Sophia’s traitorous eyes watered. “When I was a naughty child, Mrs. Burnett would usually give me a bun. She knew I didn’t break the rules unless I’d been taunted.”
“Who?”
“The head groom’s wife. Mrs. Burnett—at Marston Grange? The Burnetts were the family who boarded me.”
“Oh, them. Well, I daresay her indulgence is to blame for your weak character. What is it to be? Packing or surveillance?”
“I’ll pack.”
Late that afternoon,Sophia returned to the deck. The sun was now only a few inches above the horizon in the west, and the ship was anchored safely in the Port of Lisbon.
Caroline closed her parasol, for the sun was far behind them. Her husband gallantly took it and spun it idly against his shoulder.
The creamy white buildings of Lisbon, with their charming red-tile rooftops, were lit by the setting sun. The ground rose away from the harbor, making uneven stairsteps of white and red, topped with green trees at the top of the first hill. There must be more city beyond, but that first hill was the extent that could be seen from the ship.
Nearer at hand, sailors cast ropes to and from the wharf which ran parallel to the shore, and others set up a gangplank and secured it with sandbags. Other ships were dispersed up the mouth of the river, and small rowboats and dinghies were heading in from the ships that were still anchored farther out in the harbor. The wharf district was growing quiet as the evening hours set in and the laborers went home. Sophia smelled the tavern food—something rich that might be fried liver, and the yeasty smell of baking bread.
“Makes a man eager, doesn’t it?” Colonel Fitzwilliam said to Captain Wentworth, eyeing the gangplank.
Wentworth smiled. “Speak for yourself, land-lubber. I feel I’ve barely been at sea a week.”
“Ugh, naval boasting, spare me.”
They watched as the first mate and three strong sailors left the ship with the violated mail bags.
“Last thing on, first thing off, and good riddance, I say,” Caroline put in. “I have had quite enough anxiety over those dreadful bags.”
“Agreed,” said Captain Wentworth. “And I think Smythe means to follow shortly with our—er—accused man. He wants to get him into town tonight. Ma’am”—he turned to Sophia gently—“perhaps you would be more comfortable in your cabin?”
“Yes. Oh—Oh, dear.” For it was too late. Captain Smythe and several more of his seamen frogmarched Mr. Belvedere across the deck. His hands were bound with a rope before him, but other than that, he looked presentable. His eyes were perhaps a trifle shadowed and his cheeks a little pale, but his hair was neatly held back by a velvet ribbon, and he wore perfectly respectable morning wear: practical buckskins and a fawn jacket over a forest green waistcoat. His cravat was tied in the Mathematical, his favorite, and his Hessians were polished, although not to the high gloss they’d had at the beginning of the voyage.
Mr. Belvedere’s mouth twitched when he saw her, a rueful look with a touch of reproach and resignation. Why didn’t he defend himself? He knew she lied. Maybe they wouldn’t believe him, but he could at leasttryto denounce her. She felt unreasonably angry that he had not.
Lady Marston and Sir Mark came up just after them, and Lady Marston gave Sophia a severe glare, as if to pin her in place until Mr. Belvedere was gone.
There were more sailors on deck than usual, and they stilled as the captain went by, a somewhat grim sign of respect for a walking dead man.
Captain Smythe nodded to Captain Wentworth. “You’ll accompany us, sir? I’d like to finish this business.”
“With alacrity,” he agreed.
“Er—not to be difficult,” said Mr. Belvedere, “but I don’t fancy walking that gangplank with my hands tied. It’s not to be a witch trial, I hope.”
“We won’t drown you,” Captain Smythe said, “tempting as it may be.”
“You may not have a choice if you don’t undo this. I’ve been in a cabin for—seven days? My head is none too good.” He did look pale.
Captain Wentworth inclined his head. “I think you can risk it, Captain Smythe.”
“Fine.” He undid the knot reluctantly.. “We’ll redo it in a moment, so don’t think to disappear, sir. I know Lisbon better than you.”
Donny was nearby, and he spat at Mr. Belvedere’s feet. He spoke on a half-sob. “That’s for—that’s for Gregory.”
Mr. Belvedere winced and opened his mouth to protest, but then he looked at Sophia and closed his mouth. That was the last straw.
“It was not him,” Sophia gasped out. “This is wrong—the mail, the necklace, the bird—it wasnotMr. Belvedere.”
Lady Marston grabbed her wrist in a claw-like hand. “Don’tact any more of a ninnyhammer than these gentlemen already know you to be. Have some dignity.”
