Her expectant gaze fixed on his. The intensity of it sent him whirling back toward the windows again. Gazing at her made thinking impossible. Could he even trust her offer?
Women didn’t assemble dangerous voyages into war zones and make rich bargains. This had to be another cracked ruse to toy with him, make him twist on her string. Still, her vehemence and chilling knowledge about him made it crazy enough to be real.
He glowered at her over his shoulder. In the dim light she almost looked like a beautiful angel—an angel who tempted him with a devil’s pact. Getting caught running the blockade this time could mean his end. If he had the bad fortune to cross paths with Rives, the bastard guaranteed it. But if Beau made it safely, he’d have enough to design ships or not work another day of his life.
Turning, he strode up to her and studied her expression. All he could discern was earnest resolve. He clenched his jaw, thinking, weighing the alternatives. “I’ll only do it if I’m paid in gold, half in advance and half on completion. And I’ll be allotted plenty of space for my own cargo.”
“It’s done then. I’m prepared to leave for London within the hour. You’ll accompany me to my man of business for your six thousand and further instructions for our voyage.”
“Wait a minute. That’s not double the going rate—”
“Six is half of twelve. I’m offering seven thousand over market. Do we have a deal?”
Beau rocked back on his heels, amazed by the richness of her offer. Gold gleamed in his mind’s eye, muting the warnings screaming in his ear. “Yes, but…you’re coming too?”
“Do not mistake me, Captain Tollier. This is business and time is lives. Gather your things, the clock is ticking.”
In less than an hour, Beau made his apologies to his brother and sister-in-law and descended the front steps of Grancliffe Hall. A gleaming midnight purple carriage awaited. In front of it stood four sleek black coach horses with purple plumes and silver-mounted harnesses. Two drivers dressed in black, silver and purple livery attended them. This was how C.C. traveled? Good Lord, royalty couldn’t boast finer cattle or equipage.
Force of habit had him counting items as footmen loaded trunks and valises onto a heavier, more utilitarian carriage behind.
Grudgingly, Beau found himself impressed. He’d not seen any woman pull herself together in barely an hour, much less with two carriages, eight horses, four drivers, eleven valises, seven hatboxes, nine trunks of varying sizes, three female servants and two footmen. Yet everything had been loaded in a matter of minutes with exacting precision.
If he could get past the way she’d pressured him into this journey, he might even admire her single-minded determination. Not only had she compelled him to do her bidding, she’d gotten all of her people, horses and possessions on the road faster than any commander he knew—and she’d managed to change clothes.
She now wore a severe yet handsome chin-to-toe purple traveling ensemble. Three bold feathers sprouted upward giving balance to a purple hat that clung jauntily to the side of her head. Everything matched…everything. “Let me guess,” he said. “Your favorite color is purple?”
One side of her lips quivered. “You are most observant, Captain.”
Yes, indeed. Miss Collins had an impressive logistical capability. Clearly she could manage without a man. Yet her kisses in the pleasure garden were not the stuff of a coldhearted spinster. The teasing, erratic woman in the library was very different from the hard-nosed negotiator in the long gallery.
He’d witnessed her scene with Falgate, listened to the warnings about her instability and knew he needed to get to the bottom of it. She’d offered him a lot of money to do something he’d sworn never to do again. If she was as unstable as they said, her ship may be a lunatic’s dream and her family in North Carolina now ghosts calling to her from their graves.
In any event, he considered himself a fairly good judge of character. He should have her sorted out by the time they reached London.
A footman helped C.C. into the carriage along with her lady’s maid. Beau followed and sat in the seat across from them. Last aboard were the three little dogs.
The first dog handed in wiggled and squirmed out of the footman’s arms and bounded onto Beau’s lap, wagging her tail furiously. “Oh, hallo! Whose pretty little girl are you?” he cooed to the toy poodle.
“Her name is Jossette,” C.C. said.
The dog put her paws on his chest. Her little tongue flicked out to beg for a kiss.
“Are you a coquette, Jossette?” He sank his fingers into the dog’s soft fur and gave her a scratch.
C.C. smiled. “You seem to have found a friend.”
“French women always like me.” Beau gave C.C. a roguish grin and raised the little poodle to let her lick his face. “Yes, I can tell you and I will be good friends.” He placed the dog on his lap, and allowed her to get comfortable.
Expecting the other two dogs to be as friendly, the second dog handed in surprised him by growling the moment he saw him.
C.C. picked up the cantankerous little beast and settled him on her lap.
The third dog scrambled onto the maid’s knee, refused to sit and watched Beau with bright, beady little eyes.
When Beau moved his hat on the seat next to him, C.C.’s little hound began barking.
“Hush, Plutarch.” C.C. gave the dog a scratch. “Don’t mind him, Captain, he’s a little blind in his left eye. Probably mistook your hat for a strange animal.”
Plutarch? Interesting. Quite a bluestocking name for a little yapper. The dog continued to growl while Beau looked him over. “How old is he?”
“Ten.”
“I haven’t seen an animal like him since Canton. An ancient breed, I was told. The Chinese are loath to let those dogs leave their country.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “Very good, Captain. No one seems to know what to make of him. Are you acquainted with Canton?”
“I spent a few years in the South China Sea with the Royal Navy.” Was it possible she didn’t know that about him? She seemed to know everything else. He couldn’t resist asking. “How does a Chinese Lion Dog end up named after a Greek philosopher?”
She regarded him for a moment before quietly answering, “At the time I was reading Plutarch’s Animine an corporis affectiones sint peiores.”
Now that put a different light on things. So she was a bluestocking. If she read Latin well enough to understand Greek philosophers, it indicated a certain studiousness and level of education he would not have expected.
Maybe it was because his first impression persisted of her as a lovely, ardent shopgirl. He gazed at her soft lips and idly scratched Jossette’s ears. The memory of how C.C.’s mouth felt under his made him long for another taste.
He cleared his throat and smiled. “Latin? I used to be quite good at Latin. Let me see if I can remember how to translate.” He took a moment to get the words straight in his mind. “Which are Worse: Diseases of the Soul or of the Body? Did you come to any conclusion on such a weighty subject?”
C.C. pursed her lips as she studied his face. “Yes. I learned…we are an imperfect lot and sometimes good friends are the best cure. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she seemed to withdraw into herself.
Her evasiveness nettled him. He gazed at her lips again. Good Lord, stop. Playing lackey to a beautiful, wealthy woman—one suspected of missing a few spokes in her paddlewheel—didn’t