© 2016 Nancy Campbell Allen.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Deseret Book Company ([email protected]), P.O. Box 30178, Salt Lake City Utah 84130. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of the Church or of Deseret Book. Deseret Book is a registered trademark of Deseret Book Company.
All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Allen, Nancy Campbell, 1969– author.
My fair gentleman / Nancy Campbell Allen.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-62972-095-1 (paperbound)
1. Sailors—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3551.L39644M9 2015
813'.54—dc232015024110
Printed in the United States of America
Edwards Brothers Malloy, Ann Arbor, MI
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Other Proper Romance Titles
Lord Fenton’s Folly by Josi S. Kilpack
A Heart Revealed by Josi S. Kilpack
Longing for Home by Sarah M. Eden
Longing for Home, volume 2: Hope Springs by Sarah M. Eden
Blackmoore by Julianne Donaldson
Edenbrooke by Julianne Donaldson
To Mark, for hanging in there
And to Jen and Josi, sisters of my heart
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Chapter 1
It is ill-advised for gentlemen to be seen in places such
as taverns or gaming halls. It does little to aid the
reputation and can do much to harm it.
Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette
Clarence Fuddleston, solicitor of the Earl of Stansworth’s estate, stood at the threshold of Tilly’s Tavern and clutched his satchel to his chest. He slowly removed his hat to reveal a balding head that gleamed in the lamplight dancing just inside the door, and he pushed his slipping round spectacles firmly up against the bridge of his nose.
Right, then.
Better to just get in, find the old earl’s degenerate grandson, and get out. With any luck he would be home within the hour and enjoying a warm spot of tea. The spring air was cold, colder still now that dusk had given way to the dark of night, and the dockside was no place a decent body wanted to spend an inordinate amount of time. Not without a firearm at the ready, at any rate.
A lady—and he acknowledged the term should be applied loosely—screeched in laughter as she poured a round of ale for the group of rowdies closest to the door. Avoiding leers and inappropriate swats, she made her way around the table. She paused when she saw Clarence rooted to the spot.
“Ay, lovie, and are ya comin’ in or not? It’s a lot more where this came from,” she said with a grin and hoisted the metal pitcher up in the air next to his face.
Clarence leaned away and cleared his throat. “If you please, madam, I am looking for someone in particular, a possible patron.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed a bit as she studied him, from the hat he held clenched in his fingers to the toes of his polished shoes. Tipping her head to one side, her gaze direct, she put one hand on her hip. “Whosit yer lookin’ ta find? For some coin, I might be able ta point ’im out.”
“I am searching for a man who goes by the name of ‘Jack Elliot.’ He is the first mate on Captain Stanley’s merchant ship, the Flying Gull—the deckhands told me he frequents this eatery.” Clarence resisted the urge to slip a finger between his collar and throat. If he hadn’t so desperately needed the position with the old earl, he would have turned and walked quickly away from the tavern. A piano in the corner clinked loudly out of tune, and sailors laughed and argued with equal parts enthusiasm and volume. It was altogether uncouth and distasteful.
“Did ya ’ear ’im, boys? We’re an ‘eatery’ now!” The woman looked over her shoulder and screeched again with laughter as Clarence felt his face redden.
“Here, then,” he said, and he dug his hand into his trousers pocket. He withdrew a coin and thrust it at the woman. “Is Mr. Elliot here tonight?”
She took the money with a sly smile and jerked her head to the left. “Back in that corner be Jack. I shouldn’t think ye’d want ta disturb ’im, though—up two ’ands, ’e is.”
“Thank you,” Clarence mumbled and stepped around the woman, who laughed again—directly in his ear—at a disparaging comment flung from the direction of the front table. He made his way through the crowded room, avoiding elbows and an occasional body as patrons shuffled, argued, and cackled at one another in debauched glee.
The farther into the bowels of the room he traveled, the more Clarence’s vision was hampered by the dimming light. By the time he approached the far corner, he was forced to stop for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the darker shadows. When he was finally able to see clearly, he rather wished he couldn’t.
It would be Stansworth’s grandson there, no doubt about it. The same broad shoulders, the same facial features—defined jawline, sharply-angled planes, and fierce brows drawn together in a frown—why, the man even sat the same way. Perhaps the most glaring difference, however, was that the person before him was in the prime of health, if somewhat . . . slovenly. The old earl was on his deathbed. This man was nearing his thirtieth year and showing the glow of rigorous outdoor activity, while Clarence’s employer was gray, racked with consumption, and fading quickly.
It was on that thought that Clarence composed himself and made his way to the object of his quest. “A word with you, Mr. Elliot,” he said.
The seaman, dressed in a white shirt that had seen better days—open at the throat and grimy, no less—focused on the cards in his hand as one of the serving girls looked over his shoulder. “I do hope, Vanessa, that you’re not helping my opponent,” Mr. Elliot said to the woman without looking up.
“Now, love, why would I do such a thing?” the girl demurred, although she did take a step back.
“Because he pays you to.” Elliot finally looked up at the man seated across the table from him.
“That’s a lie,” the man growled. He rubbed a hand over his grizzled face and glared at Elliot. “Ye’re callin’ me a cheat!”
“Yes, I am.” Jack Elliot tossed his cards faceup on the table and leaned back in his seat. “And even still, I win this hand.”
Elliot’s opponent stared at the table top for a moment, red color suffusing his complexion from his neck to the roots of his greasy hair. “Ye’re the cheat!”
Elliot smiled; it wasn’t a pleasant expression, and Clarence was glad to not be on t
he receiving end of it. “Never sit down to play cards with me again.”
“Now, just a minute, ’ere. I’m not payin’ you a farthin’!”
Jack Elliot leaned down slowly, and Clarence watched as he withdrew a thick, black, wicked-looking serrated knife from his boot. He quietly set the weapon on the table before him, never taking his eyes from his angry opponent.
The other man swallowed hard. His visage furious, he shoved the money sitting on the table in front of him toward Mr. Elliot and rose to leave, and Elliot motioned his head at the woman standing behind him. “You would be prudent to stay away from me as well,” Elliot murmured to Vanessa, who scampered after the angry loser.
Clarence released his breath in a shaky whoosh, unaware he had been holding it. “Mr. Elliot,” he said again, clearing his throat and inching closer. “I do require a moment of your time.”
Jack Elliot finally looked up at him, meeting his gaze directly. “You lost, little man?”
“No, I am not los—” Clarence cut himself off and gestured to the now-empty chair across the table. “May I?” He was very near the end of his own rope and had endured all the insults to his dignity he would tolerate for one evening. Without waiting for Elliot’s response, he sat in the chair and met his eyes. “Your grandfather sent me to find you.”
Mr. Elliot smiled—again a cold mockery of a gentler emotion that Clarence was beginning to believe the sailor completely lacked. “You’ve got the wrong man. I don’t have a grandfather.”
Clarence opened his satchel and withdrew a single sheet of parchment—an official document written on the old earl’s letterhead—and handed it to Elliot, who lifted one brow at him before reading it.
The man’s expression never wavered and he didn’t utter a word, so when he set the paper down carefully on the scarred wooden table and then stabbed the tip of his knife into the center of it, Clarence jumped, bumping his knees on the underside of the table.
“I believe I told you I do not have a grandfather.” Elliot’s voice was a quiet rumble yet audible even in the noise of the crowded tavern.
Clarence looked at the knife, which cleanly pierced the document, and then back up at the sailor. “But you do have a mother and sister, do you not?”
Jack Elliot’s expression darkened, tightened, and Clarence forged bravely ahead, finally feeling as though he had the upper hand. “And although you provide for them as well as you can, the wages of a first mate on a merchant ship—even an experienced first mate—are still stretched thin in the face of insurmountable debt.”
Elliot leaned forward and braced his elbows on the table. “My family is none of your affair, little worm, and if you come near me again I will dice you into pieces too small for even the fish to enjoy.”
Clarence swallowed but persisted. “Your grandfather is on his deathbed,” the solicitor said evenly, “and I am merely the messenger, sent to tell you that if you resist a meeting with the earl tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp, your mother’s debts will come due in full immediately. The earl has purchased them.”
Jack Elliot was still, those striking eyes watchful and his entire demeanor nearly predatory as a muscle in his jaw twitched. Once.
“I urge you to keep the appointment, Mr. Elliot. I sincerely doubt either of us wishes for me to set foot in this establishment ever again.” Clarence nodded at the paper impaled on the tabletop. “The address is there on the letterhead.”
And on trembling legs, Clarence Fuddleston rose from the table and shoved his way out of the tavern. Pausing at the door to place his hat on his head, he stepped out into the cold night air.
Chapter 2
When ladies and gentlemen call on their elders,
great care should be taken to treat them with the utmost
respect. As they age, they grow ever feebler and require
decorum and gentle words of affection. One would be
well-advised to recite poetry—Shelley or Keats, perhaps.
Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette
Jack Elliot donned his cleanest shirt and breeches, barely resisting the impulse to wear his dirtiest outfit, which hadn’t seen soap or water for over eight weeks. He couldn’t stand the smell himself, though, and it would be sad indeed if he were more adversely affected by the stench than the old man was. He didn’t bother polishing his boots, which had survived two months at sea, and he squelched the suggestion, cheekily offered by his cabin boy, of wearing a coat.
“I am not dressing to impress,” Jack told Pug, standing before the small mirror in his proportionately small cabin aboard the Flying Gull. “I am going to set the man straight and will return by nine o’clock. Half past, at the latest.”
Pug Smith—scruffy, twelve years old, and tall for his age, shook his head. “Don’t make sense, walkin’ away from a fortune.”
Jack scowled at the boy and motioned toward the door. “When I return, I expect to see the laundry well under way,” he told Pug as he locked the cabin door behind them. “No excuses this time, or I’ll throw you overboard.”
Pug snorted. “If you threw me overboard half as much as you threaten it, I’d never get dry!”
Jack held back a smile, but only just. It wouldn’t do for the little urchin to see he had a soft spot. “And once you hang the clothes to dry, complete two full pages in the arithmetic primer. I’ll review it this afternoon.”
The answering whine was predictable—Pug was nothing if not consistent. “I hate it! I will never have a use for it. My mum doesn’t know if I do it or don’t!”
“I promised her I would teach you.” Jack held up a hand when the boy opened his mouth to continue. “And you did visit her last night, as I suggested?”
“‘Suggested,’” the boy sulked. “Commanded. You don’t ‘suggest’ anything.”
“And?”
Pug snorted. “I saw her. Same old shack, same noisy brats, new man to smack her about the head and shoulders.”
Jack tensed but refrained from further comment. Pug had an ingrained sense of responsibility for his mother—very much like the feeling Jack himself had possessed when he’d signed on as cabin boy with a merchant ship at ten years of age. The year his father had died and left them not only penniless but under a heaping mound of debt.
“Remember, wash the clothing—yours also—and then do your mathematics,” Jack told him as they reached the gangplank. “If it’s not done, I’ll—”
“Throw me overboard, I know.” Pug’s expression was heavy, and Jack wished it were only because the boy didn’t want to do his work.
“Was there food in the house?”
Pug shrugged. “Enough.”
Jack looked at the boy for a moment before turning to make his way off the ship. “I don’t imagine it would be an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon—in the water with the sharks,” he called over his shoulder. He didn’t look to see the boy’s reaction, but he hoped his parting shot had at least brought forth an exasperated roll of the eyes. The boy carried the weight of his young world on his shoulders.
Once he reached the docks, Jack hailed a passing hack and climbed in, giving the driver the Mayfair address. The driver gave him a quick appraising glance but remained wisely silent. As he settled back into the uncomfortably worn seat, Jack closed his eyes for a moment and wondered what was happening to his well-ordered world.
He had grown up at sea—had even been impressed into naval service for two years—and was now mere months away from captaining a merchant vessel of his own. He had clawed and scraped his way through the years to achieve his current status, and now, with the stroke of a pen, his blasted grandfather had set in motion wheels that might well derail all of his hard work.
The streets were an assault on the senses. He never quite forgot how it felt to be a child with a newly deceased father, begging for the smallest scraps of food. The sight of the street urchins stirred memories he would much prefer to leave long buried, but his gut clenched anyway, and he felt a stab of
pain when he recognized himself in their gaunt faces. His mother had cried the day he’d left to be a cabin boy; his only consolation had been that with him away, she had one less mouth to feed.
The ride to the earl’s town house was, regrettably, not nearly long enough for Jack’s liking, and the fact that he’d had to relive snippets of his childhood propelled a dark mood into a black one. He glanced at his pocket watch as the vehicle came to a stop in front of the house, disappointed to see that he was two minutes early. He had wanted to be late, merely to prove a point. He supposed his dingy appearance alone would have to suffice. He did possess one nice suit, but he had decided—as he was finally falling asleep after that meeting in the tavern with the little toad—that he would not show any kind of respect for the old man who had ruined his life before Jack had even drawn his first breath. It was only personal pride that had kept him from showing up hungover, with bloodshot eyes and alcohol on his breath.
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