The Trouble With Misbehaving

“I’m relieved to hear it. Now tell me the particulars.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Did you use your fists, a knife or a gun?”

She shook her head. The inner wounds had healed, but as she’d suspected, discussing how they got there threatened their reopening. “Have you ever been in a raging hurricane, and the only thing you could do was find a way to outlast it. More than anything, I now regret how my naïve, ignorant actions harmed more than myself.”

His aqua-blue gaze deepened to cobalt. “Are you still in love with him?”

She stifled a groan. “Dear me. It’s been ten years. I’ve no idea what’s become of him. By now he’s probably fat and bald, with a chronic case of gout and a passel of brats.”

The captain sat in silence, appearing to mull things over. His teeth worked back and forth over one side of his lower lip. “I’m of a mind we can’t choose the ones we love. As cruel as it feels, I think they are put in our path to lay raw the parts of ourselves that could not be changed or understood any other way.”

“Why, Captain Tollier, I did not realize you were such a sanguine philosopher.”

A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “You seem surprised. If things had gone as otherwise planned, you might have been sitting here confessing to a man of the cloth. Fortunately, I was forced down a path more suited to my…talents.”

***

Once they’d finished their meal, Beau followed C.C. up the staircase, still thinking about her admission. Doubtless, she’d struggled through the condensed version of a much longer story. Her difficulty discussing her scandal said pain and remorse had buried the details deep. Secrets locked inside for so long tended to rust in place. Sometimes they had to be chipped away bit by bit. Still, her description of events, though scandalous, didn’t sound as bad as he might have expected, and they hardly justified exile. There had to be more to the tale. What wasn’t she telling him?

He fully believed she’d been the leading debutante in New York and could have chosen any of the best young men. Even acting a nutter, men continued to pursue her. So why did she waste her time in a love triangle with another woman over the same man?

For her lapse in judgment, she not only didn’t get the man she wanted, she’d also been shipped off to rusticate in another country. Such drastic measures often came with an untimely pregnancy. While his brother advised him against getting mixed up with C.C., he’d not even hinted she’d been with child. Could this have been another delicate situation his family concealed?

When they reached the second floor, the words slipped out. “Did he get you with child?”

C.C. gasped and quickly peered around the empty corridor. “Of course not!” she hissed. “That is the most brazen question anyone has ever asked!”

“Maybe so, but somehow you know of my mistress, my son…and their deaths. Shouldn’t I be equally well informed about you?”

“So you retaliate with insult, Captain?”

“More along the lines of establishing a baseline of knowledge about one another.” C.C. probably didn’t know how lucky she’d been. Her lover’s lack of fecundity prevented even more despair. Clearly the scandal still hurt and humiliated. But admitting she regretted deeds that devastated her life and that of others had moved him. It took real courage to own up to one’s mistakes. He knew well that familiar territory.

No wonder she kept most men at a distance. He’d be willing to bet the man in her love triangle had pursued her until she’d finally weakened. Beau had known men who’d made sport of making certain unattainable women fall in love with them.

They used them badly and then boasted of their conquest while tossing them aside. For some reason, knowing of her internal scars gave her external perfection more dimension. Life’s knocks had forged a hard center, and he was curious to know how many more layers lay between.

Tenderness wound through his heart. Admiration for C.C. had taken root in the oddest of places. Places he’d never considered romantic or even desirable between a man and woman. Yet at this moment, he felt a kinship. Like him, she’d endured disastrous, life-changing blunders and mustered the strength to admit her remorse.

Upon reaching her door, Beau leaned in for a kiss.

C.C. straightened abruptly. “Good night, Captain.” The curt note in her voice and unyielding body language reined in his amorous advance.

Somewhat crestfallen, he made a slight bow. “Good night, madam.”

While unlocking his door, an unmistakable chill strafed Beau’s shoulders. Peering behind him, a rather nondescript fellow climbed the stairs. It was the man from the supper room who’d been scribbling in a journal over dinner. On reaching the top step, the bloke abruptly turned the opposite direction down the hall.

Though the man had given him no real reason, years of keeping track of his surroundings stamped his visage into Beau’s memory. There was something very Pinkerton about the fellow. The Union hired such men to spy on the Confederacy. Known Yankee sympathizers had set up shop in Liverpool with a goal to stop shipments flowing into the south.

The idea of someone trailing him to this outside of nowhere seemed ludicrous. But prison had taught him spies were very real and quite like dung on a shoe. Even though you thought you’d scraped them off, their stench continued to follow you around.

Chapter 8

They arrived late the next evening at C.C.’s aunt’s London townhome. By now, Beau couldn’t wait to make enquiries. Their bargain was either a windfall or a disaster and he was determined to discover which.

The following morning, he went directly to a popular coffee house frequented by mariners. Scanning the room, he saw a familiar face. The long wall mirror reflected a tall top hat, dark hair and beard. At the other end of the bar sat his old friend, Captain Glyncarn, reading a paper.

Beau ordered coffee and strolled over. Sliding onto the stool next to his friend, he muttered, “I might have pictured you many places, but not in a London coffee house.”

Glyncarn set down his paper. “Now this is a pleasant surprise!” He grabbed Beau’s hand and shook it soundly. “How are you, me boy!” A black patch covered one eye. His other dark eye crinkled into a smile.

Beau blew on his hot coffee and grinned. “Still up to no good. How long will you be in London?”

Glyncarn’s laughter rumbled deep and jolly. “I’m taking each day as it comes. And you?”

“I might be here another day or two. I see you’re still reading the Index. Anything in it I should know?”

“Same old Confederate propaganda. The queen has declared the United Kingdom neutral in the war across the pond, but I’m with the folks here, the South has my sympathies. Unlike those rabble-rousers in the North, the South’s way of life is more genteel, like England’s. Plus, our upper and middle classes have family and business ties over there. But enough of that. What are you up to?”

“I’ve an opportunity to command a ship to one of my favorite spots.”

Glyncarn stroked his beard, his expression thoughtful. “Your little vacation at Old Capitol Prison didn’t spoil your appetite for playing fox?”

“You heard?”

“Aye. Rough patch of luck, that. Thought you might have swallowed the anchor and found another game.”

“The money they’re offering should make it more palatable.”

“It’s good to see someone’s got their spirit back.” Glyncarn grinned.

“Are you looking for a command?” Beau asked.

“Might be. If the money’s right.”

Beau lowered his voice. “What kind of money would make it right for Nassau to Wilmington?”

Glyncarn gave the hairs under his chin a vigorous scratch before responding. “Last I heard, a run there and back could make a captain five thousand in gold. But I’m through with that business.”

So C.C. was offering Beau more than the going rate to command a ship into Wilmington. Still, he’d vowed in prison to find a safer way to make a living. “You know of something better?”

“Ain’t nothin’ better, if it’s only money we’re speakin’ of,” Glyncarn growled. “Now, if it’s life and liberty, there are better places to ply your trade. Had a brush with the Yankee lads sitting off the Carolinas myself. Right surly bunch, they were. The thieves made my ship their prize. They took the cargo, ship, personal belongings, everything—claimed we were aiding the enemy. Held me for a couple of weeks until they decided my English citizenship papers were real.

“Captain Mclean and his ship weren’t so lucky. As he made for New Inlet, the Union gunboat Stampede cornered him. Fired solid shot and shrapnel. Killed Mclean where he stood. Some of it pierced the hull and set the engine and cargo afire. The inferno sent Mclean’s ship and a quarter of its crew to a watery grave.”

Glyncarn shook his head. Loathing sparked in his eye. “I don’t have the stomach for those kinds of games anymore. Too old. No amount of money would get me back in those waters.”

Beau could hardly believe the story. Not Mclean. He’d been a good friend, one of the best. No captain was more skilled or fearless. They’d both been officers in the Royal Navy and served together on the commerce raider, the St. Charles. Eventually they’d obtained commands on blockade-runners.

As he sipped his coffee, a vivid memory of the Roundabout’s capture came rushing back. Hate boiled in his gullet. He knew the Stampede well. Never would he forget the feel of cold steel jammed into his ear when Commander Rives hissed, “Swear you gave the command to fire on my vessel and your men will go free.” Twisted glee glinted in his eyes as he stood nearly nose-to-nose, his neatly trimmed beard and strangely prepossessing features pulled into a jackal’s grin.

The guards wrenched Beau’s arms up his back for the appropriate response, but he’d managed to wheeze, “We did not fire on your ship. Your shell hit part of our cargo and blew it back onto your vessel.”

Rives nodded to his guards who then beat Beau until he was nearly senseless. Afterwards, the commander shoved the gun into Beau’s mouth and cocked the hammer. His aquiline nose flared as he sneered and spewed spittle into Beau’s face. “You are a coward, a criminal and too arrogant to comprehend your incompetence. Swear or I’ll pull this trigger and hang your crew for piracy!”

So Beau confessed to Rives’s lie and saved his men.

Prison had been a series of dark and darker hells. When they finally released him, he’d a bagful of plaguey battle demons. Now when a memory of any of it crept in, he’d flex his fingers and imagine them locked around Rives’s throat.

Drawn back by Glyncarn slurping his coffee, Beau peered around the coffee house. “Is it my imagination, or is London crawling with spies?”

Glyncarn turned his head to follow his gaze.

At a small table in the corner, a fellow sat scribbling in a journal while pretending to read a paper. Even though the lighting had been dim at the inn, Beau recognized his face.

“No imagination, my friend,” Glyncarn said. “Plenty of Confederate sympathizers this side of the pond, lots of Union eyes too. Investors clamor to make money on both sides of the war.”

Beau slid off his stool. As he walked through the coffee house, he veered toward the man, strolled up to his little table, and looked him square in the face. “Weren’t you at the King’s Inn, night before last?”

The man squirmed and feigned confusion. “I don’t think—”

“I see you’re reading the London Parliamentary Review.” Beau reached down and slid the paper to the side revealing the London American, a pro-Yankee journal the man had hidden underneath. “Ah yes, keeping up with your fellow Yanks.” He tipped his hat. “Say hello to them for me, will you?”

As Beau turned to walk back to Glyncarn he heard the man mutter, “Swaggering villain.”

***

Beau strode into Mrs. Arnold’s townhouse under full steam. His little trip to the coffee house had answered more than a few questions and had helped make up his mind. “Jenkins, be a good man. Please arrange for a carriage. I’ll need it in fifteen minutes.”

“With pleasure, Captain,” the butler sniffed.

Beau marched up the stairs to his room and started throwing clothes into his trunk. Enough of this tomfoolery. The man he’d been had died when Rives forced him to surrender the Roundabout. It was a miracle he’d survived and still had all his limbs intact. Though tempting, the money C.C. offered would never be enough. Glyncarn spoke the truth. Life and freedom were far more valuable.

Death had stalked Beau too many times. His near miss with the gallows convinced him he’d used up all his good luck. Captain Mclean had been a better man than he—a man in his prime. His death made a sobering, cautionary tale.

For a short time Beau had the warmth and love of a family of his own. Millie and Freddie had given him so much joy. He’d been in prison when they needed him most. That guilt would haunt him till the end of his days.

Events over the last year had sated his urge for adventure, made him reconsider his life. There were safer, more stable ways to make a living. It was high time he stopped taking for granted the privileged world he’d been born into and the good family he still had.

Thomas had gotten him out of prison, hadn’t he? He should be with them right now, not charging back into a war across the pond. He didn’t need C.C.’s money. If he required more capital to build ships, he’d find his own investors.

Beau locked the trunk’s lid into place, fastened the straps, heaved it over his shoulder and quickly descended the stairs.

Jenkins stood in the vestibule at the ready.

“Please give Miss Collins my regrets.”

“You can give them to her yourself, Captain.” Her sultry voice echoed down the hallway.

C.C.’s vanilla and honeysuckle scent wafted over him, igniting memories of her coming to his bed in Grancliffe Hall. He dragged in the fragrance and turned. “I thank you for your hospitality, madam, but I’ve changed my mind and have a train to catch.”

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