“And you are a most unusual governess, Miss Caulfield.”

“I thank you for the compliment.”

The crease appeared in his cheek. “Was that what it was?”

Arabella’s heart thumped again, but not from fear. “You must at least question him. Someone hired him to steal poison, it seems. Perhaps his employer wished one of your crewmen harmed. Or dead. Perhaps . . .”

“Me? Perhaps he wished to kill me? Mutiny, perhaps?”

She nodded.

“Not to fret, Miss Caulfield. The lad will be suitably questioned.”

“Are you typically the target of murderers, Captain?”

“Not usually.”

“Yet it seems not to surprise you that another man could wish you harm.”

He lifted a brow and smiled slightly. “I find that somewhat disingenuous coming from a woman who has made no secret of her opinion of my imperfect character.”

“Can you not be sincere about anything? Do you laugh at everything? Even real danger?”

“I was perfectly sincere in my fear for you when I entered that infirmary.”

Arabella’s throat got thick. “Fear?”

A knock came at the door.

“Come,” the captain called, still watching her.

“Sir,” Mr. Miles said, “Captain Masinter wishes an audience with you.”

He frowned. “Now? Before we make port?”

“His passenger insists upon it.”

“Who is his passenger, Miles?”

Mr. Miles’s voice seemed to pucker. “His lordship the Earl of Bedwyr.”

Earl?

But Arabella’s surprise was nothing to the captain’s, apparently. All amusement slid from his face. “I will pay a call on the Victory. Tell Mr. Church to ready the boat.”

“Aye aye, Captain.”

“Miss Caulfield, I will instruct Mr. Miles to return your clothing to you immediately.” He moved toward the door. Then he paused and returned to her to stand very close again. “Do not leave this cabin while I am absent. Unless Dr. Stewart is here with you, lock the door and only allow Mr. Miles to enter.” His gaze scanned her face slowly, carefully. “Do I make myself clear?”

Little hot nervous jitters slipped through her. His gaze lingered upon her lips then rose again to her eyes.

“Do I?” he repeated roughly.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Then good day, ma’am.” He reached for his hat on the table and went from the cabin.

Arabella’s knees gave out. She sank to a chair.

An earl wished an audience with a ruffian merchant ship captain? She had never seen him, but she knew of the Earl of Bedwyr by reputation. They said he was astoundingly handsome, a seasoned gambler, and the sort of man from whom a mother should steer her innocent daughters far away. What on earth did a rakish lord want with her ship captain?

Her cheeks flushed with heat.

He was not her ship captain. His ship was merely the means to an end. In two days she would never see him again. In two days he would be nothing to her but a memory.

Chapter 5

The Duke

“The Devil take you, Luc! My men welcomed you aboard like a Messiah returning from the dead. It’s damned lowering, I say.” Captain Anthony Masinter of the Royal Navy pushed away his dinner plate and poured another full glass of wine, then refilled Luc’s as well. His moustached scowl was jocund.

Luc settled back in his chair at the fine mahogany table he had chosen for the captain’s day cabin when he outfitted the Victory for its maiden voyage six years earlier. Considerably more spacious than his quarters aboard the Retribution, it was the place from which he had commanded hundreds of sailors and half a dozen officers for over five years.

“The men remember the war and the glory enjoyed after battles, Tony. I am merely a reminder of that.”

A cabin steward worked silently about them, removing the remnants of their meal. He caught Luc’s eye.

“Blast it.” Tony’s palm came down on the table. “Even Cob here knows you’re blowing smoke. I tell you it’s damned provoking, captaining a ship full of sailors who want their old master back.”

“I would never say so, sir,” the steward said, and carried the dishes from the cabin.

“He would never say so,” Tony grumbled, wiping wine from his neat moustaches with an embroidered handkerchief. “Balderdash!”

“Speaking of smoke, shall we, Anthony?” From across the table, the Earl of Bedwyr’s voice held a studied air of indolence. Though cavalry once upon a time, after acceding to the earldom, Charles Camlann Westfall had cast off every vestige of the military. He wore now not the dashing gold-corded blue of the Tenth Hussars, but a plum cutaway coat with large silver buttons, a silk waistcoat embroidered with roses, and a mask of supreme ennui upon his face.

“Capital idea, Charles.” Tony stood and brought a box to the table, lit a cigar, and pushed the box toward Cam. “Then you don’t want the Victory?” he said loosely to Luc.

Not since he’d found another mission worth pursuing. “You know I don’t want her.”

“He couldn’t have her even if he wished,” Cam drawled.

“Right.” Tony shook his head. “The old duke doesn’t like him in the line of battle. Poor sot.” He clapped Luc on the shoulder.

“Rather,” the earl said, lifting eyes shadowed by a thatch of artfully arranged golden hair, “the old duke’s widow.” He slipped a hand draped with lacy cuff into his waistcoat and drew forth a letter bearing a wax seal. He tossed it onto the tabletop. “What say you to those tidings?”

“Luc, by golly, you’re a duke! My compliments. This calls for a toast, and a second to follow. Cob, bring the brandy!”

“He is not a duke yet, Anthony. Merely duke-in-waiting.”

Luc stared at the unopened letter in his palm. “When did it happen?”

“When did old Uncle Theodore go to his maker?” His cousin’s voice did not rise above its habitual drawl, as though coming one step closer to the dukedom himself meant nothing to him. Which it probably didn’t; Cam preferred indolence to work. “Three weeks ago, after a nasty turn for the worse. Really, Lucien, if you stayed in touch you might have known this was coming.”

The steward returned with a crystal carafe and three glasses.

Cam played absently with his gleaming watch fob, smoke curling about his shoulders. “I suppose you are still pursuing the activities you commenced when the navy ejected you?”

“Didn’t eject him. He wanted to go,” Tony said, puffing a cloud. “Noble fellow.”

The cabin was cool, the late summer wind coming off the Atlantic sifting in through the broad windows. But sweat gathered along Luc’s scar. “Why did Adina send you to tell me, Cam?” Theodore’s wife, young, beautiful, and equally as vain and vapid as her late husband, was devoted to her much older brother, Absalom Fletcher. This news would not be welcome to Fletcher. It would mean, of course, that Luc would finally return home. And so would his brother.

But Fletcher was no longer a mere cleric. Recently elevated to the episcopate, he was a powerful and influential man. The Bishop of Barris could hardly fear anything from his former wards. Nevertheless, Luc had remained at sea and Christos in France. Now, however, that would change.

“She did not send me. I volunteered.” Cam lifted a brow. “I came to commiserate, cousin.”

Tony frowned. “Now see here, Combe is a pretty place. Wouldn’t mind having a castle like that myself.”

“Luc already has a castle, Tony.”

“Not in England!”

“The title would be welcome to him, Anthony, as would the estate,” the earl murmured. “Rather, if the duchess were to lose this child like she has lost all the others, or if she were to bear a girl-child, the necessary padding of heirs to the duchy would swiftly diminish to . . . none.”