Prologue
In the years to come, Captain Webb would look back and blame the mutton.
For it was the mutton served at the Cask and Anchor Inn near the docks that caused his stomach to turn over, that caused his steps to falter upon the deck and then quicken towards his cabin where he might have some privacy.
And it was certainly the mutton that kept him there, tethered to a vicious pendulum of misery and short-lived relief.
When his second in command—his first mate, Grimbley—knocked on the door in the midst of the digestive maelstrom and informed Webb that their charge had escaped, it was the mutton that kept Captain Webb from going out to look for her himself.
Instead, Webb sent Grimbley and trusted that the fellow would do a good job.
She was, after all, a female, and just a slight one at that. What, he reasoned, could possibly be the danger in such a pursuit?
Thirty-two hours later, Captain Webb was much repaired, if not a bit wan.
His bones ached, but at fifty-three, that was certainly nothing new.
Although Webb hadn’t slept for more than a half-hour at a time, it had been a solid hour since he’d experienced stomach upset.
He sipped some watered-down tea, nibbled at a bland biscuit, and declared himself restored enough to wash and exit his cabin to check on the state of his ship.
At this point, they had already been at sea for well over a day.
In fact, Webb had given the order to depart as soon as he’d received word that the woman had been recaptured.
England was but a memory behind them. They’d caught a good wind and it showed no signs of abating; the bow cleaved through the water, their speed leaving a frothing wake behind them.
He sighed in weary contentment at the sight—at least some luck was with them, then.
Grimbley hurried across the deck to greet the Captain.
“Where is she?” Webb asked his first mate.
There could be no doubt of whom he spoke—there was only one female aboard.
Webb’s ship carted wool from New South Wales to England.
However, the opposite trip was always more diversified; New South Wales needed far more from England than the reverse.
His hold was filled with all manner of goods—textiles, boots, plows, and rope, to name a few.
But the most difficult export was always the prisoners.
Captain Webb rarely agreed to it, and certainly not en masse the way some captains did.
But every once in awhile, Hamblin, the prison governer, would catch Webb at his favorite inn and ask him for a favor.
Webb had served with Hamblin and felt inclined to do him a kindness where he would have otherwise said no.
They’d both come from close to nothing and made decent careers; Webb felt an affinity with the man.
This transport was an especially urgent favor. Somehow, the prisoner—one Miss Heathering—had been mistakenly left behind when the rest of the prisoners had been loaded for transport. She’d been found two days later, hiding beneath a pile of moldering straw in the largest cell.
Hamblin thought that one of his own jailers had been feeding her and helping her stay hidden, but he didn’t know who. It was an embarrassment all around, and Hamblin begged Webb to help him rectify it.
Grimbley nodded. “I put her back in her cabin, didn’t I? Locked it and put a pot in there with her. No more privy breaks for this one, not after what happened last time.”
“Where did you find her?” Webb asked.
Grimbley snorted. “Little tart was standing in a bookshop, bold as brass.”
Captain Webb froze. “A bookshop?”
What had Miss Heathering been doing in a bookshop?
The young woman didn’t strike him as the type to read.
In fact, if she could read, Webb would eat his hat.
A thrill of something very much like terror rolled down his spine and lodged in his guts, threatening to dislodge the tentative, newly-established peace therein.
“What was she doing in the bookshop?” Captain Webb demanded.
“Shopping for books, wasn’t she? Strangest thing I ever saw.” Grimbley shook his head.
“And what did she do when she saw you?” He was frozen; his normally warm blood had been replaced with something akin to ice.
“She just stared. Eyes all big. Then when I grabbed her, she screamed, didn’t she? But I still got her into the hackney easy enough.”
“Did she hit you? Kick you?”
His first mate snorted again. “Threw a book at me. As if that would do anything. And there was a bit of kicking and slapping, but mostly she just screamed.”
Webb’s breath hitched. He coughed to clear his narrowing throat. “What about once you got her in the hackney?”
“Kept asking what I was doing, why I was doing it.” He frowned suddenly. “She cried, which was new.”
“But she didn’t hit or kick you once you got her in the carriage?”
“Not a bit. Curled up in the corner and whimpered.”
Oh no. Heaven help them.
Webb’s boots pounded the deck. His crew slid curious looks at him. Their captain didn’t run, hardly ever. It was a point of pride of his, that he didn’t panic.
Webb was panicking now, no doubt about it.
Please, he prayed, silently. Please, please, please…
He ducked below decks, retrieved the key from the hook above the door, worked the lock, and thrust open the cabin door.
A young lady sat on the single stool in the room, as far from the bed as possible.
Dried tear-tracks streaked down her face, but she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders, as if determined to meet her fate with as much dignity as possible.
Even in the dim light, Webb could see the young lady clearly enough. A great quantity of ash-brown hair had come loose from some sort of updo. Even now, several hairpins clung limply to the loose waves. Her dress was of fine make, a cheerful gingham print in blue and white.
“That is not Eliza Heathering,” Webb said; he braced one arm on the doorframe to support his suddenly weak knees.
“Are you sure, Cap’n?” Grimbley sounded genuinely shocked.
Webb closed his eyes, hung his head, and prayed again—for patience and protection. A single glance at the young lady sitting in this awful cabin had appraised him of several things.
One, this wasn’t the prisoner they’d been contracted to deliver to New South Wales. And two, this was a young lady of quality. She’d certainly been missed already. The authorities would have been called. He’d lose his reputation. He very well might lose his ship.
Moments passed, and Webb realized he'd lifted his head and had been staring, grim-faced, at the young lady before him. She did her best to meet his eyes, but there was fear in their depths. She blinked, then winced.
It was the wince that pulled Webb from his reverie. "My deepest apologies, Miss. There has been a terrible mistake—one that I'll see righted as soon as possible. You are in no danger from me or my crew. I give you my word of honor."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but your word means very little to me at the moment." Her voice was rich, melodious, and she bit off the end of her sentence as if she regretted having spoken at all.
Webb nodded. "Completely understandable, given the circumstances. Er, have you slept?"
She arched an eyebrow and stiffened even more. "Would you sleep in that?"
She inclined her head toward the single bunk. The bedding was rumpled and not remotely clean. Webb wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but he swore he saw a flea jump.
"No, I wouldn't. Please, come with me, Miss…?"
The young lady narrowed her eyes and thought for a few seconds. Webb couldn't blame her suspicion. She'd been abducted out of a shop in broad daylight, manhandled onto a ship, and locked in a barred cabin for more than a day.
"My name is Miss Beatrice Preston."
Webb inhaled sharply through his nose. It was only because he was a sturdy sort that he didn't buckle at the knees, but the desire to sag against the doorframe was sharp, indeed.
"Are you by any chance related to Lord Cavendish?" he asked. If his voice was bleak, he hoped she’d ignore it.
For the first time, something like hope lit her features—a hope as thin and delicate as the frost that covered the ground on cold mornings. "Do you know William?"
“Only by reputation, Miss Preston.”
If this was Lord Cavendish's sister, as he suspected, Webb was absolutely going to lose his ship. He'd be lucky to escape this epic blunder with his life. Lord Cavendish had a reputation as a pirate.
Of course, the man laughed this off in noble circles, but the assertion wasn't that far from the truth.
His ships were sleek and fast and armed with rows of cannons.
His crew were mostly ex-soldiers and mercenaries.
They were well-paid and armed to the teeth—all the better to protect the precious cargo he shipped between West India and England.
Heaven help the man who crossed Cavendish on the open sea. Heaven help the man who tried to steal from him.
And Webb had gone and stolen the most precious thing in the world to Cavendish—one of his eight sisters.
He felt quite light-headed and repeated, "This has all been a terrible misunderstanding." He turned to Grimbley, who seemed to realize that he'd somehow blundered. "Have the men turn back for London, immediately."
"But it will take half a day to turn, and the winds aren't in our favor, Captain. We'll lose a week by the time…" He trailed off, finally noting Webb's bared teeth.
"Turn the ship around,” he snapped. “Now."
"Aye, Captain." Grimbley turned and left without another word.
"Miss Cavendish, will you please follow me? I'll get you settled in much more appropriate conditions."
She looked around the dismal cabin as if weighing her options. Then she stood and retrieved her bonnet from the lone peg on the wall.
Captain Webb escorted Miss Preston to his own cabin and thanked heaven that the cabin boy had cleaned the space top to bottom in his absence.
He stopped at the door, not wishing to be alone in the room with her for even a moment.
She blinked at the room as if it were as great a shock as her cell had been.
“I’ll send a tray, Miss Preston,” he said, running a hand through his grey strands.
“And either myself or Grimbley will sit at the door around the clock for your protection. I assure you that you have nothing to fear from us. This was a terrible error. Even now we are turning back for London. Everything will be made right.”
Miss Preston nodded even though they both knew his words weren’t precisely true. She was an elegant, innocent young lady—high-born and gently reared, and therefore subject to all the rules of decorum that went along with that.
And she’d just spent nearly two days out from under the protection of any chaperone—alone, save for the multitude of sailors on board.
Captain Webb shut the thick door behind him with a sigh, then moved a short distance away and started barking orders—for a chair, for a tray, for Grimbley. Truthfully, Webb felt the need to yell at everyone.
He knew, better than anyone, that the entire thing was his fault. It hardly mattered that Grimbley had been the one to snatch the lady from the bookstore. He was the one who’d be expected to make it right.
Grimbley extricated himself from the roiling crew who was working to turn the ship. He planted himself in front of Webb, who was panting and wiping sweat from his brow.
“How on earth did this happen?” Webb snapped.
“You told me to get Miss Heathering. I truly thought that was her.”
Webb could admit that the women bore a passing resemblance—if one was an idiot.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Miss Heathering was wearing a cheap, pink and white gingham dress. Miss Preston is wearing blue.”
“I do sometimes have trouble with my colors, Captain,” he admitted in a begrudging tone. “You know that.”
“No, Grimbley. I did not know that.”
The man shrugged. “Have done, ever since I was a lad. Sometimes greens and blues and pinks all look the same to me.”
“Sometimes? Or all the time?”
Grimbley shrugged again.