How to Be a Proper Lady

“Yessir,” Billy piped. “At the road.”

Viola called after him. “Where are you going? Why does Billy have horses? If we have a horse we might be able to-” Smoke clogged her throat. “What are you doing?”

“Collecting my effects,” he threw over his shoulder.

“Good God, we’ve got to get this under control.” Aidan’s voice shook. He turned to her. “Violet, I must ask you to look after Miss Hat and her parents. They are unfamiliar with this sort of trouble and I do not wish them to panic. That would only make matters more difficult for me.”

“Aidan, why do you believe your neighbor has a hand in this?”

“Violet-”

“Tell me.”

“The native Curacaons of these islands speak Dutch. Perrault is the only planter in this region who uses their services, trade sometimes. If these men say that Dutch speakers set the blaze, they could be Curacaons in his pay.”

“Why would he want to do that? Does he dislike you?”

“My dear, this is not important now. I must ask you to take the Hats inside and calm them. Do this for me, please.”

Viola looked into his pleading hazel eyes and her heart thudded dully.

“I am going to the port. Matouba and Billy believe these men headed there. The sloop we saw earlier anchored in the harbor could be theirs. If the April Storm can stop them from escaping and I can bring you proof of your neighbor’s crime, you will be glad for it.”

“No, Violet. That is no business of yours. Leave it to those men and help me here instead. Miss Hat is a fragile thing, innocent and so young. She needs your comfort.”

She pulled free, sobs gathering in her throat that she swallowed back.

“I’m sorry, Aidan. They must get along without me.” She pivoted and strode toward the house. As she reached the veranda, Jin came out, buckling a belt slung with pistol and cutlass about his hips. His gaze flashed over her gown.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Her battered heart climbed into her throat. “I’m coming.”

“There is no time for you to change.” He passed her and headed for the drive. “Can you ride astride in that?”

She sucked in acrid air. “Of course.” She ran down the drive after him.

The arsonists had not counted on being followed. As Viola flung herself from the horse she shared with Billy, her skirt in tatters she’d torn in order to ride effectively, voices came to her across the docks. They were laughing, their movements relaxed and unhurried, as though satisfied with work well done. And they were speaking Dutch. She moved forward.

Jin grabbed her wrist, staying her in the shadows of the building.

“But-”

“Billy,” he whispered, releasing her. “Run to the tavern. Get the men. Then get to the April as quickly and quietly as you can.”

“Yessir.” The boy ran off.

“Good thing we ain’t at anchor.” Matouba barely stirred air with his deep tone. “But there ain’t a lick o’ wind tonight.”

“We’ll prime the guns,” Viola whispered, “then we will threaten them. If they don’t surrender, we will fire upon them from the dock if we must.”

“Get ourselves thrown in jail, shootin’ from the wharf,” Matouba muttered dolefully.

“It wouldn’t be the first time for you boys.” Her blood ran with nerves and pure energy. She glanced up at Jin and her insides tangled. A half smile quirked his mouth. His gaze remained on the sailors at the small vessel getting ready to make way in the middle of the night like thieves. Or like arsonists not worried about being discovered.

But the Curacaons readied for putting to sea more quickly than they expected. Lit by several lanterns, the little vessel’s deck was perfectly visible to them across the docks. By the time she, Jin, and Matouba had made their way through the shadows to her ship, then silently aboard, the Curacaons were already pushing away from the opposite dock.

“No,” she whispered, running down the stairs to the powder magazine, her shredded skirts flapping around her thighs. “They won’t get away. I won’t allow it.”

Becoua rushed down behind her. “Evening, Cap’n,” he whispered, then another dozen of her crew, scurrying across the decks in the light of the half moon, working swiftly to prepare the cannons. But they stank of rum and swayed as they slid the iron balls into the guns’ muzzles and fixed the fuses. Drunk. On furlough, drunk, yet they had come.

She scaled the companionway to the main deck again. Below her, a gunwale creaked as a sailor slid it open too swiftly. The sound ricocheted across the harbor.

All went perfectly still atop the sloop thirty yards away. A shout in Dutch carried over the black water. Then movement, and more shouting.

“Orders, Captain?” Jin said at her shoulder.

Viola’s pulse raced. She must do this. She must show Aidan what she was capable of. She might not be a fine lady whose hand he would kiss, but she possessed her own talents. She could not fail in this. “Do you speak Dutch?”

“I believe we have already passed the moment for that.”

The crack of cannon fire, the fast hiss of shot, and a yardarm on the April’s mainmast erupted in sparks and smoke.

Her ship came alive. Jin shouted orders, the men ran to stations. Cannon blasts split the thick night with smoke and more heat. Flames leaped and were swiftly doused on both ships, sailors cussed, and the April Storm’s guns blazed again and again, the sloop’s smaller battery echoing.

But within minutes Viola knew it was already too late. The sloop’s sweeps cut the black water fast as dolphin fins, getting her under way swiftly as only a small vessel could without the wind to assist. She headed straight toward sea. Cannon shot flew, canvas on the April’s deck caught fire and plummeted, tumbling down the stairs to the gun deck in a flurry of sparks.

Alarm bells across the main street split through the pounding blasts. The port officials were awake.

Soon enough, Viola could do nothing. Moving out of range of even her long nines, the sloop sent off a final round of shot into the water between them.

“The men are ready at the oars,” Jin said calmly beside her. “Insufficient numbers to make any speed and man the guns at once. But do you wish us to make pursuit?”

Viola clutched the rail, the sloop’s lanterns fading into the dark. “Damn it.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“No!” She swung around to him, heartbeat pounding. “Of course not. We could never catch them. What do you think I am, an imbecile?” She pivoted to scan the deck strewn with debris, pocked in places by shot and burn marks. “Damn it.”

“She is not badly hit. The men will clean her up within a day.”

She knew this. The sloop had not tried to do damage, only to distract while they rowed away. At the mouth of the harbor the faintest flicker of white told her the Curacaons had found wind and were hoisting sail. The arsonists had escaped.

Commotion sounded at the gangplank. A man wearing a hastily donned coat and a gray wig askew, his shoes unbuckled, clambered onto deck flanked by two soldiers uniformed in red with muskets at their shoulders.

“Where is the master of this vessel?” the bewigged man clipped with the persnickety officiousness only an English port official could manage under present circumstances.

Viola went forward, stomach tight, schooling her voice.

“I am her master. What can I do for you, sir?”

“You?” He took in her tattered skirts, then looked over her shoulder. “Is this the truth?”

“This is Violet Daly, sir, master of the April Storm out of Boston,” Jin said smoothly, his English accent particularly pronounced.