“What does it matter?” she answered Mercy, not really thinking of her father or Augie, but of Nick Shepherd. It didn’t matter, for Jemma doubted she'd see Mr. Shepherd again.
3
Nick surveyed the group of what constituted Hamilton’s society from his seat next to his hostess, Lady Corbett. As the capital city of Bermuda, Hamilton was the Governor’s seat and the populace tried desperately to keep up appearances so far from home.
The table, a long, carved affair made of heavy dark wood, stretched nearly the entire length of the cavernous dining room, easily seating the twenty or so people present. The women were all dressed in bright colors—pinks, greens and yellows. Hibiscus and orchids were placed strategically in several of the lady’s coiffures, no doubt plucked from their very own gardens.
The men, many of them round and plump, sat sweating in clothes made for a much colder climate. Their faces were red and blustering, both from the heat and too much rum. Rum punch, Nick noted, was being poured as much as wine at the Governor's table, not unusual considering Hamilton was a port of call in the rum trade. Nick lifted a glass of punch to his lips.
“Mr. Shepherd?” The women to his right twittered his name
Nick struggled to remember who she was, though he’d been introduced to her just before dinner. “Miss Sinclair,” he recalled with relief.
Miss Sinclair’s homely face beamed back at him.
"I fear you’ve not heard a word I’ve said, Mr. Shepherd. Perhaps I am boring you with my tale?” Miss Sinclair pouted, making her even more homely, if that were possible.
“My apologies, wool gathering,” Nick said smoothly. “You were saying?"
Miss Sinclair giggled, showing a bit of discolored teeth. “I was just wondering how long you planned on being in Bermuda?” She cut into her fish, forking a bit of the white flesh, and reaching out with her tongue to take the fish into her mouth. She chewed slowly and seductively, watching Nick with eager eyes.
Dear God but the woman was forward. Nick hadn’t blushed since he was a lad, but he nearly did now. Clearly, the ladies of Bermuda wished to be caught by any male, fortune hunter or not.
“Now Bertha,” Lady Corbett intoned from Nick's other side. “Stop peppering Mr. Shepherd with questions. He's only just arrived to our fair isle. I’d venture he’s made no plans to leave just yet. Have you Mr. Shepherd?”
Lady Corbett winked at Nick as if they were co-conspirators.
He smiled politely at his hostess. Lady Corbett was nothing if not ambitious. When Nick appeared on the Governor's doorstep nearly a week ago, with his letter of introduction clutched in his hand, she’d welcomed him as if he were a long lost relative. Just as he suspected she would. The Governor's wife, the avarice clear as she clutched his letter of introduction from the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne, could notwaitto invite him to stay at their estate. In fact, she practically begged to install him in the guest wing. Apparently Dorthea, the Corbett’s daughter, had married the second son of Lord Jennings. The pursing of Lady Corbett's lips told Nick that Dorthea's marriage did not meet her mother's expectations. Desperate to further her daughter's social standing, she was asking him to write to the Dowager Marchioness on Dorthea's behalf before Nick's tea went cold. Governor Lord Corbett, however, was more restrained in his welcome.
Nick's host sat at the opposite end of the dinner table stuffing oysters into his mouth, a stray wisp of gray hair flopping over his forehead. He laughed loudly at something the man to his right said and caught Nick observing him.
The Governor frowned slightly, drawing the deep wrinkles surrounding his mouth into a look of distaste. He chewed the oysters slowly, the jowls around his cheeks wiggling wildly as if a small animal were trapped within the folds. He regarded Nick coldly before taking another sip of punch. Turning his attention back to the table he proceeded to ignore his unwanted guest but continued to watch Nick beneath hooded eyes.
No, Nick decided, Governor Lord Corbett did not particularly like Nick Shepherd. Not a bit.
Nick didn’t care.
Lady Corbett's need to curry the favor of one of London's premiere hostesses for her daughter overruled any of her husband’s objections in regards to their houseguest. Nick could stay with the Corbett’s as long as he liked, which suited his purposes completely.
The man to the Governor's right stopped laughing once he saw the direction of his host's gaze. An older, slightly balding man, his face florid with drink, barely gave Nick a glance before taking a sip of his rum punch. The cup trembled against his lips as his eyes slid away from Nick’s face.
A stocking-clad feminine foot ran up his calf. Nick jerked suddenly in surprise, nearly knocking his chair over.
Agnes Sinclair, twin sister to the woman next to him shot him a seductive look from across the table. “Mr. Shepherd, are you all right? Do you find it warm in here?” Agnes leaned forward. “I certainly do.” She strived to contort her homely face, identical to her sister’s, into seduction.
A lone gazelle pinned down by two lionesses would have been more comfortable than Nick was in that moment. As practiced as he was in the art of seduction, being stalked by the Sinclair sisters was something he wasn’t accustomed to.
Someone giggled at his discomfort. The feminine giggle was followed by a brief, unladylike snort.
No one but Nick seemed to notice. He swung his one-eyed gaze down the table and spotted a girl sitting next to Augustus Corbett, his host's son. Brilliants danced in her golden-brown hair as her slender shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.
Nick’s lips drew together. His plight apparently held amusement for one of Lady Corbett’s dinner guests.
Without looking up at him, she quickly pulled herself back behind Corbett's shoulder, hiding all but one slender forearm.
Not many people, and certainlynoyoung ladies, ever mocked Nick. He'd been gossiped about all his life, had a few bibles thrown at him and Lady Withers, a Catholic, had discreetly sprinkled his jacket with holy water once, but no one made fun of the Devil of Dunbar.
Except the lad that rescued him outside the Green Parrot.
