The carriage door was hauled open. A head swathed in a sailor's kerchief was outlined against the night. "If you'll be giving me your hand, ma'am, I'll be a-helping you up the gangplank."
While undeniably rough, the sailors had been as courteous as they knew how; Alathea surrendered her hand and allowed the sailor to help her from the carriage.
"Thank you." She straightened, feeling like a beacon in the dark of the night, her ivory silk gown shimmering in the moonlight. She hadn't worn cloak or shawl to the ball; the night in Mayfair had been balmy. Here, a faint breeze lifted off the water, brushing cool fingers across her bare shoulders. Ignoring the sudden chill, she accepted the sailor's proffered arm.
The dock beneath her feet was reassuringly solid, the wide planking strewn with ropes, pulleys, and crates. She was grateful for the sailor's brawny arm as she stepped over and around various obstacles. He led her to a gangway; she clutched the rope as they climbed, crossing the dark chasm above the choppy water between the dock and the hull.
She stepped onto the deck, grateful when it did not heave and tilt as much as she'd feared. The movement was so slight she could easily keep her balance. Reassured, she looked around. The sailor led the way to a hatch. As he bent to lift the cover, Alathea inwardly frowned. When the captain had said he plied cargo from Africa, she'd imagined a ship rather bigger. This vessel was larger than a yacht, yet…
The thud of the hatch cover had her turning. The sailor gestured to the opening, lit by a lamp from somewhere below.
"If'n you'll just climb down the l
adder, ma'am…" He ducked his head apologetically.
Alathea smiled. "I'll manage." Gathering her skirts in one hand, she grasped the side of the hatch and felt for the top rung with her foot. Carefully placing her slippered feet, she stepped down the worn wooden rungs. A rope formed a handrail; once she'd gripped it, the rest was easy. As she descended, a corridor opened up before her. It ran the length of the vessel, with doors on both sides staggered along its length. The door at the very end was half open; lamplight shone from beyond.
As she stepped onto the lower deck and let her skirts fall, Alathea wondered why the captain had not come out to greet her.
The hatch clanged shut.
Alathea looked up. A thick iron bolt slid heavily across the hatch, locking it in place. She whirled, clutching the ladder's rope-
Her gaze locked on Crowley's face.
Through the open rungs of the ladder, he watched her, black, bottomless eyes searching her face, watching, waiting…
Alathea's lungs seized. He was watching to see her fear. Waiting to gloat. Mentally scrambling, her wits all but falling over themselves in panic, she drew herself up, clasped her hands before her, and lifted her chin. "Who are you?"
She was pleased with her tone-regal, ready to turn contemptuous. Crowley didn't immediately react. A faint trace of surprise gleamed in his eyes; he hesitated, then deliberately stepped out from behind the ladder.
"Good evening, my lady."
Alathea was seized by an overwhelming urge to stuff him back behind the ladder. She was used to tall men, large men. Both Gabriel and Lucifer were as tall as Crowley, possibly even taller. But neither they nor any of the men she knew had Crowley's weight. His bulk. He was massive-a bull of a man-and none of it looked like fat. Hard and mean, his presence at close quarters threatened to smother her. It was an effort to bristle rather than flee. She raised one brow. "Are we acquainted?" Her tone made it clear there was no possibility of that.
To her increasing disquiet, Crowley's thick lips curved. "Let's not play games, my dear-at least, not those games."
"Games?" Alathea looked down her nose at him. "I have no idea what you mean."
He reached out, not quickly but without warning; there was nothing she could do-no space-to avoid the thick fingers that closed about her wrist. Her gaze locked on his, Alathea refused to let her rising panic show. Her chin set. "I have not the faintest idea of what you are talking about."
She tested his grip. It was unbreakable-and he wasn't even trying.
"I'm talking," he continued, ignoring her futile attempt to break free, "of the interest you've shown in the Central East Africa Gold Company." He brought his black gaze fully to bear on her eyes. "One of my enterprising schemes."
"I'm a lady of quality. I have absolutely no interest whatever in any 'enterprising schemes.' Least of all yours."
"So one would have thought," Crowley agreed equably. "It was quite a surprise to learn differently. Struthers, of course, tried to deny it, but…" Locking his grip on Alathea's wrist, he drew her arm up, forcing her to face him.
"St-Struthers?" Alathea stared at him.
"Hmm." Crowley's gaze locked on her breasts. "The captain and I had a most satisfactory conversation." His gaze swept down, raking her insolently. "It was impossible for Struthers to explain why a paper bearing your name and direction in what was obviously a lady's hand was so carefully placed with his maps and the copies of those damned leases."
Returning his gaze to her face, Crowley smiled unpleasantly. "Swales remembered the name. After that, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. You Morwellans have decided to try to weasel out of honoring the promissory note your father signed." Crowley's gaze hardened. Fingers tightening on her wrist, he shook her. "Shame on you!"
Alathea's temper flared. "Shame on us! I hardly think the notion applies to chousing a cheat out of his ill-gotten gains."
"It does when I'm the cheat." Crowley's jaw set pugnaciously. "I know how to hold my own, and as far as I'm concerned, your father's wealth became mine the instant he signed that note."