Connor heard him get up from his seat as well and, so he assumed, the lawyer walked to the huge old sideboard where he kept preprinted documents. Connor leaned forward, alert.
Améliore sat down at his desk again. The slight protest of the lawyer’s chair told Connor so. Then he heard the lawyer grunt, “So, do you know where we might find Captain Barhydt to make him aware of your request?”
“I’m sure I have no idea where Reinier is at the moment. Most likely, he’s on the ship he built with my dowry. But I’m also sure you can hire people to track him down. Last time I saw him, he was blond. I’m afraid I cannot recall anything beyond that, having seen only his back as he ran.”
Sarcasm? Connor’s jaw dropped. So, the “little, too sweet-tempered and naïve wife,” as Reinier had described her, was asking the family lawyer, who also happened to be the lawyer of the Barhydt-O’Driscoll Shipping Company, to draw up the divorce papers? Now that was an interesting twist to his day.
Not that he could blame her. In fact, Connor wasn’t really surprised. Reinier was restless and always sought the freedom of the sea.
When Reinier had married her five years ago, Emiline du Ronde was no match for the Dutchman. She was barely 18, privileged, and judging from what little Reinier had told him, infinitely spoiled. Reinier had built his ship and ran soon afterward. She hadn’t been able to hold him.
Never in Connor’s wildest dreams—and they could be quite wild—would he have thought it could turn out like this.
He quickly walked over to where the young secretary sat, asked him for a paper and a quill, and wrote a short note to Améliore. But just as the salt had dried the viscous ink and he was about to fold the note, the door to Améliore’s office opened.
Connor stood straight and smirked when his eyes met the turquoise blue depths of Reinier’s wife’s. He saw recognition cross Emiline du Ronde-Barhydt’s lovely face; then she halted and inhaled deeply. Despite her delicate café-au-lait complexion, she blanched. Her eyes widened with what must have been shock at seeing him, her husband’s partner, right there by the secretary’s desk.
“Monsieur O’Driscoll,” she murmured civilly as she curtly bowed her head. The coolness of her tone made his name sound like that of an evil sprite one wished away.
Connor felt his smug expression broaden as he bowed to her in turn. “Mrs. Barhydt, what a pleasure to see you here.”
Emiline’s eyes paled to a chilly light blue at the deliberate address. She said a quick farewell to Améliore and left the office without looking at him again.
Connor watched her speedy retreat, the smile on his lips slowly vanishing. A very interesting twist, indeed.
Emiline was careful to uphold a calm, sedate exterior when she ducked into Polilla’s, the tiny bookstore right around the corner. The instant she entered the bookshop, she felt better. Not only did the coolness calm her overheated body, as always, the scent of old paper and ink, vaguely moldy and bitter, had a soothing effect on her.
Emiline loved books. They were her escape from the burdens her life had become. There was no more need for decisions, no responsibility, no more hard work to do while she lost herself in her books. Poetry was her favorite; it made her feel again when everything else had dulled her.
Polilla, the owner of the shop, was a frail, old bookworm, but his eyes twinkled with delight when he saw her standing in his gloomy little store. “Ahh, Señorita du Ronde, how wonderful to see you,” he greeted her warmly. Before she could answer, he promptly bent under the ancient counter to retrieve a package. “Come, have a look. I’ve had these ordered exclusively with you in mind.”
She quickly shed her crochet gloves and let her fingers run gently over the exquisite leather bindings of the two books. She examined them, well aware of Señor Polilla closely watching her. It was too rare that somebody shared her passion for books, but Polilla did.
“Señorita, if it weren’t for you, I would have had to close this shop years ago.”
All he got was a tentative smile when she briefly glanced up from the poem that had captured her attention.
“Pray, forgive my speaking so openly, but there should be more in your life than printed words. I do think you need a husband.”
She shut the book a little too loudly. The smile on her lips froze to a friendly grimace at the mention of a husband once again.
“Pardon. I shouldn’t have…” Polilla bowed, averting his eyes.
“I’d like both of them. Thank you.” Emiline’s tone was warm and friendly to silently reassure him that she hadn’t taken offense where none was meant.
Gnarled fingers wrapped brown paper around the two books, and a simple twine secured the bundle. “Shall I keep these here for you until you’re ready to sail?”
“No, thank you. I’ll take them now.” Emiline reached for the purse in the small pocket of her gown and paid the old bookseller. Then, holding her precious package to her chest, she braced herself against the temperature outside.
Her feet carried her quickly back down the winding road to the harbor. She made her way swiftly through the dozens of sailors, traders, and marketers. St. George’s was the main port in the Caribbean to purchase and advertise all manner of traded goods like sugarcane and indigo, among other things. At this time of day, the Carenage, the deep water harbor, was buzzing with traders and buyers involved in heated discussions about quality, quantity, and prices, but a good many of them were bargaining for bargaining’s sake alone.
Emiline tried to blend in with the masses. She barely noticed the mixture of scents wafting through the port, from the delectable fragrance of spices to the strong, distinctive smell of coffee and tobacco all tinged by the stink of fish. She just wanted to get onboard the Sea Gull.
The crude wooden plank swayed under her feet as she ascended. Her maid, Justine, had returned from her errands along with the Sea Gull’s Captain Blanc, who had been so kind to accompany Justine. Emiline had wanted to be alone for the business she’d concluded today.
The Anglican Church proudly looked over the town and the port, its chiming bell bidding farewell to the Sea Gull slowly passing through the horseshoe-shaped harbor. The ship’s belly was now empty of its cargo of sugarcane from Ronde, the small island just north of Grenada that was her home.
Emiline held her white crochet-covered hand over her eyes to shield them from the bright morning sun, smiling up at her entourage, a horde of quibbling sea birds with their tuneless cacophony crudely imitating a fanfare as the Sea Gull made her way out of the port.
On his way to the most excellent house in town, Connor didn’t pay attention to whether he was walking in the shade or in the sunlight. He was too distracted. He had to be sure of his plan before he entered Madame Poivre’s establishment and met with Reinier.
It was quite unfortunate that the advice he’d given his friend years ago had turned out like this. As second son, Reinier hadn’t had too many options to make a fortune for himself, and since he was definitely not meant for the church, Reinier had started his career on a ship. One night Connor had told him half jokingly that Reinier needed to marry money and get his own ship. Had he known Reinier would take his advice that literally, Connor would have been more careful.
One didn’t go off and marry a young, besotted girl if one wanted to marry rich. One looked for a lonely, but wealthy—and if possible, passably attractive—widow. Connor supposed Reinier had never thought that part through and had certainly not taken heed of the consequences for her.
Reinier valued freedom above anything else. Never feeling tied down was his main ambition in life, and he was determined to achieve it. Yet, Connor had known him long enough and well enough to see a new restlessness in his eyes. Something was amiss. Reinier needed to settle down, whether he was aware of it or not. He needed to find a sense