“That’s where old Riley Neilson be laid up. He busted up his left hip, he did, during the last skirmish with the French. We’ve been tending him.”
“In the front room?”
“He can’t make it up the steps, he can’t. We use both front rooms as berths. Riley is in the portside with Taggart, Lewis, and Jacobson, whilst me, Toggle, and Toots MacGrady be in the starboard.”
“You live in the front rooms?”
“Aye.”
Goodness, what sort of house was this that men actually lived in the front parlor and the dining room, using them as bedchambers? “Which room is the captain’s?”
Stevens gestured down the dark hallway. “The library. He calls it his quarters, he does.”
She’d already taken two short steps in that direction, but now she stopped. “Does he…does he sleep in there as well?”
“At times. But he still has his chambers upstairs. We haven’t needed it yet, though if we get any more…” Stevens shook his head sadly. “We’re up at topsail now. Filled to the quarterdeck and beyond.”
“Filled…with sailors?”
“Aye, madam. All of us were at one time or another in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. We all served under the cap’n at Trafalgar.” Stevens beamed. “He’s a war hero, ye know. The captain says we all are.”
Prudence hadn’t believed the upstairs maid’s claims about the captain being a war hero of some sort, but now, looking at Stevens’s proud expression, she thought perhaps it was the truth. “That must have been quite exciting for you all.”
“Aye! Admiral Nelson was on our ship when—” A quiver passed over the old sailor’s face. Though he suppressed it quickly, his eyes were suddenly wet.
Prudence felt like the lowest heel. She cleared her throat. “How many of you are here?”
Stevens poked his thumbs into the sleeves of his waistcoat and squinted up at the ceiling. “Twenty-seven.”
“In this one house?”
“Well now, some come and some go.” A sad look crossed Stevens’s face. “’Tis hard fer a sailor to weigh anchor fer long. There’s a restlessness that’s hard on the soul.”
“This is quite a large undertaking, then.”
“Ye don’t know the half of it. The cap’n feeds us and clothes us, he does. But he doesn’t give it to us fer nothing, which is good, as a man has to have his pride. All the men work, whenever there’s something as needs doin’.”
There was much more to the captain than she’d thought. Much, much more. “That is quite generous of him.”
“Indeed ’tis.” The first mate scratched his chin, then gestured down the hallway. “This way if ye wish to speak to the cap’n.”
“Yes, please.” She was beginning to realize that behind the captain’s gruff and grim exterior was a heart of some sort. Of course, it was possible the man was merely turning the men to his own purpose…though she couldn’t really tell how.
Stevens wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Follow me, then. The cap’n is out walkin’, but ye can wait on him in his quarters.”
“Thank you,” she said, following the man down the hallway.
He went to the last door and threw it open, then stepped aside. “In with ye!”
The sudden spill of gray light hurt her eyes as she entered the room. One wall was hung with long French doors, the silvered skies outside framed by deep green curtains. Light, such as there was, poured into the room. “Much better,” she said approvingly. “This room is brighter.”
“Aye. ’Tis like stepping onto the deck of a ship, isn’t it?” Stevens pointed to the large wingback chair that sat looking out over a small terrace and to the ocean cliff beyond. A book and a pipe rack told a tale of their own. “The cap’n likes to sit in here when the sun sets. I think he can pretend to be sailing the seas, meself.” A wistful note crept into Stevens’s voice. “I miss those days.”
“He pretends?” Somehow, Prudence didn’t think of the captain as a man given to make-believe.
A shadow crossed Stevens’s face, his blue eyes darkening. “Sometimes that’s all ye get, madam. Pretendin’.”
Prudence thought of how much she missed Phillip and how, in the days right after his death, to get through the difficult times, she’d pretend—just for an hour—that he was really just gone on a visit or a trip. That he would be back. Of course, he never came, and sometimes it made her all the sadder.
She thought of the captain and how he limped. “Will the captain ever sail again?”
“Nay, missus. Because of his leg. Can’t keep his footing on deck. Some captains, they would sail anyway, just tie themselves to the mast. But Cap’n says an unfit body in charge has led to many a failure and he’ll not be one of them. Always thinking of his men, he is.”
“I see. Where is he now?”
“I daresay he stopped by the barn.” Stevens’s face crinkled into a smile. “We’ve some visitors, we do. The cap’n sent them to the stables. I’ll see if’n I can find him. Perhaps ye should drop an anchor here whilst I fetch him.”
Prudence nodded. The man gave the room a last look, as if expecting the captain to suddenly appear, and then left.
As soon as the door closed, Prudence looked around, her gaze sweeping the room. Large paintings of ships being tossed about rough seas adorned the walls. She walked from picture to picture, taking in the blue, green and salty grays of the ocean swells.
She wandered more slowly, noting a brass instrument on a table, a myriad of other intriguing objects with it. She removed her gloves, laid them over the back of a chair with her cloak, and picked up the instrument, the cool metal pressing into her palm.
She knew so little about the captain really, other than the fact that he had a sheep that was capable of climbing over her fence. A sheep now running unchecked through the countryside, wearing her red muffler, a boatload of men chasing it.
Her lips twitched. That could be quite amusing to see. She replaced the brass…thing, whatever it was, her gaze sweeping the room. There, on a shelf by the fireplace, and somewhat above her head, was a small engraved cup. From where she stood, it looked as if it said THE VICTORY. She squinted and stood up on her tiptoes, trying to make out the exact etching, but she couldn’t. The light was too poor.
Could it be…The Victory had been the ship from which Admiral Nelson had led the Battle of Trafalgar. Surely Captain Llevanth had not been in charge of that ship.
The answer to a good many of her questions might well be on that cup. She stepped closer to the shelf and reached up on tiptoe, but her fingers barely grazed the outer edge. It was far too high. Glancing around, she found a chair. She would stand on it and then she could not only reach the shelf, but she would be able to see the cup up close and read the engraving completely.
She cast a cautious eye toward the doorway. No sound emanated from the darkened hallway. There’d been no rug lining the wood floor and the captain was unlikely to walk about on tiptoe, especially not with his limp, so she was certain she’d hear anyone approach.
Prudence dragged a straight-backed chair to below the shelf, grimacing a bit when the legs scraped the floor. Once she had the chair in place, she tiptoed to the hallway and peeked out the door. Nothing. A bit of breathlessness left her. She returned and nimbly hopped on the chair, reached up to the shelf and found the cup.
To commemorate the bravery of the Victory and the final stand of Admiral Nelson, to Captain Tristan Llevanth, who stood true, fast, and brave even while wounded.
With admiration, from His Majesty, King George III.
That was certainly something! She traced the lettering, the etching rough against her fingers. Had King George himself presented the award to the captain? How odd to think that the king had once had his fingers right where hers now were.
She replaced the award and, reaching even further back, teetering on her tiptoes, her fingers grazed the next award in line. This one was a large gold cross, outlined with blue enamel and set with a single jewel. A huge blue ribbo
n threaded through the large loop at the head of the cross, so it was apparently to be worn over a uniform of some type.
She frowned. She’d heard of the St. Christopher’s Cross, given to seamen and soldiers who’d exhibited unusual bravery in battle. Could this be one? Whatever it was, it was a beautiful piece and quite impressive. She smoothed her fingers over the cool metal, admiring the color even as she glanced at the remaining awards and medals.
The captain had been no coward when it came to wartime activities. That could be very useful information, she decided. She’d have to be careful not to appear too confrontational in her manner; he would take it as a challenge, something he apparently enjoyed.
She pursed her lips. She supposed she didn’t blame him. She rather enjoyed a good row now and again herself. She lifted up on her tiptoes to replace the cross—
“What are you doing?”
The words snapped through the dead silence, so deeply spoken and so close, that Prudence took a startled step back—a dangerous move for someone balanced on their toes on the seat of a wobbly chair. The cross gripped in her hands, she gasped deeply, wobbling a second on the edge of the chair.
And then she fell, tumbling back, back, back…right into the arms of the man she’d come to conquer.
Chapter 7
It is a delicate thing, to always be right, especially when dealing with a man of breeding and, one would hope, some pride. A proper butler will know how to make it appear that all decisions are made by one’s master. Or at least, heartily approved by him even when they are not.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves
Moments before Prudence’s fall from the chair, Tristan had been standing in the courtyard, glaring at the barn. His father’s servants were in there and it felt wrong somehow. He wanted no reminders of that dark part of his life.
Something brushed his leg and he glanced down. “Ah, Winchester.” The cat purred loudly, pressing its orange-and-white face against Tristan’s boot. He leaned a bit more heavily against the gate, his cane resting against his thigh as he scooped up the waiting cat and absently scratched one of its rather ragged ears. “Easy,” Tristan murmured to the cat. “It’s uncharted territory to be certain. But we’ve been in worse weather. We’ll come about. See if we don’t.”
Winchester flicked a nervous ear, so Tristan gave the cat’s head a brisk scratch before setting him back on the ground.
“There ye be, Cap’n!” Stevens said, coming up at a run.
“Aye, here am I,” Tristan said, his gaze fastened on the wide oak barn doors. From behind the doors came a myriad of sounds, hammering and sawing and all sorts of noises. What the hell was that man Reeves up to?
“Cap’n, ye won’t believe this, but—” An especially loud racket made Stevens turn toward the barn. “What’s that?”
“God only knows, although I am about to find out.” He grasped the handle of his cane and pulled himself from his leaning position against the gate. “Stevens, I am beginning to believe that allowing Master Reeves and his entourage to rest in our barn for a day or two was an error.”
“I am thinkin’ the same thing meself, Cap’n. What do ye think he’s doin’ in there?”
“I don’t know. Other than request permission to clean it up a bit, he’s asked for nothing more. However, I think it’s time to find out.” Tristan made his way to the door. Just as he placed his hand on the large, rusty iron ring, a shift in the wind produced a most amazing smell.
Stevens lifted his nose to the air, inhaling noisily. “Gor, Cap’n,” he said in a reverent voice, his eyes half closing. “What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” Tristan said, puzzled. He swung open the door and stepped inside, halting in amazement.
The entire barn had been cleaned out; scrubbed from floor to rafter. All of the hay stores—what few there were—were neatly stacked against the far wall. The tackle and tack had been moved there as well, neatly hung on newly placed hooks. That left the majority of the barn empty. Or it would have been empty had someone not placed barrels at regular intervals with meticulously cut boards laid across them, end to end. The effect was a huge, table-like structure that ran the entire length of the edifice.
Reeves had turned the barn into a dining hall. Worse was the bustle of what seemed to be an army of liveried servants.
“Bloody hell,” Tristan said. What could Reeves possibly hope to gain with such a ridiculous thing as a dining table large enough to fit thirty or forty persons?
Stevens stiffened. “Cap’n, cock an eye starboard! ’Tis Toggle, the lazy shifter!”
Sitting at a barrel, plate before him, napkin tucked under his chin, was a large man with a round, roly-poly face. He wore a dirty white shirt that stretched over his paunch, which was only partially hidden by a long coat that draped down past his knees. His ensemble was only slightly less nattered than he, for his graying hair was roughly chopped about his melon head, a good bit of it standing straight up in the back, sorely in need of a good brushing.
His eyes widened when he saw Tristan and he stumbled to his feet, fork and knife still clutched in his fists, a shiny stain on his chin. “Cap’n! I didn’t think—I mean, what’re ye doin’ out here?”
Tristan clasped his cane tighter, but Stevens interjected, “Toggle, ye fool. Just whose barn do ye think this is?”
The former bo’sun’s mate looked around, his eyes wide. “It belongs to the cap’n, I’d think, seein’ as how ’tis in his own yard.”
“It is the cap’n’s, ye ninny!” Stevens shouted, face red. “Now put down yer fork ’n stand to like a real sailor, or I’ll have ye keelhauled and whipped within a day of yer life!”
“Master Stevens, sir! I—I—I was just—” Toggle realized he was gesturing with his fork and hurriedly returned it to the table. “I was just helpin’ Master Reeves test the cook’s new recipe fer—” He looked past Tristan and Stevens, a hopeful expression on his face. “Master Reeves, what’s this called again?”
“Beef polonaise.” Reeves walked past Tristan and Stevens to the barrel. He lifted the cover on the dish in the center, a mouthwatering scent rising through the air. “My lord. Master Stevens. Perhaps you’d like to test the recipe as well. It’s a wonderful wine sauce mixed with—”
“No, we would not.” Tristan glowered at the butler. “How many servants did you bring with you?”
“Twenty-one, my lord. It will take that many to set up a new household, although had I known you already had such a retinue, I might have left one or two of the footmen behind.”
“I did not give you permission to make a dining hall out of my stables.”
“No, my lord. You did not. However, seeing as how you are now the earl of Rochester, it seemed only fitting—”
“What?” Stevens gaped. “The cap’n is an earl?”
Reeves nodded wisely. “Indeed. He has just become the seventh earl of Rochester. He stands to inherit a great fortune, as well.”
Stevens stepped back a pace, hand to his heart. “An earl!”
“Keep it down!” Tristan growled, glancing around, though only Toggle and Stevens were within hearing.
Toggle tucked his napkin more securely beneath his chin. “Master Reeves has been telling me all about the cap’n’s good fortune and how he’s one o’ the top peers in the land and how he can have this sauce fer every meal if he wishes it and—”
“That’s enough!” Tristan caught Toggle’s rather vapid gaze. “I don’t want anyone to know of this. Am I understood?”
Toggle nodded obediently, his attention already drifting back to his plate. “I won’t tell no one, Cap’n. Not a soul. Jus’…may I finish me rations?”
Bloody hell, was his entire crew to be won over by nothing more than a tasty sauce? What kind of men were they, anyway? “Reeves! I will not have this.”
The butler raised his brows. “Not have what, my lord? The sauce? Very well. I will tell the chef
you do not care for beef polonaise, however I do think you might enjoy it if you had the correct wine and—”
“I don’t want any sauce, beef polonaise or not. Reeves, I want you and your men out of my barn.” Tristan sent a glare toward Toggle. “You! You may finish your rations, but that’s it. After that, it’s back to work with you!”
“Aye, Cap’n!” Toggle sank gratefully back into his seat and began shoveling food into his mouth as fast as he could.
Reeves sighed. “My lord, I fear you mistake my intentions. I just thought to bring your men a little taste of what could be.”
“You wished to win them over and thus win me.” Tristan thought to embarrass the butler, but all Reeves did was smile.
“Perhaps. I suppose it’s not to be, though. I shall have the men pack our things.”
Toggle made a sound of distress, but Tristan ignored him. “See to it that they do.” He looked around, frowning. “Where are your horses?”
“We made use of the sheds.” Reeves spread his hands wide as if to indicate he’d had no other choice. “It was better to keep the animals away from the kitchen area.”
“This is a barn, Reeves. A barn. Do you understand that?”
“Of course, my lord. It is whatever you say it is. After all, you are the earl.”
Damnation! “Look, Reeves—”
Toggle cleared his throat. “Pardon me, Cap’n, but Master Reeves and his men made the sheds as shipshape as they’ve ever been. He’s bloody good at organizing. He’d make a helluva first mate.”
Stevens gaped. “What did ye say?”
Toggle blinked. “Not better than ye, of course! I didn’t mean it that way, indeed I didn’t!”
Reeves bowed to Stevens. “From what Toggle has let fall, I know you to be my superior.” He fixed his calm blue gaze on Tristan. “Before I leave, I shall write down what I know so far of Master Christian’s whereabouts.”
Christian. How had Tristan allowed himself to forget that? He nodded shortly, a flush of guilt washing away his irritation. “That is most generous of you. I am sorry I cannot allow you to stay in my barn. I cannot have such upheaval—”