Page 25

Tapping his fingertips on the polished rail, Devin permitted a sardonic grin.

Could he have Mr. Compton dismissed if Devin requested it?

Now that was a tempting notion.

Regardless, he would not exploit his position. That would make him as much of an arse as Compton. It would surprise him if Captain Breckett gave the arrogant blighter his congé. This ship was not a naval vessel where a commission could be bought and sold almost as easily as a flip of a coin or the right hands greased with a few extra coins.

These sailors, and presumably Compton too, were hired on merit, experience, and skill.

The dulcet, haunting tones of a medieval vessel flute floated on the crisp air. Devin stretched his neck to identify who played the unusual instrument. He was familiar with the globular flute because he possessed one—another treasure from his father from one of his many voyages abroad. Devin’s lay tucked into a soft, etched leather case in his trunk below.

He had come upon his flute today when he’d searched for a book to read to pass the time after learning Trinity would not be joining him. He had eschewed reading in his cabin in exchange for the bracing salt air. It would either quicken his recovery or send him to an early grave.

He roved his gaze over the various decks. Muted lantern light caused the shadows to sway and dance in unison with the ship’s movements.

There, near the foredeck.

A man, possibly a Moroccan, with pitch-black hair, nut-brown skin, and wearing a burgundy striped djellaba over loose black pants, sat cross-legged, his eyes closed as he played a clay instrument. The soothing unfamiliar melody filled the air before drifting away on the breeze.

Devin would have to find the sailor later, and perhaps they could play together.

Strange how he, accustomed to crowds of people surrounding him at parties, assemblies, routs, and the like, stood alone on this ship, yet he wasn’t lonely. In point of fact, an undefinable contentment enshrouded him.

Still, he was not eager to return to his cramped cabin just yet.

Three days of his own company in the windowless, small space proved more than enough, thank you very much. Until now, he had not known he had an aversion to close quarters. But then again, until this voyage, he had never been in such a confined space for days on end either.

This time of night, none of the other passengers remained above deck.

The McKinnicks had retired to their cabins for the night, and he presumed Meriwether and Truman-Shelton were ensconced in the saloon plotting whatever the pair schemed.

Devin did not trust them.

They were too slick, too pleasant, too accommodating.

If he’d learned one lesson from his father, it was how to spot an unscrupulous charlatan. Whatever the businessmen were about, he would be bound that it was illegal, immoral, or deceptive—likely all three. He meant to keep an eye on them, and if they approached anyone else about their investment opportunity, he would speak a word of caution in the would-be victim’s ear.

Tugging on his earlobe, he turned his attention back to the churning water.

Earlier today, Captain Breckett said they could expect the weather to warm as they sailed southward. A less severe cold had already replaced that first night’s biting, bone-penetrating chill. A couple more days, the captain assured Devin, and he would shed his cloak and greatcoat.

“Mr. Everingham? A word, if you please.”

Deep in his thoughts and with the waves crashing against the hull, Devin had not heard the captain’s heavy-gaited approach.

“Yes, Captain?”

Grooves from decades of sun and wind exposure etched Captain Breckett’s weathered face. What was not covered by silvery whiskers, that was. But something more than the elements deepened the grooves around his eyes and across his forehead.

The captain stared at a point beyond Devin’s shoulder, his gaze troubled.

“Is something amiss, Captain?”

Did a storm approach?

Devin did not want to contemplate what havoc a tempest could wreak on his constitution.

A swift, wary glance to the horizon revealed nothing suspicious or alarming, but then again, he did not know what to look for in a brewing gale.