Chapter Five
“Is that all o’ them?”
Phylis looked down at her list and bit her lip as she ran her pencil down the complex yet neat columns. Fourteen here, two back, three going over but two held back in case the buyer changed their mind…
“No, better collect another crate from my office,” she called over to Drummond with a brief grin. “You can never tell with these people how often they’ll change their minds. You happy to grab it?”
“No problem, Captain,” said her hefty first mate with a nod as he strode off in the direction of Maundy Buildings.
Phylis exhaled slowly and shifted her shoulders, hoping to twist the tension out of them.
It had been a long morning and the day’s work was only just beginning.
After the Dreamer had docked again late last night, they’d emptied the cargo hold of all the goods they’d brought back from Plymouth—some beautiful things from the New World, truly lovely—and she’d given half the crew the night off, which meant she’d be sending Drummond to trawl the nearby taverns this afternoon to bring them back.
A smile graced her face. They weren’t bad eggs, not really. Everyone needed a way to let off steam.
“Oh, I would love to take care of your business.”
Phylis stiffened before forcing her body to relax.
Yes, she found her own release in other ways—but that had been particularly foolhardy. So had going to Almack’s two nights ago. Very foolhardy.
“Are you going to blackmail me?”
“‘Blackmail’? ‘Blackmail’? Why, yes, Mr. Chance. I actually think I might.”
Her body stayed relaxed even as her smile returned. Fine, it had been stupendously foolhardy, but it had been a satisfactorily wonderful night.
A wonderful opportunity to tease the man who had been so confident, so charming in her office. Where had that Michael Chance been?
“Right, got the crate,” puffed a voice behind her.
Phylis turned and nodded at her first mate, lowering her pencil back to her ledger and ticking it off.
“Pop it in with the rest and make sure they’re tied down, Drummond—and then I want your report on the condition of the ship.
It’s been a while since we cleared barnacles, and I imagine some of the tarring needs attending. ”
“Yes, yes, Captain Particular.” The man who had been loyal to her for many years grinned, his thick, dark beard rustling, as he started to carry the heavy crate across the gangplank. “I’ll have my report ready after luncheon, don’t you worry.”
Phylis let out a deep breath as she leaned back and looked at her beautiful ship.
The Dreamer. It was perhaps the one constant in her life, the only place she had known as home, and whenever she was in dock, it was as though she were a bird that had had its wings clipped.
The beauty deserved to be out on the high seas, but they had a few British contracts to complete before they could even think of that.
“Just be grateful you’re making a living,” Phylis muttered.
Plenty didn’t. How many ships had she seen broken up for parts over the years, their owners no longer able to make them profitable?
A shiver rushed through Phylis as she gazed up at the Dreamer. The very idea of stripping her down for her timber…
“Chilly, Captain Seaton?” came a voice that was all too familiar. “I would have thought a seafaring person such as yourself wouldn’t feel the cold.”
Phylis could not help but arch her eyebrows as she turned around and saw Pelham. “You old sea dog, Pelham. What are you doing here? I would have thought you’d still be in prison up in York.”
“Ah, they had to get rid of me in the end. Too handsome for prison.” Pelham chuckled, disrupting the scar down his cheek. “You’re doing all right for y’self, though I know times are hard. Not tempted to—”
“No,” said Phylis firmly.
It was the one disagreement that had ended their friendship near five years ago.
Captain Pelham, if he could still be considered a captain after his ship had been requisitioned and shoved into dry dock after his conviction, had not wished to work hard to find honest labor. So he had found dishonest labor.
Smuggling was not as popular as it once had been, the restrictions on French brandy disappearing almost twenty years ago, but there were still plenty of people who wanted to import goods into Britain without paying taxes.
And Pelham… Well. He had been all too happy to oblige.
“She’s lookin’ good.”
At no point did Phylis think the man was speaking of herself. She turned with a smile to her ship. “Yes, she does, doesn’t she?”
“If you’re ever looking for a first mate…”
“I’m very happy with the crew I have, thank you,” Phylis said levelly, not turning back to the man who was unmistakably down on his luck.
Or spoiling for a fight.
Pelham spat on the ground, the docks full of noise and the screeching of seagulls. “You don’t want trouble.”
“And you are trouble, Pelham,” Phylis pointed out—not unfairly. “But here.”
It was the only coin she had on her, but Pelham flinched back from the shilling she offered. “I’m not takin’ charity, Seaton.”
Foolish of her to even think of it. Pelham had always had a pride in himself, even when he’d been brought low by the courts and thrown into prison up in York.
Phylis slipped the coin back into her pocket with a shrug. “I’ll keep a weathered eye out for a place for you, Pelham. But it won’t be on the Dreamer.”
The pair of them both looked at her ship, just for a moment, then the man shrugged. “Fine. Fine.”
He stomped away, Phylis watching him with a pang as he went. But you couldn’t help everyone. Some people had taken second, third, and fourth handouts and proven they couldn’t be trusted.
That last shipment to Venice had been the last straw.
Phylis smiled wistfully as her gaze meandered across the docks.
There were plenty of other ships here, though.
She would just have to hope someone would give Pelham a chance.
After all, there was the Zephyr and the Queen Charlotte.
Both fine ships, and their captains were, to her knowledge, a touch laxer when it came to exactly following the import taxes.
Perhaps Pelham could find a chance there.
And speaking of chances…
Her smile became mischievous as she spotted a memorable figure wandering down the docks, seemingly looking at all the ships that had been moored on this side.
Michael Chance. What the hell did he think he was doing here?
After their significantly delightful encounter at Almack’s, Phylis had done some genteel asking around and discovered that the Chance family was not just noble, but fashionable, even if eccentric.
The whole lot of them swimming in money, the pack of them respected and adored by—as far as she could tell—everyone of note in the whole damn country.
Which made it even more bizarre that the man she was watching examine the impressive ship right at the end of the dock was thinking of leaving them.
“Here I am, planning to immigrate thousands of miles to escape my name, and you haven’t even heard of me here?”
Phylis shook her head slowly. It was a puzzle. A man with a good family, at least one pleasant parent—Lady Pernrith had been politeness and cordiality itself—and no scandal chasing him, from what she could tell.
It made no sense.
Well, there was only one thing for it. She would have to go speak to him about it.
“Captain!”
Phylis glanced up to see Drummond peering over the side of the Dreamer. “Yes?”
“Cook says luncheon is ready. You hungry?”
She was, her stomach aching for some of Cook’s excellent food, but there was another hunger in her that was threatening to overcome it.
The hunger for information.
“Set some aside for me and keep it hot, if you can,” Phylis called up, waving her ledger. “I’ve just got to—I’ve got something to do.”
And not someone, her conscience told her confidently as she meandered down the dock, making for Mr. Chance in a non-direct route.
She was not going to lose her self-control again, she was not going to allow the man to pleasure her in that delightful way, and she was not going to be taken in by his large, blue eyes and his handsome expression.
Absolutely not.
“Are you here to make trouble?” she asked lightly as she approached the tall figure.
As she had rather expected, Mr. Chance turned to face her with an expression of soured milk.
“You,” he said darkly.
“Good morning, Mr. Chance,” Phylis said cheerfully, sticking her hands in her pockets. “Or should I say, good afternoon?”
The man did not seem particularly interested in the precise time of day, but more in the state of her attire. “You—You’re wearing trousers!”
Phylis glanced down at the trousers she had pulled on that morning, knowing full well she would be helping Drummond carry crates about the place. “Yes, I know.”
Well, skirts were not particularly useful on a ship.
She’d only worn one to meet with those damned accountants because Phylis was all too aware they would be fighting against their instincts to talk to her at all, as a woman captain.
Wandering in their offices in trousers might have caused their brains to melt out of their ears.
Rather like what was happening before her now.
“And your crew doesn’t mind?”
Phylis could not help but snort at that. “My crew find it more disorienting to see me in a skirt, to tell the truth.”
Perhaps there was a little more of the rebel in Mr. Chance than she had expected, for when his gaze lifted from her trousers to her eyes, there was a spark of mischief there. “Afraid I might do something delicious if you wear a skirt around me again?”
Phylis took a protective step back, then cursed herself for being so easily swayed. Still, the best defense was a blistering attack to one’s personal morals. “You weren’t this cocky when we were conversing with your mother.”
As she had known he would, Mr. Chance flushed—though she could not have predicted the depth of the red. “You know full well—”