His Lordship's Last Wager

by Miranda Davis

  Damn his ginger-splattered hide.

  “If we weren’t catching the days' tide, I’d show you the spring bore this evening. Quite a sight, the tide’s white-caps roaring upstream against the current through the gorge. It’s a wonder, much like yourself, my lady,” O’Malley said in grating, oleaginous fashion before lingering in a sick-making manner over her hand.

  The free trader took himself off before Seelye broke his vow of pacifism and beat him to jelly.

  “I’d like to see the spring bore,” Jane said, sounding wistful.

  “Too bad, we’ll be gone. But joy of joys, the captain won’t be far away, if your gloves need more drool to condition them.”

  Jane looked at him askance. “Don’t you like him?”

  “How could I? He’s—Never mind.”

  Fortunately, Percy returned with Cushing and baggage. The lady’s maid clucked over Jane like a mother hen, chiding her for standing in strong sunlight with naught but a bonnet to protect her skin and so forth.

  Seelye took the opportunity to recruit Percy, “Come along for moral support, if nothing else.”

  “Wouldn’t I be de trop in the retinue you’ve assembled for her ladyship’s sake?”

  “No, you’d prevent me from strangling our captain.”

  “Oh, is it like that?” Percy purred.

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “I rather think I do,” he replied in a tone Seelye found particularly exasperating, “but you become surly when I express my opinion so I’ll say no more. Besides, I’m off to Essex to see about a property that’s come to me.”

  “You can gloat over your new title and entails in a week, maybe sooner. Come on, Percy,” Seelye begged, “see the thing through with me. Have more laughs at my expense.”

  “I am desolated I cannot. There’s a complication with earldom that requires my attention. I’ll have it sorted by the time you return.”

  “What sort of complication?”

  “That remains to be seen. Bon voyage et bon chance, mon ami,” Percy said departed without another word of explanation, as was his custom.

  Chapter 39

  In which a bear sails for safe harbor.

  The wait for O’Malley’s crew left Seelye edgy until they arrived in a four-man dingy.

  The draft horse long gone, Plimpton’s sons towed the flyboat to the end of the dock. The first mate, Reilly, threw Marcus a line, which he tied off to the narrow boat’s bow. The sailors on the dingy put their backs to it and soon had the narrow boat turned and headed for open water.

  O’Malley’s ship, Grace o’ the Sea, lay at anchor near the mouth of the floating harbor in excellent position to leave on the outgoing tide. A light breeze luffed the triangular mainsail of the sleek, 50-foot Bermuda-rigged sloop and she strained at anchor. Mooring close to the channel’s strongest current meant a faster start at the captain’s ‘Anchors aweigh!’—a smuggler’s trick, or so Plimpton confided to Seelye.

  The crew tied off the narrowboat to align the crate where they would stow it. Tackle rigged from the sloop allowed the captain’s crew to hoist it from flyboat to foredeck. Seelye heard Bibendum’s ‘pogh pogh’ of displeasure but O’Malley’s men worked apace to batten down the oversized wood box on deck by the fixed jib.

  Afterward, the crew transferred passengers. Seelye climbed a rope ladder. Jane and her maid came aboard in a swing seat one at a time. And the groggy Mr. Stoker arrived in a sack-like canvas sling.

  Seelye and Jane waved farewell to the Plimptons from the higher deck until the Invictus was towed out of sight. She withdrew below.

  When the dingy returned, the crew busied themselves securing it and filling empty hogsheads with seawater to stow in the hold.

  “Do cavalrymen have sea legs?” O’Malley asked, coming to stand beside him.

  “Not this one, can’t speak for my fellows,” he answered. “I’ve crossed the channel several times. Never enjoyed it. I understand Irish seas are rougher.”

  “But the Grace is yar. We’ve the strong spring tide and a fair wind tonight. Watch the horizon after you’ve puked, it’s supposed to help.” Gone was the mocking arse. In his place, a matter-of-fact seaman advised a passenger.

  “Thank you, Captain. May I ask why you ship barrels of seawater for ballast instead of trade goods?”

  The captain scrutinized him. “Any of your acquaintances preventives? Or d’you call them riding officers? Tax agents? They go by different names.”

  “None, sir, by any name,” Seelye said.

  “In that case, my lord, you could say soap from Ireland never goes amiss in Albion, if one were to drop a load off now and again. But this trip, I’ll only bring the bear back.”

  Perhaps the mocking arse was back.

  “If you’d rather not tell me what you’re up to, I understand. You needn’t spin tales about smuggling soap.”

  “God’s honest truth,” O’Malley said, hand over heart. “It’s profitable and less risky, hypothetically speaking. Excisemen get more exercised over the scamps skipping tariffs on French brandy. Soap just hasn’t the same je ne sais quoi.”

  “Soap from Ireland, truly?”

  “You sound surprised,” O’Malley said. “We Irish are a cleaner people than you English give us credit for. But then, we don’t tax soap. I’m reminded of our enlightenment whenever I visit the Bristol docks. You see, the trouble with taxing soap is that those who need it most can least afford it.”

  At that, Seelye laughed. He could afford soap, and considered it a necessity, but he hadn’t bathed once during the narrow boat trip.

  “All evidence to the contrary, Captain,” he protested, “it is my custom to make regular use of soap. This project ruled out the possibility. My apologies, if I offend.”

  “There’s no ‘if’ about it, my lord.” O’Malley said with an answering grin. “And small wonder with a bear about. But how the lady smells so sweet in such company makes a man wonder.”

  “Wonder about what?” the lady asked, rejoining them.

  “Nothing,” Seelye said and sidled away from her.

  She looked to the captain for an answer.

  “We were discussing,” the Irishman replied with galling circumspection, “the merits of imported soap, ma’am.”

  “Ah, yes,” she agreed, equally circumspect. “There’s much to be said for soap.” Her comment made Seelye flush hotly, much to his chagrin. She and the pirate shared their little joke alone, for he stalked far downwind of them.

  To blazes with them both.

  * * *

  Why on earth were females called the weaker sex? Pondering this injustice, Jane hugged her pelisse about herself and took in the choppy swells during a break in the weather. She’d found her sea legs without delay or discomfort, unlike her fellow—male—passengers.

  Their first day at sea had been relatively quiet. The outgoing spring tide whisked the ship from Bristol’s harbor through the Avon gorge and out where the open sea plowed up white caps. The next day, they sailed into an Atlantic storm thundering down upon Ireland’s west coast. Everyone stayed below at the captain’s request. Not that Seelye or Mr. Stoker were in any condition to argue.

  The storm abated the following day, and she spent most of her time outside, stepping cautiously to keep her balance on the rolling deck.

  A stiff easterly wind sent banks of steely clouds scudding overhead. The sloop raced before it, its mainsail plump as a goose down pillow. The crew hauled on the main sheet at the captain’s barked directions.

  “Come about!” he called.

  His sailors busied themselves. And at “Hard over!” the first mate spun the ship’s wheel and the boat began to turn. Sailors ducked when her boom swung to the ship’s other side. The main sheet caught the wind and onward they sailed.

  The roiling seascape exhilarated her but not those less fortunate. Mr. Stoker awoke and was violently ill into a chamber pot. She explained their new circumstances and offered him hot tea and brandy. He adamantly refused it
until she vowed on all that was holy there was no other ingredient in the potation but tea leaves, hot water and the captain’s brandy.

  She promised to return to London once her bear was freed and to double her brother’s bonus if he cooperated. Being a practical man, this revived the runner’s flagging spirits better than the hot brandied tea.

  Jane asked Cushing to nurse Mr. Stoker and went on deck to see to the other unwell males. Bibendum whined inside the crate. Seelye leaned over a railing.

  With what dignity his lordship could muster, he heaved out of eye sight, if not ear shot. She monitored his bouts of mal de mer from the other side of the deck, evincing deafness. He seemed in no danger of plunging headlong into the sea, so she let him be.

  Discretion, she decided, was the better part of valor when it came to indisposed Horsemen of the Apocalypse. The captain’s brandy flask and a few pieces of hard tack, offered with brisk efficiency, helped settle his stomach.

  As for Bibendum, his dark eyes rolled to show crescent moons of white at every pitch and yaw of the ship. With snout thrust out as far as the bars allowed, he sniffed the air and moaned piteously, as if begging, ‘Pray, let me swim.’ She fed him chunks of dry bread dosed with drops of Prudence’s tincture and rubbed behind his ears until he slumped out of reach.

  O’Malley came to check the crate’s lines.

  “I must compliment you on your ease at sea.”

  The captain was courtly in an exaggerated, possibly satiric way.

  “You sound surprised,” she said, “We English are, after all, a famously sea-faring people.”

  “Yet, not all you English fare so famously, I see.” His eyes cut to Seelye, leaning against the rail looking pea green and put upon.

  She pursed her lips to keep from laughing.

  “How much longer will we be?” she asked when the impulse passed.

  “It’s an ill wind that blows no one to good,” he flirted. “This blow’s a trial for your worthy escorts, but it means we’ll make Roundstone tomorrow with a few hours of daylight to deal with your bear.”

  As Captain O’Malley predicted, Grace o’ the Sea made Roundstone harbor late the following day. She stood on deck despite a misty drizzle.

  The captain joined her, and as if he owned the entire prospect, said, “Welcome to the prettiest little bay in all Connemara, which to my mind, is the prettiest place in all Ireland.” He looked about himself hopefully then assumed a disappointed air, “Where are the preventives when I’d welcome them with open arms? Sea water in the hold and a bear on deck, my cargo’s not only above board but entirely tax-exempt.”

  Amusing as the smuggler could be, there was something too sly about him. She responded appropriately when his conversation required it, but her thoughts turned to another man whose tart honesty she had come to prefer.

  Seelye wished to help her, albeit in his unfortunate, maladroit manner. His fits of truth-telling were reassuring in a stinging, salt-in-wounds sort of way. It wasn’t pleasant to hear, but it proved he looked past her money and rank to examine her essential nature.

  Here, far from London, she acknowledged how right he had been. She’d allowed herself to become arrogant and uncompromising. When she followed his advice and unbent, she was happier. By being mindful of others’ feelings, she was able to convince Fanny Jellicott to help her. Thanks to Seelye, she discovered how to persuade people without threatening to snap them in two. Or shoot them.

  In this mellow frame of mind, Jane surveyed Roundstone. The village’s houses and commercial buildings marched up both sides of a cobbled street skirting a low hill rising from the shore. A long stone and timber jetty angled into the harbor.

  Securing the sloop took time. The ship’s dingy was lowered for sailors to tow her in and ease her close enough to the quay for the sailors to tie her up and lower the mainsail.

  Captain O’Malley asked Jane how she proposed to land her bear and gestured to the wooden gangplank just laid down from ship to jetty. “Could it be that easy, my lady?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  When she peered into the crate, Bibendum stared back, glassy eyed. She cooed his name. He blinked and moaned. She opened the door and the bear sniffed. At her urging, he rose unsteadily to his paws. He let Jane buckle the red leather muzzle on his snout, clip the leash to his collar and coax him from the crate. He swung his big head from left to right, nose twitching.

  The crew froze in place, waiting for the bear to decide which way to go.

  Jane persisted. Each paw’s five claws tapped audibly on the wood deck. All the while, she sing-songed him toward the gangway with praise for every tentative step in the right direction.

  The drizzle let up, but the gangplank proved too much for the unsettled bear. He leaned forward to sniff the frothing sea splashing between ship and quay and down he flopped. No matter how she cajoled, the bear refused to set a paw on the wood bridge.

  “Seelye, what should I do?” she called out, feeling the crew’s eyes on her.

  “Give him a kick.”

  “Maybe if you showed him how?”

  “Demonstrate?”

  Though indignant, he pushed himself from the railing with a weary sigh. He gave the bear a few hearty pats and stepped around him onto the gangplank. Midway, he turned, regarded the creature, then walked the rest of its length to the jetty.

  “Right, Bibendum. Time to move your hairy haunches,” he said. “No more shillyshallying. Come!”

  The bear rose on all fours, pointed his upper lip at Seelye and mmm’ed. One paw came to rest on the gangplank. The bear shifted his bulk forward. His other forepaw landed.

  “Come on, aren’t you peckish after days at sea? There’s a village to terrorize, children to gobble up,” Seelye said.

  Somehow, that convinced the bear. Bibendum crouched low on the boards, but he advanced. Paw by paw, the bear crept forward on his belly till he reached the far end. He slid off the gangplank to the jetty and shook himself. With a mumble, he butted Seelye’s hip with his head.

  “Big baby, I knew you could do it,” Seelye said with one last pat.

  Jane hurried across after them to take the leash.

  “I will give you all the praise curmudgeonly Seelye withheld,” she said. “You are a very good bear, an excellent bear.”

  “If no one’s here to meet us, I’ll walk Bibendum to Ballynahinch and send for you,” he told her. “And the crate.”

  “Yes, Seelye.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I’m not pretending to be agreeable, I do agree,” she told him feeling giddy.

  They had landed Bibendum safely in Ireland. It was more than she’d ever dared imagine, but here she stood, feet planted firmly on an Irish jetty, and it was thanks to Seelye’s last minute change of heart. He was, like her bear, a very good, no, an excellent sort of creature.

  Seelye was about to say something but caught sight of a well-dressed man driving a gig to the quay’s other end. This gentleman stepped out of the vehicle, tied off the traces and, having retrieved his stick, walked the distance toward them with a pronounced stoop of the shoulder. He came within feet of them and waited politely to be addressed, which Jane did.

  “Would you be Mr. Thomas Martin?” she asked. “You have your father’s looks, I must say. The resemblance is unmistakable.”

  He bowed as best he could. “Your servant, Lady Jane. My father’s written us in triumph about your bear. I’m happy to assist you.” He glanced at Bibendum, leashed and seated at Jane’s side.

  Sailors winched the empty crate off the deck to the quay.

  “The gig won’t answer for the bear or its box, but I can drive you and your maid to Ballynahinch in comfort. I’ll send men with a wagon for the rest.” Martin took in Seelye and the sailors. “I’m sure these men can help load it.”

  Seelye’s expression turned flinty.

  She spoke up, “Lord Seelye, may I present Richard Martin’s son, Mr. Thomas Martin.” To Mr. Martin, she s
aid, “This is my brother-in-law, Lord Seelye Burton, one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

  Mr. Martin’s expression could be read like a broadsheet. Its bold headline: ‘Miracle in Roundstone!’

  “It’s a signal honor to meet you, sir,” he stammered and extended his hand eagerly to Seelye.

  * * *

  Jane’s hurried introduction salved his bruised pride somewhat. He hadn’t glanced in a glass since Limpley Stoke, but surely his appearance didn’t merit the man’s gobsmacked disbelief upon hearing his name.

  Seelye glanced down at himself and beheld the tragic demise of a nonpareil. Below the sweat-stained linen work shirt, he grimaced at the rope belt, soiled, frayed canvas trousers and, with fresh horror, his bare ankles exposed above Percy’s hideous wooden shoes. He absentmindedly wiped his hands on his trousers.

  Fine, I am appalling.

  And there was no telling how ripe he smelled, having grown accustomed to the bear long ago.

  Rise above, Seelye reminded himself, ignore the slight. Be polite to Bibendum’s new landlord.

  Besides, Martin’s reaction was amusing. The man snapped his mouth closed and schooled his expression into something less amazed and gushed, “It is a signal honor to meet you, sir.”

  It was Seelye’s turn to be shocked. He collected his wits and took the washed and well-dressed gentleman’s hand.

  “You’re too kind,” he said. “Traveled incognito but I’d welcome a hot bath and your valet’s help.” He scratched at his jaw’s post-Limpley Stoke growth. “By the time I’ve walked Lady Jane’s bear to Ballynahinch, I daresay there may be enough hot water to make me presentable.”

  “No worry there, we’ve a lake, sir,” Son of Martin assured him before realizing what he’d said.

  Everyone chuckled at that, even Seelye, who replied, “A lake should do but only just.”

  “I-I’ll see to it immediately,” Martin stammered in embarrassment. “One of the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse here, imagine that.”

  The man tried instinctively to straighten his stooped shoulder and assume a military posture though it hurt him. This gesture, Seelye knew well. Smeeth and Thatcher, Ainsworth’s key staff, often did the same. They, too, bore scars from the war. And they were just as determined to be seen as men who’d done their part rather than cripples to be pitied.