A Scandal to Remember (13 page)

Jane raised her chin and gave as good as she got. “And prepared, sir. Don’t forget prepared.”

His glance swiveled to hers. “Prepared for what exactly, Miss Burke?”

Jane refused to be made uncomfortable. So she gave him the boring truth. “A study of barnacles, which Mr. Punch has been kind enough to retrieve for me. Ah, there. Thank you, Punch.” She turned to accept the small glass vial Punch passed back to her.

“Cap’n.” The old steward knuckled his brow in easy respect, and reached to take back his fishing line.

But the lieutenant’s response was both instantaneous and furious. “God’s balls, Punch. Do you want to get us hanged?” His voice was an irate hiss. “It’s lieutenant. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The old sailor’s face sobered. “Sorry, Mr. Dance, sir. I din’t mean nothing by it. I only—”

“I don’t care what you meant.” The lieutenant’s voice was as low and cutting as a lash. “Think before you talk. You’ll have us both dancing from a yardarm, talking like that.”

The lieutenant’s vehemence surprised her, so much that Jane was about to come to the steward’s defense, but the lieutenant wasn’t done berating Punch. “Just shut your gob, and see to your work, and stop cavorting in the chains, and causing mischief with Miss Burke. And you—” The lieutenant whipped the lash of his displeasure at Jane. “I’ll thank you not to bribe and distract my crew.”

Gracious. He didn’t have to like her, but there was no reason for such unreasonable anger. She had not interfered at all with the running of his precious ship—she was helping to fish for the supper that his ship was contracted to provide.

And as he himself had so cogently advised her before he had decided to take her in such ridiculous dislike, if she did not stand up to him now, she would never find her feet again. “Mr. Dance.” Pride pushed her chin up. “I hardly think a few pennies—”

But this morning the lieutenant was as quick as he was unreasonable. “And that is exactly the problem with you, madam. You hardly
think
! If you had, you would never have stepped on board.”

Jane’s face flamed with uncomfortable, scorching heat. No one—not even her parents—had ever taken her to task so unaccountably, or spoken to her so rudely.

But the lieutenant had still more criticism to go around. “You’ve been nothing but trouble from the moment you walked upon my deck, madam.”

Her only defense was to give him the iciest tone she could manage. “Then I will take care, sir, not to do so again.”

Chapter Eight

A new day brought a new dawn. And fresh remorse.

He should not have spoken to Miss Burke that way. Nor spoken about his captain, earlier. Both had been mistakes, violations of his duty to his ship, and his honor as an officer. He should have kept his feelings and his temper under stricter control, and protected both the captain and Miss Burke as long as he could. But something about her—her buttoned-up, lady-scientist practicality, her clear blue gaze, and her refusal to be cowed by anyone or anything—made him want to push her, and tell her the ugly, testing truth. But he’d be damned if he knew why.

But he would likely be damned anyway. Because he could not keep his mind sufficiently on his work while the lady scientist in question gaped over the rail at the few barnacles that remained after he had set the men to scraping them off
Tenacious
’s hoary old hide.

He told himself he watched her out of simple concern that she not do herself—or anyone else—a harm. He told himself he watched so he could drop a boat down to rescue her the moment she disappeared over the side. He told himself all sorts of lies to make up for the simple truth that he liked looking at her very shapely bottom.

As did any number of the men. “Mercer, damn your eyes. See to that halyard—it’s as slack and useless as your mind, you grubby lubber.”

Dance forced his own concentration on an assessment of the bowsprit. He didn’t like the way
Tenacious’
s jibs were drawing—the tack and the luff seemed to fluctuate, almost as if the bowsprit spar itself were moving.

“Mr. Simmons, I’m going to have a look at the bowsprit.” He headed forward, only to find Punch clomping unevenly at his heels.

“Lieutenant, sir? That Royal Society fellow sent me.”

“Sir Richard?”

“Well, his servant. That West Indies black man come to me.”

It wasn’t the color of the man’s skin that had Punch in a state. Dance knew Punch had been in the navy for far too many years, and served with men of every make and creed, to judge a man on anything other than his character. “What is it, man? Don’t tell me our guests are already put out at their less than spacious accommodations?”

They had no right to be put out. Not when he himself had no accommodation. Dance had spent the better part of last night—their first full night at sea—on deck, followed by an uncomfortable hour in a wardroom chair, staring at Miss Burke’s door for reasons that he did not want to examine too closely.

“No, sir. And good luck if they are, sir, right, with no cuddies to spare?” Punch chuckled. “But what I came to ask, and I was wondering more, how are the guests to be fed, sir?”

“With food, man. You don’t mean for them to starve their way to the South Pacific, do you?” It was nothing more than his usual sarcasm, but the truth was he hadn’t the vaguest damn idea.

On a ship of war the officers were responsible for stocking and maintaining their own table. Dance had brought his own supply of foodstuffs aboard, locked safely in the lieutenants’ storeroom on the orlop deck, and had purchased shares in both hens and goats—for eggs and milk—from the galley steward. But with the wardroom given over to the party of scientists, he had no idea what had been arranged for their food. “What provision has been made?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Mr. Ransome sez as they haven’t got their own foodstuffs, they’re to eat boiled beef, same as the men. But them Royal Society folk be gentlemen, used to finer food than beef boiled to a pudding.”

Dance hadn’t taken any meals in the wardroom since the naturalists had come aboard two days ago. He had been too busy to keep to regular mealtimes—standing watch on watch to stay abreast of the constant running list of repairs, which only seemed to get longer in proportion to the distance they had traveled from Portsmouth. “No wonder they’re griping. And Miss Burke as well?”

The mention of her name was out of his mouth before he could even question why it had been there in the first place. But Punch was too kind a soul to notice Dance’s growing obsession.

“Bless me, no. Not a word from her. But she’s brought her own hampers. Hasn’t asked a thing of me, nor any of the other servants, sir, though she didn’t bring a servant of her own. Seems to be doing for herself.”

She would, and deny him the pleasure of thinking ill of her, the efficient, unfairly intelligent little bluestocking. Damn her for being so accommodating.

“Have you asked one of their servants?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it was one of their servants, that black man, name o’ Witness, who come to ask me.”

Damn his tired eyes. He’d been on deck for nearly eighteen hours without so much as a mug of coffee. And he wouldn’t get it now. “Have they not brought so much as a laying hen with them?”

“Nothing, sir. Far as I can see, they was thinking they was supposed to share the captain’s table. But the captain don’t have no table to speak of. Don’t think his man has cooked more than a boiled egg for him in years.”

Fuck all. Whenever Dance thought his situation simply couldn’t get any worse, it invariably did.

He asked the next logical question, even as he damned himself for already guessing the bloody inconvenient answer. “Did they pay the captain money to share his table?”

Punch lowered his voice, and leaned in even nearer. “Near as I can tell, sir, they paid him five hundred pound each.”

Holy unmitigated hell. Such a sum. The unease that constantly roiled in his gut coiled into a fist of angry frustration. And Punch was not yet done with the bad news.

“Sir Richard’s man says how they met with Mr. Givens and gave the money over to him.”

Dance didn’t even have the breath to swear. Givens, damn his thieving hide to hell and back, had a lot to answer for.

An easy berth. That’s what Will Jellicoe had promised him, along with the benefice of the Duke of Fenmore. The empty promise rolled around his head like the echo from a spent gunshot.

Easy berth be damned. Every time he thought this voyage could not possibly get worse, it did. A drunken captain. An idle and incompetent crew. A lady scientist. No stores. No provisions. No money.

No bloody bed.

Perhaps he should just assume that each and every day he was aboard was going to provide him with a kick in the teeth, and set his mind to accepting it.

And accepting it meant that there was nothing else to be done but open up his own provisions and host the naturalists to dinner. Anything less would be ungentlemanly. And open up the captain and the Admiralty to a charge of fraud for having let Givens steal so much of the naturalists’ money.

Yet Dance was surprised to find he had some friends. Simmons proved to be an understanding man, and offered up some of his own provisions to help feed the party from the Royal Society. “But with five extra mouths…” The young lieutenant let the thought die away.

“We’ll be lucky to make it across the Atlantic,” Dance finished for him. Dance thanked whatever lucky star was still shining on his behalf that he had been able to find such a competent officer and lure him aboard, or he might be tearing his hair out now in frustration. As it was … Dance ran a hand through his short-shorn hair as if he might chafe some better ideas into his head.

Dance had set a course on the northeasterlies blowing down the edge of the continent so he might take advantage of the trade winds blowing across the Atlantic toward South America. He could change course to make port in Madeira, but that would cost him precious days they would need later in the voyage in order to round the Cape during the height of the southern hemisphere’s summer, in January. But if they were careful, and hauled on reasonably tight rations, the food would easily last until they could make port in South America. By then he would know if any more repairs would be needed for the leaky sieve of a ship—the carpenter already reported a steady trickle of water into the bilges.

But they would make it through at least one dinner before they all drowned.

Thankfully, Punch was an able steward who had seen his share of blustering lieutenants come and go. He knew his business, and with a minimum amount of cash, and a great deal of inventiveness, he secured an additional hen and a further share of a goat to bolster the table. With the addition of a fish from time to time, and by watering their few bottles of claret, the wardroom would be able to lay a respectable, if plain table. They would make do, and make the best of it.

But what he could not make the best of was Miss Burke, who came to the dinner table looking something very much other than buttoned up.

Perhaps it was that Punch had outdone himself by laying a table with glass and silver and china more fit for an admiral’s grand day cabin than the wardroom in a leaky sixth rate. Perhaps she had always dressed for dinner at her home on the Isle of Wight. Perhaps he was simply a callow, thoughtless idiot who had not looked at a real, honest-to-goodness woman in far too long.

Because to his eyes, Miss Jane Burke looked not at all like a buttoned-up spinster scientist, but as sweet and edible as a cream puff. The dark felt bonnet and heavy cloak that hid her more obvious assets were gone, and her smooth skin and bright hair shone golden in the warm glow of the lamplight.

She wore a wool gown the color of a creamy rose that even though it was as plain and unadorned as a flower’s petal, made her look soft and approachable, and entirely female. And devil take him if the gown didn’t fit the curves of her bosom like a well-filled spinnaker, rising below a slice of skin as pale and luminous as a crescent moon. The golden shadow of her collarbones ran toward the hollow at the base of her lovely long neck, and he wanted more than anything—more than food or sleep—to touch her there, and feel the steady beat of her tenacious heart.

Dance had clearly been living in the company of men too long, because he was struck too stupid by her appearance to even think of stepping up to take her arm, and lead her to the table. It was Mr. Denman, damn his spectacled eyes, who was there already, leading her forward and graciously offering her a seat next to him.

Dance forced his brain and body back into action, to play the gracious host. “Sir Richard, if you’ll sit here? And Reverend Phelps. Yes, why don’t you sit next to Sir Richard?” He tried to keep the older, disapproving men away from Miss Burke. “And Mr. Parkhurst there.”

Thankfully, Miss Burke seemed to be doing her best imitation of a polite, well-mannered lady this evening. Those brightly curious blue eyes were demurely downcast as she slipped into the seat Denman held out for her. “Thank you, Mr. Denman. Good evening, Mr. Parkhurst. I hope and trust you’ve recovered from your earlier fatigue?”

Seasickness was clearly what the spindle-shanked Parkhurst had been suffering, judging by the green tinge around his gills.

But Punch was already ladling out a brown onion soup with the assistance of Sir Richard’s and the Reverend Mr. Phelps’s servants, and Dance hadn’t had a decent meal in days. He had shipped for too long, and had eaten too many cold dinners over the years, to waste time on anything but applying himself to his food while it was still hot. He took up his spoon and set himself to it.

But the Reverend Mr. Phelps’s tone told Dance that the parson was quietly shocked at Dance’s pagan hunger. “Are we not to say the grace, Lieutenant?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Phelps.” Dance set down his spoon and did his best not to feel like a heathen. “If you would be so kind.”

All the heads at the table bowed down to pray for God’s blessing—even the servants standing at attention behind the chairs. All but his. And Miss Burke’s.