5. A Landlocked Captain
A LANDLOCKED CAPTAIN
Reginald did not exhale—not truly—until he had closed the office door behind him.
Today was supposed to have been simple.
Unpleasant, perhaps. But simple. Straightforward.
He had always known Malum’s club—now his club, God help him—was beloved by the men who patronized it. London’s gentlemen liked their comforts. Their secrets. Their… indulgences.
What he had not expected was for the people who worked here to look at him as though he had ordered the whole lot to walk the plank.
It was a brothel, for God’s sake.
And yet, those women he had just left had not looked ashamed or grateful or even relieved at his offer to help them find better work. They had looked… frightened.
Angry.
She had looked angry.
Miss Rose Darling.
Too enchanting a name to be real. Much like the woman herself.
At last alone, Reginald looked around the office that had once belonged to his brother. It was elegant in the irritatingly effortless way of all Malum’s possessions. Dark paneled walls. Shelves of books without a trace of dust. A fire laid but not lit.
The desk was broad enough to command a fleet from, its surface polished to a dark gleam.
Reginald moved behind it and planted both hands upon the wood.
The workings of a ship made sense.
Everything aboard had a purpose. Every man knew his duty. Every danger could be named.
Weather. Rot. Hunger. Mutiny. Enemy fire.
Those, he understood.
A ship smelled of salt and tar and men who had worked too long in close quarters. Familiar things.
This place smelled faintly of beeswax, polished wood, perfume, and something sensual that he couldn’t identify.
Instead of a deck shifting beneath his feet, thick carpet cushioned his boots in a way that somehow felt less stable.
It did not make sense.
Nor, apparently, did Rose Darling.
It took him only a moment to recognize the woman behind Mrs. Smith as the masked beauty he’d made a fool of himself over in the garden.
At the masquerade, her hair had been pale blond, almost white beneath the candlelight. This morning, it was black and smooth, falling around her face like silk.
Which color was real, he could not say.
But no wig could disguise that mouth.
Or those dark and sultry eyes.
Watchful. Knowing. Capable of warmth and sensuality, though they had held none for him this morning.
No. They’d been particularly cold. Suspicious. And cunning.
He wasn’t fool enough not to realize she believed his promise was a concession.
But he’d need that long to arrange the sale, and the extent of the ship’s repairs was still being assessed.
He’d given her thirty days because doing so cost him nothing.
And damn it, he would not be swayed by those eyes.
By her.
There was nothing she—or anyone else—could say that would change his decision.
Reginald had seen too much of such places in foreign ports. Too many women stripped of their humanity. Too many men justifying cruelty and lust with coin.
His father had been one of those men.
Rumor had it Harry had opened the brothel out of spite. It had been an insult. One final way to spit in the old duke’s eye.
Perhaps that was partly why he had handed it to Reginald now, so that he’d get a similar revenge. But Reginald knew there was more to it than that.
The Domus had been an offering between brothers. An apology for leaving him behind.
And Reginald had not possessed the heart to refuse it.
But he had never promised to keep it.
He could not, in good conscience, profit from a place where women sold access to their bodies, no matter how carefully his brother had managed it.
The property stood in a prime location. The artwork alone would fetch a tidy sum. There were investments, accounts, furnishings—all of it valuable.
Enough so that not one of its employees need walk away destitute.
But first, they’d get their thirty-one days.
It was more than most landlords would give.
It was more than—
A knock sounded at the door.
Reginald straightened.
“Yes?”
Mr. Huxley entered sideways, balancing three ledgers beneath one arm, a stack of loose papers against his chest, and what appeared to be a small wooden box tucked precariously beneath his chin.
He was a slight man, shorter than most, with thinning brown hair and spectacles that made him look permanently on the verge of misplacing something important.
When his cuff caught on the door latch, he paused, adjusted himself without dropping a single item, and stepped inside.
“You wished to understand the workings of The Domus, my lord.”
Reginald nearly guffawed at that. He understood the workings all too well.
“I wished to see the accounts, yes”
“Very good…” Mr. Huxley arranged the ledgers in a precise stack at the center of the desk. Organized the loose papers. And opened the box, revealing a handful of keys.
Reginald looked down at them, then at the man hovering beside him.
“You may leave them.”
Huxley’s hands folded neatly before him. He looked as though he had several further explanations prepared. “If your lordship has questions—”
“I shall find you.”
Huxley hesitated, until finally: “Yes, my lord.”
Reginald gave a short nod.
With one final searching glance at Reginald’s desk, Huxley slipped from the office, leaving the door open behind him.
Reginald shook his head and pulled the nearest ledger toward him.
Initially, the books were just as expected. Balance sheets with the expected lists of credits and debits.
Scheduled household expenses. Wages for servants. Payments for coal, food, repairs, linens, security. Individual earnings carefully recorded beside sums held in private accounts. Medical expenses. Clothing allowances. Notes regarding clients who had been barred from the house.
And he knew his older brother to be practical. Efficient. Often a little ruthless; he’d have to be to experience such a high level of success.
But the actual profits were… modest.
He was still staring at a line item for a physician’s retainer when a shadow fell across the open doorway.
Reginald looked up sharply.
The enormous man from the drawing room stood there without having made a sound.
Boris.
Taller than a horse. Broad shoulders. Massive hands. And shaggy brown hair falling almost to his collar. He looked as though he had been built for the singular purpose of making scoundrels reconsider their choices.
For one brief moment, Reginald found himself wondering precisely what sort of protection Malum had required while running The Domus.
“My lord,” Boris said from the doorway. “A Mr. Samuel Dyer is below. Says he knows you.”
Some of the tightness in Reginald’s chest eased.
“My first mate.” He straightened. “Send him up.”
Boris nodded once.
A few moments later, he returned with the first familiar face Reginald had seen since entering The Domus.
Sam stopped in the doorway and looked Boris slowly up and down.
“Well.” His grin appeared. “At least I know you’re well protected here, Reg.”
Boris remained exactly where he was.
Sam’s grin widened. “Or am I meant to call you Lord Reginald now?”
“Not if you value your teeth.”
“Good. Thought you might’ve started putting on airs.”
Boris finally stepped aside, though only just far enough to allow him through.
And as Sam entered, almost tentatively, his gaze moved around the room, over the polished furniture and the elaborate bookcases.
“This is different,” he said.
“You have no idea.”
Sam was about Reginald’s age, somewhere around thirty, though the sea had left its mark on him.
His face was browned by sun and wind, his dark hair a little too long and touched with salt at the temples.
His coat was clean but plainly cut, and his roughened hands bore similar scars to the ones on Reginald’s.
“The Gale?” Reginald asked.
“Aye. She’s sound enough.” Sam came closer to the desk. “But our lady won’t be sailin’ next week.”
Reginald had expected as much.
“The mast?” he asked.
“Sprung.” Sam nodded. “Needs to come down. They have a new spar coming in, but it will need fitting, stepping, and fresh rigging before we can make sail again.”
“And the hull?”
“Worse than we first thought.” Sam’s expression grew more serious. “The seas opened several seams along the starboard bow. They have hauled her out. A section of planking must come off, the seams recaulked, and the copper replaced before she goes back in the water.”
Reginald leaned back in his chair.
“How long?”
“A month, if the dockyard keeps its word. Perhaps longer.”
Reginald exhaled slowly. It was about what he’d expected and the reason why he’d agreed to wait to make his decision about The Domus. But that did not make the delay any easier to bear.
“What of the crew?”
“Restless.”
Reginald leaned back in his chair. “How restless?”
“You know how they are when there’s no work to be done.” Dyer grimaced.
Reginald gave him a look.
“A few have been looking about. Other captains are hiring,” Sam said more seriously.
“Fools.” They’d take a cut in pay and worse.
Sam held up both hands. “No hard feelings, Reg. They’re simply sailors. They need a deck beneath them and a destination ahead.”
Reginald sighed, because in truth, the restlessness wasn’t unreasonable. He stared down at the open account books.
An entire month.
He had thought the process would be simple. Close The Domus. Settle the revenue. Return to the life he understood.
Now he had a house full of women watching him and a first mate warning him that his crew might scatter, all while his ship languished in dry dock.
“Invite them here.”
The voice came from the open doorway.
Both men turned.
Rose Darling stood there with her hands folded before her, her chin lifted. Entirely composed.
Reginald just stared, shaking his head.
Having his crew come to The Domus was an absurd suggestion, one he ought to have shut down at once.
Instead, he found himself back in that garden.
His mouth against her neck. Her lush hips beneath his hands. The calm way she had handled him afterward, as though he had not made a complete fool of himself.
When she led him into the garden, he followed.
And after, she had not recoiled or made him feel ashamed.