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“You sail?” I ask Lady Bentwood.
“Yes.” She nods, testing the tackiness of the rail.
“How long for the ship varnish to dry? Do you know?”
“Depends on the weather.” Bentwood steps out of the fog, as if he’s been there all along. “Yesterday’s weather, overnight would do it.”
“And in this gloom?” I ask. Has he been here all night?
“I didn’t see you come above,” his wife chides, her relief apparent despite her waspish tone.
Although tired, he does not have that edginess that comes from fighting sleep, and he’s donned a clean cravat. He’s slept, some, as have we. I interrupt his unnecessary response and say, “Harris set the crew to cleaning the moment we went below stairs last night.”
“Possibly.” Bentwood looks away, scowling. “Though he denies it.”
“You’ve seen him already?” his wife asks. “You came above board without us? And of course, he would deny it. He’s gracious to us, but I suspect he’s ruthless with the crew. Who would dare counter his request?”
“It’s a fastidious ship,” I note, “no doubt repercussions if it is not. What did he say, Bentwood?”
“Ask him yourself, he’s coming this way.”
Sure enough, the Captain joins us. A boxy man with a large presence, he stops in front of us, legs braced against the growing pitch of the ship, hands behind his back, chest puffed. He offers a slight bow.
“Good morning, ladies. Much as I advocate fresh air, we are heading for a squall. You’d best go belowdecks.”
His smile reminds me of someone, but the who eludes me. For now.
“The area was cleaned.”
I put my hand on the rail, uncaring if I mar the finish,
“My apologies, Lady Eleanor, it is both unseemly and dangerous to have spills on the deck. It went against the grain of my crew.”
The ship pitches. I manage to keep my dignity, using the rail for support.
“And what did your sailors say about the incident?”
“We’ve questioned the watch.” Harris looks down before meeting my gaze, serious now. “They witnessed a scuffle, between Lord and Lady Bentwood, nothing more.”
“Lady Bentwood stumbled,” the Earl explains.
“I. Did. Not. Stumble.” Lady Bentwood glares. “A knife was thrown at my husband. I saw it and pushed him out of its path.”
“You sacrificed yourself for a gentleman?” Harris nods. “A very brave act, my Lady, but I’m afraid there was no knife, no blade, nothing.” He shrugs. “Was it, perhaps, a bat?”
“No, it was not a bat. I was injured, that is evidence enough,” Lady Bentwood bites back, visibly calming herself before continuing, “The knife slid overboard. I saw it.”
Bentwood clears his throat.
“Mr. Harris, my wife is forthright in all manners, and she does not create barmy tales.”
“Yet my watch claim that there was nothing to see.” He shakes his head, commiserating. “I trust Lady Bentwood saw something, felt something, and attempted a rescue, but in the night, things often appear darker, more dangerous than in the light of day.”
“What of the scuffle? The two men?”
“I must apologise for that.” Harris rubs his beard. “We do keep livestock on board, to ensure proper meals for you. Sometimes less savoury creatures.”
“Rats,” I clarify.
