How to Be a Proper Lady: A Falcon Club Novel (13 page)

W
ith nightfall, the soft breeze that had filtered across the plantation at dusk disappeared. Stillness enveloped all, the stalks in the cane fields falling silent, even the birds quieting with dark. They took dinner in the dining room, the heat released from the earth gathering heavy within the walls, stealing Viola’s appetite.

The Hats mostly ignored her. Mrs. Hat complimented their host on the impressive removes. Mr. Hat plied Seton with questions about activity at the Boston port that Viola could have answered better than the Englishman. Miss Hat nibbled daintily at her food and kept her lashes modestly lowered. Seamus drank glasses of sugared rum and watched Seton with narrowed eyes.

After tea in the drawing room, the Hats announced their intention of visiting town the following day.

“Mr. Castle, we hope you will escort us.” Mrs. Hat smiled in graceful condescension.

Aidan nodded. “Of course, ma’am. I will be glad to take you to the finest shops.” He turned to her husband. “The lumber seller is a particular friend of mine, though not so much seller as merchant. He is intimately known to the owner of that copse of rare wood I mentioned to you yesterday. I will be glad to introduce you.”

“Fine, fine.” Mr. Hat patted his ample girth, stays protesting as he propelled himself from his chair. “Tomorrow then, Castle.”

Mrs. Hat took her daughter’s arm, Miss Hat curtsied, and they departed. Seamus glanced at Viola, insolence in his grin.

“Well, now, Miss Violet,” he drawled, “now that you’re the sole female present, how will you entertain us? Play a little ditty on the piano, will you now?”

Aidan cleared his throat. “Violet does not play, of course.” He came toward her and extended his arm. “May I escort you to your chamber?”

She nodded, laid her hand on his elbow, and glanced at Seton.

He bowed.

The air thickened as they ascended the stair. It was a beautiful house, but it seemed poorly constructed for the climate, rather more in a style suited to chill, English weather. But the door before which Aidan drew her to a halt was elegantly stenciled, the paint fresh despite the cloying humidity. He had worked hard to make such a home for himself, and she must be proud for him.

He took her hands. “It is good to see you again, Violet. I have missed you.”

“It is good to see you too after so long.”

His brow puckered, eyes serious. “My dear, I recall now why Seton’s name rings familiar to me.”

Her throat felt dry. “I supposed you would eventually.”

“From your look I see that you knew this when you took him on. Why did you do so?” His tone lightly accused.

“Well, it’s complicated.” She didn’t want to tell him that she’d sunk the
Cavalier
. He had nothing to do with her ship and work any longer. Why should he know the details of it? And she found it difficult to speak aloud of Jin Seton; it made her feel unsteady inside.

Aidan gripped her hands tighter. “I cannot like this.”

She tried to laugh it off. “The British government has forgiven him, Aidan. Is that not sufficient encouragement for you to put your trust in him too?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You know how I care about you, and I do not approve of this man aboard your ship. Fionn would agree. A leopard might be collared, but captivity will not change his spots.”

She stared into his hazel eyes and was inclined to agree with the notion of the constancy of a man’s spots. Since she was fifteen, this man had courted her with his words, accepting her adoration as though it were natural to him. But again and again he never saw through on his promises. Upon her father’s ship he had insisted he could not take a wife until he settled down on land and made a home for a family. For four years, he’d had that land.

Entitlement shone in his eyes now. After months of no letters and two years with no visit, he believed he could tell her how to arrange her life, that he could give her advice she had not sought and she must abide by it. She saw this now quite clearly.

Jin Seton expected much the same—that she would do as he wished. But when he was not looking at her like she was a madwoman, she saw in his eyes an awareness of her as a leader, and a woman, intriguing and desirable. She saw admiration. And heat. No matter how many times Aidan had teased and told her how much she meant to him, he had never once looked at her like that.

“I think you are wrong about him,” she replied quietly.

“Pirates are thieves and liars, Violet. You are imprudent to trust him.”

“I must be the judge of that.” She slipped her hands from his. “Thank you for dinner. Good night.”

Still frowning, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I am glad you are here, my dear.”

She nodded. For a moment he paused, then he descended the stairs.

Viola tapped her fingertips to the spot his lips had touched. She loved him. She had loved him for ten years. He knew so much of her, of her father and her life on the sea. Now, of course, he took no part in that any longer. But he was part of her past, and for so long she had known he would be part of her future. That he would
be
her future. But strangely, now, his familiarity seemed . . . unfamiliar. Even that insubstantial kiss felt alien.

Perhaps a few days in each other’s company would correct that. Friends, even so well-known, required time to reaccustom themselves to one another. Didn’t they?

She stood by the window and the heat seemed to envelop her. The bed was heavy with linens, entirely uninviting. As soon as she’d seen the other guests she knew Aidan would not ask her to share his bed. He never did when others were present. But it didn’t bother her now. It was too hot for that sort of thing, anyway, and her stomach rumbled with hunger, her skin prickling with discomfort. Sleep seemed distant.

A modestly carved shelf offered some reading material, books of sermons and trade journals. She selected the least noxious and sat by the lamp. But the journal failed to distract and perspiration beaded on her nose that she was obliged to wipe away until her sleeve became positively soggy. She went to the window, pushed open the sash, and a cloud of night insects swarmed in.

“Oh!” She tugged the window shut with a clack.

No breeze. Perhaps that was why Aidan had been able to purchase such a large piece of land. With this stillness and humidity, inland property would not be at a premium. If it were this warm in June, it would be unendurable later in the summer. But she had weathered all sorts of deprivations in her decade afloat. If she were truly to be his wife, heat and mosquitoes must be borne.

It needn’t be borne quite so oppressively at this moment, however. If any air could be found moving, it would be in a garden, or even the drive if she must. And she felt restless. She missed the constant movement of her deck beneath her feet, and the swish of the sea in her ears. Here, tucked amid fields and copses and inside the house, she couldn’t breathe.

Reluctant to touch wool, nevertheless she took up her shawl in the event that she should encounter the modest Miss Hat and her pincushion mother, and went to the lower story. The front door was bolted, but from the drawing room another door let out onto the veranda at the side of the house. She opened it and stepped into the moonlight.

She shrank back into the doorway’s shadow.

Beyond the veranda a garden stretched toward the cane fields, dotted with old trees and exotic shrubbery, a neat white picket fence scrolled with vines defining its boundaries. Tropical flowers bloomed beneath the moon’s silvery light, the strident songs of insects saturating the darkness.

Beneath the feathery shadow of a Mapou tree, a man and a woman walked close beside each other. Miss Hat’s white gown seemed to shimmer, drawing the moonlight. The gentleman picked a flower and proffered it to her. He spoke quietly, and in the stillness the familiar timber of Aidan’s voice carried to Viola. He took up Miss Hat’s hand as though it were porcelain, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed it.

Then he kissed her lips.

Viola choked, cold nausea sweeping through her. She whirled around and slammed into Jin.

“Whoa.” He caught her waist, his eyes snapping across her face then, swiftly, to the garden. His brow drew down. But tears welled in her eyes, and her palms pressing to his chest, feeling him so abruptly, only confused her further. Because she understood now abruptly that
he
did not truly make her feel weak.

Aidan did. With Aidan she always felt as though she were not quite enough. But Charlotte Hat obviously was enough—beautiful, refined, well dowered, from a prosperous family of good quality. He could stroll in a midnight garden with her and kiss her hand while he made promises to Viola he never kept.

She lifted her eyes to Jin’s and saw awareness in the crystal blue, and a flicker of anger.

Her insides twisted. He never pretended with her. He made her feel uncertain, yes—as though she might at moments allow herself to relinquish the iron grip she held over her feelings. But he also made her feel alive and full of possibility.

“Violet?” His hands tightened on her waist, strong and steady. He did not look again into the garden, his gaze instead focused entirely on her.

A tear tumbled onto her cheek.

“No,” she whispered. She had demanded, but now she did not want him to call her that. She wanted him to call her by her real name.

She broke from his hold, dashed a hand across her face, and fled inside.

Chapter 14

S
leep would not come. She lay on her bed in her ugly brown dress, staring into the sweltering darkness and holding back tears. Weeping would not help. It would only prove that she was as foolish as any other woman.

But she was not like any other woman. She was Violet
la Vile
, captain of her own ship and fifty men wholly devoted to her, privateer for the state of Massachusetts, and strong and clever enough to manage this as she had managed any number of scrapes, mishaps, and setbacks in her years on the sea. The woman who had sunk the legendary
Cavalier
would not crumple into a ball and cry herself silly simply because the man she had loved for a decade and intended to marry had kissed another woman—a modestly eligible maiden—in full view of anybody, including her. She would rather die.

But it hurt, and she hated that it hurt. In one instant, her future had changed, but her past had changed as well. All those times he promised her marriage, had he never intended to honor those promises? Had she been the greatest fool alive after so many years to believe he ever would? Worse yet, had her father known this all along? Had he given Aidan the money that allowed him to leave the ship so that Viola would not continue to hope on girlhood dreams?

She stared dry-eyed into the darkness, chest and throat tight, containing the sobs. When she heard the shouts, she thought they were in her imagination. But they came closer, more strident.

She darted from the bed to the window. In the distance, not more than a league away, a cane field was lit up bright red, smoke billowing into the midnight sky.

Throwing her sash across her shoulder and shoving her feet into her slippers, she bolted out the door and down to the veranda.

Pandemonium reigned. Men ran in every direction, dragging a pair of oxen, a mule, yelling to one another, Seamus and Aidan’s voices shouting orders above it all. A donkey brayed, the air thick with a sweet smokey odor.

Aidan came toward her and grasped her hands.

“Violet, you must go inside and tell Mr. and Mrs.— Ah.” His gaze shifted over her shoulder. “There they are. Thank you, Seton.”

Viola turned and met Jin’s gaze. Miss Hat’s ghostlike hands clutched his arm as he drew her onto the drive, her parents before them garbed in nightclothes like their daughter.

“What is happening, Mr. Castle?” Mrs. Hat demanded. “Are we in danger of being overtaken by fire here?”

Aidan shook his head. “Not at all, ma’am. I assure you, my men are doing all that is required to contain the flames. Often we burn the stalk tops in the field in order to expedite the harvest. We are accustomed to this.”

“The entire stalks are burning, Castle, and your men’s alarm is clear,” Seton said evenly, releasing the girl into her mother’s keeping and moving toward Aidan. “Who would have reason to have set this fire?”

“Those damned laborers, trying to threaten you into further privileges.” Seamus swung over to them. “That’s who’s done it. My cousin’s fool notions have gone and burned down all we’ve accomplished here.”

“It is only one field.” Aidan raked his hand through his hair. “The men are watering the ditches. It will not spread.”

“Every word that trips from your tongue may be gold to our family in England, Aidan, but here you’re wrong.” Seamus spat the words, his cheeks crimson. “If you used slaves like everyone else, this would not have happened.”

“I will not use forced labor when there are men willing to do the work for wages. I
will
not.” He spoke as though something were trapped in his throat.

Seamus swept his hand toward the burning field, the brays of the animals and shouts of men all about in the sweltering night air, sticky, acrid smoke clouding all. “You can see they are willing, can’t you?”

Jin’s attention shifted behind Viola and he moved past her. She turned. Little Billy ran toward them from the direction of the outbuildings, Matouba’s barrel shape trotting in his wake.

“We seen them, Cap’n.” Billy’s eyes on Jin were eager. “We seen them light it, then run.”

“Where have they gone?”

“Headed up the road,” Matouba intoned.

“North? Toward the port?”

“Yessir, Cap’n.”

“What are those men saying?” Aidan was stripping off his coat, his gaze shifting from the flames licking closer to the yucca trees between the field and the garden.

Viola touched Matouba’s sleeve. “Why would Mr. Castle’s hired laborers have run to the port? If they set the fire, why wouldn’t they remain here and pretend innocence?”

“ ’Cause they ain’t the hired laborers, ma’am.”

“What do you mean they aren’t the laborers?” Seamus spat.

“Them’s sailors, sir,” Billy said. “Talking Dutch, they was, just like them boys loading that sloop earlier today at the dock.”

“Good God.” Aidan’s face blanched. “Perrault.”

Viola shook her head. “Isn’t that your neighbor?”

“Goddamn, Aidan!” Seamus swore. “See what I’ve told you? You there!” he shouted to a pair of men running toward the burning field. “Soak the heap rows. Those sparks mustn’t reach the house.” He ran off.

Jin moved toward the house. “Have you the horses?”

“Yessir,” Billy piped. “At the road.”

Viola called after him. “Where are you going? Why does Billy have horses? If we have a horse we might be able to—” Smoke clogged her throat. “What are you
doing
?”

“Collecting my effects,” he threw over his shoulder.

“Good God, we’ve got to get this under control.” Aidan’s voice shook. He turned to her. “Violet, I must ask you to look after Miss Hat and her parents. They are unfamiliar with this sort of trouble and I do not wish them to panic. That would only make matters more difficult for me.”

“Aidan, why do you believe your neighbor has a hand in this?”

“Violet—”

“Tell me.”

“The native Curaçaons of these islands speak Dutch. Perrault is the only planter in this region who uses their services, trade sometimes. If these men say that Dutch speakers set the blaze, they could be Curaçaons in his pay.”

“Why would he want to do that? Does he dislike you?”

“My dear, this is not important now. I must ask you to take the Hats inside and calm them. Do this for me, please.”

Viola looked into his pleading hazel eyes and her heart thudded dully.

“I am going to the port. Matouba and Billy believe these men headed there. The sloop we saw earlier anchored in the harbor could be theirs. If the
April Storm
can stop them from escaping and I can bring you proof of your neighbor’s crime, you will be glad for it.”

“No, Violet. That is no business of yours. Leave it to those men and help me here instead. Miss Hat is a fragile thing, innocent and so young. She needs your comfort.”

She pulled free, sobs gathering in her throat that she swallowed back.

“I’m sorry, Aidan. They must get along without me.” She pivoted and strode toward the house. As she reached the veranda, Jin came out, buckling a belt slung with pistol and cutlass about his hips. His gaze flashed over her gown.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Her battered heart climbed into her throat. “I’m coming.”

“There is no time for you to change.” He passed her and headed for the drive. “Can you ride astride in that?”

She sucked in acrid air. “Of course.” She ran down the drive after him.

T
he arsonists had not counted on being followed. As Viola flung herself from the horse she shared with Billy, her skirt in tatters she’d torn in order to ride effectively, voices came to her across the docks. They were laughing, their movements relaxed and unhurried, as though satisfied with work well done. And they were speaking Dutch. She moved forward.

Jin grabbed her wrist, staying her in the shadows of the building.

“But—”

“Billy,” he whispered, releasing her. “Run to the tavern. Get the men. Then get to the
April
as quickly and quietly as you can.”

“Yessir.” The boy ran off.

“Good thing we ain’t at anchor.” Matouba barely stirred air with his deep tone. “But there ain’t a lick o’ wind tonight.”

“We’ll prime the guns,” Viola whispered, “then we will threaten them. If they don’t surrender, we will fire upon them from the dock if we must.”

“Get ourselves thrown in jail, shootin’ from the wharf,” Matouba muttered dolefully.

“It wouldn’t be the first time for you boys.” Her blood ran with nerves and pure energy. She glanced up at Jin and her insides tangled. A half smile quirked his mouth. His gaze remained on the sailors at the small vessel getting ready to make way in the middle of the night like thieves. Or like arsonists not worried about being discovered.

But the Curaçaons readied for putting to sea more quickly than they expected. Lit by several lanterns, the little vessel’s deck was perfectly visible to them across the docks. By the time she, Jin, and Matouba had made their way through the shadows to her ship, then silently aboard, the Curaçaons were already pushing away from the opposite dock.

“No,” she whispered, running down the stairs to the powder magazine, her shredded skirts flapping around her thighs. “They won’t get away. I won’t allow it.”

Becoua rushed down behind her. “Evening, Cap’n,” he whispered, then another dozen of her crew, scurrying across the decks in the light of the half moon, working swiftly to prepare the cannons. But they stank of rum and swayed as they slid the iron balls into the guns’ muzzles and fixed the fuses. Drunk. On furlough, drunk, yet they had come.

She scaled the companionway to the main deck again. Below her, a gunwale creaked as a sailor slid it open too swiftly. The sound ricocheted across the harbor.

All went perfectly still atop the sloop thirty yards away. A shout in Dutch carried over the black water. Then movement, and more shouting.

“Orders, Captain?” Jin said at her shoulder.

Viola’s pulse raced. She
must
do this. She must show Aidan what she was capable of. She might not be a fine lady whose hand he would kiss, but she possessed her own talents. She could not fail in this. “Do you speak Dutch?”

“I believe we have already passed the moment for that.”

The crack of cannon fire, the fast hiss of shot, and a yardarm on the
April
’s mainmast erupted in sparks and smoke.

Her ship came alive. Jin shouted orders, the men ran to stations. Cannon blasts split the thick night with smoke and more heat. Flames leaped and were swiftly doused on both ships, sailors cussed, and the
April Storm
’s guns blazed again and again, the sloop’s smaller battery echoing.

But within minutes Viola knew it was already too late. The sloop’s sweeps cut the black water fast as dolphin fins, getting her under way swiftly as only a small vessel could without the wind to assist. She headed straight toward sea. Cannon shot flew, canvas on the
April
’s deck caught fire and plummeted, tumbling down the stairs to the gun deck in a flurry of sparks.

Alarm bells across the main street split through the pounding blasts. The port officials were awake.

Soon enough, Viola could do nothing. Moving out of range of even her long nines, the sloop sent off a final round of shot into the water between them.

“The men are ready at the oars,” Jin said calmly beside her. “Insufficient numbers to make any speed and man the guns at once. But do you wish us to make pursuit?”

Viola clutched the rail, the sloop’s lanterns fading into the dark. “Damn it.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“No!” She swung around to him, heartbeat pounding. “Of course not. We could never catch them. What do you think I am, an imbecile?” She pivoted to scan the deck strewn with debris, pocked in places by shot and burn marks. “
Damn it
.”

“She is not badly hit. The men will clean her up within a day.”

She knew this. The sloop had not tried to do damage, only to distract while they rowed away. At the mouth of the harbor the faintest flicker of white told her the Curaçaons had found wind and were hoisting sail. The arsonists had escaped.

Commotion sounded at the gangplank. A man wearing a hastily donned coat and a gray wig askew, his shoes unbuckled, clambered onto deck flanked by two soldiers uniformed in red with muskets at their shoulders.

“Where is the master of this vessel?” the bewigged man clipped with the persnickety officiousness only an English port official could manage under present circumstances.

Viola went forward, stomach tight, schooling her voice.

“I am her master. What can I do for you, sir?”

“You?” He took in her tattered skirts, then looked over her shoulder. “Is this the truth?”

“This is Violet Daly, sir, master of the
April Storm
out of Boston,” Jin said smoothly, his English accent particularly pronounced.