I Kissed an Earl: Pennyroyal Green Series by Julie Anne Long Page A

it seemed so decisive, seemed to divide sanity and insanity, safety and the unknown, he hoisted her trunk up onto his shoulder with the easy strength even small men seemed to possess. She took what might be her last look at London. And London looked like inky water slapping at the dock, shadowy outlines of ships and buildings indistinguishable from each other in the dark, in the distance rolling carriages taking partygoers home, and she knew a certain delight that she might never have to listen to ball gossip again, and fought back the twinge she felt in leaving her family, a family that had already suffered its losses. She would come home triumphant—with Lyon, or with news of him. How, she had no idea. She seldom considered the “how” of things.
    Or she wouldn’t come home at all.
    And as Mr. Rathskill carried aboard her trunk, she handed up a one-pound note to the hack driver, who touched the brim of his hat, cracked the ribbons and drove off. Violet followed Rathskill up the dock, which swayed and groaned in agonized protest, as though predicting a dire future for her. He held her hand while she stepped into the launch, and in the inky, chilled half-light, he rowed her out to the The Fortuna.

    By half past eight, The Fortuna had lifted anchor and sailed from the London Harbor. Flint walked the deck, nursing a mug of delicious and poisonously black coffee and preparing to take the wheel from Mr. Lumley, just to feel his own ship beneath his hands again.
    “Captain Flint?”
    “Yes, Mr. Corcoran?”
    “Mr. Rathskill, ’e brought ’isself a hoor aboard last night.”
    Flint’s head shot up to stare at the man.
    Then he dropped it again, perusing the charts. “Impossible,” Flint said absently. “He knows he isn’t allowed to bring women aboard.”
    Corcoran sounded wounded. “But I seen ’im bring ’er up, sir. Crept o’er the deck, locked ’er in the Fine Gent’s quarters. They was in there fer a time, ye see, but I seems to ’ave fallen asleep, as ’e snores summat fierce and a body canna get shuteye unless ’e falls asleep first. I thought mayhap the rules ’ad changed and I jus’ and’t ’eard yet.” He sounded hopeful. Flint looked up again.
    “The rules haven’t changed. Whores are not allowed aboard The Fortuna. Mayhap you’re simply trying to cause trouble for Rathskill.”
    Flint leveled his best honesty-extracting stare at the crewman, refraining from adding, as both he and Corcoran knew, that Rathskill rather did an excellent job of causing his own trouble.
    “Wouldna dream o’ it, sir.” Corcoran whipped off his cap and slapped it over his heart to illustrate his sincerity. Though he didn’t address the remark about the whores. “But ’e asna been seen a’tall this morning. Mayhap ’es tucked in wi’ the hoor yet.”
    Flint sighed. “What makes you think this was a woman you saw on deck with im? You’re certain you weren’t dreaming?”
    “Well, nay, sir. I was trying to dream, mind you. Verra nearly asleep, But I saw the shadows creepin’, sir, along the foredeck, and at first thought naught of it. Thought ’twas men returning from shore, or the like. But then I ’eard sir, a woman’s voice, raised like.”
    “Did you hear what she said?”
    Corcoran cleared his throat, and recited: “‘What manner of godforsaken vile stink is this?’”
    It was a startlingly creditable imitation of a refined woman’s voice. Corcoran blushed and cleared his throat again, and gave a short nod, like a soprano concluding a performance.
    And it wasn’t something Corcoran could have invented. He was a stalwart seaman and a creditably dirty fighter, but he had no hidden depths.
    “She sounded that horrified?” Flint frowned.
    “Aye, sir. And then I ’eard Rathskill shushing her, like. And the sound o’ the door shutting. An’ locking. Seems unlikely a hoor would object to stink, aye, sir? But I vow ’tis what I ’eard.”
    “It does seem unlikely.” Flint was thinking