Midnight Mistress (16 page)

Meg was by her side almost constantly, providing moral
support and a sympathetic ear whenever the pressure became too great. Mr. McGregor was somewhat light on sympathy, but he was full of short-worded advice that did more to increase her knowledge than any long-winded diatribe. Even Commodore Jolly visited the office almost daily, trying to lift her spirits, even though it was quite clear he had only the vaguest idea of the complexities of running a business.

And then there was Connor.

She saw very little of him at first. He spent his time tracking down the local merchants and shipping agents. He’d visit their haunts and hideouts, and almost invariably return with a commitment for a shipment. But gradually he spent more time at the office, getting to know her employees, from the most seasoned captains to the lowliest clerks. His knowledge of the sea was impressive. He often corrected the nautical maps with information from his own experience—and had saved more than one of her ships from ending up on uncharted shoals. He had a way with people, of making them feel important and worthwhile no matter what their circumstances. And his dry wit had a way of coaxing grins from even the most recalcitrant expressions. Even Mr. McGregor had been seen to crack a smile in his presence.

Everyone in the office looked forward to Connor’s colorful stories, but whenever Juliana entered the room, his tales would end abruptly and his easy manner would be replaced by one of coolly civil deference. Juliana told herself that this was how it should be—after all, she’d struck a bargain for his services as her manager, nothing more. But sometimes she purposely hid behind her office door, just so she could listen to him tell his outrageous tales. His rich, colorful stories wrapped around her like a magic spell, reminding her of the adventures they’d shared as children. And though he usually had the rest of his listeners reeling with laughter, she often had to bite her lip and fight back tears. Her father had said it was no use to regret the past.
But sometimes it is hard not to, Papa. Monstrous hard
.

Of course, it was nothing compared to her regret for the future.

Juliana had been in charge of the line less than three weeks when some of her gentry friends stopped by for afternoon tea and to give her the latest news of the beau monde. At first she took it as a compliment—after all, they had braved the incivility of the London docks to see her. But gradually she began to sense that something else might be afoot.

“Well, I vow, the girl was a goosecap and no mistake,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes commented as she reached for another cake.

“Indeed,” Millicent Peak sniffed. “Everyone knows that shade of blue has been right out since last Season. Quite shatterbrained to wear such a travesty.
Très
not the thing.”

“I heard that her father lost a fortune at cards,” Meg offered from her seat at the edge of the room. “If she is forced to wear the green bonnet, perhaps she could not afford a new gown.”

“Then she should have stayed at home rather than foisting such a spectacle on her friends,” Mr. Hamilton intoned.

“Dashedly inconsidewate,” Lord Renquist agreed. “Yes, just a touch more tea, my deawr.”

Juliana dutifully filled Renquist’s teacup and tried her best to take interest in the conversation. These people had come here to offer their support, but she could not help thinking that their conversation seemed a bit trifling. True, a few months ago she could have easily spent hours discussing the “travesty” of an unfortunate fashion choice, but the depth of the affront paled besides the much greater disasters that had come across her desk.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Meg stifling a yawn. “I fear Meg and I are both sadly out of step. But do you not think that we might be better served by turning our minds to a far greater affront?”

Mr. Hamilton took a pinch of snuff. “Greater than that fright of a gown? Gad, what could be worse than that?”

Juliana set down the pot, wondering if the gentleman was jesting with her. “The
war
, sir. I know from my shipping reports that Napoleon’s forces are growing in strength daily. He attacks us on land and sea, and if the tide does not turn soon, I fear—”

“Fiddle,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes commented as she waved her lace handkerchief in disinterest. “You give too much credence to that French upstart. He is of no consequential breeding.”

“I believe the defeated noblemen of Spain and Italy would differ in their opinion,” Juliana muttered.

“Lady Juwiana has a point,” Lord Renquist offered. “Napoleon may be low-born, but he knows the business end of a sword. He is qwite clever, for a fwog. And then, there is the spy.”

“What spy?” Juliana and Meg asked in unison.

“Why,
the
spy, my dears,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes intoned as she stirred a third spoonful of sugar into her cup. “The spy in the Admiralty. Lord Renquist has told us all about him. ’Tis rumored that he is passing all manner of secrets to Bonaparte right under their noses. I have it on good authority that he even absconded with the Majorca papers.”

“ ’Tis true,” Mr. Hamilton echoed. “Lord Renquist and I are attached to the Admiral of the White, and his office talks of nothing else. Demmed tedious, that.”

“Tedious?”
Juliana said incredulously.

“But is it not vastly romantic?” Millicent giggled. “Imagine—a cunning spy risking life and limb to thwart the Admiralty. ’Tis like a novel.”

“ ’Tis nothing of the sort! You speak of a villain who has given our country’s secrets to the foulest madman the world has ever known.”

“Fiddle,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes said. “Napoleon is a
low-bred cur, and his troops are no better. Hardly worth our attention.”

Juliana bit her tongue. After all, they were not privy to the same reports that she was. Even Mr. Hamilton and Lord Renquist, who held positions at the Admiralty, might not have a clear view of what was truly going on. “ ’Tis possible that you do not fully comprehend the threat this monster poses. But reports of Napoleons victories cross my desk every day. He is eating up countries like a child eats pudding. The only thing that is holding him at bay is our brave sailors and soldiers, who are giving their lives for our freedom. Surely
they
are worth your attention?”

“Quite,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes sniffed.

“Most assuredly,” Millicent Peak agreed as she stroked the trim of her ermine muff back into place.

“Goes without saying,” Mr. Hamilton sniffed.

Lord Renquist asked, “Have you any more of these spwendid cakes?”

Juliana stared at the guests as if they’d lost their senses. “But men are
dying
!”

“There, there,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes soothed her. “You must not work yourself into the vapors over this. It is quite understandable that you should feel so violently about this. After all,” she added as she cast a sly look at her companions, “I am sure you are feeling the influence of working so closely with your tame pirate.”

“My
what
?”

Miss Peak lifted her gloved hand to her face and twittered affectedly. “Oh, Juliana, surely you know that is what they call your Captain Gabriel. It must be vastly entertaining to have a notorious privateer at your beck and call. Quite a hum.”

“Capital jest,” Hamilton added.

“It has made you all the rage,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes agreed with a judicious nod of her ostrich-plumed head. “I must admit, when I first heard of your scheme to enter into
business, I thought the act
outré
.” But you have conquered, my dear. Everyone is in awe of your cleverness in gaining such a coup—even Lady Jersey cannot touch your popularity. I vow, you shall be the be the talk of the Season without even taking the first step at Almack’s.”

“Without compare,” Miss Peak agreed. “And now, we were hoping—as we are such good friends—if you would allow us to view the captain. Up close, I mean. We have seen him at parties, at a respectable distance. But to talk directly with a man of such ruthless reputation—what a lark that would be! Could you arrange it?”

For a long while, Juliana did nothing but stare at her tightly clucked knuckles. Then she spoke in a voice as calm as the sea before a squall. “Am I to understand that you all have come here to—now, how exactly did you put it—to
view
the captain? As if he were on display, like those poor madmen at Bedlam?”

Lord Renquist fluffed his cravat. “Well, I should not put it exactly like that.”

“And how would you put it? That you are a self-centered fop who has not a thought in his head but for his own amusement?”

“I say!” Hamilton started. “That was a bit uncalled-for. Not at all the thing.”

“Completely,” Miss Peak echoed. “You should not say such things about dear Lord Renquist. Why, the regent is considering him for a knighthood.”

“I don’t care if he’s being considered for sainthood!” Juliana rose to her feet, her temper rising with her. “While you sit here in your silks and satin, brave men like Captain Gabriel are dying for our country. He is worth ten of your kind—a hundred.”

Mrs. Chapman-Bowes fluttered her fan in alarm. “Lady Juliana, you are becoming a spectacle yourself. And over a man of no breeding.”

“His courage gives him breeding. He has more honor in
his finger than you have in your whole powdered and patched body. And if any of you had an ounce of sense, you would consider it an honor to shake his hand, instead of treating him like some sort of carnival oddity—”

She paused as she became aware that all three of her visitors were staring past her shoulder at her office door.

“I have the ship’s manifests you were waiting for,” rumbled a voice like quiet thunder.

Juliana turned and saw Connor standing in the doorway. Had he overheard their inconsiderate words? Worse, had he been listening during her impassioned defense? Emotions far too tangled to sort out brought a furious blush to her cheek. “Tha-thank you, Captain. My visitors were just—”

“—just leaving,” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes finished as she rose grandly to her feet. “The lady has made it quite clear that she prefers other classes of company. We shall not trouble you again. Come, Lord Renquist, Mr. Hamilton, Miss Peak.”

Mr. Hamilton did not have to be told twice. He skirted Connor like a wary mouse skittering past a resting lion. Miss Peak was less eager to leave. She gazed at Connor like a star-struck debutante. “But he is here, madam. Could we not just stay awhile and—”

“We are leaving!” Mrs. Chapman-Bowes hustled the girl past the captain, then turned to give Juliana a final scathing glance. “I am the soul of forgiveness, but you have behaved most uncivilly to me, Lady Juliana. You have not heard the end of this. Now, be so good as to have someone escort us out.”

Meg jumped to her feet. “I’ll do it,” she stated. And, as she passed Juliana, she added quietly, “ ’Twill be a pleasure to close the door behind these prattle-boxes.”

After they left, Juliana sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her arms in front of her. She glanced at Connor, who had not moved from the doorway. “I am sorry if you heard what they were saying. It was unconscionable.”

“I have endured far worse,” he said simply. “But I’ll admit—I did not expect our fighting men to be so well defended.”

His expression never changed, and yet she felt a warmth curl through her at the compliment, a pleasure she hadn’t felt since her days at sea, when her only judges were the waves and wind and her only goal a steady course.

She shook her head. “Mrs. Chapman-Bowes is a powerful woman. Her word in the right ear can make or break a reputation—and I do not think she was mightily impressed by my behavior. ’Tis possible she could damage my position in society … and Father was so proud of what I’d accomplished. He would be mightily disappointed in me.”

For a long while Connor said nothing. Then he walked over to the office window, and looked out at the busy Thames. “I believe you are right. Your father would have been disappointed in you. After all, if you were a truly savvy businesswoman, you would have promoted me as a carnival oddity, and charged a penny for the viewing. Your father was never one to miss a chance at easy profit.”

Connor turned around and looked at her, his eyes gleaming. And for the first time in years, the two shared a smile.

These were good days for Juliana. Long days, to be sure, for she worked harder than she ever had in her life. But being near Connor made the time fly by. After the day she defended him against her peers, he no longer avoided her office and often stopped by to discuss the cargo shipments and trade routes. When they sat down across the desk from each other, they were no longer the great lady and the notorious privateer—they were simply two people who shared the same dream, to make the Marquis Line a success. And because neither was the kind to change course without a fight, that shared dream sometimes resulted in an argument that could be heard by the whole of Wapping.

“No, no, no,” Connor stated as he paced Juliana’s office one afternoon in early March. “You cannot give Captain Jamison the
Reliant
. The ship is bound for India, and Jamison has barely got his sea legs.”

“But he has a sharp mind and a brave heart,” Juliana argued as she sat at the desk and grabbed a sheet of paper. “Here, look at this. Jamison’s first request for command is dated over a year ago. He deserves a chance to prove his worth.”

“God’s teeth, woman, we are not running a charity! Jamison is a fine man, but he lacks seasoning. Now, there is a command—” He shuffled through the papers on Juliana’s desk as if it were his own. “Here. The Lisbon convoy. It leaves in a week’s time with three of our ships. He can pilot the
Pelican
.”

Juliana rolled her eyes. “Connor,
I
could pilot the
Pelican
on the Lisbon route. ’Tis a biscuit run.”

“ ’Tis a biscuit run past the coast of France. I agree that nothing is likely to happen—Bonaparte is after ordnance, not tea and sugar. But the winds off the Bay of Biscay can be challenging in this season, and it will be a good test of his mettle. If he performs well on the run, we can consider him for a command on the next long voyage.” He sat on the edge of her desk and crossed his anus across his chest, grinning. “You
know
that I am right.”