Dominica smiled secretly. “I will wear it,” she said.
Maria stared. “Your finest gown to be wasted on a party of English pirates! Now if it were Don Juan—”
Dominica was impatient suddenly. “Don Juan! A fool! A beaten braggart! He strutted, and swore he would sink this ship to the bottom of the sea, and take the great Beauvallet a prisoner to Spain! I hate a man to be beaten! Lay out the gown, girl. I will wear it, and the rubies too.”
“Never say so, señorita!” cried Maria in genuine horror. “I have your jewels safe hid in my bosom. They would tear them from your neck!”
“The rubies!” Dominica repeated. “We are here as the guests of El Beauvallet, and I vow we will play the part right royally!”
There was a soft scratching on the door, and Don Manuel came in. “Well, my child?” he said, and looked around him with approval.
Doña Dominica waved her hand. “As you see, señor, I am very well. And you?”
He nodded, and came to sit beside her. “They house us snugly enough. There is a strange creature giving orders to my man at this moment. He says he is El Beauvallet’s lackey. I do not understand these English servants, and the license they have. The creature talks without pause.” He drew his gown about his knees. “We labour with the unexpected,” he complained, and looked gravely at his daughter. “The commander bids us to supper. We shall not forget, Dominica, that we sail as guests upon this ship.”
“No,” said Dominica doubtfully.
“We shall use Sir Nicholas with courtesy,” added Don Manuel.
“Yes, señor,” said Dominica, more doubtfully still.
An hour later Joshua came once more to her door. Supper awaited her, he said, and bowed her down the alleyway to the stateroom. She went regally, and rubies glowed on her bosom. The dull red of her stiff gown made her skin appear the whiter; she carried a fan of feathers in her hand, and had a wired ruff of lace sewn over with jewels behind her head.
The stateroom was low-pitched, lit by two lamps hung on chains from the thick beams above. On the bulkhead opposite the door arms were emblazoned, arms crossed with the bar sinister, and with a scroll round the base, bearing the legend Sans Peur
. A table was spread in the middle of the room, and there were high-backed chairs of Spanish make set round it. Beside one of these was standing Master Dangerfield, point-de-vice in a bombasted doublet of grograine, and the famous Venice hosen. He bowed and blushed when he saw Dominica, and was eager to set a chair for her.
She had no quarrel with Dangerfield; she smiled upon him, enslaved him straightway, and sat her down at the table, unconcernedly fanning herself.
There was a cheerful voice uplifted without, a strong masculine voice that had a ringing quality. One might always know when Sir Nicholas Beauvallet approached.
He came in, apparently cracking some jest, escorting Don Manuel.
Dominica surveyed him through her lashes. Even in dinted armour, with his hair damp with sweat, and his hands grimed with powder he had appeared to her personable. She saw him now transformed.
He wore a purple doublet, slashed and paned, with great sleeves slit to show stitched linen beneath. A high collar clipped his throat about, and had a little starched ruff atop. Over it jutted his beard: none of your spade beards, this, but a rare stiletto, black as his close hair. He affected the round French hosen, puffed about the thighs, and the netherstocks known in England as Lord Leicester’s, since only a man with as good a leg as his might reasonably wear them. There were rosettes upon his shoon, and knotted garters, rich with silver lace, below his knees. Starched handruffs were turned back from his wrists; he wore a jewel on one long finger, and about his neck a golden chain with a scented pomander hanging from it.
He entered, and his quick glance took in Dominica at the table. He swept her a bow, and showed his even white teeth in a smile that was boyish and swift, and curiously infectious. “Well, met, señora! Has my rogue seen to your comfort? A chair for Don Manuel, Diccon!” The room seemed to be full of Sir Nicholas Beauvallet, a forceful presence.
“I am ashamed to have stolen Señor Dangerfield’s cabin from him,” Dominica said, with a pretty smile bestowed upon Richard.
He stammered a disclaimer. It was an honour, a privilege. Dominica, choosing to ignore Beauvallet at the head of the table, pursued a halting conversation with Dangerfield, exerting herself to captivate. No difficult task this: the lad looked with eyes of shy admiration already.
“A strange, whimsical fellow ordered everything, señor,” she said. “I cry pardon: it was not I threw your traps out on to the alleyway! I hope the master was not so incensed as was the man?”
Dangerfield smiled. “Ay, that would be Joshua, señora. My man’s a fool, a dolt. He is greatly enraged against Joshua. You must understand, señora, that Joshua is an original. I dare say he boasted to you of Sir Nicholas’ exploits—always coupling himself with his master?”
Dominica had nothing to say to this. Dangerfield plodded on. “It is his way, but I believe he is the only one of our company who takes it upon himself to censure his master. To the world he says that Sir Nicholas is second only to God; to Sir Nicholas’ self he says—” he broke off, and turned a laughing, quizzical look on his chief.
Sir Nicholas turned his head; Dominica had not thought that he was attending. “Ah, to Sir Nicholas’ self he says what Sir Nicholas’ dignity will not permit him to repeat,” said Beauvallet, smiling. He turned back to Don Manuel, who had broken off in the middle of a sentence.
“Your servant did not seem to hold him in so great esteem as he holds himself, señor,” said Dominica.
“Ah, no, señora, but then he threw my
