Scandalous

by Minerva Spencer

  “You must be very clever. Tell me, what did you study?”

  “Mathematics. My father told me on my last visit home that he needed me to join my two elder brothers in our family business, shipping. When father began to suffer difficulties, he refused to seek help from his family, no matter that they are very wealthy.” Two spots of color appeared on his pale cheeks. “Now he will have to approach my uncles for aid, and they will help him because they could not bear the scandal of the Graaf name being associated with bankruptcy.”

  “What do you think will happen in Freetown?”

  “The British will seize my ship and compensate Bouchard for his efforts. They will most likely hang those involved in the mutiny. As for me?” He shrugged. “Perhaps they will transport me for breaking the law. But what about you? Will you return to your village?”

  “Captain Bouchard made the point—a good one, I daresay—that the captives would be in danger of recapture if they went back. He believes they will be safer in Freetown. I don’t like it, but I think he is probably correct.”

  “So you will stay in Freetown?”

  “It will depend on what the British representative decides. After what I did last night, I may be transported along with you.”

  “What happened last night?”

  Sarah realized Graaf must have slept through the excitement. She sighed and quickly explained the events of the last day, leaving out both the bargain and the fact that she’d been mostly naked when de Heeckeren escaped.

  He burst out laughing before she even finished, unable to speak for several minutes as he alternately laughed and coughed, tears spilling down his cheeks. Well, in this one way, at least, he was like Bouchard.

  Sarah crossed her arms and waited for him to regain control of himself.

  “I apologize for my behavior, Miss Fisher, but what I wouldn’t give to have seen Bouchard’s expression. How grateful I am not to be the only man on this ship to find himself at the wrong end of his own pistol.”

  “I’m so glad to have been of service, Captain Graaf.”

  He ignored her sarcasm and chuckled again. “The great Bouchard, held at the point of his own pistol.”

  “Why do you call him the great Bouchard?”

  “You have not heard of him before?”

  “Not until yesterday.”

  “I assumed everyone had heard of the Golden Scythe and its famous captain, a former slave himself.”

  His words stunned her, flooding her brain with so many questions, she didn’t know which to ask first.

  Graaf nodded slowly, as if relishing her shock. “Yes, our captain is a famous man. He started off as a lowly mate under the gentleman pirate One-Eyed Standish, the privateer who was really an English lord, Baron Ramsay. Surely you’ve heard of him?”

  She shook her head. “I have spent my life in a jungle, Captain.”

  “Baron Ramsay was famous in the Mediterranean for almost twenty years. He was taken by Barbary corsairs and made a slave. He somehow broke free, stole a corsair ship, and spent years as a privateer for the British government. He encountered our Captain Bouchard, a mere slave at the time, somewhere along the way. I don’t know the details, only what my brother Per told me when he learned where our father was sending me.

  “My brother saw Bouchard in Alexandria once, in a waterfront bar of the worst kind. Bouchard approached a table of five men, all slave traders, and started a fight with his bare fists. He put one man down before the other four rushed him with swords. He knocked down three of them before others intervened. My brother swears he’s never seen a man deadlier with his bare hands. The man doesn’t adhere to any rules of pugilism that a true gentleman would. How could he? Imagine, an ex-slave? It is no wonder he hates me, is it?” His handsome face was more than a little anxious.

  No, Sarah thought, it was not a wonder. She considered Graaf’s story. How much of it was true? She certainly believed the part about Bouchard’s being a fierce fighter. His body, which she’d felt with her own hands, had been solid muscle without an ounce of fat. Bouchard could break the fragile Dutch captain into little pieces with one hand.

  But Bouchard a slave? How?

  “How could he have been a slave? He looks nothing like the people of my village. His skin is hardly darker than mine, and his hair is actually lighter.”

  Graaf shrugged. “That is how it is in America. A man is considered to be a slave even with only a small portion of African blood. I understand some slaves are blue-eyed and fair-skinned, like me.”

  They stared at each other silently as they considered the implications.

  They were still contemplating their futures, and the man who controlled them, when the door to the sickroom swung open, and Bouchard himself entered. He smiled at their undoubtedly guilty-looking faces, his sly look making Sarah wonder if he’d heard their conversation. She dismissed the silly notion. Bouchard was not the type to listen at doors.

  “Good morning, Captain Graaf.” Bouchard’s beautiful lips curved in a cruel smile. “You are feeling much better, I see? Well enough to entertain visitors?”

  Graaf colored under Bouchard’s mocking gaze. Sarah looked from one to the other and again marveled at the two different examples of male beauty. The Dutchman looked like a fairy-tale prince with eyes as blue as the sea and patrician features to go with his elegant, gentleman’s body.

  Bouchard looked like Lucifer come to Earth, well pleased with the exchange of his eternal status for an opportunity to indulge in endless carnal delights.

  The Dutchman inclined his head stiffly, clearly feeling the disadvantage of lying on his back before his vital adversary. “Miss Fisher came to inquire about my health.”

  “And stayed to discuss other, more interesting matters, I think?” Bouchard mocked. He leaned against the doorframe, taking up a position that required Sarah to turn back and forth if she wanted to look at both men. “You will excuse us, mademoiselle,” Bouchard said, not bothering to look at her. “I need to speak in private with Captain Graaf.”

  Sarah stood at his obvious dismissal and looked at Graaf. “I am glad you are feeling better, Captain.” She turned to the door, which was blocked by Bouchard’s big body. He let the moment stretch before taking a small step back. Even so, Sarah was forced to brush against him.

  Back inside her cabin, she found the book Clarissa on her bed. It was the book she’d used to trap Bouchard the night before. She’d forgotten all about it when her attention had been claimed by more interesting matters, namely Bouchard’s clever hands and lips.

  He must have placed it in her room. Sarah picked up the book and stared at it, as though it could tell her something. She didn’t understand the kind gesture any more than she understood the man.

  Chapter Eight

  Martín led his two companions toward the Vice-Admiralty Court, forcing himself to maintain a dignified pace and not sprint. He couldn’t wait to get rid of his charges. The past few days onboard the ship with them had been beyond aggravating, and he’d been humiliated to realize that he’d been avoiding the woman—on his own bloody ship.

  The building they were looking for was at the end of a scruffy street not too far from the harbor. It had been a while since he’d last been to the frontier town, and time had not improved it much. Like every other structure in the ramshackle town, Admiral Keeton’s office was made of irregular planks of raw wood, which gave it the appearance of having been designed by a drunken architect and then built by drunken sailors—which was probably not far from the truth. A limp-looking flag dangled from a tall bamboo pole, and a single soldier stood beside the entrance. The soldier bulged out of his uniform in more than one place and did not look like much of a threat. He sized up the approaching visitors with an insolent smirk that made Martín’s hands curl into fists.

  “We are here to speak to Admiral Keeton.”

  “And who are you?” His eyes slid over Martín’s two companions and then snapped back again, when he realized one of them was a woman wea
ring men’s clothing.

  “Captain Bouchard of the Golden Scythe,” Martín barked, unaccountably annoyed by the way the man’s eyes were traveling over the missionary woman’s body.

  The soldier stiffened and looked at him with an expression that was no longer slack and disrespectful. “Captain Bouchard?”

  Martín frowned. “As you see.”

  “The Captain Bouchard?”

  Martín glared, and the man jolted into action and yanked open the door.

  “I’ll be back right smartly, sir,” he said, before darting into the house.

  “It would seem your reputation precedes you, Captain Bouchard,” Graaf said.

  “Perhaps I should have mentioned your name instead, Captain?” Martín retorted, sneering at the flush that crept up the blond man’s throat.

  The soldier returned before the seething Dutchman could answer. “The admiral will see you at once, Captain Bouchard.”

  The admiral’s office was everything Martín had expected: a dreary little room in a dreary little house. The admiral himself was a dreary little man, and he looked well past his prime. Martín was not surprised. Freetown would not be considered a plum posting.

  Keeton rose as Martín entered the muggy, dingy office. “Captain Bouchard, what a pleasure to meet you. I have heard much about you.”

  That was more than Martín could say about Keeton. He’d never heard the man’s name before today. Still, an admiral was not a person to trifle with. Besides, why behave churlishly when the man was so obviously pleased to see him?

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me so quickly, Admiral.”

  “I have heard much about your exploits—and Captain Standish’s too, of course. Some of those stories came from Admiral Nelson himself.” The red-faced man had an unhealthy sheen of sweat on his face. Living in the tropics was not something that tended to improve one’s constitution.

  Martín indulged the man in a few minutes of chatter before steering the conversation to the point and launching into a succinct explanation of the past few days.

  Keeton’s bloodshot eyes moved from Martín to the Dutchman and narrowed, as if he were trying to recall something.

  “So,” Martín concluded a few minutes later, “I’ve taken the liberty of releasing those of Graaf’s crew who assisted me against the mutineers. Captain Graaf, the rest of the mutineers, and his ship, however, I relinquish to your possession.”

  The admiral had not stopped staring at Graaf.

  “Graaf?” The admiral cleared his throat. “Are you any relation to Hertog Graaf, er, that is, His Grace of Orange?”

  Graaf sighed, as though the weight of the world had just been lowered onto his spindly shoulders. “Yes, he is my grandfather.”

  Keeton seemed to shrink to half his size before Martín’s eyes. He swallowed audibly. “Ah, yes, very good, my . . . ?”

  “Captain Graaf will do, Admiral.”

  Martín stared at the younger man as comprehension slowly dawned. He had captured a bloody Dutch peer? He had to clamp his jaw tight to hold back his yell. He knew he should have thrown the useless, slaving, effete-looking fool off his ship when he’d had the chance. Now it was too late. It would take years to get his reward with a member of the peerage involved.

  The admiral interrupted Martín’s internal raging. “And who is this, Captain Bouchard?” He motioned to the woman.

  Martín tore his eyes away from the dithering functionary. “This is Mademoiselle Fisher, the daughter of English missionaries. She found herself in the hold of the Blue Bird after the people of her village were enslaved.” Martín wanted to make certain the irritatingly merciful and forgiving woman never, ever forgot how it was that she’d come into contact with the slaving Dutch peer.

  The admiral’s eyebrows climbed to where his hairline would have been if he’d had any hair.

  Martín continued when the other man did not speak. “She requires the help of the British government to return to England. She is, after all, British.”

  The admiral nodded at the woman, but quickly looked back at Graaf, as though the sight of the younger man was causing him physical pain.

  Martín took advantage of the lull in conversation to further explain. “My first mate is awaiting a member of your staff so that he might turn over the Dutch ship.” He paused, but the admiral was still staring at Graaf.

  Martín refused to think about what the admiral’s expression meant. He also refused to stay in the man’s presence any longer. He was worried he might cut off the admiral’s head or shoot him if he remained. He lunged to his feet.

  “I’m afraid I must be going as I have rather pressing business in town. I beg your pardon for my haste.” Martín nodded to the bewildered man before turning to the other two. “Mademoiselle Fisher, I bid you good-bye and good luck.” He inclined his head to the woman without meeting her eyes and left without speaking to the Dutchman.

  He almost made it out the front door before Keeton caught up to him. The man must be fitter than he looked.

  “Please wait, Captain Bouchard, I beg of you.”

  Bouchard pasted a smile on his face and turned. “Yes, Admiral?”

  “Do you know who that man is?”

  “No.” Martín was only half lying. Even an ignorant oaf such as he could see Graaf was some sort of Dutch aristocrat. “I don’t know who he is, and, furthermore, it has nothing to do with me. I can see you hope it has nothing to do with you, either. However, Admiral, you are the ranking official here, and it is usual in these cases for me to turn over the ship, crew, and cargo. The letter I carry grants me no more power than that, nor am I required to do anything more. I bid you good day, Admiral.” He bowed, clapped his hat on his head with more force than was necessary, and stepped out of the house, shutting the door on whatever the man had been about to say next.

  Martín exhaled and straightened his cuffs. When he looked up, it was to find the fat soldier watching him. Martín nodded dismissively at the man, and then thought of something. “Tell me—” He paused and looked for any insignia on the man’s uniform that might indicate rank. He saw none.

  “Watch Captain Kettle, sir!” The rotund man threw out his chest and snapped to attention.

  “Tell me, Captain Kettle—it has been a while since my last visit. Where might I find the most attractive whores in Freetown?”

  The man squinted at Martín and then cocked his head as if he were hard of hearing.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, did you say . . . whores, sir?”

  “Yes, whores. Ladies of the evening? The muslin crowd? Daughters of Eve? Prostitutes.”

  The man reddened. “Aye, sir. Whores.”

  “The best in town, Captain.”

  “That would be at the Magnolia House. Just follow this street until you can’t go any farther and take a left. You can’t miss it, sir.”

  “Excellent, Watch Captain.” Martín nodded and headed in the direction the fellow had indicated. There was no time like the present to take care of his “pressing business.”

  Chapter Nine

  A loud pounding noise jolted him awake. “Captain? Captain Bouchard?”

  “Eh?” Martín turned away from the door and rolled over onto a small body in the process. The woman beneath him grunted.

  “Captain Bouchard!” the German woman—Bettina?—repeated before pounding even harder, the sound causing his head to throb.

  “Mon Dieu,” Martín swore softly, so as not to cause himself unnecessary pain. He turned back the other way and came up against yet another body. He opened his eyes a crack and saw a soundly sleeping woman.

  The pounding ceased, and the door opened. “Are you awake, Captain? There is a man from Admiral Keeton’s office to see you.”

  “What does he want?” he croaked.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want any trouble. You must get dressed and go with him. He says he won’t leave without you. He is standing in the hallway and will not move. Captain? Captain! Macht schnell!” She came all
the way into the room and yanked the blankets off him.

  Martín groaned. “Merde. What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  Martín hesitated. “At night?”

  She muttered something in German. “Eight in the morning.”

  Mere hours before, Martín had thought the woman’s heavy accent charming, but now he couldn’t recall why. Perhaps it had been the three bottles of her best wine?

  She bustled around the room, yanking open the heavy drapes and letting in the bright morning light, piling crockery onto a tray—noisily—and generally making a racket. There would be no more sleeping. Well, he probably couldn’t have stayed much longer in any case. He’d hoped to leave immediately after Beauville finished his business with the Blue Bird.

  After coming to Madam Bettina’s, Martín had sent a messenger to Beauville, instructing him to fetch Martín as soon as the ship was ready to leave. He had then proceeded to enjoy a lazy afternoon, an excellent dinner, and an exceptionally disappointing evening.

  Martín was in no mood to tackle thoughts of last night. He climbed over a sleeping body and picked his breeches off the floor, struggling with the five buttons as though they were five hundred. His shirt hung from the corner of a portrait of George III, a flattering representation of the monarch before he’d become a recluse. Martín hunted everywhere for his waistcoat before realizing one of the women in bed was wearing it.

  He patted her plump behind. “Chérie, you must give me back my clothes.” She muttered something as he prized the waistcoat free, but never woke up. Martín slumped on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots, grunting at the effort. His neckcloth was tied around the other woman’s waist. He shrugged and immediately regretted the movement. He would leave the neckcloth. He was in no condition to tie it on his person, and he doubted it was in any condition to be worn.

  He located his coat on a hook beside the door and took a generous handful of coins from his pocket, tossing them onto the table by the door. The women who’d raised him had taught him to always leave something extra. Especially if he wanted to purchase some discretion, a thing he’d never needed to do before last night.