* * *
“There is a young woman demanding to see you, Captain.”
Captain Jeremy Crowley raised his head from his breakfast and stared at his first mate, Mr. Thompson.
“Is this some kind of jest, sir?”
“No, sir. She is English, and a lady.”
“What the devil is an English lady doing in Genoa, wanting to see me, for God’s sake?” Captain Crowley knew his question was rhetorical. “Escort her to my cabin, Mr. Thompson, and keep the men from seeing her, if you can.”
“Aye, captain.”
Cassie did not need to be told to keep the hood of her cloak closely about her face. She had cursed herself more than once already for not having taken one of the earl’s pistols, for a woman alone, no matter the time of day at the harbor, was bound to attract unwanted attention. When she had seen a Union Jack fluttering at the jackstaff of a large frigate, she had ignored the obscene taunts, most of them incomprehensible to her in any case, left her mare on the dock, and marched up the gangplank. Luckily for her, it was Mr. Thompson who had first approached her.
Mr. Thompson obligingly relieved her of her portmanteau and escorted her down the companionway to Captain Crowley’s cabin. The frigate was more than twice the size of The Cassandra, and heavily armed. The narrow companionway was stuffy, and Cassie, whose heart was beginning to pound uncomfortably, breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Thompson finally drew to a halt and opened a cabin door.
Cassie stepped into a smallish room lined with dark mahogany paneling that was covered with swords and muskets and wrinkled maps. The furniture was simple and unadorned, set about the cabin with stark precision. She sniffed in the heavy odor of pipe tobacco.
“Captain Jeremy Crowley, ma’am,” Mr. Thompson said.
“You may leave us, Mr. Thompson.”
Cassie stared at a tall bewigged gentleman of considerable girth, whose full dress naval uniform of blue and white, although clean, had known better days. He was possessed of a large nose, a recessed chin, and the coldest gray eyes she had ever seen. She gulped uncertainly under his equally sharp scrutiny.
“Please be seated, ma’am.”
She nodded silently and seated herself on the edge of a black leather chair. Her eyes went toward the small table upon which sat the remains of a sizable breakfast, and she licked her lips.
“You would care, perhaps, for a cup of tea, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir,” she said simply.
Captain Crowley said no more until she had sipped at the still-scalding tea.
“Mr. Thompson tells me you are an English lady.”
Cassie heard the incredulity in his crisp voice and realized that it would be difficult at the very least to convince him to take her aboard.
“Yes, sir. I am the Viscountess Delford, Cassandra Lyndhurst by name.”
The hood of Cassie’s cloak fell back at that moment, and Captain Crowley found himself staring unabashedly at a beautiful young woman.
Cassie felt a dull flush creep over her cheeks, and her eyes flew toward the cabin door. She was suddenly afraid that she had placed herself in the hands of a scoundrel.
“You needn’t be afraid of me, my lady,” Captain Crowley said sharply, her look of panic not lost to him. He flipped up the blue tails of his coat and sat himself opposite her. “Now, my child, you will tell me how I may be of service to you.”
He took on the look of a very stern grandfather, and Cassie eased her tense muscles. All the way to Genoa, she had rehearsed her story, one that sounded so outlandish that she hoped it would be taken as truth. Indeed, she had thought ruefully, there was quite a bit of truth to it.
“My husband, Captain Lyndhurst, is in the colonies, sir, in New York with General Howe. I was on an English ship bound for New York when we were seized for the masts and spars we carried. I was taken by a Genoese nobleman and brought here.” Cassie saw Captain Crowley’s gray eyes narrow in disbelief and hastened to add, “As you know, Captain, most masts that manage to reach English ships usually arrive in sections and must be bound together with iron. This means, of course, that they lack flexibility and many times snap in gale weather. The masts we carried were supposedly secret. They were of the finest seasoned oak from the Baltic. It is obvious to me that there was a traitor aboard, a man who had told the French of our cargo.”