“You’ve read this book before?”
“Oui. He compares the social and philosophical life of the English with that of the French.”
“Most useful for an émigré condemned to live on our damp island.” Alex looked at her oddly. “You are certainly the best-read servant I have ever met.”
Christa shrugged nonchalantly. “Reading is a simple pleasure that fills the hours of waiting. An abigail has many of those.”
“So does a sailor, but being crude creatures, we are more apt to fill them with drink. Would you care to join me?”
She said hesitantly, “I really should not.”
Alex grimaced. “Because I am the master and you are a maid?” At her nod, he said, “I promise not to tell anyone if you won’t. Having removed that barrier, what would you like?” He crossed to a cabinet that concealed bottles of every beverage imaginable.
“If we are to drink like sailors, surely rum would be most proper?”
He laughed. “You can if you like, but I prefer Irish whiskey myself.”
“In that case, some cognac would be nice.”
Alex located the appropriate bottle and poured some in a cut-crystal goblet. When Christa took it from him, she gently swirled the amber liquid, then sniffed it, giving a soft sigh of pleasure. “Your cellar is very fine.”
“It should be. I expect that brandy is older than you are.” They drifted back to the fire, sitting in chairs facing each other.
“Do you think so?” she said incautiously. “I should have thought it was made about 1775.”
Alex’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, golden arcs in the firelight that sculpted his high cheekbones and long jaw. “Your palate is as well educated as your mind. You must also be older than I would have guessed.”
“I am twenty-four, my lord.”
“You don’t look it.” Alex eyed her thoughtfully. He’d supposed Christa to be nineteen or twenty. Should it make a difference that she was older, with more experience and judgment? She looked so enticing, her lively hands still, her dark curls for once free of the ubiquitous mobcap.
As she sipped her brandy, Christa pondered whether she should broach the subject of Annabelle and Sir Edward. When she had asked her mistress about him earlier in the day, Annabelle had changed the subject with almost feverish anxiety. Christa felt torn between loyalties: Alex had asked her to watch out for Annabelle, but she hated to carry tales and feared that Annabelle would never forgive her for it.
After some minutes of comfortable silence, Christa said slowly, “I have been worried about Annabelle, my lord.”
He knit his brows and admitted, “So have I. She seems strained. I wonder if she is doing too much.” Then he gave his devastating smile and added, “Since we are private, I would prefer you called me Alex.”
His caressing voice drove all thought of Annabelle from Christa’s mind. She should make her good night and leave because staying under such intimate conditions was playing with fire, but while she acknowledged the danger, she made no move to depart. Christa had missed the companionship of the summer and daily contact with the three Kingsleys on an informal basis.
Most of all, she missed Alex—the passing weeks had not made her feel less in love with him. To sit together companionably, talking or not talking as they chose. It might be dangerous, but she was willing to risk the price.
“Very well, Alex,” Christa said calmly, her voice reflecting none of her longing. “Are you finding London comfortable?”
“Much more so than I expected,” Alex admitted. “To be a ship’s captain is one of the loneliest jobs on earth. A captain must never be too familiar because it makes junior officers and sailors uneasy. The quarters are too close, and too much intimacy undermines the respect and authority the captain must have.”
“The loneliness of command?”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “It’s a cliché, but absolutely true nonetheless. A captain eats most meals alone, walks the quarterdeck alone, has no one to talk or joke with. Did you know that a navy captain has more power on a ship than the king himself? I could order a man flogged; Farmer George could not.”
“Did you have men flogged often?”
“Not often, but sometimes it was necessary. Sailors are a rough lot. Some come directly from the jails and prisons. I always told them that they started on my ship with a clean slate, and in general that worked well. Most were good men who needed no more than a fair chance and enough to eat. But there were exceptions, and discipline is essential.”
Alex stared into the flickering yellow flames for a few moments. “Sea captains are the last of the absolute monarchs, and some are more than a little mad, ordering their crews to share in their madness. Some preach religion, or order the decks scrubbed a dozen times a day, or insist their men wear a particular kind of hat. As long as they do their job, the Admiralty won’t interfere.”
He smiled wryly. “I’m sure that you can imagine what a pleasure it is to go to White’s or Brooks’s or a hundred other places and relax without remembering my dignity.”
Christa laughed. “I think that standing on your dignity could not have been easy for you.”
