The Red Siren Read online

  “Sir Wilhelm Carteret,” the admiral said. “May I present Mr. Dajon Waite.”

  “An honor, sir.” The commander bowed.

  Sir Wilhelm grunted and gave him a cursory glance.

  “Sir Wilhelm is an acquaintance of the family and dines with us often,” the admiral explained as Edwin led the party down the hall to the dining room.

  White linen and china glistened in the candlelight on the oblong table that filled the small room. The admiral took his seat at the head, his back to a window overlooking the gardens; rain puddled across the glass, distorting the trees, bushes, stables, and servants’ quarters that filled the back gardens.

  Once everyone was seated, kitchen maids placed platters of meat, fresh flounder, rice, corn, and biscuits onto the table, in addition to pitchers of wine and water. The savory aroma of beef and creamy butter spiraled over Faith but soured in her churning stomach. She cast a wary eye upon the two men responsible for her lack of appetite: Sir Wilhelm, who flapped his coattails behind him as he lowered to his chair, and Mr. Waite, who took his seat directly across from her.

  “A grand feast.” Her father rubbed his hands together before saying grace over the food.

  “Sir Wilhelm.” Mr. Waite passed a plate of mutton to the man who sat beside him. “Your name is familiar to me. Where have I heard it?”

  Sir Wilhelm took the plate and served himself a huge pile of meat, thrusting his chin out before him. “My grandfather, George Carteret, was one of the original eight proprietors of the realm.”

  “Indeed?” Mr. Waite tucked a strand of wayward hair behind his ear. “Not the same George Carteret who was treasurer of the navy?”

  “The same.” Sir Wilhelm sniffed and directed his pointed nose at Faith. His epicurean smile sent a shudder through her, and she looked away and grabbed the bowl of rice in front of her.

  “Not only that”—the admiral poured wine into his goblet—“but Wilhelm’s grandfather was also a vice admiral and comptroller of the navy. A brilliant, powerful man.”

  Faith watched Sir Wilhelm’s scrawny shoulders rise with each praise. She used to think him a large man, but sitting next to the commander, he shriveled in stature. Her gaze shifted to Mr. Waite. His broad chest pressed against his blue navy coat. One rebellious strand of dark brown hair—the color of the rich soil she’d once seen on the coast of Ireland—sprang from his queue, and when his bright blue eyes met hers, glimmering in the candlelight, an unusual warmth spread throughout her.

  “So you can imagine,” Sir Wilhelm said, leaning forward and drawing all attention his way, “how thrilled I was to discover that an admiral had been stationed here in Charles Towne. I arranged to make his acquaintance as soon as I could. But I never imagined Admiral Westcott would have such lovely daughters.” His brash gaze landed on Faith, and she shifted in her chair, wondering why she had the misfortune of being the center of this man’s attentions.

  “Then do you share your grandfather’s love of the sea?” Mr. Waite asked Sir Wilhelm.

  Wilhelm poured wine into his glass, clanking the decanter against his goblet so loudly Faith thought it would break. “No, I am afraid my many obligations keep me ashore.”

  “Indeed?” Faith gave him a crooked smile. “The rumor about town is that you suffer from seasickness.”

  Hope giggled.

  “Faith!” Her father’s gruff voice boomed across the room like a cannon blast. “You know better than to put any credence to the foolhardy prattle of the town’s biddies. You will apologize to Sir Wilhelm at once.”

  Sir Wilhelm sniffed and wiggled his nose. “No need. There are many who are jealous of my power and enjoy nothing more than to spread ugly tales about me.” He withdrew a handkerchief from his embroidered satin waistcoat and held it to his nose. “I trust, Miss Westcott, you are too clever to fall for such fabrications.”

  “Forgive my impertinence.” She took a bite of beef and eyed him. The ghostly pallor of his face matched the powder in his wig. A dark mole peeked out from behind a cusp of white hair near his right ear, like a bat from a cave.

  “Faith is far too wise for such nonsense,” Hope added. “She is by far the most intelligent woman I know.”

  “That she surpasses your own intelligence is no accomplishment.” The admiral chortled, plunging his fork into a mound of corn. “My dear Hope was never proficient in her studies.”

  Hope lowered her eyes, and Faith longed to kick her father beneath the table. Why did he insist on showering Hope with his constant disapproval? Could he not see how it crushed the poor girl, especially now that their mother was gone?

  Grace squeezed Hope’s arm and cast a matronly look around the table. “It is the condition of the heart that matters most.”

  “Well said, Miss Grace.” Mr. Waite nodded then raised his gaze to Faith. “Forgive me, but I cannot shake the feeling that we have met somewhere before.”

  Her heart froze. She gulped and willed the screeching voice within her to calm before she dared utter a word. “I fear you are mistaken, Mr. Waite. Unless, perhaps”—she stabbed a piece of meat with her fork, hoping the trembling of her hands was not evident—“you frequented Portsmouth? We may have passed on the streets.” She placed the beef into her mouth, but the savory flavor became bitter before it reached her throat.

  “Perhaps. But ’tis the strangest thing. Your groomsman seemed quite familiar to me, as well.” A hint of suspicion tainted his voice.

  “Lucas?” Faith coughed. “He has a common face.” She bent over, trying to dislodge the food stuck in her throat. The commander was toying with her, after all. He knows. He has to know. Dread stung every nerve as she pounded on her chest, finally loosening the clump of meat. It wasn’t that she feared the gallows. It wasn’t that she feared death.

  What she feared most of all was leaving her sisters all alone in the world.

  “Are you ill, daughter?” The admiral leaned from his seat beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  Sir Wilhelm took a sip of wine and gazed at Faith. Something sinister crept behind his grin. “’Tis probably the climate. Every new settler suffers local infections as they grow accustomed to this humid environment. They call it the seasoning.”

  “I am quite well, I assure you.” Faith glared at Wilhelm. “We have been here over two months and have yet to fall ill.”

  “Then you have been fortunate, indeed,” Sir Wilhelm commented. “In the past twenty years, Charles Towne has been struck by both smallpox and the Barbados fever. Horrid diseases.” He shuddered in disgust. “Hundreds died.” He gave them a superior look. “Only those of strong constitution survived.”

  Faith snarled. Strong, indeed. Or too weak and despicable for the disease to waste its energy upon.

  The admiral cleared his throat. “Hardly appropriate dinner conversation in front of the ladies.”

  “We have nothing to fear,” Grace interjected. “God will protect us.”

  “If we live, dear sister, God will have naught to do with it,” Faith snapped.

  “You cannot mean that.”

  “Come now, ladies.” The admiral shook his head and gestured for more wine, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Faith, you must repent for such a statement.”

  Faith flattened her lips and flung her hair behind her.

  Grace smiled at Mr. Waite. “Are you a godly man?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Grace, is that all that concerns you?” Hope sighed, poking at her food.

  Mr. Waite swallowed and smiled, grabbing his cup. “Yes, I am, miss.”

  “To what church do you belong?”

  He took a sip of water and set down his cup. “I aspire to the doctrine that the Bible is the divine Word of God and should guide us in all things.”

  Sir Wilhelm snorted, sending a spray of wine over his plate. “Surely you are not one of those Dissenters, Waite. The Church of England is the only true church.”

  The commander’s jaw flexed. “Where, pray tell, Sir Wilhelm, does it indi
cate that in the Word of God? I have yet to read that passage.” He gave the man a patronizing grin.

  Sir Wilhelm squirmed in his seat and huffed in response.

  “Well said, Mr. Waite.” Grace fingered the top button of her gown, and Faith wondered if perhaps her piety wasn’t simply due to a lack of air from the stranglehold her tight-fitting collars had upon her neck.

  “You must forgive Grace,” the admiral said. “She is overzealous in her faith, as her mother was.” He dropped his fork onto his plate with a clank.

  “I do not believe you can be overzealous in your love for God, Admiral.” Mr. Waite nodded toward Grace.

  Faith let out a painfully ladylike sigh. Wonderful, another Puritan in our midst. “You do not know my sister, Mr. Waite.”

  Sir Wilhelm cleared his throat. “’Tis best to leave God out of the affairs of men.”

  Grace cocked her delicate head. “Which would explain, Sir Wilhelm, why man has made such a mess of this world.”

  Hope frowned then pushed her plate aside and leaned over the table, drawing Sir Wilhelm’s gaze to her chest—though obviously not the gaze she intended to draw, as her attention locked upon the commander. “What brings you to Charles Towne, Mr. Waite?”

  “After Blackbeard’s horrendous blockade of your city this past May, Parliament thought it wise to send some of His Majesty’s ships to patrol the area.” The commander nodded toward the admiral.

  The admiral scowled. “The pirate attack was quite an event, I have heard. The poor citizens of this town held at ransom by a thieving pirate, demanding, of all things, medical supplies. And him holding Samuel Wragg, a member of the council, hostage and threatening to kill him. Absurd.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Admiral,” Mr. Waite said. “Which is precisely why I have been sent here—to capture every pirate patrolling these waters and ensure they are hung by the neck until dead.”

  Chapter 4

  The biscuit in Faith’s mouth instantly dried, leaving a hardened clump that scraped across her tongue. Grabbing some water to wash it down, she leaned back in her chair, eyed Mr. Waite, and pressed a hand to her stomach, where the food she had just consumed began to protest.

  “How exciting!” Hope beamed, clapping her hands. “A pirate hunter in our very own house.”

  “I am simply doing my duty, miss.” Mr. Waite gave Faith a concerned look. “Are you feeling well, Miss Westcott? You have gone quite pale.”

  Faith nodded, gathered her resolve, and opened her mouth to say something witty, but her voice mutinied.

  “I daresay.” Hope placed a hand on her chest, her voice a soft purr. “I feel much safer knowing you are guarding our harbor from those vile creatures.”

  Sir Wilhelm lifted his glass in salute. “We proprietors do appreciate the presence of the Royal Navy to protect our interests in the province.”

  “We are pleased to be of service.” Mr. Waite’s gaze drifted over the ladies and landed on the admiral. “Did you say that you have another daughter back in England?”

  Leaning forward, the admiral filled his glass of wine for the third time, nearly tipping it in the process. He slammed the decanter down with a thud. Faith cringed. Her father took to drinking only when something vexed him. And the combination was oft more explosive than powder and matchstick. “Charity, my only married daughter, remained in Portsmouth,” he said.

  Faith’s ire rose along with a sudden pounding in her head. “Imprisoned in Portsmouth, you meant to say, Father.” Instantly she wished she had kept her mouth shut—for once—for Father’s face swelled like a globefish.

  Mr. Waite raised a curious brow in her direction, shifting his gaze between her and the admiral. Faith sighed. She might as well continue what she had started.

  “My sister was forced to marry a beastly man who stole the printing business Father had allowed her to embark upon. And. . .” She glanced at Hope, whose countenance had fallen. “And he was unfaithful.” A clump of sorrow rose in Faith’s throat. She grabbed Hope’s hand beneath the table and squeezed against the clammy chill that clung to her sister’s palm.

  The admiral dropped his knife onto his plate with a loud clank. “And you know better than to speak of such things at my table, Faith.”

  Sir Wilhelm pointed his fork at her. “Forgive me for saying so, but your sister’s husband could hardly have stolen a business that upon marriage became his by law. Besides, women have no sense for business, nor for the spending of money acquired from such ventures. These things are best left up to men.”

  “Here, here, good man.” The admiral lifted his glass.

  “And ofttimes a man is forced to seek”—Sir Wilhelm cleared his throat—“shall we say, diversions elsewhere when his life at home is unpleasant.” He shrugged before chomping on a biscuit.

  Faith shot to her feet, her chair scraping over the wooden floor behind her. Heat inflamed her face. Her fingers tingled, yearning for a weapon, any weapon. Her eyes landed on a pitcher of water. She grabbed it, squeezing her fist over the cool handle. “’Tis to be expected, sir, only of scoundrels and savages,” she said in as calm a voice as possible as she filled her glass. Then, setting the pitcher down in front of Sir Wilhelm—atop a serving spoon—she quickly withdrew her hand as the wavering container toppled over. A cascade of water spilled onto the table, gushed toward the edge, and flooded Sir Wilhelm’s breeches before splattering onto the floor.

  Springing to his feet, he stumbled over his chair, sending it crashing behind him. “Of all the. . .!” he screeched, reminding Faith of her parrot, Morgan, whenever something riled him.

  “Faith!” Her father stood and directed the serving maids to assist Sir Wilhelm. Their shoes clomped over the wooden floorboards like a herd of cattle as they sped off, returning within seconds with towels. “Where is your head, girl?”

  “It was an accident, Father.” Faith lifted her hands in a conciliatory gesture then clasped them together before facing Sir Wilhelm. “My sincere apologies, Sir Wilhelm. I was not paying attention.”

  Sir Wilhelm scowled as he snatched a towel from one of the maids with a snap and dabbed at his sodden breeches. “Perhaps, Admiral, you should hire a governess to teach your daughters proper etiquette. Apparently, without their mother, their social graces have lapsed.”

  “It was an unintentional mishap, Sir Wilhelm,” Grace said, ever the voice of calm propriety.

  The admiral frowned. For a second, Faith thought he would defend his daughters, but then he grabbed his drink and plopped back into his chair.

  After tossing the wet towel back to the maid, Sir Wilhelm adjusted his wig and took his seat. Mr. Waite held his hand to his mouth, and Faith sensed a smile lingered behind it. When his eyes met hers, a spark of playfulness danced across them.

  “Sit down, Faith.” Her father pounded his boot on the floor and pointed to her chair. “You have insulted our guest enough. If you cannot behave, I will insist you leave this room at once.”

  Faith sank into her chair, not wanting to leave her sisters to endure Sir Wilhelm’s vile opinions without her protection. She squeezed Hope’s arm and felt her quiver as a soft sob escaped the poor girl. A heavy weight of guilt pressed down upon Faith. Why had she resurrected such a horrid memory?

  “Quit your sniveling, girl,” the admiral barked at Hope. “We have guests.”

  Faith glared at her father. He knew very well what had upset Hope. Yet repeatedly he chose to hide behind the delusion of propriety. He could face battles upon the sea, witness men’s legs being blasted into twigs, make snap decisions that changed the course of history, but he could not face what had happened to his own daughter.

  “You must forgive my daughters, Mr. Waite.” The admiral scratched his thick gray sideburns as the servants cleared the dishes from the table. “Since their mother died, they have not had proper female instruction.”

  “As you well know, Father”—Faith could not control the acrid bite in her tone—“I have taken that role upon myself. And I will c
ontinue to do so.” She turned toward her sisters. “Although I know I can never take Mother’s place.” She eased a lock of Hope’s golden hair from her face and saw her mother staring back at her. Faith’s heart warmed. “You look so much like her.”

  Hope smiled, her eyes shimmering.

  “Your mother must have been an incredible woman.” Mr. Waite’s deep voice smoothed the ripples of distress radiating over the table. His warm gaze landed on Faith and lingered there as if he were soaking in every detail of her. “Possessing both beauty and piety.” He smiled then looked down and began fidgeting with his spoon.

  Faith took a sip of cool water, hoping to douse the heat rising within her at his perusal.

  “She is in heaven now.” Grace kissed Hope on the cheek.

  “God shouldn’t have taken her in the first place.” Faith released Hope’s hand. “We have more need of her here than He does in heaven.”

  “What you need, my dear, is a good husband to tame you,” the admiral said, gulping down another swig of wine.

  “I will never marry.” Faith shook her head and gave her father a stern look.

  The admiral huffed. “Don’t be absurd.”

  Sir Wilhelm cleared his throat and exchanged a knowing glance with her father—a glance that sent dread crawling over Faith.

  “If a woman can provide for herself,” she said, “she needn’t subject herself to the tyranny of a man who restricts her freedom and forces his every whim—”

  “As I have informed you, my dear Faith,” her father interrupted, his voice strained to the point of exploding, “should you ever find yourself in possession of so great a fortune, I have promised not to arrange a marriage against your will.” The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes seemed to fold together as he stared at her.

  “Then I hold you to our bargain.” Faith squared her shoulders, daring to hope that she could indeed fulfill her end of it. “If I amass this fortune you speak of, you will force neither me nor my sisters into marriage?”