The Captain plucked a muffin from the basket in the center of the table and passed it back and forth, from one hand to the other. He leaned back, content to observe events, noncommittal, his legs stretched out long under the table.
Eunice said, “Quentin,” warningly.
So this was Quentin Ashton. Quentin was somebody else she knew from the paperwork in her office. He was Sebastian’s cousin. He was next in line for that earldom the Captain wasn’t going to inherit from his father, Kennett being a bastard in every sense of the word.
Quentin Ashton sauntered over. “My dearest aunt, you cannot rescue the poor of London, female by wretched female. I wish I could convince you of that. You’re trying to empty the sea with a teaspoon. What we need is a change of government. ” He stood peering down the front of her dress. “At least this one is presentable.”
There was a time, she’d have been tempted to lift his watch, what with his belly pressed up next to her. She was past that now. It was a nice gold watch, too.
He said pensively, “It’s a pity. You’ll dress her in black serge and put her to some domestic drudgery. She’ll be useful and respectable as a tablecloth. Such a waste. I can’t help but wonder if some of these girls aren’t happier in their natural element.”
Up close—he was close—Quentin looked less like his cousin than she’d first thought. He was like a copy of the Captain, but one struck off near the end of the print run so the ink didn’t set deep.
“You’ll make her a parlormaid, I suppose. She’ll do well enough, if her employers count the spoons regularly.” He tweaked her chin. Just like that. Tweak. “Would you like to be a parlormaid, young woman?”
On the whole, no.
“You have the look of one,” he told her. “I wish you wouldn’t spoil her, Eunice, with your Lalumière and Wollstonecraft and the rest. She won’t understand a tenth of it. It’s not as if she’ll ever engage in rational political discourse. You make them discontented when you teach them to read, and you confuse them.”
So she said, “I can read, actually.”
He pulled his gaze out of her bodice and noticed she had a face. “What?”
“Read, write, add and subtract, and I know all the kings and queens of England, in order.”
“Jess, this is my nephew, Quentin.” Eunice was tart about it. “And this is Jess Whitby. She’ll be staying with us a while. You don’t have to eat that muffin, Sebastian. They’re rocklike today.”
“My years at sea have hardened me to the rigors of home-life. ” The Captain dunked the muffin in his tea to soften it. “Quent, before you say anything else. This is Whitby of Whitby Trading. She’s Josiah Whitby’s daughter.”
“Whitby? That’s ridiculous. How would Whitby’s daughter get here?”
Eunice swept crumbs out of Standish’s German book with her napkin. “She was in an accident at the docks near her father’s warehouse. Bastian, very properly, brought her home to me.”
“What accident? What do you mean, an accident? Sebastian, how did this happen?”
“The port’s a dangerous place.” The Captain was watching her, being thoughtful. Planning, she would have said. “And Whitby should take better care of his offspring.”
“For the next little while, I will take care of her,” Eunice said. “And you, Sebastian, will see to it she has no more jarring encounters on the docks. I am counting on that. Are you eating breakfast, Quent, or must you run?”
“I can’t stay. I’m expected at the Board. But she shouldn’t . . . It’s not . . .” Quentin started in on a couple more sentences before he finally settled on, “You weren’t wrong, Bastian. I’m sure you did the best you could, under the circumstances, but this isn’t one of the street sweepings Eunice meddles with. We can’t adopt the girl like a stray cat. She has to go home.” He took her arm, emphasizing his point. He had smooth hands, hands like a woman, but he managed to squeeze one of her bruises. “Have you thought how it’s going to look, keeping her in your house? For her? For us?”
The Captain’s eyes flicked across her. “I don’t see a problem.” He was the picture of a man used to clearing problems out of his path.
Quentin thrashed his way through a whole thicket of reasons why Jess Whitby shouldn’t be in this house. Good enough reasons, some of them, but he wouldn’t have persuaded a jellyfish. Easy to see why Quentin Ashton wasn’t a force to be reckoned with at the Board of Trade. “People are going to ask why she’s here.”
“Sebastian hit her with a hackney.” That came from the doorway.
A woman had joined them. She was tall and thin and black-haired, about thirty. “At least, that’s the consensus in the kitchen.” She went to the sideboard and lifted the cover from a plate, letting loose a rich, silver ching. “Ah. Kippers. Much can be forgiven a morning that brings me kippers.”
“I didn’t hit her with a hackney,” the Captain said. “I didn’t hit her with anything.”
“How pleased you must be. I suppose you have some reason for bringing her home with you. Beyond the obvious.” She picked up a silver fork to choose among the kippers. “Not that one monkey more or less makes a difference in this menagerie. Do you know, Quentin, if I were you, I wouldn’t put my hands on Sebastian’s playthings. He doesn’t share.”
“Really, Claudia.” But Quentin stepped away, hasty like.
This was Quentin’s sister, Claudia. The family nose was unfortunate on a woman. In Whitechapel they’d have called her homely. In the West End, she was probably distinguished looking.
Claudia lifted another dish cover. Eggs under that one. “How lively my morning has been. There’s general agreement belowstairs that she cast herself beneath Sebastian’s chariot wheels. The question is whether she took her clothes off before or afterwards. Much heated discussion in the kitchen. There are bets.”
“And that is quite enough of that,” Eunice said. “Jess, this is my niece, Claudia Ashton. She will eventually remember she was raised a gentlewoman.”
“An impoverished gentlewoman, than which there is no more futile creature on earth. Did you throw yourself in front of my cousin’s coach? How intrepid and original of you.” Claudia’s attention was all on the eggs, musing. “So few of our guests arrive at the door in their rosy and unadorned pink skin. I’m sure there’s a story behind so very much impropriety.”
Half of London saw me carried in here last night. “You could ask the Captain.”
“Discreet and silent as the grave, Cousin Sebastian. We’ll get no interesting tales from him. What they’re wondering in the kitchen is whether he compromised your somewhat problematic virtue. No bets, because impossible to determine. Am I the only one eating this morning?”
Quentin said loudly, “She’s Josiah Whitby’s daughter.”
“And Josiah Whitby is . . . ? Ahhh.” Claudia turned and gave her an open appraisal, head to foot. “The merchant. I met him at a party once. A vulgar little tub of a man in the most amazing waistcoat. Your father?”
Everyone seemed to notice Papa’s waistcoats. “That’s him.”
“Quite indecently rich, they said.” Claudia sat down, perfectly straight, and her back never touched the chair. “And yet Sebastian brought you home, naked in his greatcoat. What an adventurous life merchants lead. I am perfectly willing to be shocked, I suppose.”
“It is fortunate my presence makes Jess’s visit impeccably respectable.” Eunice filled another cup and offered it across the table to Claudia. “The less said about everyone’s state of dress, the better. More tea, Jess?”