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Adam replaced his smile with a serious look to ease her mind. “Don’t worry about him, Rosalind. I’ve taken him under my wing and shall see that no harm comes to him. I think of him as my son, you know.”
Roz thought perhaps she should tell him he should think of Tony as his daughter. Instead she asked Mr. Burke to pack Tony a bag and sighed with the worry of it all.
Adam Savage spent the next two hours with his secretary, Sloane, to clear up the paperwork of his various business deals. He would sail the clipper to Gravesend, anchor at Edenwood, and get John Bull to pack what he would need for the sea voyage.
From Half-Moon Street Savage rode into the city to visit the headquarters of the East India Company, then finally to Lloyd’s to check the maritime loss book.
Tony found she could not relax. The tension was coiled in her stomach and she noticed that even her hands were clenched into fists and she was gritting her teeth. After swinging endlessly for two hours she climbed from the hammock and began to pace.
Hardly any of her tension had been released by the duel; not knowing its outcome and hiding here like a rat in a hole made her feel trapped. Two more hours were taken up with her pacing and still the day had not even reached the hour of noon. She certainly wasn’t hungry, but her mouth was dry and her throat felt parched. Cautiously, she opened the door of the cabin and looked out. Her nose was assailed by the mingling smells of food, tar, and tidewater. There was another smell, too, she couldn’t identify that was faintly cloying, strangely exotic, and insidious.
She made her way along the passage and stepped into one of the cargo holds. The odd smell was stronger here, as if whatever it came from lay in wait, hidden away, yet the hold was empty. Tony jumped as she heard a scuttling noise behind her. A small, wiry man with a ferretlike face asked, “Would ye be lookin’ for summat, sor?”
“Er … just curious. Thought I’d have a look about, if that’s all right, Mr….?”
“McSwine, Paddy McSwine. Sure ’tis none o’ my affair, sor, what ye do. I’m only the sea cook. Would ye like some grub?”
“I could use a drink,” Tony ventured.
McSwine winked. “Couldn’t we all, sor? Couldn’t we all! Come along to the galley.”
Tony tried to make conversation. “We are going to the Continent to buy cargo to ship to the Indies. This ship looks like it has quite a large hold.”
“It has two more, one aft, one for’ard.” McSwine held up his hand. “Don’t be tellin’ me what ye intend to smuggle, sor, I’m deaf and blind.”
Tony followed McSwine into the galley and was about to protest they had no intention of smuggling. Then she held her tongue. She had no idea what Savage would do on the voyage. He was a law unto himself.
McSwine handed her a tot of rum. “Have you no water?” Tony asked hopefully.
McSwine was horrified. “Never touch the stuff. Water’s fer drownin’.” He took a jug and splashed a bit into the mug to dilute it. Tony didn’t dare tell him she meant waterinstead ofrum, so she sipped it slowly.
Suddenly about ten men arrived in the galley and she stepped aside quickly before they pushed her out of the way. Their eyes mocked the powdered wig and slim trousers that went under the instep. She was about to take her leave when a motley-looking sailor with a Scots brogue said, “What’s the matter, Fancydrawers? Too good tae eat wi’ the likes o’ us?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Then sit yer arse down. Paddy, what poison are ye plannin’ tae palm off on us unsuspectin’ innocents the day?”
“Pig’s dick an’ lettuce,” McSwine replied cheekily, and was rewarded by a few snickers.
“Och, I was hopin’ fer crumpet an’ cream.” Everybody guffawed but Tony.
“Yer bleedin’ face willna crack if ye laugh, ye know, Fancydrawers.”
McSwine jumped to Tony’s defense. “The gentry don’t call it that, ye daft bugger.”
“What do ye call a woman’s fidgety-fork?” the hulking Scot demanded.
Tony took a swig of rum. “P-Pussy,” she whispered, hoping her cheeks were not flaming red.
Paddy cut great chunks of crusty bread and ladled mouth-watering stew into pewter bowls with handles. Tony dipped her bread in the stew and took a bite. A smack on the back almost lodged the mouthful in her throat. They were determined to make her the butt of their jokes. “McSwine, have ye told the laddie it’s his turn in the barrel the nicht?”
Mercifully Tony didn’t know what they meant, but she had a damned good idea it was rudely disgusting. She had two choices: she could retreat or she could dig in her heels. This morning she’d looked down the barrel of a gun; she’d be damned if some ignorant sailors would intimidate her. She knew she must join in their vulgarity before they would leave her alone to eat. She recalled one of Luttrell’s limericks. “Heard a limerick about a Scot the other day. Just reminds me of you. Would you care to hear it?”
Paddy McSwine nodded with glee and the others were now ready to make the hulking Scot the butt of their humor.
“There was a young man from Dundee
Who buggered a bear in a tree.
