Chapter 1
Twenty years later
Lady Annabelle Bradford held the mask up to her face, feathers fanning upward from the top, tickling her forehead.
Gems sparkled around her eyes. Even though the inside of the mask was lined with silk, it wasn’t exactly comfortable where it rested on the bridge of her nose, leaving her lower cheeks, chin, and mouth visible beneath the disguise.
She studied the effect in the mirror, pleased with the look of it.
She gave a slight smile and then pouted to determine which made her appear the most mysterious.
Liza, her lady’s maid, tied the ribbons behind her head, pulling them tight and making Annabelle wince as the mask pressed harder.
“There now, my lady. You look lovely indeed.” She lifted Annabelle’s tresses, holding the mass behind her head and loosening a few dark curls to fall gently and surround her face.
“And tonight, with your hair arranged and your new ball gown, none of the gentlemen will be able to keep their eyes off you.”
Out of habit, Annabelle moved a curl to hide the misshapen top of her ear. Fortunately, the hairpiece that would lift the hair on her crown into a high roll would also provide extra coverage.
She glanced to where her gown hung on the door of the wardrobe.
She had seen the satin in the modiste’s shop and immediately fallen in love with the deep blue color.
And when the completed gown had been delivered two weeks later, it had taken Annabelle’s breath away.
Long lace cuffs dripped from the sleeves and trimmed the scooped neckline.
Pleats and ruffles brought out various shades of blue, and the silver thread that embellished the skirts and bodice glimmered in the candlelight.
The resulting effect was water-like, as if the gown itself was made of rolling ocean waves, and Annabelle’s heart ached with a longing to be at sea.
She picked up her spyglass from where it rested on the dressing table, feeling the familiar weight in her hand.
It was her treasure, made of shining brass barrels with intricate scrollwork adorning the rim.
A gift from Captain Courtney—whom she had called Court ever since she was small and couldn’t pronounce his full name—she caried the spyglass proudly aboard the ship, using it to spot land and other vessels.
While she was in London, it was a reminder of her life at sea.
But where were Court and her shipmates? Their arrival was late this year, not entirely surprising when one’s timetable was determined by the wind and currents, but two weeks was late even for seafarers, and she had nearly given up hope.
Liza removed the mask, setting it carefully on the dressing table. “Shan’t you have a wonderful time?” she said.
Her words pulled Annabelle from her worries. “I shall indeed.” She smiled at her lady’s maid in the mirror and returned the spyglass to the dressing table.
“And you must tell me every detail afterward.”
“And bring you a pastry from the refreshment table?” Anna-belle winked.
Lady Hamilton’s French chef was renowned for his desserts, and Liza had a sweet tooth.
With all the layers of petticoats and panniers she wore, Annabelle had found smuggling the occasional delicacy for her lady’s maid was easily done.
“Wouldn’t mind that at all, my lady.” Liza grinned.
Once Annabelle’s hair was arranged in a simple style and she was wearing a day dress, she left her bedchamber.
There were hours yet before she would need to start getting ready for the ball and, not wanting to waste the sunshine, she decided to spend them in the garden.
But she had barely started down the stairs when a footman found her.
“Excuse me, my lady. You’ve visitors.”
“Visitors?” Someone was paying a visit on the day of the ball? That was poor manners indeed. “I am not expecting visi-tors. Who are they?”
“They . . .” The footman glanced down the stairs, and then back at her. “I believe your godfather must have sent them. One is dark-skinned, and the other . . .” He put a hand over his eye in imitation of a patch. “Your mother is receiving them in the downstairs parlor.”
Annabelle gave a small squeal of delight. She knew exactly who he was describing. Fighting the impulse to run, she hurried down the stairs, feeling both apprehensive and excited.
Shadbolt and Grieg, the first mate and boatswain of Calypso’s Quest, had never come to her house.
None of the crew had. Usually she received a letter one week before departure, and Court arrived alone, bringing a carriage for her traveling trunk.
The crew had always met them at the dockyard. Had something changed?
The footman opened the parlor door, announcing Lady Annabelle as she stepped inside.
Shadbolt and Grieg stood from their places on the sofa. Both men held saucers with a teacup, which appeared entirely out of place in their large calloused and scarred hands. They bowed awkwardly.
Lady Montagu sat across from them. “Here she is at last,” her mother said, looking relieved. Clearly she was no more at ease in the men’s company than they were in hers.
But Annabelle wasn’t worried about her mother’s discomfort.
She was overjoyed at the sight of her friends.
There was a time when she would have thrown herself into their arms. Grieg would have tossed her into the air and told her a joke, while Shadbolt would have presented her with a gift.
A whale tooth, perhaps, with a picture engraved in scrimshaw.
But that time had long passed. She was a woman of twenty now, and a lady besides.
And her mother would expect her to act the part.
So Annabelle simply smiled and sat in a chair facing the two men.
The seamen had made obvious attempts to present themselves with as much civility as possible.
Grieg’s typically wild hair was combed flat over his head, glued in place with some sort of wax, she suspected.
He wore a velvet coat in a style long out of fashion with sleeves that bunched at the wrist. It appeared he even wore a new eye patch.
Shadbolt, for his part, had donned a clean white shirt buttoned up to the collar beneath a coat that strained at the shoulders.
Around his thick neck was a strip of cloth, its knot resembling an inexpertly tied cravat.
On his bald head was a gentlemen’s wig that looked as if it had spent a few decades with the rats at the bottom of the purser’s storage trunk.
“I am so pleased to see you,” Annabelle said, touched by their efforts. “Where is my godfather? I am not packed, but I will be soon. Has Nanny been notified? When do we set sail?”
The sailors exchanged a hesitant look. They averted their gazes, giving no answer, and the silence felt heavy.
Apprehension tempered Annabelle’s delight.
She squinted her eyes, trying to discern whether they were simply anxious from being in a drawing room with the countess, or if it was something more.
Was there a more troubling reason Court hadn’t come?
Her breath caught at the idea that something might have happened to him.
Lady Montagu cleared her throat. “Mr. Grieg was just telling me about the sunny skies and fair winds they enjoyed on their voyage across the Atlantic.” She handed Annabelle a cup of tea, smiling as if unaffected by the unease in the room. But the tension around her eyes was obvious to her daughter.
“The weather was very pleasant, my lady,” Grieg said. He reached forward, taking a pastry from the low table and putting it into his mouth.
Shadbolt looked as if he would like to do the same. He moved his arm as if to reach forward, but his coat was too tight to permit it. He sat back, looking wistfully at the plate.
“Oh, isn’t that nice?” Annabelle said, taking a sip of tea as she watched the men. Something was definitely wrong. She tipped her head, opening her mouth to ask, but a small shake of Shadbolt’s head stopped her question. Whatever was amiss, they did not want to discuss it in front of her mother.
She gave a small nod in return. Anxiety pressed her stomach into a hard ball, but she disciplined her expression into politeness. If her crewmates could remain calm, so could she.
Shadbolt took a drink of tea, the slurp sounding all the louder in the quiet room.
Grieg ate another pastry, spilling crumbs into his beard and wiping his fingers on his coat.
Annabelle stirred her tea, tapped her spoon on the rim of the cup, and set it onto her saucer.
The silence grew until it became painfully loud, buzzing in Annabelle’s ears.
At last, Lady Montagu set her teacup on the table, the clink of the porcelain making the other three jump. “If you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to.” She rose, and the men did the same. “It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Shadbolt, Mr. Grieg.”
They gave stiff bows.
She nodded to Annabelle, one brow lifting the slightest bit, as if she were blaming her daughter for the invasion of her home, and she swept from the room.
When the door closed behind her, Annabelle, Shadbolt, and Grieg all let out a sigh. But before anyone could speak, Annabelle rang the silver bell that sat on the table with the tea set.
One of the downstairs maids came into the room and curtsied. She darted a nervous look toward the two men on the couch.
“Sarah, take this tea away,” Annabelle said to her. “And bring a bottle of rum.” She winked at the men, who both gave conspiratorial smiles in return. Now that the countess was gone, they were much more relaxed. Grieg had moved the plate of pastries onto his lap.
Shadbolt shed his tight coat, rolling it into a ball that he stuffed beneath the table. He pulled off the wig and the cloth that had served as a cravat and leaned back, resting a foot on the low table as he selected one of the delicacies from his companion’s plate.
The maid’s eyes went round as she watched them. “Rum, my lady? But it’s not yet noon—”