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.
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