The Siren's Captain Read online

  “But I know him,” she explained. “Markus Dorland, also formerly of His Majesty’s Navy.”

  He stilled. “Prove that you know Captain Dorland.”

  She put her hand up next to his ear. “About this tall, sandy hair, vivid blue eyes that can hold you in place with one look.”

  “Anyone might have noticed that on short acquaintance,” he pointed out.

  She leaned closer, until she thought for one moment she smelled the sea. “He also was injured at the Battle of the Nile, a blow that took out a piece of his right calf. He wears padding under his sock to hide the mark.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, forcing her to straighten or collide with him anew. “I don’t suppose he gave you a letter of introduction.”

  She tsked. “Certainly not.”

  He nodded slowly. “Very well. You have delivered your message. You may tell the War Office I will take my usual care.”

  Which meant none at all. Oh! Men!

  “That is insufficient,” she told him. “The information you have been bringing the War Office from France is too important to lose you to chance. I will protect you.”

  He dropped his arms and laughed.

  Laughed!

  With one movement, she yanked out a long hairpin and brought it under his chin. “I know how to protect myself, Captain. I can keep you safe too.”

  With one movement, he thrust her hand across her body, away from him, and brought himself within inches, holding her in place.

  “I can protect myself,” he said.

  She smiled up at him. “You are bleeding. If that pin had been poisoned, you would be dead shortly.”

  He released her to step back and touch his neck. As his hand came away, a few drops of blood, black in the moonlight, dotted his glove from the scratch he’d given himself blocking her.

  “I have seen enough men die at the tyrant’s hand,” she told him, returning the pin to the coil of her hair. “I will not see another fall because I stood by and did nothing. So, I will cling to you like a tailored coat until we find this Frenchman. Do not try me, Captain. Like you, I do not taste defeat willingly.”

  Chapter Two

  Talking to her was like trying to reason with a blazing fire. He was as likely to be burned as warmed.

  “I appreciate your zeal, mademoiselle,” Quill said, taking another step away from her. “But I have protected myself far too long to leave it in the hands of another now.”

  She glared at him. “Stubborn. If you will not allow me to assist, you must at least agree to let me do my job.”

  “I thought your job was to deliver that message,” Quill pointed out.

  She patted her dark hair, and he tensed, expecting another hairpin to come flying at him. “I am also to protect you and discover the identity of this French spy.”

  He nodded, but he distanced himself farther just in case. “Very well. We could use that sort of help here at Grace-by-the-Sea.”

  Her ruby lips tilted up. “Yes, I heard you had a difficult time.”

  Trust Markus to tell her more than she needed to know. He was remarkably garrulous to have been assigned the position of clerk in the War Office. But at least he hadn’t taken much persuading to help Quill with his masquerade.

  “We’ve survived,” Quill told her. “And now, I believe you said you were weary from your work. I’ll leave you to your rest.”

  He thought she might protest, but she inclined her head, the queen dismissing her servant. He watched until she was safely inside the inn.

  And then he slipped into the shadows and waited a while longer. She didn’t come back out, and he didn’t spot anyone else going in. Still, he walked the short distance up the hill to Dove Cottage feeling as if a dozen eyes were watching him from the darkness.

  Ridiculous. Since May, they’d had a rash of scoundrels in the area. They had threatened the magistrate, the spa physician, the Riding Surveyor, the earl’s daughter, and the viscount’s family, but they had never threatened Quill. Either they had believed his story of a wound and his attempt at ennui, or they hadn’t thought him dangerous enough to pursue.

  Apparently, Napoleon was on to his schemes now, if Mademoiselle Fortier could be believed.

  And there lay the rub. If he believed her, he must take extra care, perhaps even forego his next trip to France to protect his crew and those who provided him information. And that meant he truly would be no better than the story he had crafted—a wounded captain living for the glory days behind him.

  “Well, you’ve a right sour face,” his manservant said as he came to meet Quill in the entry hall. “That bad, was it?”

  Short and stocky, with a ruddy complexion and a large nose, Hugh Baffin tended to strut about like a rear admiral on a quarter deck. Given his questionable background, he’d been the perfect person to serve Quill as man-of-all-work at the cottage and bosun onboard the ship.

  “The evening was delightful,” Quill assured him, moving for the sitting room just off the entryway. “But I failed to find the French spy.”

  Craggy brown brows furrowed, Hugh went to stoke the fire. “Are you sure there is one now? Maybe we scared them all away.”

  Quill eased himself down onto one of the leather-bound chairs near the wood-framed stone hearth. “Napoleon, alas, does not frighten so easily. Do we have any of the ground left?”

  Hugh made a face. “Coming right up.” He bustled for the door beside the hearth, which opened to the kitchen.

  Quill stretched his legs to the fire. He ought to tell Hugh the story Mademoiselle Fortier had brought, but he couldn’t see the need to trouble the fellow until something more became apparent. They wouldn’t be going over again until next week at the earliest. Plenty of time to discover the assassin, if there was one.

  He leaned his head back against the thick leather of the chair. An assassin. He hadn’t faced anything that personal since the foundling home. What little brutes they’d been—always under the cane for tussling with each other, for sneaking a bit of food from the kitchen, or for not attending to lessons. Eton might have been worse if he hadn’t made friends with James early on. His first true friend, though he wouldn’t be the last. Markus, Quincey, and Hart had all stood beside him in the Navy, and now he counted Alex Chance among his confidantes. Of course, none of them knew everything about him. Best to keep some things quiet.

  He had nearly nodded off before Hugh backed through the door with a steaming cup in his hand. “Here you are. Just the way you like it.” He offered the cup to Quill as if it were the Holy Grail. But one sip brought a smile to Quill’s lips.

  “You’d hardly be the terror of the seas if they could see you now,” Hugh said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Captain Quillan St. Claire of the Siren’s Call, the Lord of the Smugglers, drinking hot chocolate before bed.”

  Quill cast him a look. “There’s nothing wrong with drinking hot chocolate.”

  “If you’re a dowager countess afflicted with rheumatism,” Hugh jibed.

  When Quill raised a brow, he dropped his arms. “Very well. I’ll say no more on the matter. I know what I owe you. I’d still be rotting in the cells at Lyme Regis if you hadn’t paid my fee.”

  “A small price for loyal service,” Quill replied. The bittersweet taste of the chocolate lingered on his tongue. He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the chair. “Wake me by six tomorrow. I want to go into town and meet with the magistrate.”

  The silence that followed made him open his eyes. Hugh was regarding him warily, head cocked.

  “Something wrong?” his manservant asked.

  “Just want to keep abreast of all happenings,” Quill assured him. “Close up the house and head for bed, Hugh.”

  “Aye, Captain.” He turned for the entry hall. Quill listened to the thump of boots against the floor, the rattle of the lock, and the creak of the stairs as Hugh climbed to his bedchamber under the eaves. A coal settled in the grate. Quiet settled more slowly.

  He had never
thought he’d enjoy quiet. Someone had always been making noise at the foundling home, from the children doing their work, to the staff supervising them, to the servants feeding and caring for them all. At sea, a sailing ship moaned, tack clanged, and waves splashed. Here, at times like this, he could hear the sound of his own heart beating. There was peace to be had in that.

  He took another sip of the chocolate. Yes, he had plenty of time to discover his enemies. More than enough to learn what game Marie-Louise Fortier was playing and beat her at it.

  ~~~

  Ree—her mother’s name for her—could not be sure of the fine captain. Maybe he’d listened, but then again, maybe he was planning to head for France this very night, risking his neck and the lives of all those who sailed with him.

  She hurried up the stairs to her room with only the barest of greetings to the proprietor, then threw open the shutters on the window. She’d requested a room facing the street for this very reason. She just caught sight of a shadow slipping into Dove Cottage to the north of the spa. It seemed he’d gone home.

  She waited for a good two hours, turning down multiple offers from one of the inn’s maids to help her change for bed, but nothing else seemed to be moving in the night. She allowed herself to relax enough to change and snuggle into the Swan’s feather bed.

  Morning saw her out in the village. Mrs. Denby, the spa hostess, had told her they began pouring the mineral waters promptly at nine, so Ree could take a stroll about in the meantime. She’d done what she could to get her bearings when she’d ridden in on the mail coach, arriving the evening before her first performance, but everyone from the lanky Mr. Truant, the owner of the Swan, to the lovely Mrs. Denby had been keen to welcome her, so she’d had little time for her own purposes.

  Now she found that Grace-by-the-Sea was a quaint little village, with only three main streets and a few crooked lanes. High Street ran from the top of the village and Dove Cottage down to the horseshoe-shaped cove at the foot. Church Street traveled to the west of it to the chapel of St. Andrew’s. A helpful passerby pointed out the magistrate’s home next door. The flowered front garden where a few late butterflies still danced seemed far too whimsical for the stern-faced gentleman who had been the master of ceremonies last night.

  To the east of High Street lay Castle Walk. It seemed to end at a cliff, on top of which sat Castle How, home of the Earl of Howland. But she spotted a woman in the livery of a great house climbing a switchback path up the cliff, so there was apparently a way between the Castle and the village besides the Dragon’s Maw.

  Captain Dorland had been very descriptive of that portion of the area.

  “Smugglers use the caves under Castle How,” he’d explained from their private booth at the coffee house where they met in London. No one had questioned why a handsome former Naval captain might want to drink coffee and hot chocolate with a rising opera singer.

  “And your Captain St. Claire, he uses them too?” she’d asked.

  “He has, when it’s convenient,” he’d admitted, large hands gripping a cup from which he had hardly sipped. Not that she could blame him. While the coffee house was convenient, its owner had little originality when it came to the drinks offered.

  “The entrance is through a particularly difficult passage known as the Dragon’s Maw,” Captain Dorland had continued, “for the two large boulders that stick up like teeth. I understand it can only be navigated safely at certain turns of the tide. It seems the French know this as well, for they’ve also made use of the passage.”

  If only she could be sure they weren’t using the passage now, but she couldn’t knock at the door of the Castle and demand to see caverns only the locals were supposed to know about.

  Shortly after nine, she joined the groups of people making their way to the spa. Mrs. Denby had met her at the assembly rooms yesterday, so Ree hadn’t had the opportunity to look over the space. She was surprised to find it very much like the conservatory in one of the stately homes that ringed London. Potted palms stood along pale blue walls, and pastoral scenes decorated the arched ceiling. White wicker chairs with plump blue cushions called for occupants to stop, to converse, to admire the view down toward the cove through the bank of windows. The famed mineral waters splashed silver in a creamy stone fountain in one corner. Ree was more interested in the white-lacquered harpsichord in the opposite corner. That would be where she would be expected to sing this afternoon.

  “Mademoiselle Fortier, welcome to the spa.” Mrs. Denby came from behind a tall wood desk to meet her with a smile. Pretty and petite, with shining blond hair and big blue eyes, she was just the sort to put visitors at their ease. Difficult not to like the woman and just as difficult to believe she would have anything to do with the French spies in the area.

  “I know I am early,” Ree admitted. “I merely wanted to see where I will be performing.”

  “Of course.” She led her to the harpsichord, where an older woman had taken the bench, fingers launching into a complicated sonata.

  “This is my aunt, Mrs. Tully,” Mrs. Denby told Ree with a fond smile at the little, grey-haired woman dressed all in black. “I was hoping she could accompany you.”

  “But only if you keep to British songs,” Mrs. Tully piped up.

  Ree kept her smile in place. “But of course. Nothing French.”

  Mrs. Tully frowned at her. “Certainly you may sing in French if you like. I just have an aversion to the music of the trolls.”

  Ree blinked. “Trolls?”

  Mrs. Denby lay a hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “I’m sure Mademoiselle Fortier’s repertoire will be easy to follow, Aunt. Mademoiselle, if you would look at some of the sheet music with me and see if there’s anything you like?”

  Ree moved aside to a small table, where Mrs. Denby picked up a sheath of music. “You must pardon my aunt,” she murmured as she thumbed through the offerings. “We’re all so used to her, I forget she can confuse others. She lost her husband at sea some years ago, and she retreated to a world of fantasy. She claims friendships with mermaids and fairies, and she warns of trolls, pirates, and French spies.”

  Ree eyed her. “The last two may not be fantasy.”

  Mrs. Denby smiled that charming little smile. “Oh, but they must be at Grace-by-the-Sea. The Spa Corporation Council would not allow it otherwise.”

  Then they had more power than most anyone else in England.

  Ree reviewed the music and chose several songs she knew well, then took two more to learn for later in the week. “I brought some music with me,” she told the hostess. “I can bring it by to see if Mrs. Tully would like to play it. Nothing by trolls,” she hurried to assure.

  Mrs. Denby laughed, a sound as warm and inviting as her smile. “That would be lovely. You aren’t scheduled to sing until this afternoon. Please feel free to avail yourself of the facilities in the meantime. Tea is served at four Monday through Saturday and one on Sunday here in the Grand Pump Room, and we close early every Wednesday for an assembly in the evening in the rooms where you sang last night. Would you like an introduction to anyone?”

  Ree glanced around the spa. What she needed was a good gossip, someone who wasn’t above telling stories about the village. Much of it would be chaff, but some kernels of wheat were sure to fall. The auburn-haired woman with a train of followers, perhaps? Or that silver-haired distinguished older gentleman by the fountain? Sometimes men were more willing to share than the ladies.

  “Perhaps a glass of your fine water,” Ree suggested.

  Mrs. Denby was happy to pour her some of the sparkling water from the bubbling stone fountain. Ree took a sip and smiled.

  “Ah,” the gentleman said with a nod. “A lady who appreciates the finer things.”

  “Lord Featherstone is one of our Regulars,” Mrs. Denby put in. “He is much in demand among the ladies.”

  The older lord bowed. “You are too kind, my dear. And you, Mademoiselle Fortier, are too talented. That was a rousing rendition of ‘The
Soldier’s Adieu’ last night. Very effecting.”

  Her mission accomplished, Mrs. Denby excused herself to see to some others who had wandered into the spa. Ree stepped closer to the fellow. Though his hair was silver, he stood unbent, unlike some of the older gentlemen lounging about the spa, who had obviously come for health reasons.

  “A regular,” she said as if impressed. “But you do not appear the least ill.”

  He set down his glass. “Because I drink two glasses of this fine water every day. Excellent for the digestion. I feel like a man half my age.”

  “Why, you cannot be so very old,” Ree soothed, gazing up at him. “I imagine you are merely wise beyond your years.”

  He laughed. “Ah, if only that were the case. And you, mademoiselle, you are admired beyond your beauty. You have met the king.”

  “I sang for the king,” she corrected him. “Our gracious monarch has too much to do to spend time with lowly opera singers. Besides, I much prefer a cozy place like this. Though, I suppose, peace could become tedious. What exciting things could happen here?”

  “You might be surprised,” he said.

  “Indeed?” She gazed up at him encouragingly.

  He leaned closer. “We have an assembly every Wednesday evening. It’s quite the enjoyable event.”

  It seemed she’d chosen the wrong man. “How charming. You must save me a dance, my lord.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he told her.

  Ree set down her own glass. “If you will excuse me, I should meet some of the other delightful guests.”

  He bowed again, and she swept off.

  But she had no more luck with the portly former admiral, who only wanted to assure her how accommodating Mrs. Denby could be, or the auburn-haired lady, Mrs. Harding, who was more interested in the opinions of her wizened-faced swain, Mr. Crabapple, even as Mrs. Tully joined them. At least that man was willing to complain about the place.

  “Smugglers,” he declared when Ree encouraged him. “On this very cove.”