The Charm School. Сьюзен Виггс

I was hoping he would be.” She headed toward the gangway, stepping around the dock where brawny-shouldered stevedores were discharging the cargo. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help herself.

      In contrast to the fitted frock coats, silk hats and chicken-skin gloves of drawing-room gentlemen, the men of the wharf wore loose trousers, shirts and neckerchiefs fastened with slip-ties. Crude expressions, spoken in a variety of foreign accents, filled the air. She could not fathom the meaning of poodle faking but she felt certain she didn’t want to know.

      “M-ma’am.” Timothy Datty trotted alongside her. “C-c-captain’s not—”

      “You needn’t stop what you’re doing to accompany me,” she said. “I know the way.”

      He pressed his mouth shut, waving his hands. There was something earnest and appealing about the boy. A pity about his stutter. Elocution lessons and special readings might help, but she didn’t suggest it for fear of embarrassing him. Besides, she was in a hurry to see Ryan Calhoun.

      She wondered if he would be surprised to see her. With a shiver of anticipation, she remembered the way he’d taken his leave of her after their meeting. He had crossed the lawn, looking as masterful and dignified as a young prince, and bowed over her hand. Even Lydia Haven had dragged her attention away from Chad long enough to notice the gallant gesture.

      Isadora held Ryan Calhoun’s boldness in quiet fascination. While she shrinkingly obeyed the rules of her parents and society, Mr. Calhoun flouted convention and took his own path. Perhaps his very lack of protocol would make him see the sense in her plan, then.

      One of the stevedores struck up a bawdy song in Portuguese, the strong, operatic voice ringing across the waterfront. Women’s body parts sounded so much more poetic in Portuguese, Isadora observed, trying her best not to blush. She headed up to the main deck and then climbed to the…she consulted her memory as she progressed. The afterdeck—yes, that was it—reached by means of a gangway and companion ladder.

      She had burned the gaslight late the night before, studying a tome of nautical terms. At their meeting in the garden, Captain Calhoun had nearly exhausted her supply of knowledge, and she had stocked up on more. A deceptive practice, yes, but Isadora was desperate.

      She could hear young Timothy Datty shouting to her from the dock far below, but with the singing stevedore and the screech of lifting gear, she couldn’t hear him. And why was he jumping up and down and waving his arms?

      The deserted main deck had been cleared of crates and barrels, though a few remnants of the revelry remained—stray chicken feathers, a broken bottle, a spent cigar. She tucked away her apprehension and made her way to the captain’s stateroom, finding the door slightly ajar. Within, she could hear a faint thumping sound.

      Clearing her throat, she knocked at the door. “Captain Calhoun, are you there?”

      “Al…almost…” His voice sounded ragged, and he let out a gasp and a moan.

      He was ill! Dear heaven, he might be dying in there. She pushed the door open and marched inside. “I’m here, Captain. Do you need any help?”

      “I—oh, for Christ’s sake.” The crude words came from within a draped alcove.

      “What the hell’s going on?” asked a female voice, also behind the drapes.

      Isadora stopped in her tracks, frozen like a hunted rabbit. Heavens be, he was with a woman. In flagrante delicto. That must have been what Timothy had been trying to tell her. She willed herself to flee, willed her feet to turn toward the door, but she was too horrified to obey even common sense.

      A hand, and then a head, appeared through the drapes. Isadora recognized the woman from the night of the party, the one with yellow hair and red lips and huge—

      “I’m so sorry,” Isadora managed to whisper.

      “Not half as sorry as me,” the woman said in a coarse voice. She exited from the bed, pushing her feet into a pair of slippers and tugging up her bodice as she clumped to the door. “Don’t summon me again unless you have time for me,” she called over her shoulder, then left in a huff.

      Isadora knew she should follow, but horror held her rooted. She looked anywhere but at the bunk, trying to distract herself by cataloguing the details of her surroundings, but all appeared as a blur; she couldn’t concentrate.

      “You are like a bad rash,” Ryan Calhoun said, coming out of the bed and jerking the curtain shut. “You won’t go away.” Grumbling peevishly, he pulled on a tall boot.

      Isadora caught her breath. Seeing a gentleman with his shirt open at the throat, its tails loose over his trousers, his hair in tousled disarray, was a new experience to her. She even forgot to be insulted.

      He yanked on the second boot and scowled at her. “Miss Peabody, I paid you the honor of a personal visit to tell you why I cannot bring you along on the voyage. So why are you here?”

      “Because I need you,” she blurted, letting out her breath in a rush. Mortified, she cleared her throat, composing herself. “I mean, I was hoping you would see the sense in engaging my services as translator so that I wouldn’t have to prevail on Mr. Easterbrook.”

      “You didn’t.”

      “I’m afraid you left me no choice.” She took a folded letter from her reticule and handed it to him. “Your refusal compelled me to take matters into my own hands.”

      Almost viciously, he broke the waxen seal on the letter. Angling the cream stock paper toward the light, he read it.

      Trying not to fidget, Isadora looked around the room. The cabin resembled a merchant’s office and parlor in miniature. A long table aft was curved slightly to echo the fantail shape of the stern. Benches flanked the table, and in the middle rested a tray of crystal decanters clad in silver filigree. There was also a small writing desk with an industrious array of cubbyholes, and a tiny door leading, she supposed, to the water closet. A squat sea chest with an intimidating-looking lock rested near the upholstered aft bench. The stern windows, of leaded bottle-bottom glass, glittered with the afternoon light.

      The light, though weak, fell kindly over Ryan Calhoun, illuminating his negligent pose, his rumpled clothing and the frown that deepened with every word he read.

      And even scowling, Isadora couldn’t help but notice, he was an uncommon man. Some might even say beautiful in the classical sense, the wave of reddish hair almost Grecian, the height of his cheekbones and brow unmistakably patrician. Judging by the tight fit of his trousers beneath the trailing broadcloth shirt, the lady he’d been entertaining had every right to be resentful of the interruption.

      “So you brought pressure to bear on Abel,” said Ryan, catching her staring at him. “Charming.”

      “I dislike the implication of that. I merely presented my point of view and he agreed.” She prayed silently that Ryan Calhoun would never learn that her offer included spying on him. “Mr. Easterbrook is a man of commerce—a very successful one, as you well know. He was more than happy to approve my position.”

      “And what does his son think of this, Miss Peabody?” A harsh cruelty edged Ryan Calhoun’s voice. “What does Chad think, or does he think at all? I’m not quite certain he knows how.”

      She swallowed, finding her throat suddenly parched. “It was Abel’s decision. I’m sure I have no idea what Chad thinks.”

      “How can you bear to be away from the gallant Chad for so long? Have you thought about that?”

      She flinched. No one was supposed to know about her secret adoration of Chad Easterbrook. No one. How had this rude, blunt man guessed?

      Ryan crushed the letter in his fist. “I won’t have it.”

      Her first instinct was to flee. Not this time, she told herself. She straightened her shoulders, summoning her determination and rallying her courage. “I’m afraid you have no choice.”