in his soul as well—rebellion and a determination to escape had always burned bright in him.
He should never have expected his mother to save him. He’d been born from a previous marriage to a non-gypsy, a Gadjo, an Englishman who’d given him his height and little else. His mother’s second husband hated him and the reminder that he wasn’t Anselina’s first. Luca shouldn’t have blamed her for letting him go—he knew how heavy his stepfather’s fists could be. But he did.
He’d escaped Morris as soon as he was big enough to fight back, taking his friend Wart with him. Together they’d become the finest child pickpockets in London. They’d serviced gentlemen when they were starving and found their way into many a wealthy household in the middle of the night to relieve them of whatever silver they could carry. So the life of a pirate had been a natural move for him.
It hadn’t started out that way. It had never been his idea to go to sea—the Rom had a natural aversion to it. But he’d been taken up one night when he hadn’t run fast enough—coshed on the head, and when he’d woken up the next morning he was already in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight.
It still made him laugh to remember how sick he’d been those first weeks. He’d spewed all over himself, the sailor who had kidnapped him, and the burly captain whenever they got close. Eventually there was nothing left to spew, and he lay in the small hammock they’d rigged up for him, stinking of vomit, hoping he’d die.
Until he heard the captain and the quartermaster talking. “Might’s well throw him overboard, sir,” the quartermaster had said. “He won’t last much longer and he’s too much trouble.”
He could feel eyes on his tiny, miserable body, and then the captain drawled, “Give him another day. See if he can hold down a bit of ale. He’s a pretty lad, and a bright one, or I miss my guess. If he’s no better tomorrow throw him overboard.”
The quartermaster grunted, poking at him, and Luca wanted to hurl. Not a good idea, he decided, swallowing his bile. On land there were always a dozen places to escape to, particularly when you were small and wiry. He could fit almost anyplace. Here on the boat he was trapped.
It was another man who forced the ale down his throat, clamping his jaw shut so he had to keep it down or choke. A big man, with huge hands, the ugliest face in Christendom, and an unexpected kindness in his eyes.
And that was how he met William Quarrells.
Billy was going to approve of this day’s work, he thought as he strode along the quayside. He’d loved the Maddy Rose as well, serving as Luca’s first mate and the one man he trusted unequivocally.
Luca tossed his hat and coat on the dusty table in the narrow front hall of his house on Water Street and headed toward his office. It was a little past noon, time for a decent meal, but his very proper fiancée was trying to civilize him, and he was indulging her, at least for the time being. Gwendolyn Haviland had informed him archly that only the lower orders ate a full meal at midday. Proper people ate dinner in the evening, accompanied by wine and good conversation with one’s equals. The very idea made him shudder.
His desk was as littered as the front table, though he rifled through things so often he didn’t allow dust to settle. By the time Billy pushed open the door he’d already compiled a stack of bills for his business manager to attend to, and was just enjoying the reward for his labors—a small glass of Jamaican rum.
“Don’t let Miss Haviland see you with that,” Billy said in his rumbling, sea-dog voice. “She says rum is for lowborn limeys.” He mimicked Gwendolyn’s prissy accent.
Luca turned and poured him an even deeper glass—Billy was a larger man than he was and needed more rum. “I am a lowborn limey,” he said, handing Billy his glass. “And a filthy gypsy as well.”
“She expects you to rise above it. Cheers.” He drained half the glass, made a face, and then fixed his deep-set, worried gaze on Luca. “You were able to get the Maddy Rose?”
“All taken care of. Just one little bit of business and then she’s ours.”
Billy sighed with satisfaction. “You know buying that ship makes no sense at all. The age of the clipper ship is over. It’s all about steam nowadays. But the Maddy Rose is a thing of beauty, and it fair warms my heart that you were softheaded enough to buy her.”
Luca grinned at him. “Even a man who’s sold his soul to commerce has to be foolish every now and then.”
“Ah, you’re so rich you’ll never miss it,” Billy scoffed. “Now if you could only be sensible about the blasted woman you intend to marry.”
“I may as well have respectability, Billy, since I’m about to have my own shipping company. You know that. Gwendolyn is my best way to achieve it. Besides, she’s my solicitor’s daughter. This way I know Haviland won’t play me false.”
“True enough. He dotes on the chit. Problem is, he expects you to dote on her too,” Billy grumbled.
“I dote on her,” Luca said cheerfully, draining his glass of rum and pouring another. “I proposed to her, didn’t I?”
“You gave up,” Billy said sourly. “That woman set her sights on you the moment she met you, and she’s scarier than the… Lord, I can’t think of who she’s scarier than. I wonder you held out so long.”
Luca stifled his momentary irritation. “Her plans happened to coincide with mine. She wants a wealthy sea captain for a husband; I want a society wife. I’ve a mind to turn respectable, and she’s the way to do it.”
“It’s not your money she’s after, laddie,” Billy said dourly. “There’s more than enough of that around, and Miss Gwendolyn Haviland could have just about anyone she pleases. It’s your pretty face.”
Luca snorted. “Then it’s a great deal fortunate that she doesn’t have an inkling what kind of dark soul lingers beneath it,” he said lightly.
“She sees you as a project. You’re like a doll—she can dress you up and teach you manners and trot you out like some trained monkey.”
“You don’t like women,” Luca said unnecessarily.
“Aye. They’re nothing but trouble and I’ve got no use for them.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Like when am I going to get properly fed?”
“Miss Haviland told Mrs. Crozier you weren’t to be served dinner until eight o’clock of an evening. You maybe have something light for luncheon, and tea and watercress sandwiches at teatime.”
“And who hires Mrs. Crozier and pays her and her husband’s wages?”
“You do. Which should give you a little hint that your sweet
little fiancée isn’t the angelic creature you think she is.”
Luca laughed. “I don’t believe in angelic creatures. If you think Gwendolyn’s sweet ways fool me for one moment then you forget we’ve been together for twenty years. It’s a business arrangement, whether she realizes it or not.”
“Oh, aye,” said Billy. “Then where’s your food?”
Luca felt his stomach rumble. “In the kitchen, I expect.” He rose, raising an eyebrow. “You coming?”
“Mrs. Crozier is a terrible housekeeper and her husband’s a lazy drunk,” Billy said, pushing his massive bulk to his feet. “And her cooking isn’t much better, but at least it means I don’t have to cook for myself. You’re bloody well right I’m coming. Besides, I’ve got a word or two to say to the old witch about the state of this house.”
“Wait till after we eat,” Luca suggested. “Besides, I believe she’s hired a new maid, so things should be improving.”
“Another woman in the household,” Billy said dourly. “Things can only get worse.”
“You’re prejudiced. In fact, let’s not get in Mrs. Crozier’s way. If she’s been listening to Gwendolyn then there’s no telling what she might serve us. I think the Crown and Rose near the docks would give us a much better meal.”
“You’re on, mate,” Billy said. “It’s too good a day to be indoors, though I’d rather be out at sea. When is the Maddy Rose coming?”
“Soon.” It was nothing more than the truth. “Lunch today, and a long sail as soon as she gets here.”
“She’s a grand old boat,” Billy said wistfully.
“Only five years old,” Luca reminded him. “But you’re right. She’s the closest I ever intend to get to loving a woman. If I had a heart it would be pledged to the Maddy Rose.”
“Amen,” said Billy solemnly.
CHAPTER TWO
GETTING HERSELF READY FOR her new life as a maidservant cum spy was a bit more trouble than Maddy had expected. Mr. Fulton was aggrieved to be seen driving into the dockside town of Devonport with a servant by his side, particularly one he judged as far too pretty to be credible. Maddy knew better. People didn’t actually look at their servants. As long as she kept her shoulders hunched and her face lowered the ancient captain would pay no attention to her at all.
Mr. Fulton hadn’t liked dropping her off near High Street, but she was hardly going to show up at her new position in a fancy carriage, for all that Matthew was supposedly the source of the captain’s new employee. She needed to do this alone, and she needed time to get in the proper state of mind. A nice long walk to Water Street would be just the thing, and Maddy planned to make good use of the time. It was astonishing how different a place was when you were walking on the streets, rather than viewing life from a carriage or the back of a horse. After their fall from grace six months ago, walking rather than riding in the poorer parts of London had come as quite a shock to her system, cushioned as she’d been.
Actually walking through the streets had been overwhelming and invigorating. In the past, while Bryony stayed secluded in the countryside and Sophie rollicked through the season, playing one beau against the other, Maddy had always had an unfortunate fascination with the real world, with the workings of her father’s business, with politics, with investments. Unfeminine interests that she kept to herself, though her father had understood and even encouraged her. It was always accepted that she was destined for a great marriage—the value of her face and her dowry were indisputable, and her dead mother had been the daughter of a baronet, almost wiping out her father’s less than stellar pedigree.
But everything had ended with her father’s disgrace and death. At least, the easy part had ended, as well as her relationship with Jasper Tarkington, who was now as far away from her as he could manage, somewhere in the depths of South America. She hoped a jaguar ate him.
She was still planning on a great marriage, dowry or no. She was up to any challenge, and her goal was clear. A title and a fortune. Clearing her father’s name was simply the first step toward achieving that goal. If, in the end she failed, Lord Eastham was always an option. But she didn’t intend to fail.
She felt curious eyes on her, and she suddenly realized she’d been striding along, head up, shoulders back, her valise swinging in her hand. She resisted the impulse to look around her as she slowed her pace, almost imperceptibly. She should be nearing the quay by now, but instead she seemed to have wandered into a less prosperous area of town. The stink of garbage, horse dung, and dead fish was high on the midday air, and she wished she dared fumble in her reticule for a handkerchief to hold to her nose. Maids didn’t hold their noses—they emptied slop jars and scrubbed the most disgusting things. Nanny Gruen had warned her there was no place for her so-called airs.
The streets had become darker, narrower, and she’d somehow lost her way. Up ahead she could see the brightness of sunlight, and she sped up, trying to force herself not to break into a run. She’d been careless while she’d been busy thinking. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes like this.
She moved around the corner, into the sunlight, and froze. Despite the patch of light she now stood in, the rest of the alleyway was shrouded in shadows. The stench was even worse, and she realized with a sinking feeling that a new smell had joined the others. That of unwashed human flesh.
There were three of them blocking the other end of the narrow alley, and she blinked, staring at them. Nothing to be afraid of, she told herself. They were just sailors home on shore leave, out for a bit of fun. They’d leave her alone if she told them to.
“Look at ’er, will ya?” one of them said. “What a pretty little bit of fluff to come our way. What should we do with her, boys?”
They were an odd group, one of them huge and bear-like, his hands like hams as they hung loosely beside him. Another was small and wiry, with grizzled gray hair and beard and far too much interest in his faded eyes. But the third, the one who was doing the talking, was the worst. At some point in his life he’d suffered a cruel accident, and half his face was burned and scarred. He was barrel-chested, and his open, grinning mouth showed a handful of blackened, rotting teeth, the odor of decay so strong she could smell it from several feet away.
She had only a moment to react. The street she’d come from had been deserted—there would be no safety if she turned and ran back that way. It was the middle of the day in a solid British city—she had to be imagining her danger.
“You’re going to let me pass and leave me alone.” She raised her voice, sounding so calm it steadied her.
“Oh, I don’t think so, lass. Anyone knows you don’t wander around these parts if you’re not looking for making a little money on the side.”
“She’s pretty,” the big man said.
“That’s the truth of it, Barney, old boy. Much too pretty for the likes of us, but who’s to say we should look a gift horse in the mouth? She’s here, we’re looking for a bit of sport, and we all know no one interferes with what goes in these dockside alleys.”
Dockside? They were near the harbor then, and there would be people nearby. “If you don’t move aside I’ll scream,” she said sharply.
“No one will care.” They were getting closer, and she could feel some of her self-assurance fade. “Pretty thing like you—you were asking for it, that’s what we’d say. Or maybe we won’t have to say anything at all, maybe you’re just going to disappear. I know someone who’d pay good money to take you far away from here, sell you to some of them heathens who like white skin. Too bad you’re not a blonde, but you’d still fetch a pretty price.”
She started to back away from them. She could always hit one of them in the head with her valise, but it was far too light to do much damage. All right, so she’d miscalculated, and she hadn’t been paying proper attention. She’d had instructions on how to get to Captain Morgan’s house, instructions she’d merely glanced at and arrogantly assumed that had been enough. She was going to have to run for it, and while she c
ould probably outpace the big one and the old one, the scarred one looked far too eager.
He was moving in on her, and one of his hands reached down and cupped the front of his filthy breeches suggestively. “You want to beg for mercy, little girl? I’m afraid I’m all out.”
“I want her first,” the big man said in a plaintive whine.
“You hurts ’em too much, Barney,” the old man chided. “You get her last. Once you’re done with them they aren’t much good to anyone for a long time.”
She was going to throw up. Right there in front of them. In any other circumstances it should have filled them with disgust, but these depraved creatures would probably enjoy it.
“Say ‘please,’ girly,” the scarred man taunted.
She was almost at the corner of the alleyway. Just a few more feet and she could make a run for it. “Please,” she said in a soft, breathless voice. “Please…”—her voice hardened—“go sod yourselves.”
She spun on her heels, swallowing her fear. Something grabbed her sleeve, and she heard it rip as she yanked away. Her valise went flying. A moment later her arm was caught in a grip so painful she felt as if her bones were being crushed, and she was being dragged back into the alleyway. She opened her mouth to scream, but a filthy hand slapped over it, silencing her. She fought—kicking, hitting, clawing with her hands, though trapped in her cheap cotton gloves she couldn’t do much damage. She managed to move her knee up sharply, hitting the big man in the groin, and he went down with a comically high-pitched scream of pain, writhing on the ground.