Easton's Gold by Paul Butler Page A

specimen in one of his jars.
    â€œI know why he wants to go to Newfoundland,” she says at last. “He wants to try and find his son.” A chaise wheel grates on the cobbles nearby, and they both take a step sideways. “A half-caste, he said. He tortures himself with the past, imagining he has committed the most terrible of crimes.”
    Fleet stares at the gravel beneath his feet. He had not expected this. He can sense that her eyes are upon him, darting around his face. He knows the kind of assurance Gabrielle wants from him, but he is torn between the wish to comfort and some darker, ill-defined urge. The latter wins.
    â€œHow do you know he hasn’t?” Fleet asks quietly. “How do you know he hasn’t committed the most terrible of crimes?”
    He watches her face break into a smile. “I had thought you a better judge of character, Mr. Fleet,” she replies with some passion. “I know him. I know his fears and his dreams. He’s incapable of cruelty.”
    Fleet bows his head, glances down the street—a chaise driver is lashing his horse mercilessly—then looks back at her. “He was a pirate though, that much is common knowledge in the neighbourhood.”
    â€œHe sailed without the King’s seal, but so did many in those days. I believe he was a monarch of the seas, dispensing true justice and mercy to those in need.” Gabrielle’s eyes sparkle now in happy defiance. Fleet smiles weakly in response. “Please, Mr. Fleet,” she continues, encouraged. “If you cannot dissuade him then please join us just for the voyage, just to keep him well.” She comes a little closer and her twitching fingers come into contact with his tunic. “There are so many ships there, you can buy passage back and still have a handsome profit for your trouble.” She withdraws her hands quickly and blushes a little.
    Fleet sighs. “Your devotion to the Marquis is a powerful argument,” he says, “and I fear it will wear me down eventually. Let me see to my own business first, and then I will send my answer.”
    He takes a step back and gives her a low bow. When he looks up, he sees her face fill with worry. “Gabrielle,” he adds gently, “I promise the state of your master’s health will remain my highest priority.”
    He holds her gaze until he sees relief sweep across her features. She gives him a long smile then turns and begins to make her way back to the house.
    __________
    â€œF IVE PRIVATE CABINS, MY LORD ? It is not possible.”
    I have become increasingly accustomed in old age to the patronizing tone and the superior smile I now encounter in Captain Henley. He is quite certain I am losing my reason, and his pale blue eyes convey some sympathy as he shifts on the little chair in front of my desk.
    And yet he is here. If he had no interest at all in me or my proposition, he would have sent a letter in reply to my own note. He suspects there is some opportunity for him, and I am picking up clues every second as to what he wants. Though seated, his manner is alert. He has to stop himself from glancing around when he hears footsteps in the hall. His fingers are restive upon his lap. I noticed he had much curiosity in Gabrielle when she showed him into my room, then he lost interest in his surroundings just as quickly when she bowed at me and left.
    He may patronize me as much as he likes, but I can turn the pages of his mind at will. He has come in the hope he will catch sight of some well-dowered daughter, either for himself—he is only forty or so, and some sea captains are late to marry—or perhaps for a son.
    I return his smile and get ready to use this to my advantage. I give myself five minutes to turn this boat one hundred and eighty degrees.
    â€œI am disappointed, Captain. I have three servants: one man and two women. I treat them with dignity and divide the sexes. Then there is myself; my