by Anne Stuart
Maddy’s smile didn’t falter. “What would you like me to do next, Mrs. Crozier?” She was so weary she could fall asleep where she knelt, but she couldn’t afford to show it. She was never going to fall asleep in the wrong place again—it was much too dangerous for her peace of mind.
There was a crack of thunder, followed by pelting rain, and a shiver ran down Maddy’s back. What would it be like to be on the ocean in a storm? The very thought was terrifying.
Mrs. Crozier eyed her skeptically. “Are the fires laid?”
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.”
“Everything dusted and swept?”
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.”
“Floors waxed and polished?”
“Yes, Mrs. Crozier.”
“Windows. How are the windows?”
“I washed them yesterday and the day before.”
“You didn’t do a good enough job. There were streaks.”
There hadn’t been a single streak on any pane. “Would you like me to do them again?”
She could see the thoughts tumbling in the woman’s brains—she could send her out into the thunderstorm to wash the outside of the windows and court death, even though the outside was ostensibly Wilf Crozier’s bailiwick. Finally Mrs. Crozier made a disgusted sound. “Go on then and do something about the disaster the attics are in. I’m astonished you can live in such squalor.”
Maddy forbore to mention that Mrs. Crozier had refused to allow her any time to deal with the mess in the attics. The only problem with going up there in the storm-shrouded afternoon was the chance she might disturb the bats. “When would you like me back downstairs?”
“If I need you again I’ll call you. And don’t be thinking you’ll steal a nap. You’re not being paid to sleep on the job.”
For a moment Maddy wondered whether the captain had said anything to his housekeeper about finding her asleep in his bed. He couldn’t have—Mrs. Crozier wouldn’t have let her hear the end of it. “Yes, Mrs. Crozier.”
She might not have dared sleep when she climbed the endless flights of stairs to the attics, but at least the bats did. She brought up a broom and a bucket of hot water, and what had been an unending chore downstairs was surprisingly pleasant in her own space. The clean windows looked out over the storm, and she peered through the thick clouds to the harbor, looking for any signs of a boat foundering on the rough waves. Which was patently ridiculous—if the captain was out there she had no idea what his vessel looked like. And why would an experienced sailor go out on the water when he wasn’t working? It would be like a cobbler making shoes in his spare time, wouldn’t it?
By the time she was finished, the sky was full-on dark, and the captain hadn’t returned, at least, not by way of the front door. She’d planned to attack the locked closet again, but she couldn’t concentrate. She’d deliberately left the window open, returning time and again when she thought she heard someone outside. The wind-driven rain soaked the floor in front of her, but Maddy didn’t care. Her stomach was tied in knots, and all the rationalizations couldn’t stop her anxiety. She needed him home, safe and sound, and then she could worry about whether he needed to hang for her father’s murder.
Finally she dragged a sagging, mouse-chewed old chair in front of the window, covered it with a quilt, and sat down, waiting. The rain blew in on her face and she closed her eyes, breathing in the smell of the sea and the freshness of the storm, and she let her body become still and quiet. She hadn’t been to church since her father died, and before then it had been more of a social obligation than an act of religious observance, but this undercurrent of thought couldn’t really be called prayer. She closed her eyes and pictured the captain, the wicked, laughing captain, alive and well. Any port in a storm, the captains would say. And he would be more than adept at saving his own neck. He’d be fine. But still she let the vision move inside her, to quiet the unbearable fear.
She would have thought she’d fall asleep, but despite her exhaustion she stayed awake, alert, waiting for the sound of him outside. Every time a carriage rolled by she leaned out the window, but there was almost no traffic during the powerful storm, and not one of the few vehicles stopped at the house. There was no sight of a tall, strong figure striding through the rain, just a few hardy souls scuttling by. She leaned out once more, then looked down at the front door beneath her. That was when she noticed the open windows on the first floor.
Open windows that would allow the rain to soak whatever room lay two flights beneath her, windows that she hadn’t touched, and wouldn’t have dared open. Windows, she suddenly realized, that were in the one room she hadn’t been allowed in. The captain’s study.
Before she stopped to think she was racing down the stairs, calling to Mrs. Crozier. There was no sound from the kitchen, no smell of food, and Maddy realized it was well past nine o’clock. The Croziers had probably retired for the night.
She spun on her heels and ran to the forbidden door, jiggling the locked doorknob she’d polished so assiduously the day before. To her shock and relief it turned, and she pushed open the door, only to freeze with shock.
The wind was still blowing fiercely through the three open windows that faced the front of the street and the ocean, and the curtains were flapping wetly in the breeze as papers danced around the room like leaves in autumn. The gaslight was turned low, enough that she could make her way across the littered floor to the windows to slam them down, one after another, though they were harder than she would have thought. The third was jammed open, a stick holding it, and once she discovered and removed it the panel slammed down so hard two of the panes shattered.
She turned to look at the disaster. The water had sprayed halfway into the room, the papers were everywhere, and she could see the tread of her cheap shoes on some of the white foolscap. She slipped them off, then moved in her stocking feet to turn up the gaslight.
It was a disaster of almost biblical proportions. She was going to be blamed for this; she knew it as surely as she knew her own name. This debacle would be laid at her feet, and she was going to be out of the house the moment the captain returned and discovered it. Unless, of course, he’d drowned, which would certainly make life easier, she told herself, looking for some black humor in the dire situation. That way she wouldn’t have to endure whatever questions he had waiting for her.
She couldn’t even summon up a smile. She was well and truly buggered, and there was nothing she could do about it. Except try to find out what she could during the short time she had left.
She started with the wettest of the papers. The ink was running, but not so badly that they were unreadable, and she picked them up, one after another, very carefully spreading them out on the sofa at the far end of the room so they could begin to dry. She moved outward, the drier of the storm-tossed papers making another semicircle, until she had all the pieces picked up. She looked around her. The wet curtains were flapping in the breeze from the broken windows, the desk itself had been soaked, and Maddy had no rags to clean things up. The last thing she wanted to do was alert Mrs. Crozier, so she simply slipped off her petticoat and used it to blot up the water on the desk, the leather chair, the windowsills, and the floors.
Propriety and Nanny Gruen had insisted she always wear at least two petticoats—one sensible one next to her skin and any number of decorative ones on top, depending on her costume. She’d already used the sensible one, and the papers were still wet, the ink still bleeding off some of them. With a sigh she reached under her skirts and released the tapes to her good petticoat, letting it drop to the floor. The ink would stain it, but it was for a good cause, and she folded it up and began patting it against the wet papers, soaking up water so the ink wouldn’t bleed anymore. Of course it was necessary to make sure each page was readable, and they were all boring. Many were simply copies of statements sent to Russell Shipping, lists of crewmen, bills of lading, and the like. There were details of repairs, bills of sale, bank statements…
She became ver
y still, as she heard the clock over the mantel strike midnight. It was cold in the room, and she’d been rushing around so much she hadn’t noticed, but suddenly a shiver ran through her. She shouldn’t light the fire—that would be an act of gross impropriety for a servant. Except that it would help dry things out, wouldn’t it? And she was going to be summarily dismissed the moment the captain came home. If he came home.
She didn’t hesitate any longer. The fire was already properly laid, and it took one taper to start it. It flamed into life, the heat spreading into the room, and she started to sit back on her heels, then groaned in pain. She’d spent far too much time on her knees and her legs were protesting. She shifted onto her bum, spreading her legs out in front of her, and looked at the damning evidence she had found.
Bills of sale. She recognized the names of what the captain was buying, and his motive was now obvious. The best ships owned by Russell Shipping had been purchased by one Thomas Morgan, including her own namesake, the Maddy Rose. Matthew Fulton had neglected that salient point when he asked her to sign the papers to make the sale final. The bank statements made it very clear that not only could he afford the ships he had bought and several more as well, but that he was far wealthier than any sea captain should have a right to be. Wealthier than this relatively modest house on the waterfront suggested, money that must have been embezzled from her father’s company in order for the captain to steal his ships, his business, his life. And for a while, perhaps even his daughter.
That was a stupid, wicked thought, and she had no idea where it had come from. She didn’t like handsome men, she didn’t like young ones, or men who wore earrings and had bronzed skin and wicked smiles. She liked old, wealthy, titled men who’d marry her, give her an heir, and then die, leaving her a rich dowager with no damned man to worry about. And that was exactly what she’d get, because if she set her mind to something she always achieved it. If she wanted the captain to pay for what he’d done to her family then she would do everything she could to find proof, real proof and not just these hints, suggestions, clues. She’d found her villain.
And she wouldn’t give a bloody damn if he ended up climbing the execution block. She’d be there, dancing…
She burst into tears, feeling like a total idiot. She was so tired she was afraid she was going to pass out. She hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, and while her sleep last night had been surprisingly deep, it hadn’t been that long between leaving the captain’s chambers and waking up at the crack of dawn, waking up with the memory of his mouth, his hands on her. And then this morning, when she’d been so sure he would kiss her again. She’d been all prepared, determined to show him how unmoved she was.
But he’d stepped back, and she’d felt… cheated. Since then she’d been on the run, following Mrs. Crozier’s orders, working until she’d been ready to drop.
It probably didn’t matter. The fool man had gone out in a boat, alone, according to Mr. Quarrells, and he hadn’t returned. The storm that was still lashing the harbor would be more than any one man could survive. He was dead, she knew it, she could see him now, at the bottom of the sea…
Stop it! She mentally slapped herself. She was being a fool. She wiped her tears with the skirt of her dress, the only dry piece of material left, and probably transferred more dirt onto her face. She had to stop imagining disasters. Besides, what did it matter to her if the captain drowned or not? He was the enemy—she had proof. She had to stop being such a blubbering baby and be glad of some sort of resolution. It wasn’t really proof, of course, but it was a glaring reason for the captain to have committed such crimes. After all, he had been a pirate.
She moved to pick up some of the now-dry papers near the fireplace when she heard the sounds of Mrs. Crozier’s sharp voice, the tread of a man’s footsteps, and she knew a sudden moment of panic before she took a deep breath. Had someone come to tell them the captain’s body had been found?
The door opened, and she looked up, way up, into the captain’s tight, expressionless face, as Mrs. Crozier followed him into the room, talking nonstop. “I told her never to come into this room, sir, but she’s a willful, sneaky sort, and I was afraid she’d do something like this. It’s a disaster, plain as day, and the wretched girl is trying to cover up her carelessness.”
Maddy couldn’t move, stunned into silence. He was alive, and a fierce joy filled her. But he was most likely the villain she’d been seeking, and the conflicted emotions left her paralyzed, mute.
The captain said nothing, surveying the mess around him, and Maddy pulled herself together. She was a Russell, she could get through this. He was probably going to explode at the sight of his sanctuary, invaded, destroyed. Though in truth, it wasn’t that bad a mess anymore. She’d sorted things into piles—one for his private business transactions, another for Russell Shipping. A pile for notices and statements for Bartlett’s Bank and Trust, and the damning deeds of ownership for the ships that had once been the pride of her father’s fleet. If there had been secrets in this untidy room then they were secrets no more. She’d read everything, tidied things up, and he looked as if he was so furious that words failed him. It was a good thing he had no idea who she really was.
He was alive, though, and she felt an irrational joy in that fact. His clothes were soaked, clinging to his lean frame, hugging his body, his ink-black hair curlier than ever, the gold hoop gleaming in the gaslight. He looked more like a gypsy or a pirate than a budding industrialist. Like some wild, romantic creature that she was too old and wise to believe in. But not like a man who’d arrange the cowardly acts that had destroyed her father.
“Aren’t you going to say something, Captain Morgan?” Mrs. Crozier was growing impatient, clearly wanting her pound of flesh. “This girl disobeyed both you and me, her thoughtlessness has turned your library into chaos that will take weeks to recover from.”
He moved into the room, past Maddy, who was still sitting on the floor, her petticoats wet and wadded up against the wall, her best one now stained with ink and the tracings of the captain’s financial arrangements on the delicate fabric. She ought to get up, but she was feeling dizzy, and her corset was so tight around her it was cutting off her breath. No wonder she was going through such a shifting mass of conflicting emotions. She was exhausted, starving, and she just realized she could scarcely breathe.
He moved to the sofa and picked up a pile of papers, shuffling through them carefully. Setting them down, he picked up the next one, skimming the contents. He turned and looked back at Maddy, then at Mrs. Crozier. “Did you help her clean this up and put things in order, Mrs. Crozier?” His voice was rough, slightly raw.
“Of course not, sir! I know better than to come into your library—you’ve told me often enough that I wasn’t to touch anything, not even to dust. If I’d had any idea the girl was in here I would have sent her on her way.” She glared at Maddy with triumph.
He set the next pile of papers down carefully, and then looked up. “Explain this to me, Mrs. Crozier. It appears that my struggles with the storm have rendered me a bit witless. If you didn’t know she was in here then how were you able to inform me of that fact?”
Mrs. Crozier’s face colored. “I… I heard her footsteps overhead,” she stammered. “And the wind howling through the house. I knew the windows must have been left open, either by accident or design. I don’t trust the girl—she’s like no maid I’ve ever seen.”
But the captain wasn’t about to be distracted, focusing all his attention on Mrs. Crozier and ignoring Maddy entirely. “If the wind was howling through the house and you realized the windows were open then why didn’t you do something about it?” His voice was very gentle, and it sent a cold chill down Maddy’s spine, even though she was still sitting close to the fire. He must use that voice when he was at sea to make the rough and rowdy sailors do what he wanted.
Mrs. Crozier’s complexion had gone from ruddy to pale. “She… she locked the door. I couldn’t get in.”
“Then why was it unlocked when you dragged me up here? Where did she find the key when the room is always kept locked?”
“I… I…” The dimwitted housekeeper hadn’t thought that far ahead, Maddy realized with a certain vague relish. Served the old crone right.
“I tell you what I think, Mrs. Crozier,” he said softly. “I think that even though our unlikely maid does all your work for you and you barely have to lift a finger, you don’t like her, and you set this up to get rid of her. Your lies are contradicting your lies, and I’m a very hard man to fool. Some of the best liars and tricksters in the country have tried, and they’ve failed. You’re a schoolgirl compared to them, though I hesitate to use such a term for you. I think it’s past time for you and your husband to leave. You’ll be gone by morning, and presuming you don’t run off with the silver or any more of my very best whiskey, you’ll be paid an extra month and have decent references. I want you gone with the least amount of fuss. Annoy me further and that money will disappear, as well as any possible recommendation.”
“But… but, sir!” Mrs. Crozier protested. “We’ve worked for you for over six years.”
“That’s about five and a half years too long. Go away, Mrs. Crozier. I’m tired of you.”
“And what about the girl?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” he said softly, and another chill ran down Maddy’s back. He’d been ignoring her completely while he dealt with the housekeeper, something that made Maddy perfectly happy. She didn’t want that quiet fury turned on her, but once Mrs. Crozier left she’d be the object of his wrath.
She should get up, Maddy thought dazedly, exhaustion and an empty stomach sapping the last amount of energy she possessed. If she tried to stand she’d probably fall over.
She could feel his eyes on her now, and automatically she turned to look up, way up the length of him to meet his dark eyes. His rough trousers were wet, clinging to his legs, to his…
