Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection

by Scott, Scarlett

  She had to escape the stifling confines of the cabin.

  Sophia stood. The stool scraped against the floor but Laura did not stir. She opened her travelling trunk and packed up the newly bought peineta and mantilla before hunting through her few clothes for her most treasured piece of jewelry – the ebony rosary beads that had belonged to her mother.

  At the sound of footsteps in the passageway outside, Sophia halted at the door and waited until they had gone. Coming face to face with Captain Hardacre was the very last thing she could bear right now.

  Silently climbing the gangway to the top deck, Sophia saw Mr. Afua in deep conversation with another sailor. She slipped past them, unseen, down the gangplank, and only slowed as she reached the stone steps of the church.

  It was narrow at the front, painted in pale yellow with arches supported by Corinthian columns of stark white. Inside, the church was cool and dim – a respite from the heat and glare of the plaza. She entered. Two old women, dressed in black, their hair covered in black lace, passed her as silently as ghosts.

  Habit from many years flooded back. She curtsied while taking in the life-sized, painted, plaster crucifix above the altar. The eyes of Christ seemed to look right at her. She dipped her fingers in the holy water stoop and made the sign of the cross.

  To her right, votive candles winked and shimmered in multicolored glass holders in the transept. They drew her in. From her purse came pennies and she dropped a handful into the slot beside the box of candles. She took five and lit them one by one, taking care as she did. The first was for her mother and father. She prayed they were together – having in heaven what was denied them in life. Next was for the nuns at St. Augustina’s who raised her, particularly Sister Maria, who was not young but had a vigor to put many of the novices to shame. Her passion for the past had sparked Sophia’s interest in bygone eras.

  The third votive was for Laura and the fourth for Samuel. Sophia held the unlit candles in her hand for a moment. Samuel would be joining them in Palermo in a few weeks’ time. She prayed he would see past her physical shortcomings to see her true love for him. She was about to light the wick when she hesitated. That was a selfish prayer. Perhaps, she should take it back. Praying for Samuel and Laura’s present health and future happiness would be more appropriate.

  The fifth candle was for the crew of the Calliope to ask blessing over everyone. Except, perhaps, Captain – call me Kit – Hardacre. Oooh, how her resentment burned. She clutched her rosary beads so tight they bruised her fingers.

  Slam!

  A door closed, loud in the open space of the empty church. Sophia started and the dark anger of her thoughts receded. She glanced back to see an old man leave the confessionals. Perhaps she should confess her sins. Maybe a little penitence for her uncharitable thoughts?

  If anyone has anything against his brother, he should leave his offering…

  Sophia left the unlit candle and walked into the vacated confessional box. She knelt on the padded leather riser.

  A moment later, a rectangular panel, measuring no larger than three by seven inches, opened. Through the screen, she could see the profile of a man with silver-grey hair.

  There was silence for a moment before he prompted.

  “Posso ajudá-la, minha filha?”

  The Portuguese words were similar enough to the Spanish that Sophia started unthinkingly in English. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ten years since my last confession. I mean, I’ve been to church but…” Before she could continue, he interrupted.

  “Ah, you’re English. I’m afraid mine is not good. Is that your native tongue? Do you have another?”

  “I am Spanish – at least half so.”

  “Good,” he said, switching to a heavily-accented Spanish. “Tell me, what do you need to confess?”

  Sophia bowed her head and stared at the well-polished beads in her hand, running them through her fingers over and over again.

  “I am covetous, ungrateful, ill-tempered and full of ill-will towards another.”

  “My, so many sins,” he said, and she wondered whether there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

  “Let us start at the beginning of your list.”

  The afternoon light streamed through the stained glass window, illuminating the white altar cloth in splashes of emerald, ruby, sapphire and gold. In fact, the whole church seemed a little lighter, like the weight lifted from Sophia’s shoulders. It felt good to talk while another listened and did not judge. The priest reminded her that love was a gift to bestow and the heart that received the gift gladly would also strengthen the one who gave it.

  Love is patient, love is kind, love keeps no record of wrongs…

  Sophia returned to the pew by the candle offerings, knelt, and said her Hail Mary. Her confessor in his black robes walked past and disappeared through the presbytery door.

  She lit the candle for the Calliope’s crew and Captain Hardacre. She had resented him because he embarrassed her in front of Laura. His words hurt because there was truth in them. In a strange sort of way, she should thank him for having the courage to point out what seemed evident to everyone else.

  Let’s say I’m a connoisseur of the finer things, and a jewel needs a setting worthy of it.

  How typical of the captain’s hyperbole. But if a small matter such as the color of clothing was all it took to please men, it was a little enough inconvenience to indulge them. Perhaps, if Laura taught her cosmetics, by the time Samuel joined them, it might cause him to look at her anew. It was said absence made the heart grow fonder, after all.

  The presbytery door opened again and another priest, younger this time, aged in his early-thirties with dark, almost glossy hair, entered accompanied by another man. The two of them spoke in low voices but it was still enough to carry through the deserted church.

  “When will you return to the Barbary Coast, Brother?”

  To Sophia’s surprise, the question was asked in English.

  “Not for another two weeks, Father. We have passengers with us on this voyage.”

  In the shadows, the rosary beads paused in Sophia’s hand. She recognized the voice and looked up. Captain Hardacre. His blond hair was cast green in the light pouring in through the stained glass in the nave.

  “I should be practicing the virtue of patience, but it’s been so long and my parents worry,” said the priest.

  “I know. We’ve been gone a long time. That raid was nearly our last. We were fortunate the only loss was our ship. But I swear it, any news one way or another, I will send it. Your parents? How do they fare otherwise? I brought back what I could, but I know they would much rather see their daughter returned.”

  “You are generous to a fault, Brother. They now help those who are liberated and take comfort in the fact that to help you is to help others.” The priest’s tone lightened as he changed the subject. “Your new ship, eh? I saw her there at the dock. She looks right for the job.”

  “Refitted to my specifications. No navy will catch her.” The pride in his voice carried even from a distance.

  “Then I wish you Godspeed that no pirates catch you either.”

  The captain nodded. “After we arrive in Palermo, we search for news of Kaddouri. We hope he remains a creature of habit. We’ll keep looking, we promise you.”

  “May God keep you.”

  The priest went back into the presbytery. Sophia leaned into the shadows and watched Hardacre walk up the aisle. He carried himself with purpose, such a marked change from his manner on the ship, which was easygoing – almost leisurely.

  Raids? Pirates? What kind of ship was the Calliope and what kind of man was Captain Hardacre?

  Sophia thought she was a good judge of character – after all, it was she who had suspicions about Archibald Havers, not anyone else in the family. But she had seen no such signs of untrustworthiness in Hardacre. In fact, if truth be told, she liked him despite his boldness.

  I stopped feeling years ago.r />
  Those flippantly tossed words hid something more. She knew it.

  Sophia waited until Hardacre disappeared through the door into the afternoon sun before she left her seat. If he returned straight to the ship, Laura may alert him to her absence.

  But she was only a block away from the wharf and the markets were not much further. Now that she was here, it seemed pointless to go back to the ship and ask for an escort to help her pick up her purchases.

  With a black shawl covering the English cut of her gown, and the peineta and mantilla in her hair, she could almost pass for a local – as long as no one heard her speak. Her decision was made.

  By the time she reached the markets, some of the stallholders, mostly produce purveyors, had already packed up for the day. Their place at the tables taken by vendors serving prepared food. She caught the heavy scent of spiced flavors of some kind of dish. Drifting on the same breeze, the sound of trumpets and guitars.

  The summer afternoon seemed to bring out the crowds, grateful for the absence of the blistering sun. Lamps and torches lit the maze of rows of merchants and it took her some time before she found the stallholder who held her reluctant purchases.

  The old woman’s eyes lit up. She gained her feet and clapped with her gnarled hands and spoke rapidly to someone she could not see. The girl who had taken her measurements emerged with two parcels wrapped in paper and string.

  “Husband – spoil you, eh?” the old woman asked in broken English.

  “Husband? No…”

  “Amante… lover, I see.”

  There didn’t seem to be much point in arguing with a woman she was never going to see again, so she nodded and the old woman’s smile broadened. Sophia held the parcels to her breast and pressed through the crowd, pushed along by those behind her.

  Hawkers with small plates held their arms out, enticing passersby with the tempting aroma of roasted chestnuts, caldoverde and bacalhau.

  Sophia found the edge of the markets and escaped into the open air. Not far away, settled on the grass around a central fire, a small group gathered. The smell of roasted lamb competed with fish, and the sound of strumming guitars provided a respite from the cacophony of the markets.

  She had only taken a step or two towards the entertainment when she was jostled from behind. The man who bumped her smiled and spoke rapidly. Sophia shook her head, not understanding him. She wished she had brought her glasses with her, but they were on the dressing table in the cabin. The man gestured towards the group by the fire. She took a few steps towards it when the stranger put his hand to her elbow. Sophia looked at him sharply but all she received in return was a grin and another rapidly spoken sentence before he indicated the fire before them. They were only a few yards away and, here, Sophia saw what she could not see before. Around the fire were all men, one by one they turned to look at her. Even the man strumming the guitar stopped.

  Her neck prickled. Before conscious thought could take root, Sophia slipped from the man’s grasp and ran towards the docks as the town clock struck seven. Behind her, the men laughed and called out names she could guess the meaning of. Her cheeks burned. They thought she was a prostitute.

  The bustling wharf was nearly deserted, except for a cluster of small trawlers around which a dozen fishermen or more were setting up nets to prepare for the night’s catch. Several ships had departed since this morning, their berths empty.

  Sophia emerged between two timber warehouses to the dock and slowed to search for the Calliope’s familiar lines. She was gone.

  She heard the sound of rapid footfalls. That man! He must have followed her. She opened her mouth, ready to scream.

  Chapter Eight

  She spun around wide-eyed and found herself face to face with Captain Hardacre and Uncle Jonas.

  “My dear, oh how you would have loved to have seen the old Roman city…” her uncle started. Sophia heard no more as Hardacre’s eyes met hers. His sensuous lips were now a tight line. A blush rose up her cheeks.

  He knew.

  “… mind you, it would have been impossible for a woman to get through…” Jonas continued, unaware he didn’t have his star pupil’s rapt attention.

  Sophia couldn’t guess how much the captain knew of her whereabouts and she couldn’t very well ask him.

  “…we walked through knee deep water – sometimes even chest height, but once we were there, the mosaic frescos looked as fresh as the day they were laid and we found what appears to be the entrance to a Temple of Aesculpius, an early hospital.”

  Sophia tore her eyes from Hardacre’s.

  “Did you find any statues or images of Minerva?” she asked.

  “Alas not, I took some rough sketches of the frescoes, but I want you to go over them with me tomorrow. Do your finest work in watercolors and pen sketches, my dear, and we’ll send our story back to England along with your illustrations. If we can create public interest back home, I’m sure I can convince the university to extend funding for another three months!”

  Jonas stopped when they reached the pier where the Calliope had been docked and looked bemused.

  “I hate to tell you, Captain, your ship appears to have sailed off without you,” he said.

  Sophia watched Hardacre laugh and point down a ladder to which a dinghy was tied.

  “Then, Captain, I’m afraid your ship has shrunk!”

  “I can assure you the Calliope is safe and sound. She lies at anchor just over there ready for our departure at the change of tide,” Hardacre said, nodding to the middle of the Tagus.

  “But we do need to be on our way. Professor, do you need assistance?”

  “No, no, good fellow, I’ll be fine.”

  Uncle Jonas handed his satchel to Sophia before he climbed down the ladder and stepped into the small craft. He wobbled for a moment, uncertain of his footing before settling onto a bench at the bow.

  Hardacre took the satchel from Sophia’s hands, giving her a peculiar look as he did so. He put the strap across his chest and held out his hands for her parcels which he stuffed into the laced opening of his shirt.

  He descended the ladder and put the parcels and satchel into Jonas’ lap.

  “Your turn, Miss Green,” he called.

  Sophia clutched the top rail, stepped around it and steadied herself, pulling her skirts out of the way as she stepped down rung by rung. Her dress hampered her once more and she missed a step. A pair of broad hands encircled her waist.

  “I have you. Just let go.”

  Tentatively, Sophia did as he asked. The grip at her waist tightened and she was lifted away from the ladder. The little boat tilted alarmingly before righting itself.

  “You can open your eyes now.” Hardacre’s voice was soft in her ear. She faced him and, suddenly, the hands at her waist felt… intimate. Something inside quickened. Sophia wished she could better see his face. A moment later, the hands slid away from her waist but one captured hers to steady her as she sat beside her uncle.

  Silhouetted against the twilight sky, the captain cast off the ropes and pushed away from the pier before engaging the oarlocks to begin rowing.

  For the second time in three days, she waited with bated breath for him to say something, to call her out for going ashore without letting anyone know, but the ride was made in silence. Uncle Jonas was apparently oblivious to the tension in the air. With the exception of an occasional glance to confirm he remained on course, Hardacre seemed to keep his attention solely on her. Perhaps she was mistaken. Sophia hoped she was. She didn’t want to be the focus of any man’s attention but Samuel’s.

  “Captain to board!”

  A moment later, a cargo net was flung over the side, followed by two ropes. Hardacre gained his feet and threaded the ropes through eyelets fore and aft of the dinghy. He tied them securely and clambered part way up the net then yelled.

  “Secured! Two to board.”

  “Aye, Captain, two to board… Heave!”

  The dinghy rocked. Sophia clutch
ed the side.

  “Heave!”

  Each time the command was given, the boat rocked and gained more height until it swung high over the water. Dozens of hands tugged at the boat, the davit swinging across until it was over the deck itself.

  Two other men aided Uncle Jonas, but Sophia was swept into Hardacre’s arms and carried a safe distance away from the still swinging boat.

  Up close, she could see the coarseness of the stubble of his cheeks, feel the hardness of his chest. Amid the smell of the sea, there was the faint green and grassy smell of vetiver. The strange reaction to his body so close returned.

  “You’d best let me down,” she whispered. Sophia wished she could read his eyes, the color of which seemed to change with the mood. Now there was a hint of grey. His left hand dropped away, his right held her firm until she had found her feet. But still, his eyes never left hers.

  “Captain.” Mr. Afua called Hardacre’s attention and the spell was broken. Sophia took a few paces away and wondered why her legs struggled to hold her weight.

  “We’re ready to sail.”

  “Set sail, Mister Afua.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  The black man cupped his hands and yelled, “Weigh anchor!”

  There was an answering call from the bow, and four men turned at the capstan while another four unfurled the jib and the foresails.

  She accepted her parcels from Uncle Jonas, before spotting Laura who had just emerged from the stern gangway. Even without her eyeglasses, Sophia could not mistake her look of censure.

  “It’s been a long day, Uncle,” Sophia told him. “I’d like to rest before dinner.”

  “I think I’ll take my meal in my room tonight, my dear,” he said. “And see if it is possible to have some hot water sent. I’m exhausted and I can’t imagine wading through Lisbon’s storm water systems would make me fit company tonight.”

  Sophia offered him a wan smile. Jonas might not see much beyond the nose on his face, but Laura was a different matter. There would be a reckoning. And she would take Laura’s scolding, as long as she could be sure the captain knew nothing of her whereabouts this afternoon.