“Go.”
Lorenzo’s smile was gentler now and therefore more dangerous. “At once, Captain.”
He stepped into the passage, then leaned back in. “One question. Is Miss Marguerite d’Ailes the cat in the soup?”
Tristan picked up the nearest object, which happened to be a compass divider. Lorenzo vanished before it flew.
His voice carried back down the passage. “I will alert the crew!”
A moment later, he began to sing. It was Italian, of course. Some ridiculous scrap of melody about a beautiful journey. La bella giornata. The sound moved down the passage and through the ship. Men answered with calls. Boots struck overhead. Orders began to pass. HMS Resolute, condemned to Plymouth an hour ago, woke beneath Tristan’s feet like a beast roused for sea.
Tristan stood alone in his cabin, listening. Then he drew the bracelet from his pocket once more. His smile came slowly. The voyage to Naples, he suspected, would be beautiful indeed.
Chapter eight
Tristan stood on the quarterdeck and watched the harbor. The tide had begun to turn. He felt it in the subtle change beneath the soles of his boots, in the faint new pull through the hull, in the anchor cable’s answering strain. Men shifted with that restless, expectant irritation common among crews kept waiting.
Tristan’s fingers tightened on the rail. Where was she?
A yawn sounded at his side. Lorenzo lounged beside him, still reeking of wine and women.
“What a fine morning,” Lorenzo said, stretching, “to wait for ourbellissima passeggera.”
Tristan looked at him slowly. “I hope you gave Miss d’Ailes an innocent compliment.”
“Of course, fratello.” Lorenzo’s expression opened into wounded virtue, which suited him as poorly as silence. “What do you take me for? A wolf in sheep’s trousers? I called her our beautiful passenger, which defines her completely, does it not?”
“She is indeed a passenger,” Tristan said. “Only that.”
She was not theirs. And she was indeedbellissima, blast Lorenzo’s accuracy, but the thought of other men arriving at this conclusion made something hot and mean move beneath Tristan’s ribs.
“Solamente la passeggera,” Lorenzo said solemnly. “Only a passenger. That is why we are not waiting for her while gripping the rail so hard the wood will soon break under our fingers.”
Tristan released the rail. “Do you not have some duty to attend to?”
Lorenzo smiled. “What duty is more important than teaching my brother Italian? You will soon need it.”
“I will need charts, orders, money, intelligence, and silence.”
“Silence,” Lorenzo said, considering. “Silenzio. Good. You have already mastered the blunt form. But let’s try something more suited for the court. For instance,sprezzaturais a very important word, especially for an Englishman.”
“I did not ask.”
“Sprezzaturais the art of appearing indifferent when one is in fact boiling inside.”
Tristan scanned the docks again. “I am not boiling.”
“No? Then perhaps simmering. Englishmen do not boil properly. They don’t have the right stomach for it.”
Tristan shook his head.Sprezzatura. Absurd word. Italian frippery dressed as wisdom. He had no need to appear indifferent because he was indifferent. The woman would come or not come. If she came, she would be carried to Naples. If she did not, he would weigh anchor, put to sea, and cut off a complication before it acquired depth.
His gaze cut again to the quay. No pale bonnet. No lifted face. No gloved hand clutching at a boat rail.
Master Vale came to his elbow, crossing himself before he lowered his gaze to the water. The slash across his cheek pulled white against his weathered Portuguese skin, a souvenir fromthe boarding of the Moreno, and his hooked nose gave every warning the look of prophecy. “If we mean to clear the Roads cleanly, sir, we should weigh within the half hour.”
“I know,” Tristan said through his teeth.
The ship had begun to lean toward departure like a hound held too long by the collar, and the delay cost speed, angle, temper, discipline.
