Chapter Eleven #2
There was no heat to his tone. Someone could have construed his dryness as a subtle jab, a tease. But Diana wasn’t foolish enough to read into it. He hadn’t forgiven her for it.
Tomorrow, she’d find some way to tell him she could never surrender the emeralds to him. If she did, she’d put his life, and countless others, in jeopardy.
The wind gusted suddenly and pushed a loose line off its cleat. One of Birdie’s hands brushed past them to tie it down.
“There’s weather coming in. You should go below,” Diana said.
Ian shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I’ve withstood plenty of storms on the open sea. I’m not worried about it getting rough.”
“I am,” she admitted.
Rives Shipping’s engineers had designed Ever Hart with luxury in mind.
While its technical engineering had the navy salivating, the ship was also built to ferry four hundred passengers and over fifteen hundred tons of cargo.
Determined to corner the commercial market on the Kangaroo Hop between Britain and the Antipodes, the company had not sacrificed comfort for innovation and speed.
Diana occupied the captain’s quarters, which were as plush as the saloon-class staterooms. To avoid disturbing the passengers in the dining lounge and the crew belowdecks, she took her meals at a small table beside a tufted banquet in her cabin.
The cooks on board—students from the Ladies’ Discussion and Improvement Society—prepared breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner that would have rivaled the service in any great aristocrat’s house.
For three long days, Diana served as an inmate in her pretty prison, trapped by the fear of another encounter with Ian.
Hiding didn’t sit well with her. She concealed so much of her true self from the world to perpetuate the role her parents had carved out for her among good society. It had allowed her to protect and grow a fortune she could put to use for the Stags’s mission.
But now, years after committing her life and her inheritance to serve them, deciphering a way to upend the organization consumed her.
By the time they docked in La Rochelle, she had no more clarity on how they were going to thwart the traitor’s next attack.
Or what the emeralds had to do with it all.
“Everythin’s sorted for the coalin’,” Birdie said as they marched down the gangplank to the pier. “Miss Hunter and the passengers will stay on the promenade deck lounge.”
“Safer to have them all in one place while they stock the coal,” Diana agreed. “Were we able to take on any local coalers for the rest of the sail?”
“Aye. No one pays as well as we do.”
“Excellent. Remind the crew that R she would not linger over the fact that the fire had all the hallmarks of a White Stag operation.
As the cathedral bells pealed for evensong, Diana headed back to the harbor.
Her failure to find the coordinates for where they needed to deliver the women who traveled aboard the Ever Hart made her stomach churn.
There was one last place where Widow might signal, and when she reached the cobblestone lane outside Tavern L’Etoile, she gathered a breath. And her mettle.
Birdie and her sparrows knew Widow left messages at the tavern on rare occasion, which meant one of them might observe who Diana was meeting there and overhear what was said. She wished that, for once, she wouldn’t have to calculate what an honest conversation would cost her.
The ma?tre d’h?tel ushered Diana to the quiet table she’d requested. A carafe of water and one of wine waited for her.
Along with Ian.
In his immaculate gray suit and a blue waistcoat, he hardly looked like a man who’d been at sea for three days, much of which he’d spent shoveling coal.
He must have slipped off to a hotel for a bath.
The only hint he’d spent time away from shore were the whiskers darkening his face.
Birdie had confiscated his razor, and without it, he’d have a full beard within a matter of days.
As Ian rose from the table, his eyes traced her plain wool skirt and fitted coat, and lingered on her flushed cheeks. “You’re late.”
The clock tower chimed in the distance, and she smirked. “I’m perfectly on time.”
“Admit it. You didn’t think I’d show.”
Although Amelia had assured her Ian had received her message, Diana had perseverated over whether he would accept her dinner invitation. “I’m very glad you did.”
His fury was buried somewhere beneath the calm expression he wore on his handsome features. He didn’t offer to help settle her into her chair, which was for the best. If his hands had brushed her shoulders, she didn’t think she could stop herself from leaning into him.
When he took his seat, she asked, “Did you enjoy your shore leave?”
Ian scanned the menu card. “It’s like that, is it? Are we to talk about the weather next?”
“There’s no reason to begin a perfectly nice dinner with antagonism.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re itching for a fight. Look at the way you’re clenching your hands.”
Defensively, she buried them in her napkin.
The waiter arrived with a tray of fresh oysters in mignonette sauce, and Diana boorishly seized one so she’d have something to swallow along with her annoyance.
Ian reached for an oyster with less ferocity. He ignored the perfectly good fork on the table and slowly lifted the shell to his lips before tipping the oyster into his mouth. It was the vulgar way that ship hands ate fish.
Diana found it wildly seductive.
He polished off three more oysters in similar fashion. “You enjoy having a tête-à-tête with me. I’m the only one who opposes you, and you find that novel.”
“I don’t enjoy being at odds with you. I’d rather be allies.”
“Allies who steal from one another?”
The perfunctory nature of his tone was more irritating than his accusation. She preferred his anger over his icy detachment because at least that didn’t leave her feeling cold and floundering over how to respond.
The awkward silence persisted until the waiters cleared their plates and reset the cutlery. “Mademoiselle, we have something delicious tonight. A seasonal specialty.”
“Indeed.” Diana attempted to sound bored so Ian wouldn’t suspect she was listening attentively. The “seasonal specialty” was a code Widow had used in the past. When it was too dangerous to put orders in writing.
“What is the dish?” Ian asked with forced politeness.
“Langoustines in a fresh butter and vermouth sauce.” The waiter kissed his fingertips. “We only have the ingredients for a short time. Our supplier says there will be nothing left in two days.”
The message confirmed the timeline Amelia had decoded to rendezvous for the cargo exchange.
“Well then,” Ian murmured. “These must be transformative langoustines.”
“Can one buy them here, in La Rochelle?” Diana asked.
“Oui, mademoiselle. There is one specific shop.” In a stage whisper, he said, “The man you need to ask for is Monsieur Donastia. Friends like me call him Sebastian.”
Ian fixed Diana with a hard stare meant to attack her composure. She hoped he enjoyed disappointment; he would not rattle her enough to confirm the name was the signal of their next destination. San Sebastian—Donastia, to Basque speakers.