Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances (20 page)

“There’s a churchman on the ship!”

“See?
 
Mary saw him too!”

“Why’s he running away?”

“Ain’t no soul on this ship can be saved that fast.”

Others joined the pack as more of the crew sought out the source of the commotion.

A voice rose above the rested, its tone one of revulsion.
 
“Bloody hell, that ain’t no vicar.
 
It’s a bone keeper!”

Nathaniel paused to glance briefly over his shoulder.
 
That alone brought the foremost pursuer to a sudden halt, causing the line behind to crash into him.
 
They went down like pins in a nine pin match.
 
The resulting chaos bought him a few moments of reprieve but cost him his goal.

He turned to flee again and found himself staring down the business end of a double-barreled Howdah pistol.
 
The woman holding it in a steadfast grip resembled a ragged and beaded trull straight out of a Whitechapel crack.
 
The cold gleam in her eyes warned she’d put a bullet in him if he so much as twitched an eyelash.

“Mate, you’re either very lost or very stupid.
 
This ain’t a graveyard yet, but to back-slang it onto my ship is a sure way to see you end up berthing next to the dead you watch over.”

Nathaniel exhaled a slow breath and bowed, never breaking eye contact.
 
“Captain Widderschynnes,” he said softly, his great affection for her surging into his voice.
 
Surprise flickered in her flat stare.
 
“It’s been far too long.”

Her aim never wavered.
 
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t recall our association.”

He knew that tone.
 
Step lively or be shot.
 
“I wish to speak with you.”
 
The crew gathered behind him, a silent, breathing beast ready to tear him apart at its mistress’s signal.
 
“Alone.”

One of Nettie’s eyebrows lifted in a doubtful arch.
 
“Is that so?
 
I’m not in the habit of having chinwags with Guardians.”

“I’m here regarding Lenore Kenward.”

Nettie’s finger flexed on the trigger, and Nathaniel’s body reacted.
 
Fabric transformed to steel, encasing him from head to foot in black armor.
 
Various cries calling upon the Almighty filled the narrow hallway.

“‘Oly mother o’ ‘Baub!”

“Blue damn, it’s a demon!”

To her credit, Nettie didn’t blink, even when the only thing she saw of Nathaniel were his eyes behind a mask of plate steel.
 
She gave orders to her crew.
 
“Back to work and carry on proper.”

A chorus of reluctant “Aye, Captain,” answered her, and Nathaniel listened as the crewmen backed reluctantly down the corridor, in no rush to leave Nettie alone with him.

Her stoic expression grew annoyed.
 
“Move it!” she snapped, and this time the running thud of boots filled the space.
 
Nathaniel himself had to squelch his own reaction to the order and not race after them.

His armor softened, changing back to cloth and the ensemble that many mistook as a vicar’s.
 
She might still shoot him, but her trigger finger had relaxed.
 
She gestured toward the door at the bow.
 
“Walk on,” she said.
 
“I’ll follow.”

Once inside her quarters, she motioned for him to sit in one of the chairs facing her desk.
 
Nettie’s quarters were exactly as he remembered, even down to the heavy silk coverlet folded neatly at the foot of her bed—a gift from the crew a decade earlier.
 
The comfortable chamber reflected a mix of both her rank and her personal tastes—books, maps, souvenirs from her many travels, some beautiful, others macabre.

She settled into her own chair opposite him and laid the pistol down within easy reach of her right hand.
 
Her left hand, hidden from view, rested idle in her lap—or so she liked her visitor to believe.

Nathaniel knew better.
 
The danger to himself was no less now than when he stood in the corridor staring cross-eyed at the Howdah.
 
He had no doubt Nettie’s index finger caressed the trigger of the loaded 12-gauge break-action shotgun mounted and braced under the desk, its sawn-off double barrels guaranteed to put down anyone sitting in the chair he now occupied.

“You’ve always been a suspicious sort, Captain.”
 
He hid a grin when her eyes narrowed to slits.
 
“I’m no danger to you or anyone else on the
Pollux
.”

“Then I suggest you crack the bell, mate, and make it quick, or I might just shoot you for playing games and wasting my time.”
 
Her lips tightened, and she spoke the words through her teeth.
 
Lamplight bounced off the beads in her wild hair and cast her sharp features in partial shadow.

He nodded.
 
Nettie never issued idle threats.
 
“Miss Kenward told me she requested a post on this ship.”

Nettie cocked her head to one side, puzzlement replacing hostility.
 
“And why would she say such a thing to the Highgate Guardian?
 
I knew you two spoke, but I didn’t think you chums.”

The bottom of his stomach dropped out at her statement.
 
“She mentioned me to you?”
 
He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the idea.

“Just today in fact.
 
You’ve watched over her father’s grave.”
 
Nettie’s fingers tapped out a drumming rhythm next to the Howdah.
 
“And now you’re here, making her affairs yours.
 
Why is that?”
 
She perched on her chair, a harpy ready to rip his face off with her talons if she didn’t like his answer.

“The
Pollux
is a risky mistress to serve on, a battleship suitable only for the most experienced crewmen.
 
Her architect’s blue-stocking daughter has no place on such a ship, even if serving under so able a captain.”

Nettie snorted, her suspicious gaze stripping him down to bone.
 
“Be that true or not, what business is it of yours?”

He struggled with how to adequately convey his fear without revealing why.
 
“Her safety is of utmost importance to me.”
 
He tried another tack.
 
“I knew her parents.
 
Jane Kenward will disapprove and Arthur Kenward’s spirit will be troubled.”

Nathaniel knew the first to be absolute.
 
The second--he wasn’t so sure.
 
Arthur had given his only child a great deal of freedom when he was alive, encouraging her various exploits and thirst for adventure.
 
His spirit might well applaud the idea of his daughter serving on the ship he designed and Nettie captained.

“The chance to watch Jane Kenward pop a stay-lace isn’t the best way of convincing me Lenore shouldn’t come aboard.”
 
Nettie’s hand, as free of jewelry as her hair was heavy with it, played across the Howdah’s grip.
 
“As for Arthur, either you just told me a lie or you didn’t know the man at all.”
 
The dead flatness returned to her voice.
 
“I don’t like liars.”

Clearly, almost dying once wasn’t enough for him.
 
His fate demanded he waltz with the Reaper twice.
 
He forced back the warning crawl of armor on his skin and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk in a casual pose.
 
“Do you want her to meet the same end as Nathaniel Gordon?”

Nettie’s eyes blazed.
 
He barely heard the cracking echo of the shotgun before a round of shot pummeled him point-blank in the stomach.
 
The chair rocked under him, and he bent over with a low wheeze, certain he’d just been kicked in the gut by a pair of Shire horses.
 
Wet heat streamed down his torso, and silvery blood painted the strands of his loose hair where they dragged through the growing pool of gore in his lap.

“Damnation, Nettie Eliza Whitley,” he said between gasps.
 
“That hurt!”

CHAPTER FIVE

A HOUSE IN MOURNING WAS more dismal than the cemetery where the dearly departed rested.
 
Lenore hung her wet cloak and bonnet on the rack near the front door and paused to listen.
 
Except for the steady click of the pendulum in the grandfather clock occupying one corner of the foyer, the house was quiet, shuttered in a pall of gloom.

The soft glow of the low-burning gasolier allowed just enough light to prevent a person from tripping on the rug or the nearby stairwell in the dark.
 
When her father was alive, it had blazed like a star caught in chains.
 
Arthur’s death wrought many changes in the Kenward household, none of them welcome.

The flicker of firelight danced across the surface of the parlor’s partially open door.
 
Lenore stepped inside and spotted her mother in her usual place—one of three chairs furthest from the fireplace to prevent any stray coal dust from falling on her hem.
 
A nearby lamp provided illumination for the stitchery on which Jane industriously plied her needle.
 
She glanced briefly at her daughter, features pinched, before turning her attention back to her needlework.

Lenore sighed inwardly.
 
Tonight would be as the many nights before it—awkward conversation saturated in resentment that slowly built to a hot argument.
 
“Hello, Mama.”
 
She swept across the room and sat down opposite her mother.

Jane didn’t look up or return Lenore’s greeting.
 
“You almost missed supper.”

“Then Constance is serving earlier than usual.
 
It’s not yet half past five.”
 
She reached out and pressed her fingertips to the teapot.
 
Cold.

The needle whipped ever faster through the cloth, a sure sign of Jane’s agitation.
 
“Your aunt inquired after you.
 
You were missed.”

Lenore poured herself a cup of the tepid tea, foregoing the milk and sugar.
 
“Mama, Aunt Adelaide does not like me.
 
I very much doubt I was missed.”

Adelaide Evenstowe, a galleon of a woman, didn’t like children in general but reserved most of her contempt for her niece, whom she deemed headstrong and inappropriate.
 
She’d done more than her fair share in convincing Jane to send Lenore off to boarding school, an interference for which Lenore had never forgiven her.

She sipped and made a face.
 
The tea had grown bitter as well as cold.
 
She set it aside.
 
“Did you enjoy your visit?”

Jane’s mouth compressed into a scowl as bitter as the tea.
 
“Yes.”

The heavy silence between the two women grew, and Lenore waited for her mother to fire the inevitable first volley.
 
The housekeeper’s appearance offered a temporary reprieve.

“Miss, I didn’t hear you return.”
 
She gathered up the cups and set them on the tray along with the teapot and accompaniments.
 
“A fresh pot for you?
 
It’s miserable outside.”

Lenore nodded.
 
“Thank you, Mrs. Harp.
 
That would be lovely.”

Once the housekeeper left, Jane spoke.
 
“Even Constance disapproves of you gadding about this late in this weather.”

Lenore picked up her own sewing, a handkerchief with a complicated embroidered border whose completion had so far eluded her.
 
Maybe because she found it duller than watching grass grow.
 
“Mama, I don’t think Constance’s remark on the weather bore any connection to whether or not she approves of me being out and about.”

Jane’s needle flashed and flew, the taut fabric popping with each jab of the pointed tip.
 
“It’s both improper and dangerous for you to be on London streets alone.”

“I brought flowers for Papa’s grave.”
 
She remained silent regarding her conversation with the Guardian.

The whip stitching slowed for a moment before picking up speed once more.
 
“And visited that airship harlot in Maldon.”
 
Jane finally looked up at her daughter, her eyes, as dark as Lenore’s, reflecting the flames from the fireplace.
 
“Your duty is to your family, Lenore, not her.”

Lenore groaned.
 
“Mama, what duty is there in sitting for hours listening to Aunt Adelaide abuse our poor pianoforte and complain that the tea is cold or the fire too hot or the room too drafty?
 
And Nettie is a respected captain, not a harlot.”

Jane hissed at the sudden snarl in her thread.
 
“I’ve never understood why your father tolerated that woman.”
 
Her eyes narrowed.
 
“You realize she’s no longer welcome here?”