“No,” he said finally. “No foul beasts in the shadows. Not yet, in any case. Let me keep trying.”
Frightening the ladies off had not worked thus far. But it still seemed possible that Archer couldtalkthem into leaving. Somehow induce them to recall how lovely their lives were back in London and how much they missed their homes.
He cast a suspicious glance at Gerry and Lamentation as he left the office. Lamentation smiled angelically back, even as he whispered something to Gerry about sea lettuce.
Gerry, at least, would listen to his orders. Gerry had been only eleven when he’d found himself on one of Archer’s ships. He’d been narrow-shouldered and sullen then—afraid, Archer had thought, beneath his surly silence.
When he’d gone overboard with the iron ballast, no one had noticed but Archer.
It had been a hell of a leap and plunge to get the boy back onto the ship. Gerry hadn’t thanked him, had glared furiously in the other direction, his arms across his chest and water dripping from his hair and into his mouth. He hadn’t cried until later. Archer had found him curled up in the fo’c’sle, and when he’d sat down silently beside him, Gerry had flung himself wordlessly into Archer’s arms.
He’d been Archer’s ever since—would follow Archer straight into Hell.
Lamentation, on the other hand, was more likely to charge Satan with a saber out of the wrongheaded notion that he was protecting Archer from himself. When Archer had been sent down from the navy, Lamentation had been far more furious than the rest—would have happily thrown Admiral Penney in front of a cannon and been hanged for his efforts if it would have kept Archer on theSwallow.
Archer had to get these ladies-in-waiting out of the house before one of his crew did something catastrophic and wrongheaded and loyal.
But inside the library, he did not find the trio he’d expected—he found only Lady Ruby, standing on a stool and carefully repairing a crack in the wall with a silver mortar knife.
She hadn’t heard him enter, so he took the opportunity to study her. He had contemplated her more than seemed strictly necessary this last fortnight—mostly how to expel her from the house—but in their typical interactions, he was generally scheming as rapidly as possible, trying his level best not to let her get the better of him. And when he was sparring with her, he could not properly take her in.
Now he could. Her blond fall of hair was pulled back off her face, and he could just make out her pointed chin, the round cheeks that gave her face the contours of a heart. He had no idea if her figure was in fashion in her circles—plump, buxom, soft about the jawline—
God above, he ought not think about her figure.
She was certainly in fashion tohim.
He cleared his throat, and she jerked around to look at him. She colored pink, scrambled off the stool, and then glanced down in dismay as mortar fell in a gloomy plop onto the floor at her feet. Hastily, she drew the stool over the spill, winced, and then thrust the mortar knife behind her back.
She had cleverness and tenacity in spades, to be sure—but subtle, she was not.
“Captain Archer.” Her voice was a trifle breathless. In her brief flurry of activity, her hair had burst free from whatever had held it back, spilling in a disheveled tangle down her neck and shoulders.
He strode farther into the room. “Lady Ruby. Your companions are out today?”
She stuck her fingers into her hair, which served to spread the mortar around a bit. “Lady Alice and Miss Drake are on an errand, yes.”
“I wasn’t aware that they’d gone.” Perhaps they were arranging passage back to London. Archer could only hope. “What sort of errand?”
She gave him a distrustful glance from beneath the cover of her curly lashes. “One expressly requested by Princess Serafina.”
That was a decidedly vague and suspicious answer, but he did not want her on her guard. He wanted to beguile her. Addle her, if possible. He wanted to remind her of the pampered ease she had enjoyed in London and convince her of how very much she wished to return home.
So instead of inquiring into the precise nature of the princess’s request, he lowered himself onto the settee and tried to make himself look at ease and unthreatening. He caught a hint of that luxurious scent—amber and velvet and brandied fruit.
He gave her his best smile, a full helping of dimples. “This must be quite a change for you, Lady Ruby. Cornwall and Pomeroy House, I mean. Nothing at all like your life in London.”
She shot him a dubious glance. “I suppose.”
“Fewer parties.” He cast about for some notion of how an earl’s daughter filled her time. “Very little piquet. Or dancing.”
For some reason, this made her frown harder. “To be sure. Not a quadrille to be had here. However shall I survive the loss?”
“You are not fond of dancing, then?”
Despite his leading example, she had not seated herself in one of the neighboring armchairs. Instead she glared down at him and said flatly: “No.”
Good Christ, was there any other woman on Earth so unimpressed? He wanted to spin her into a waltz just to see what she would say. “You prefer classical art, is that right? There must be a great deal to see in London—galleries, collections—”
