And this wasn’t his crew to command. Not anymore.
Nylander, the man observing him and his closest childhood mate, was now captain of theFortuyn. This washiscrew to command.
Jake stood on the verge of crossing a line, if he hadn’t already. His function today was purely administrative on behalf of his family’s shipping interests. “Are you on schedule to unload her at the Pool before nightfall?” The Pool of London was a bureaucratic mess, but a necessary destination for all trade vessels making their way up the Thames.
Nylander nodded sharply before replying, “The men are anxious for home.”
Although the ship sailed under the protection of England’s colors thanks to Jake’s patrilineal line, home for many of the crew was the Kingdom of the Netherlands. It was obvious in the efficiency of their movements that both captain and crew were anxious to be on their way. They would have been separated from their families for more than a year.
Disappointment shot through Jake. “Ah, well, next trip I’ll buy you a pint, and you can regale me with a seaworthy tale or two.”
“Next trip.” Nylander paused, avoiding Jake’s gaze, before adding, “my lord.” The Dutch weren’t known for mincing words.
Jake’s past life had slipped through his fingers. No longer a sailor. No longer one of them, Nylander’s tactfully averted eyes told him. A viscount didn’t risk his precious, noble hide to captain ships or partake of any occupation that hinted at trade. He dutifully split his time between London and his country estates.
The bitterness of it clogged his throat. Christ, how he missed the open sea. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to be done with this meeting and off this ship. “All looks in order.” He passed the paperwork to his steward, Payne. “Captain, Godspeed.”
He held out his hand to shake Nylander’s. Rough callouses lined the captain’s palm, and Jake realized with a start that his own were fading. Soft hands, one of the many privileges of the soft life of a gentleman. He’d spent too much time in a seated position, attempting to balance a dead man’s books that refused to balance. A cord of wood must need chopping somewhere in Belgravia.
Another curt nod and Nylander’s sun-bleached head whipped around as he issued commands to the active crew, his attention concentrated on the monumental task of accounting for cargo accumulated over several months from myriad ports lining the Pacific and Indian Oceans.
Jake stepped off the gangway and onto dry land, Payne, mosquito-like, racing to catch him. Payne had also been the previous viscount’s steward. “Shall I summon your coach, my lord?” The tip of the servant’s thin, needle-like nose moved in unison with each word he spoke. A nose, Jake couldn’t help reflecting, which was a perfect counterpoint to the rest of the man’s rotund, yet compact, body.
“That won’t be necessary.” Jake quickened his step. “You take the carriage, and I shall walk.”
“Walk, my lord?” Payne called out, winded trying to keep up.
Jake came to a sudden stop and pointed his face toward a gray sky that precisely mirrored his mood. “I shall place one foot in front of the other until I’ve reached my destination.”
“Through Limehouse?” Payne struggled to keep up. “And the East End, my lord?”
“We shall review the ship’s accounting in the hour before tea,” Jake called over his shoulder, each step separating him from Payne, propelling him toward freedom as he set out onto damp, narrow streets.
“My Lord St. Alban,” Payne acceded, defeat evident in his fading voice.
St. Alban.
The Dowager had been right: he was St. Alban. It was time to get on with it.
However, she’d been wrong in one regard. He wouldn’t play protégé to the Duke of Arundel. He didn’t trust the advice of any man from a social class whose sole purpose was to lead as unproductive lives as possible. He couldn’t understand a man who didn’t want to dirty his hands from time to time or enjoy a frothy pint at the end of an honest day’s work.
To be fair, the Duke did appear to have a shrewd brain in his head. But Jake was determined to stay away from the man for an additional and entirely different reason: Lady Olivia.
He wasn’t sure what had been in the air last night, but in the light of day, he saw matters more clearly. And the fact of the matter was this: Lady Olivia may be connected to every lord and lady in London, but the woman was a walking scandal.
He would stop thinking about her and focus on any number of the ladies the Dowager had introduced to him last night after Lady Olivia left. Like Miss Fox, the only daughter of a baron and an ideal match, according to the Dowager. The lady had a spotless reputation with not a hint of scandal hanging about her. And if she was a little plain, well, he couldn’t hold that against her. Every woman was a little plain compared to . . .
Lady Olivia. There she was again, popping into his head. The woman intrigued him too much by half. Perhaps that was why he’d relentlessly provoked her.
It was possible he owed her an apology, except he didn’t feel apologetic. Not when she held her tongue in such controlled reserve, yet her eyes flashed hot and pretty blushes crept up from the creamy depths of her décolletage.
He would be willing to wager that he hadn’t been the only one interested, engaged, and enlivened by their banter.
No matter. He must banish her from his mind. She wasn’t right for him. More importantly, she wasn’t right for Mina. Mina needed a guide through Society who was wholesome and unblemished, who never spoke a wrong word and never took a wrong step. And Lady Olivia, well, she exemplified none of those qualities.
“Sir! Sir!” he heard behind him. A quick backward glance revealed a street urchin on his tail, a plaintive cry on his lips. “Milord! Milord! A penny, sir? A farthing, milord?”
Jake stopped and pulled a crown from his vest pocket. He watched the boy’s eyes go canny and wide as the coin glinted silver in a fleeting ray of sunlight. Before he could reconsider his offer, the urchin snatched it from his outstretched fingers and ran down a rancid alley as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him.
