a murderer of old dears, Mrs Paul.’
‘I am not,’ she said amicably. ‘I had been six weeks without a position, sir, when I found one here in Plymouth.’
‘Where were you living?’
‘In Bath. Old dears, as you call them, like to drink the water in the Pump Room.’ She made a face, which was eloquent enough for him. She sobered quickly. ‘I finally received a position and just enough money to take the mail coach.’
She stopped talking and he could tell her fear was returning. All he could do was joke with her, even though he wanted to take her hand and give it a squeeze. ‘Let me guess: they were sobersides who didn’t see the fun in your charming accent.’
She shook her head. ‘Mrs Cole died the day before I arrived.’ She hesitated.
‘What did you do?’ he asked quietly.
‘I asked for the fare back to Bath, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’ Mrs Paul’s face hardened. ‘She had her butler shoo me off the front steps.’
And I am nervous about two silly sisters? Bright asked himself. ‘Is there something for you in Bath?’
She was silent a long moment. ‘There isn’t anything anywhere, Admiral Bright,’ she admitted finally. ‘I’ve been sitting here trying to work up the nerve to ask the proprietor if he needs kitchen help.’
They were both silent.
Bright was not an impulsive man. He doubted he had ever drawn an impulsive breath, but he drew one now. He looked at Mrs Paul, wondering what she thought of him. He knew little about her except that she was Scottish, and from the sound of her, a Lowland Scot. She was past the first bloom of youth and a widow. She had been dealt an impossible hand. And not once have you simpered about the weather or Almack’s, he thought. You also have not turned this into a Cheltenham tragedy.
He pulled out his timepiece. The Mouse was now nearly three hours late. He drew the deepest breath of his life, even greater than the one right before he sidled his frigate between the Egyptian shore and the French fleet in the Battle of the Nile.
‘Mrs Paul, I have an idea. Tell me what you think.’
‘You want to marry me?’
To Mrs Paul’s immense credit, she listened without leaping to her feet and slapping him or falling into a dead faint.
She thinks I am certifiable, Bright thought, trying to divine what was going on in her mind as he blathered on. He was reminding himself of his least favourite frigate captain, who spoke faster and faster as the lie grew longer and longer. Dash it, this is no lie, he thought.
‘You see before you a desperate man, Mrs Paul,’ he said, wincing inside at how feeble that sounded. ‘I need a wife on fearsomely short notice.’ He winced again; that sounded worse.
He had to give her credit; she recovered quickly. He could also see that she had no intention of taking him seriously. Her smile, small though it was, let him know precisely how she felt about his little scheme. How can I convince her? he asked himself in exasperation. I doubt I can.
‘Mrs Paul, I hope you don’t think that through England’s darkest hours, the Royal Navy was led by idiots.’
Her voice was faint, mainly because she seemed to be struggling not to laugh. ‘I never thought it was, Admiral,’ she replied. ‘But…but why on earth do you require a wife on fearsomely short notice? Now that you are retired, haven’t you leisure to pursue the matter in your own good time?’
‘I have sisters,’ he said. ‘Two of ’em. Since I retired last autumn, they have been dropping in to visit and bringing along eligible females. They are cornering me and I feel trapped. Besides, I am not convinced I want a wife.’
The look she gave him was one of incredulity, as though she wondered—but was too polite to ask—how a grown man, especially one who had faced the might of France for years, could be so cowed by sisters. ‘Surely they have your best interests at heart,’ Mrs Paul said. She seemed to find his dilemma diverting. ‘Do you require a…a nudge?’
‘That’s not the issue,’ he protested, but he admitted to himself that she did have a point. ‘See here, Mrs Paul, wouldn’t you be bothered if someone you knew was determined to help you, whether you wanted it or not?’
She was silent a moment, obviously considering his question. ‘May I be frank, Admiral?’
‘Certainly.’
‘There are times when I wish someone was determined to help me.’
She had him there. ‘You must think me an awful whiner,’ he admitted at last.
‘No, sir,’ she said promptly. ‘I just think you have too much time on your hands now.’
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, and slapped the table with his hook, which made the tea cups jump. ‘It’s my stupid sisters who have too much time! They are plaguing my life,’ he finished, his voice much lower.
‘So you think proposing to me will get them off your back?’ she asked, intrigued.
‘You are my backup, Mrs Paul.’
Oh, Lord, I am an idiot, he thought. She stared at him in amazement, but to her credit, did not flee the dining room. Maybe you think you owe me for a meal, he thought sourly. Humouring a lunatic, eh?
‘Backup? There is someone else who didn’t deliver?’ she asked. Her lips twitched. ‘Should I be jealous? Call her out?’
She had him again, and he had to smile. In fact, he had to laugh. ‘Oh, Mrs Paul, I have made a muddle of things. Let me explain.’
He told her how in desperation because his sisters would not leave him alone, he had contacted the captain of his flagship, who had a sister withering on the matrimonial vine. ‘I made her an offer. It was to be a marriage of convenience, Mrs Paul. She needed a husband, because ladies…er…don’t seem to care to wander through life alone. I was careful to explain that,’ he assured her. ‘She agreed.’
He looked at the lady across the table from him, amazed she was still sitting there. ‘It is foolish, isn’t it?’ he said finally, seeing the matter through her eyes. ‘I have been stewing about in this dining room for hours, and the lady has not appeared. I can hardly blame her.’ He looked at his hook. ‘Maybe she doesn’t care overmuch for hooks.’
Mrs Paul put her hand to her lips, as though trying to force down another laugh. ‘Admiral, if she cared about you, a hook wouldn’t make the least difference. You have all your teeth, don’t you? And your hair? And surely there is a good tailor in Plymouth who could—’ She stopped. ‘You must think I am terribly rude.’
‘No, I think you are honest and…dash it, I have all my hair! I did lose a tooth on the Barbary Coast—’
‘Careless of you,’ she murmured, then gave up trying to hold back the mirth that seemed to well up out of her.
Her laughter was infectious. Thank goodness the dining room was nearly empty by now, because he laughed along with her. ‘What is the matter with my suit?’ he asked, when he could talk.
She wiped her eyes on the napkin. ‘Nothing at all, Admiral, if only this were the reign of poor George III, and not the regency of his son! I realise you have probably worn nothing but uniforms for years. Many men would probably envy your ability to wear garments from the turn of the century, without having to resort to a shoehorn. I am no Beau Brummell, Admiral, but there is a time to bid adieu to old clothes, even if they do fit.’
‘I was never inclined to add pounds,’ he said, trying not to sound sulky. ‘A tailor would help?’
‘Perhaps,