The Siren's Captain Page 3

  She pressed her fingers to her lips. “Truly? How frightening.”

  “It wasn’t frightening in the least,” Mrs. Harding told her with a look to her beau. “Mr. Crabapple helped rout the fellows. We haven’t had the least trouble since.”

  “If you don’t count the spy hiding in the Castle, the French agent masquerading as a physician, those two gentlemen who turned out to be part of Napoleon’s advance forces, and the smugglers at the Lodge,” Mrs. Tully put in helpfully.

  If only Ree could believe a word of it!

  She followed the older lady back to the harpsichord. “Have you really had such a difficult time with French spies?”

  “Horrible,” she pronounced, plopping down on the bench. “They’re everywhere. And I’ve seen Napoleon himself up on the Castle How headland.”

  Not likely. The emperor would not set foot on enemy soil until he could be assured of victory.

  “Napoleon himself?” Ree marveled. “How could you bear it?”

  She snorted. “I’m not frightened of him. It’s the trolls you have to watch.”

  “Ah, yes,” Ree mused. “And Captain St. Claire, I suspect.”

  Mrs. Tully nodded. “Captain St. Claire, indeed. He’s a pirate.”

  That she could believe. She might not have met a pirate, but she’d met her share of adventurous men. Look at her father, so mad to follow his prince into exile, so determined to help him regain his throne that he’d learned to be a soldier. So giddy for glory he’d sailed away to die.

  She was proof against such idealism now. There was value in getting things with the least amount of fuss.

  “Well,” she told Mrs. Tully, “if he is a pirate, I would do well to keep an eye on him.”

  “You should,” she said. “I’ll help you. Here he comes now with the magistrate.”

  Chapter Three

  Many had visited the spa at Grace-by-the-Sea over the three years Quill had been in residence. Though the little village tended to cater more to the gentry than the aristocracy, it had seen its share of heiresses and duchesses. Marie-Louise Fortier easily outclassed them all. Even today, gowned in filmy muslin instead of the emerald satin she’d worn performing, she exuded confidence and sophistication. Her black hair was partially covered by a sunny yellow cap wound with dusky green ribbon, and a wispy yellow half-skirt started just under her bosom to end in a series of little peaks in the middle of the dress. The green tassels at the ends tended to dance as she moved. He forced his gaze away.

  “You’re certain she’s an agent of the War Office?” James asked beside him.

  “I’ll grant you there are few that stylish,” Quill allowed, “but yes, I’m as certain as I am that you intend to question her.”

  James’s icy blue eyes narrowed. His friend had been ready for battle ever since Quill had gone to see him that morning. James had a protective streak wider than the Channel, and never stronger than when he thought his family and friends might be in jeopardy. He hadn’t been pleased to hear the famous singer had come carrying a secret.

  “I don’t like it,” he’d said, fingers drumming on the wood of his desk, which was always too tidy to Quill’s mind. “First a boat in the caverns and now this.”

  Quill had stiffened in the chair across from him. “Another boat?”

  James nodded, fingers stilling. “The earl discovered it last night and sent word immediately. A small ketch, like the others, capable of being sailed by one or two men. No markings.”

  Which meant trouble. The only people who didn’t mark their boats in this area were smugglers or spies. Or perhaps a little of both.

  “And no one saw the ship that brought it?” Quill challenged. “A ketch like that doesn’t just appear unless it’s local or it had help.”

  “No one’s mentioned seeing a larger vessel,” James said. “And Jack Hornswag at the Mermaid Inn tells me no one is missing a boat. I don’t suppose you noticed anything when you were out last night.”

  “I didn’t sail last night,” Quill reminded him. “I was too busy dancing attendance on our French opera singer.”

  “Such an onerous duty,” James commiserated.

  It hadn’t been. Quill felt his mouth turn up even now as he remembered his altercation with Mademoiselle Fortier in front of the inn. She’d been swift and sure, determined and dedicated to her mission.

  And there had been that kiss.

  “Magistrate, Captain St. Claire.” Mrs. Denby, the spa hostess, moved to join them now, her pink wool skirts swishing across the polished floor. “How nice of you to join us. Might I be of assistance?”

  “Captain St. Claire expressed a desire to further his acquaintance with Mademoiselle Fortier,” James offered. “No introduction needed.”

  “Ah.” She stepped aside and motioned them toward the singer, who was standing by the harpsichord in the corner of the room with diminutive Maudie Tully at her side. “Carry on, then, and let me know if you need anything else.”

  “You had to give her that impression?” Quill murmured as they strode to meet the lady.

  James shrugged. “It’s as good an excuse as any.”

  As they approached, Maudie leaned closer to the singer and whispered something in her ear. The French woman nodded as if agreeing.

  “Mr. Howland, Captain,” she greeted them as Maudie straightened. “I am told everyone comes to the spa at Grace-by-the-Sea, and here you arrive to prove it.”

  “Mademoiselle,” James said with a nod.

  Before Quill could acknowledge the singer, he caught Maudie looking him up and down.

  “No brandy this time?” she challenged.

  “Only lace,” Quill told her. “But it’s long since made its way to London, alas.”

  She sagged as if he had taken her last hope.

  “No French lace was brought into my village,” James said with a warning look to Quill. “Our good captain loves a joke.”

  Quill regarded him. “Not at all. Mrs. Tully and I have an understanding.” He looked to the older lady. “Haven’t we, my dear.”

  She sniffed. “I am a married woman, sir. Your wiles will not work on me.”

  “Ah,” he said, putting his hand on his heart. “Pity.”

  “Still,” she said, “you can certainly try.”

  “He is very trying, your captain,” Mademoiselle Fortier put in, laughter trilling in her musical voice.

  James turned his snicker into a cough.

  Quill kept his focus on Maudie. Her grey eyes watched him, like an osprey sighting a salmon in the waves, ready to dive. He did think he understood her. Her whimsy rose and fell like the tide, but it covered an intelligence and a keen ability to observe. He and James would be able to discuss nothing of import with the Frenchwoman so long as Maudie remained on the alert.

  “Make me a list of things you’d like brought in, dear lady,” he told her, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Sucking her teeth thoughtfully, she trotted off.

  “You shouldn’t encourage her,” James cautioned. “She tells her tales to everyone.”

  “So Captain St. Claire is a smuggler and took tea last week with the king of the mermaids,” Quill said. “One is as likely as the other.”

  “Not a smuggler,” Mademoiselle Fortier corrected him. “She claims you’re a pirate.”

  Quill sketched a bow. “Blackbeard and Sir Francis Drake, all rolled into one.”

  “And a favorite of the ladies, it seems,” she said with a nod to where a bevy of belles was gathered by the fountain. He fancied he could feel the wind from their fans from here. As he bowed in their direction, they all started giggling.

  “Too much of a favorite,” James said, as several spa visitors began ambling toward them. “Mademoiselle, Captain St. Claire told me about your meeting with him last night. We must talk where we won’t be overheard or attract undue attention.”

  “Delighted,” she said. She latched one arm to James’s and the other to Quill’s. “Gentlemen, we should take a stroll.”

  ~~~

  Every gaze was on them. If they were not sighing over the raven-haired captain in his tight-fitting olive-colored coat and tan breeches that hinted of every graceful movement of his muscles, they must be wondering what their magistrate, commanding in a navy coat and fawn-colored breeches, was doing away from his duties. She must give both gentlemen an excuse. Ree forced out a happy laugh as she allowed Quillan St. Claire to help her with her serpentine pelisse, then led them back to the door. Mrs. Denby’s smile looked particularly pleased. It seemed the lady thought Ree had made a conquest.

  If only it were that easy. Captain St. Claire had obviously come to fight. He would find her ready.

  Once through the door, she drew them a little ways from the spa along High Street, far enough from the entrance to the pleasant stone building to prevent being overheard but not so far as to invite comment. Below them, a stretch of cottages led to the shops and finally the cove. Visitors headed for the spa nodded in greeting as they passed. Ree waited only until they had entered before releasing the two men.

  “What has happened?” she asked, glancing from one to the other.

  “It seems at least one Frenchman lately landed on our shores,” the magistrate told her, running a hand back through his short blond hair. “The Earl of Howland, my cousin, discovered a boat beached in the caves under Castle How last night.”

  She frowned. “Again?”

  They exchanged glances, the captain’s dark brows only slightly higher than the magistrate’s golden blond ones.

  “Captain Dorland relayed much of what happened this summer,” she explained, breeze from the sea tugging at the satin of her pelisse. “But this is further proof that the story is true. Napoleon has sent someone to stop you, Captain.”


  He spread his hands in front of his coat. “Someone brought that boat into the caverns. Whether it carried a Frenchman or anyone else out to harm me is questionable.”

  “Still, it’s wise to take precautions,” the magistrate put in, gloved hand fisting at his side. “The French know we’re aware of their landing spot. We caught the first fellow to use it and sent the second two packing with a warning not to try again. To show up so boldly now? It’s almost as if they’re taunting us.”

  “Or they lack the imagination or skill to find another place to land,” St. Claire countered.

  “Will you not take this seriously!” she demanded.

  He smiled. “As seriously as it warrants.”

  Did he truly pass through the world with no cares? She could not be so sanguine. Even as she stood with them, she was noting their surroundings: the way the lee of the building shaded them from prying eyes, the steep pitch of the roof opposite, which would make it difficult for a marksman to take a shot from it. She’d never had to consider such things before her father had joined the ill-fated expedition to reclaim France for the king. At least the training he’d insisted on had gone to some use.

  “Mademoiselle Fortier has a point,” the magistrate insisted. “You cannot brush this aside, Quill.”

  At least one of them understood. She gave him her best smile. “What do you advise, Magistrate?”

  He rubbed his clean-shaven chin with one hand. “The earl has already posted a guard on the boat. Someone will be there at every turn of the tide, day or night. The villain won’t slip away this time.”

  “I have no interest in the boat,” Ree informed him. “Only Captain St. Claire’s life concerns me. Will you post a guard on him as well?”

  “No,” St. Claire snapped with a scowl to the magistrate.

  “No,” the magistrate agreed more slowly. “Not yet. Perhaps if you could give us more details of this plot, mademoiselle.”

  More visitors were coming, laughing as they strolled up the road. Two women and an elderly gentleman who leaned heavily on his cane. Not likely to be an assassin who had sailed through the dangers of the Dragon’s Maw. Still, she stepped deeper into the shadows of the building, and the magistrate and captain followed.

  “I wish I had specifics for you,” she told them both. “I only know that the emperor has sent someone to Grace-by-the-Sea to confront Captain St. Claire.”

  “When?” the magistrate demanded. “Do they intend to catch him at sea or accost him on land?”

  “I do not know,” she admitted.

  “Perhaps you could tell us where the information came from,” St. Claire suggested.

  At least his tone was kind now. “Those loyal to the Bourbon monarchy are scattered throughout the world, but we keep in touch as best we can. Napoleon’s ire over recent reports was noted. He will have his vengeance.”

  “Napoleon has vowed vengeance for months,” he pointed out. “Yet here we are.”

  “Here you are,” she allowed. “Do you appreciate the strategic value of this village? Grace-by-the-Sea is the only stretch of low bank with a decent harbor along miles of coast. And it is the only harbor without a military presence.”

  “There’s an army encampment at West Creech,” the magistrate offered.

  “Which could not reach Grace-by-the-Sea before the French landed,” she told him.

  St. Claire looked to Howland. “Just as we learned when that French ship appeared in the regatta this summer. We’d evacuated the village before word even reached the officers.”

  Might as well press her point home. “And I understand your militia is still learning to defend you.”

  St. Claire’s mouth quirked, but the magistrate colored. “We have made great strides.” The words sounded defensive.

  “Perhaps not great strides,” St. Claire said with a wrinkle of his nose that made him look far less formidable. “Particularly the Men’s Militia. The Women’s Militia, on the other hand, have proven themselves redoubtable.”

  She couldn’t help her grin. “You have a Women’s Militia? That may be the most encouraging thing I have heard.”

  The magistrate was not to be swayed. “They won’t be enough. We need to convince Napoleon to give up this dream of invasion, for the sake of the village and the sake of England.”

  “Agreed,” Ree said. “And it starts by proving to him Grace-by-the-Sea is so well protected that Captain St. Claire cannot be touched, even by Napoleon’s most trusted agent.”

  The captain arched a brow. “Was there ever any question?”

  The magistrate ignored him, blue eyes narrowing on her until she felt the weight of his judgment. Then he threw back the question she’d asked him. “What do you advise, mademoiselle?”

  Finally. Ree straightened to her full height, even though that still put her shy of either man’s chin. “First, you must find this assassin, Magistrate. Use your militia, use your friends and family. Call in favors from anyone you know.”

  “Certainly,” he said, tone now sounding weary. “But we have tried that before, to little success.”

  “Try again,” she urged. “You must also protect the captain while you hunt for this assassin. Someone must be at his side at all times, day or night.”

  The look St. Claire shot her might have forced some women to blush. She was made of stronger stuff.

  The magistrate cocked his head, gaze on the captain. “Is Hugh up to the task?”

  Ree frowned. “Hugh?”

  “My manservant and bosun,” the captain replied. “And no. The fellow has to sleep. I suppose we could enlist the rest of my crew—Alex Chance, Richard Catchpole, and Arnie Williams. But Catchpole and Williams have jobs they must tend to during the day. And none of them has ever hung on my arm before. They’d be too obvious following me about like a pack of pups.”

  She slipped her arm through his again. “But I can hang on your arm, and no one will wonder.”

  “Let’s not start that again,” he said, but he made no move to disengage from her. Indeed, she felt as if the warmth of his body was seeping through the pelisse from her shoulders to her thighs.

  “She’s right,” Howland said. “Many would expect our distinguished guest to spend time with the dashing Captain St. Claire, victor of the Battle of the Nile.”

  Ree smiled up at the captain triumphantly.

  His look was on the magistrate. “You cannot give this nonsense credence.”

  “But I do,” the magistrate told him. “You’ve been a thorn in Napoleon’s side. It’s logical he’d want to pull it. We protect you, we stop him.”

  Ree beamed at him. “It is a pleasure working with an intelligent man, Magistrate.”

  “You say that because he agrees with you,” St. Claire accused, dark gaze stormy.

  “But of course,” she said with a laugh. “You’d agree with me too, if you stopped putting your consequence ahead of your brain.”

  He disengaged at last, shoulders coming back. “My consequence? I assure you, mademoiselle, that is not the issue.”

  “Which is why you must glower and pout,” she said with a shake of her head.

  “I do not pout,” he replied. A bird could have nested on that stuck out lip.

  “Be that as it may,” the magistrate interrupted, “Mademoiselle Fortier’s plan is a wise one. If one of your crew keeps an eye on you from dinner to breakfast, and she guards your side from breakfast to dinner, we should be able to identify and stop this latest threat.”

  She nodded, but St. Claire wasn’t willing to give up.

  “You cannot expect her to play nursemaid,” he argued. “She has agreed to perform. And my constant presence at her side could jeopardize her reputation. Even opera singers must appear to have some scruples if they are to continue being hired by hostesses of good character.”

  Ree’s arm fell from his. He was right. Singing was a means to an end for her, a way to pay her expenses and an easy excuse to move about England helping the War Office. She sang at charity events, house parties, pleasure gardens, and theatres. Far fewer would hire her if they thought she was a wanton. And those who hired her because they thought her a wanton were not to be trusted.

  “Mademoiselle Fortier’s character may not be a problem,” the magistrate said. His look to her brimmed with possibilities.