A Different Sort of Perfect by Vivian Roycroft Page A

ashore with letters of credit and currently the
captain's storeroom in the hold was packed so tightly with quality
provisions, he couldn't possibly work his way through them even if
they did miss restocking at the Cape. Even if he invited the
midshipmen to dine with him every night of the week. He could carry
her from here to Pulau Pinang and flip the books.
    But that wouldn't serve his purpose.
    "May I presume you write a clear, readable hand?"
    The paltry sunlight couldn't conceal the
mystification spreading across her face. He hid a smile, but not
very well, judging by the irritation that followed.
    "You may so presume."
    "Because I need a clerk."
    Her eyes flew open. His battle against that smile
turned desperate.
    "Oh, do quit — smirking at me." She folded the
napkin and set it aside with a table-top slap. "You wish me to work my passage?"
    Now for the tricky part. "It's an imposition, I know,
and I must beg your pardon for that. But I cannot possibly maintain
the mission, the books, the muster roll, the midshipmen's
education, and the ship itself, without some assistance." He poured
the last of the coffee into their porcelain cups and let her have
first crack at the milk; he'd drink it black for the rest of his
life if this worked. Allowing frustration to seep into his voice,
he continued, "And I can't ask Mr. Abbot, or Mr. Rosslyn, or either
of the midshipmen to help. We're seriously undermanned and
especially under-officered—"
    "Under-officered?" She shook her head as Hennessy
removed the plates.
    Hennessy would overhear, of course, and spread the
gossip throughout the ship. Which was exactly what Fleming wanted.
In other words, impeccable timing. "Yes, a ship the size of Topaze needs at least two more lieutenants and an entire
wagonful of midshipmen. We could have taken additional officers
aboard at Plymouth, but there were none available whom we knew, and
it can be devilishly tricky, working with strangers during an
important mission. So we chose to put to sea under strength and
work harder to make up for the lack." Of course, it didn't help
that Rosslyn was always desperately seasick the first week of every
cruise, but at least he'd improve and resume his duties at some
point.
    She paused. An endearing pucker tangled her forehead.
"You're saying your ship and crew are undertaking an important
mission."
    "I'm sorry, did I not explain that?" Good; he sounded
like an overworked, under-assisted captain, adding weight to his
persuasion. "A French frigate escaped from Brest and is sailing for
the Indian Ocean, presumably intending to intercept the East India
convoy. Our assignment is to stop her." He wouldn't mention the
Bonaparte spy who'd been captured in Devonport with the convoy's
sailing date clearly noted in his diary, nor the fact that British
naval intelligence had no idea how deep the rot went, nor that
they'd been ordered not to touch shore until the Cape, only pausing
to water at the Canaries, nor that they'd go into battle before
then if they caught up with the Armide . He wanted her
cooperation, not a panicky debutante screaming across the
table.
    A pulse fluttered in her slender throat like the
wings of a delicate butterfly, fluttered again. For a moment it
seemed he'd made his case and convinced her; a conscious awareness
in her eyes, almost a knowingness, told him she understood the
depths of what he'd said, that she didn't need the horrid details
explained. But then her dark eyes clouded. She leaned over the
table, staring down into the linen. More wisps of pale, pale hair
fluttered free, surrounding her cheeks in a yellow cloud.
    "And that's why you can't help me find him."
    He nearly took her hand. Her little whisper, so
hopeless and breathy, aroused a wave of protectiveness and sympathy
within him, and he actually lifted his hand and began reaching
across the table to where hers rested, fingers curled as if all her
muscles had collapsed with her hopes. In the nick of time he
recalled himself,