In jessup’s place, Philip would have wanted the same. Besides, this was a man of five and thirty summers, not a callow youth. While perhaps unequal to the rani’s fiendish tricks, Jessup was nonetheless up to every other sort of rig. He knew the wooden statue’s value. He’d not risk his share of the reward for a tumble with any female.
“I suppose I am behaving like a fussy nursemaid,” said Philip ruefully, as he commenced pacing the tiny cabin space.
“Worse,” his servant answered tactlessly. I never seen such a case of fidgets in my life. “Whyn’t you go run about the deck and leave me in peace?”
“I do not fidget,” Philip snapped. “And I have been ‘running about the deck’ as you say, the whole curst afternoon. There is not one thing for me to do, and not one person to talk to except sailors, and they’d prefer spending their leisure jabbering at each other in their incomprehensible argot. Why can’t they say ‘right’ and ‘left’ like normal people? What’s wrong with front and back, forwards and rear? Do you know how many sails are on this ship? A least a thousand, and each with a different name, I expect,” he concluded in exasperation.
“Is she pretty?” Jessup asked.
“What?” Philip whipped round so quickly that the top of his head grazed a beam. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Miss Cavencourt. Is she pretty?”
“Are your wits wandering again? What has that to say to anything?”
“Just askin’, guv. No need to get your innards in an uproar. I was too sick to notice when she was here, and I ain’t seen her since I been better. Just wonderin’ if she’s plump like her maid.”
“She is not plump at all, so you needn’t drool over both of them.”
“Aye, one of them scrawny ones, I expect. A spinster, I think you said she was?”
“I did not at any time say she was a skinny old maid. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“We got her statue, so she’s some worry, ain’t she?”
“It was hers for less than an hour. It was Her Royal Hellcat’s for a curst eternity. Or, to be more accurate, it was in her possession. We both know Madam Fiend stole it from Hedgrave.”
“That’s so, but Miss Cavencourt don’t seem the same kind, do she? From what I hear, she was worryin’ over you like a mother hen.”
“Certainly. The lady of the manor always looks after the ailing peasants,” Philip answered irritably.
The servant rubbed his eyes. “Well, I don’t blame you for feelin’ the way you do. Bound to stick in your craw, it is, havin’ to bow and scrape and be ordered this way and that. Still, it’s in the way of business, and you won’t hurry this ship any faster, for all your fusion’ and fidgetin’.” Jessup sank back into the pillows. “I never seen you so jumpy, like a cat in a tub o’ water. Wears me out, just watchin’ you.”
“What sticks in my craw,” Philip gritted out, “is being trapped on a ship with a carved figure worth fifty thousand pounds, an Indian as like to murder us in our sleep as not, and the woman, supposedly his employer, I robbed. Think, man. She’s breached the security of this cabin. You’re infatuated with her fat maid. Do you wonder that I’m jumpy?’’
“No, I don’t wonder, guv,” was the weary reply. “I just wish you’d go be jumpy somewheres else.”
Chapter Six
He was not avoiding her, Amanda told herself as she dragged her gaze from the tall, golden-haired figure prowling the deck. Mr. Brentick was a servant, and he knew his place. Her only excuse for talking with him was to enquire after his master, which added up to no excuse, since he must know Bella would report to her.
Certainly Amanda had no need to lure the valet from his cabin and occupy him in conversation while Bella did her own part. The abigail had at last been taken into confidence. Once she understood what Amanda required of her, Bella had made short work of the valet.
All the same, one could not help feeling uneasy about him, or sorry for him, perhaps. So restless he was, roaming the vessel like a caged cat in the Royal Menagerie. He did remind her of a cat. At first he’d seemed so stiff and formal, even awkward. But that was only on the rare occasions they spoke.
When he wandered, as he did now, it was with the lithe grace of a tiger. He even seemed to exude the same aura of power ... or danger. Amanda was not sure what it was, exactly, only that now and again it seemed to lurk in his eyes as well, and it fascinated her, even as she instinctively shrank from it. Well, really, what had that to do with feeling sorry for him?
Amanda fixed her gaze firmly on the choppy sea. More than three months had passed since they’d left Calcutta. If the weather held, they’d reach Capetown in another week or so, according to the commander. Then, in as little as a month—though more likely longer—they’d reach England. East Indiamen had been known to sail all the way from China to the Thames in a bit over three months, but that was rare. One storm could drive a vessel far off course, or damage it severely enough to require months of repairs at the nearest port. Furthermore, the Evelina had been becalmed twice and could be again. She must not think about time, Amanda chided herself.
The wind seemed to grow stronger as morning gave way to grey afternoon. Certainly Mrs. Bullerham’s usual complaints had increased significantly in volume. Two servants had hauled the obese harridan up, as they did nearly every day. She had, as usual, found fault with them throughout the process. Now, outraged with the ship’s rocking, she was venting her displeasure upon her spineless spouse.
Amanda moved some distance off, where she wouldn’t be able to hear them—or at least not so clearly. The clouds thickened and the vessel rose and fell on the choppy sea. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Bullerham’s booming tones rose suddenly, audible even over the wind and the moan of the timbers. Blast the woman! Why the devil didn’t she go below if a hint of rough weather so overset her?
Amanda glanced back and drew a sigh of relief. The Bullerhams were preparing to descend. Amanda strolled back to her preferred spot and, gazing idly about, saw Mr. Brentick scowling after the clumsy parade. Abruptly, he looked towards Amanda, meeting her curious gaze before she thought to withdraw it He bowed—no, it was more like a nod—and equally unthinkingly, she smiled. He hesitated a moment, then, to her surprise, crossed the deck to her.
“Does the smoke sicken .yea, Miss Cavencourt?” he asked.
“The smoke?”
“From the galley. The cooking odour and smoke, Mrs. Bullerham declares, is intolerable.”
“Mrs. Bullerham’s toleration is of exceedingly limited quantity,” Amanda said.
“I wish she’d been warned. I had the temerity to suggest she move farther aft, away from the smoke.”
“Did you? I hope you didn’t suggest how far aft. In the vessel’s wake, for instance.”
“Swimming is reputed a healthful exercise,” he said blandly.
“Indeed. I wonder no one’s recommended it to her ere now.”
“Evidently, no one recommends anything to Mrs. Bullerham, as my still-tingling ears will attest.”
Amanda glanced up. His face was devoid of expression, except for those unreasonably blue eyes. The glint she discerned there was not entirely humour. Mrs. Bullerham must have been exceptionally vindictive today.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “She gave you a nasty dressing down, didn’t she? I hope you will not regard her. Discontent has poisoned her mind long since, and the boredom of the voyage makes her even more beastly, though it hardly seems possible.”
“I fear there was too much truth in what she said to be disregarded. She wondered I had nothing better to do than idle about the livelong day, and no better sense of propriety than to accost my superiors with my unsolicited opinions.” He paused, his face stiffening. “As I seem to have accosted you, Miss Cavencourt. I do beg your pardon.”
“You needn’t,” she answered, instantly wishing Mrs. Bullerham at the bottom of the sea. “Whenever she provokes me, I stomp off to vent my feelings to Mrs. Gales or Bella. Otherwise, I should proba
bly throttle her. Rage all you like, Mr. Brentick. You’ll feel better after.”
His blue gaze swept her countenance in a swift, cool assessment that left her unaccountably flustered.
“Thank you, miss,” he answered quietly. “Your indignation on my account is sufficient Mrs. Bullerham would say ‘excessive,’ in that it has led you to tolerate an impropriety.”
Amanda flushed. She’d considered only his injured feelings, not their relative stations. Now she wished she’d left him to stew.
“Mrs. Bullerham would likely add that my grasp of etiquette leaves a great deal to be desired, and I wouldn’t know an impropriety if it bit me on the nose,” she answered tartly. “Though I don’t see why it is ill-bred to commiserate with another human being. I wasn’t inviting you to—to flirt with me, Mr. Brentick, merely to relieve yourself of the string of oaths burning your tongue.” She could have bit off her own tongue then, but it was too late to recall the infelicitous words. Mortified, she turned back to the sea.
“I beg your pardon, miss,’’ he said after a long, tense moment. “Naturally, the thought of flirting never crossed my mind.’’
She understood the words well enough. It was his tone that puzzled her. Was he laughing at her, a plain, aging spinster who talked of flirting?
“Actually, I wish you hadn’t mentioned it,” he went on. “It’s rather like opening Pandora’s box, isn’t it?”
She threw him a seaming glance. “I was not trying to put ideas into your head. My temper got the better of my reason, perhaps, or I should have chosen less absurd phrasing.”
“It’s too late,” he answered hollowly. “The damage is done. I can’t think of a single remark that would not be construed as flirtatious.”
Incredulous, she turned around lull to stare at him. She’d always found him painfully handsome, but now, with that amused gleam in his eyes, he was . . . devastating. Gad, what had she done? Was it the ship rocking so hard, or her heart? She drew a steadying breath.
“Well. Then. At least I have taken your mind off Mrs. Bullerham,” she said.
“Entirely.”
“She’s bored, you know, and when some people are bored, they become ill-tempered—in her case, more ill-tempered than usual. Bella, on the other hand, becomes a fiend for work,” she went on, nervous under his unwinking cobalt stare. “She will clean the cabin a dozen times a day. Mrs. Gales merely switches from knitting to crochet or embroidery.”
“And you, miss? What do you do when you’re bored?”
She dropped her gaze to his lapel. “I’m never bored,” she said.
“I envy you. I am—was bored out of my wits. Apparently, it makes me ... impertinent. I have nothing to clean, because Miss Jones won’t let me. She cleans our cabin as well. I have never learned needlework of any kind and— ahem!”
Her head shot up. “I beg your pardon?”
His countenance remained blank. “The rest was flirtatious, Miss Cavencourt. I suppressed it.”
“Oh. Are you an accomplished flirt?” she icily enquired.
“Yes, I regret to say.”
“I wonder you regret acquiring such a skill. To me it has always seemed a most difficult art to master.”
“In that case, I applaud your instincts.”
Heat washed over her face once more.
“That blush, for instance,” he remarked soberly, “could be fatal to a faint-hearted man.”
She quickly recovered. “Pray do not put fainting into your head, Mr. Brentick. You seem overly susceptible to every stray remark, and I know you are inclined to swoon on occasion.”
“Touché, miss. Very well aimed, that one.”
“I was not practicing,” she said, exasperated. “You needn’t congratulate me, as though I were an apt pupil. Don’t you know a setdown when you hear one?”
“Yes,” he said. “Fortunately, I am a stoic.”
Not a wisp of a smile, only that provoking glint in his blue eyes. She ought to box his ears. She ought to, at the very least, put him firmly in his place. Yet she felt he was daring her, goading her to do so, and she refused to be manipulated. Her own eyes opened wide and innocent. “Are you indeed, Mr. Brentick? I wish you had mentioned that earlier. I might have spared my sympathy for a more needy object.”
For more than a week after that exchange, Philip kept a decorous distance from Miss Cavencourt. He felt certain he hadn’t misjudged. The beckoning smile he’d responded to was of a kind familiar to him. He knew what she wanted: to win him over, allay his suspicions, distract him with a bit of flirtation. He was quite willing to play. He’d played the game too often to fear distraction. His senses might respond to an alluring countenance and a slim, shapely figure. Why not, after so many months without feminine companionship? Nevertheless, his mind would remain alert, as always.
No, he’d not misjudged, precisely, merely overstepped a shade too far, moved a bit too quickly for her. Very well. He could wait. Plenty of time.
So he reminded himself as he stood at the rail, his gaze fixed on Capetown. They’d drop anchor soon, and all the port’s diversions would offer themselves to his needy senses: fresh meat, vegetables and fruit, drinkable wine, and women—scores of lively, accommodating tarts.
About damned time, too. These last few days had passed with intolerable slowness, each more provokingly tedious than the one preceding. Hardly surprising, in the circumstances. Now he’d no need to worry about Jessup, Philip’s restless mind found no other important matter to occupy it. Thus that mind had taken hold of minor matters. Such as how long he’d been without a woman.
Capetown neared, and the deck swarmed with fleet-footed seamen, while the air rang with a babel of commands. Philip smiled. These hardened sailors were as impatient as he for dry land and all its pleasures.
In a tremendous hurry to get his enormous cargo home, Captain Blayton had refused to linger long at any port. Here, however, he’d remain two days at least, replenishing supplies while his passengers tasted the delights of Capetown’s brand of civilisation.
Delight, indeed, Philip thought happily. A proper bath and proper food... and improper women... at last. As he surveyed the deck’s activity, his glance fell upon the forecastle. There Padji stood, gazing about as well, his round, brown countenance sublimely indifferent.
At that moment, the door to pleasure and freedom swung shut with a deafening clang. Philip closed his eyes and uttered a low stream of oaths. How could he have been so stupid?
How the deuce could he think of leaving the Evelina? What better opportunity for the Indian but then? Padji might make off with the statue and easily lose himself in the crowds. The Indian might find it difficult, but certainly not impossible, to make his way back to Calcutta, devil take him.
Seething, Philip watched the passengers and most of the crew disembark, then stomped back to his cabin.
“You ain’t goin’ ashore?” Jessup asked, astonished.
In a few curt sentences, Philip outlined his concerns.
Jessup was affronted. “I’m here, ain’t I?” he demanded. “You think I’d let that scurvy Indian get anywheres near it?”
“I think,” Philip said tightly, “that scurvy Indian would have the pillow over your face and the breath crushed out of you before you could lay one finger on your pistol. We don’t have a prayer unless we’re both here—you exactly where you are, and my humble self at the door.”
Thus they spent three interminable days and nights while their fellow passengers ate, drank, shopped, and toured by day, and ate, drank, and danced by night. That Padji never came within a mile of their cabin the whole time was a circumstance nicely calculated to drive Philip into a murderous rage.
On the fourth day, the vessel once again set sail. “Should’ve gone ashore like I told you, guv, and got a woman,” Jessup said, shaking his head. “Won’t be no livin’ with you now.”
“Go to blazes,” Philip snarled. He stalked out, slamming the cabin door behind him.
As he emerged int
o the sun, the first person his eyes lit upon was Miss Cavencourt. She stood at her usual place at the rail, leaning on her elbows and gazing at the sea. She’d given up her bonnets weeks ago, and the wind tossed and tangled her coffee-coloured hair and whipped it against her cheeks. Philip glared at her.
The temptation to heave her over the rail was well-nigh irresistible. Unfortunately, at the same instant this prospect beckoned, the mischievous wind began gusting about her, driving her skirts up to reveal, for one devastating moment, a pair of elegantly turned ankles and slim, shapely calves. Philip’s gaze slid up to her narrow waist and on to the agreeably proportioned curves above. At that moment, the urge to mayhem gave way to one equally primitive, though less homicidal.
His glance swiftly took in his surroundings. He spied Mrs. Gales at the stern, talking with the captain. Philip’s face smoothed, his narrowed eyes gentled, and his muscles relaxed. With the unconscious grace of a stalking cat, he closed in upon his prey.
Miss Cavencourt may have sensed his approach, for she turned while he was yet some distance away. She didn’t smile this time. When he neared, she responded warily to his greeting.
“I hope you enjoyed your visit ashore, miss,” he said obsequiously.
“It was interesting,” she said. “Yet I rather wish I hadn’t gone. I scarcely got used to walking on solid land before I was back on the ship. Now I must grow used to that again.”
“By tomorrow you’ll have forgotten what solid land is like. It’s amazing how swiftly the human bod—being adapts.” Ob, nice slip there. Try thinking with your brain, Astonley.
“I collect you decided to spare yourself that exercise, Mr. Brentick. Bella tells me you elected to remain with your master. Your devotion is commendable.”
“I perceived no alternative at the tune,” he answered. “In any case, we got along well enough by day. At night, though, when he was asleep and I came above, I felt as though I walked a ghost snip. It was so quiet—a mere handful of seamen aboard. Just the creaking timbers and the waves plashing against the hull.”
“How peaceful it sounds,” she said softly. Her eyes, focused somewhere past him, softened, too, from sunlit gold to smoky amber. “I rather envy you.”