The Unexpected Wife

by Warfield, Caroline

  Her prediction regarding the exclusion of women had been accurate. Mrs. Elliot and one or two of her cronies made their bows and quickly scurried away. When Jarratt made his grand entrance, Zambak took two steps toward him, caught Charles’s warning glare, and turned her back to flee upstairs.

  It occurred to him that, determined though she might be, she was afraid of Jarratt, and he wondered again what happened the day she visited him alone. Not that it matters. Zambak Hayden won’t let fear keep her from acting once she’s made up her mind to do so. He needed to have that talk with Filipe.

  Elliot marched over to greet a gentleman Charles knew to be an aide to the Portuguese governor and raised a hand to bring the room to order. “Gentleman, I will be brief. The incident at Canton some days ago did none of us credit.” Few heads nodded, notably Oliver’s. Most faces remained blank; Jarratt looked on with a sneer.

  “The bulk of you flout the Chinese law. With Maitland gone, you ignore my written warning to remove private gunboats from the river.” None of the men looked impressed by this statement.

  “As a result, the Chinese expelled Mr. Innes.” Elliot nodded toward the irate-looking man in a rumpled suit near the door. “He merely returned here to Macao and continues to direct illicit operations.” If a room full of powerful men could collectively shrug, this one would. Most of them knew they would do the same thing.

  “Therefore,” Elliot went on, “I have asked the governor to expel James Innes from Macao.”

  An electric reaction radiated through the room. Gasps and protests followed one upon the other, and several men spoke at once.

  “My opium chests bear the mark of the East India Company!” Innes shouted. “I’m doing the bidding of the government, and you know it. You can’t do this.”

  “I didn’t. The governor did. The Portuguese wish to retain the good relations with the Chinese they have enjoyed for decades.” Though the governor’s deputy stood firm, his eyes darted nervously around the room.

  “Her majesty’s government won’t like it, Elliot, if you start interfering.” At the sound of Jarratt’s voice, the room quieted. He stepped forward. “The Chinese don’t understand free trade. Our opium boats are meeting resistance up and down the coast. Now the viceroy halted tea trading in Canton itself. The government must act to protect the tea. The Chinese must respect British interests. We have to force them to accept open trading.”

  His partner in London will do his best to see to it, even if he has to lie, cheat, and bribe to do it, Charles thought.

  Elliot didn’t shrink under Jarratt’s thunderous glare. “Be that as it may, Mr. Jarratt, I’m superintendent for now, and we are at an impasse. Until the gunboats leave the river, the viceroy won’t open the tea trade. James Innes is expelled from Macao. Unless you want to meet the same fate, I suggest you cooperate.”

  James Innes left the room on a string of curses. The sound of a slamming door echoed through the Elliots’ quiet mansion. The man himself surveyed the room, peering at the traders one after another before continuing. “I have sent a message to Viceroy Teng telling him Her Majesty’s representative respects his conditions. I will leave for Lintin and Whampao in two days on the Reliance offering my cooperation.”

  Jaws dropped, and men looked at one another, some ready to protest, but Jarratt gave Elliot a mocking bow, and the company quieted, watching for his lead. “Then I best see to my business,” he sneered before sweeping from the room. The others followed him.

  Oliver lagged behind. “I’m sending one of my ships to Whampao, if you have an interest,” he told Charles while they watched Elliot see the Portuguese official out.

  Charles considered his options. I need to follow the Superintendent of Trade to Whampao for my report—and fetch Thorn Hayden. Perhaps it’s time to be open with Elliot. Perhaps not, in which case, Oliver’s offer has merit. “Not going yourself?”

  “I haven’t decided,” Oliver answered. “The missionary society may need me here, but I could use a clear head watching what the superintendent does.”

  Movement on the stairs, quickly gone, drew his attention. Zambak no doubt. The need to put distance between himself and the woman who had invaded his dreams added to his need to go.

  “Let me speak with Elliot. If he won’t take me, I’ll accept your offer. I may need your assistance returning.” If I have Thorn in tow, I most definitely will.

  Observing Elliot’s actions in Whampao might prove a sufficient end to his commission. When he returned, he could pack up Julia on the first ship for England. He would drag the Marquess of Glenaire out of Whampao and back to London by his cravat if he had to. As to Zambak, I need to put as much distance between the lady and myself as I can. If she chooses to return home, she’ll sail on a different ship. His mind’s determination didn’t waver, but his heart protested mightily.

  ~ ~ ~

  Charles leaned against the railing of Elliot’s Reliance and watched the war junk carrying Viceroy Teng approach. Its low body and red sails, narrow ribbed and fan shaped, made it ideal for the formal procession of the ranking official enthroned under a gilded canopy on its quarterdeck. Charles judged it much less suitable for actual combat. The captain of the Reliance and some of its officers, similarly engaged along the rail, could make that assessment in more detail than he could.

  The viceroy had responded to Elliot’s request for direct communication with a message that contained a hint of agreement buried in the usual Chinese misdirection. It took four formal exchanges over two days to reach specifics. Elliot tempered his pride in what he clearly regarded as a major personal victory with no small amount of relief. “The emperor may not want direct communications with Her Majesty’s government,” the superintendent told him, “but Teng appears to be more pragmatic. Let’s hope this unofficial meeting benefits us both.”

  Let’s hope we conclude this business without open warfare, Charles thought as he watched Elliot being lowered in a skiff, back ramrod straight. The man may lack imagination, but no one can question his courage.

  The junk approached close enough for Charles to watch Elliot brought aboard and to see the Chinese navy make what he suspected was a polite, but mid-level obeisance. The Chinese put even more stock in such etiquette than the British. At the approach of the viceroy, Elliot bowed roughly to the precisely correct level he would deploy before a visiting viscount—certainly not as low as the one he intended before Charles waved it away the day they met. Had he mentioned he had a duke on board? Would the Chinese care?

  Elliot’s interpreter stepped up to stand behind his left shoulder. A man stood in a similar position behind the viceroy. The learning of Chinese by the English had been forbidden, and a generation earlier such men were rare. Formal gestures, the tip of a head here, the flick of a hand there, told Charles nothing, no matter how intensely he watched. The officers next to him began to shift impatiently and drift away. A stiff wind had blown up the delta, and he heard an order to adjust the sails.

  Elliot turned to depart just before laughter behind him broke his concentration. Jack tars helped a young man to his feet and pointed to the main mast. The young fellow appeared to overcome some reluctance before he started a slow climb. Charles turned back to the panorama across the water, but something about the boy tickled his consciousness. He strode across the deck to stand at the foot of a mast and looked up at the young sailor’s rear end, a suspiciously familiar rear end. A surge of desire shot through him, quickly overrun by anger.

  Is the entire crew blind? He looked around and found the second mate directing the men. “That young tar . . .” he began.

  “Not one of ours,” the mate said with disgust. “We take on hands from the port. That ‘un claimed experience, but he don’t know shit, begging Your Grace’s pardon.”

  “I am certain he does not. That, ah, boy is no seaman. My valet disappeared three day
s ago. Took it into his head to go to sea apparently. I suggest you put him ashore in Whampao.” Or lock him in my cabin. Damn, damn, damn.

  Either Charles or a man he hired had followed Zambak for two days whenever she left the house. He cornered the ever-present Filipe on the second day, but the miscreant suddenly lost his understanding of English when Charles tried to question him about Zambak’s behavior over Jarratt and her brother. Even money didn’t move him. Charles suspected the boy had fallen half in love with the obstinate woman.

  Before departure that morning, he determined to make sure she stayed put at the Elliots’. When he got near their house, however, a familiar green morning dress under the ubiquitous pink parasol with its garish green fringe had bobbed along in the distance on its way toward The Macao Ladies’ Seminary with Filipe hopping along behind, and he had assumed she was behaving. He had been wrong.

  She made a fool out of me. Who was under that damned parasol? It certainly was not Zambak.

  “As you wish, Your Grace,” the mate said, amusement lurking in his eyes, bringing him back to the problem at hand.

  “Never mind, Mr. Johnson. The miscreant still has time on his contract. I will confront him now, and certainly reimburse any wages.”

  “None paid. Do as you desire, Your Grace.” Amusement gave way to speculative assessment, but Johnson wisely chose not to voice it. He bowed and walked away, leaving Charles the center of attention at the foot of the mast.

  Damn and double damn. Now I’ll have to carry on this little farce.

  He stared up at the figure that had reached the top of the mast and was clinging to it in away no experienced seaman ever would. Ice blue eyes met his, a spark of triumph in them. He slammed his fist into the mast, and she looked away. Is she holding on even tighter?

  “Don’t worry, yer grace,” a passing tar told him with a gap-toothed grin. “‘e’ll make it down. They always do—one way or t’other.”

  An hour later his quarry still clung to the mast, the company had lost interest, and Elliot called him to his cabin. He had to go below. I hope she climbs down on her own. I shudder to think what ‘t’other’ may be.

  “What did Teng have to say?” the duke asked without preamble upon entering the captain’s cabin.

  The superintendent’s well-pleased smile broadened. “We’ll sail in a flotilla ordering the gunboats gone, clear the smugglers out of Whampao harbor together. Once done, he will open Canton to trade.”

  “For now.”

  Elliot sobered. “For now. Jarratt and his cronies won’t take it well, of course. God only knows what mischief they’ll get up to in London. I can only await changes to my orders, if any. For now, they are to keep the peace and the tea flowing. I am doing that.” His anxious expression begged reassurance.

  “Voices in parliament opposed to allowing opium smuggling have been loud for a year. Voices demanding an opening of free trade are louder, and Martinson will fan those flames.”

  Elliot nodded morosely, his air of triumph gone. “One season at a time. Getting tea to London may tilt it either way. For now, it feels good to act.”

  Whatever else I have to report to the queen, I’ll make certain this man gets credit for the knife’s edge he has to walk. They may leave him spinning in the wind.

  “Lost in thought, Your Grace? Did you have something to say?” Elliot asked, a hint of challenge in his manner.

  “You’ve done more than most men could, Elliot. Let’s both hope you can keep the peace going forward.” Charles rose to leave. “I’ll leave you to your reports.”

  “One more thing, Your Grace. A trifle. My officers tell me they accidently took on your reneging servant. Do try to keep him out of their way.”

  “Put us ashore in Whampao. We’ll return on one of Oliver’s vessels.” With luck there will be three of us. What am I going to do with a woman on this ship in the meantime?

  Chapter 18

  Cow shite. Where was the sneak hiding? Zambak met the duke’s glare without flinching when he appeared in front of her the moment her feet reached the deck. They gave way beneath her, but she pulled herself up before she fell. Charles, she observed, made no effort to assist. She blinked into the setting sun behind him.

  Have I ever seen him so angry? Let him be. I thought we were allies, and he knows I have to get to Thorn. He should be supporting me.

  “Mr. Jones, your effort to run from your contract has failed,” Charles spat through clenched teeth.

  Jones? What is Charles playing at? She could think of nothing to say, and he was drawing uncomfortable attention.

  “You lied to these officers about your freedom and your non-existent seamanship,” he roared.

  She lifted a defiant chin but said nothing, confused by his words. What does he mean, “freedom”?

  “You will stay in my employ until you can buy your way out of our contract, or I’ll have the bailiffs on you. Do you understand me?”

  She did not.

  “Get below to my cabin and make yourself presentable.”

  How in God’s name does he propose I do that on this ship? And what will Elliot do to me if Charles tells him? She stood her ground, furrowed her brow, and tried to make sense of it.

  “Move it, sir,” he roared again.

  Sir—he’s keeping up the charade! Understanding flooded her with relief. She took one tentative step and wobbled. Not good. Not good at all.

  “Very well, Jones.” He took a predatory step toward her. She stumbled backward, but he caught her and threw her over one shoulder to the cheers of the crew. He spun on his heels with ease and began to climb down toward the officers’ quarters. She attempted to wiggle away, but he held her more tightly. For one built on such graceful lines, Charles possessed hidden reserves of strength.

  “Put me down,” she ground out when they were out of sight.

  “Would you rather I had one of the crew carry you? That would put a period to your little disguise.” He dumped her into a small cabin, smaller than her dressing room at Mountview. “As it is, they all think you’re my catamite.”

  “Catamite?”

  “Sexual partner. Male.” He threw the words at her and took satisfaction from the way her face burned. “You will do nothing to disabuse them of that idea if you want to disembark in Whampao.”

  He stood a foot from her, and his breath felt warm on her face, chest heaving. His breathlessness owed more to rage than exertion, she thought, and a tremor of excitement ran through her, pricking down her spine and doing odd things low in her belly. At least he didn’t uncover my disguise to the crew. A tremulous smile played at the corner of her mouth.

  When his eyes dropped to her mouth, darting lower for a second before rising to her face again, something intense and hot, something she didn’t recognize, had replaced the anger. Her mouth went dry, forcing her to lick her lips and drawing a moan from Charles.

  “Stop that now, Zambak Hayden.” The anger returned, and he stepped back, bumping into a wall in the confined space. He yanked out a haversack and pulled out a shirt, a rumpled waistcoat, and some soap.

  “I’ll have to borrow a jacket from the ensign. Get that soot off your face and change into this clean shirt. You have four hours to turn yourself into some semblance of a sensible valet before we land. Keep those—” he gestured toward her chest “—whatever you used. And do something with—” He yanked off the kerchief with which she had covered her hair. At the sight of her close-cropped curls, his jaw dropped, momentarily silenced.

  “I could hardly keep all that hair hidden, could I?” she grumbled, running her fingers through what remained.

  He seemed transfixed for a moment before mumbling, “At least one less thing to worry about.” He shook his head as if to clear it and sidled by her to the door.

  “You’ll march off this vessel
as Mr. Jones, understood?”

  She nodded.

  He slammed the door on his way out. She stared at it, more shaken than she liked. What just happened? She pulled the filthy shirt over her head and poured water into a bowl next to the narrow bunk—the very narrow bunk—and began scrubbing her face. The scent of sandalwood filled her senses while Charles and his behavior ricocheted through her mind. She refused to regret doing what had to be done, but his reaction gave her pause. One word brought fire to her cheeks. Catamite! How can I show my face on deck? She put on his shirt and buttoned it carefully.

  I’m not, that’s how. Once we disembark, and we find Thorn, I’ll find another way back. Charles will help me. Now that we’re here, I know he will.

  ~ ~ ~

  Charles rejected his initial instinct to expose her to Elliot and tie her up if he had to. Delightful as the image was, it died at the thought of the biddies in Macao. They would eat her alive if Elliot brought her back in boys’ clothes trussed like a goose. Her parents expected him to protect her, not expose her to scandal. Besides, she would only try again; better she do it in his company. They set out in the grim silence that had come down between them as soon as they disembarked.

  I just hope I get through it with some shred of honor intact. After a sleepless night on the floor of his cabin while she slept in his bunk, an arm’s length away, he wasn’t sure he could. Sudbury’s rebellious daughter had become a siren, calling him to the rocks. He had been celibate too long; it was his only explanation. If he gave into impulse—and if, God help him, she permitted it—not only would he violate an innocent, he would destroy lifelong friendships in the process.

  He directed their search to one of the smaller warehouses, unwilling to confront Jarratt’s company directly. With the directions for the handful of opium dens that might cater to a foreigner, he set out down the rabbit warren of lanes and narrow closes that made up Whampao with Zambak—the scamp now reveling in her role as Mr. Jones—dogging his steps. Her presence necessitated even sharper attention to his surroundings and the ever-present threats. Her nearness distracted him when he could least afford it, his body humming with awareness, and all his senses bending toward her. He forced himself forward and refused to look back.