Page 28 of Scandalous

Martín groaned. “Merde. What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock.”

Martín hesitated. “At night?”

She muttered something in German. “Eight in the morning.”

Mere hours before, Martín had thought the woman’s heavy accent charming, but now he couldn’t recall why. Perhaps it had been the three bottles of her best wine?

She bustled around the room, yanking open the heavy drapes and letting in the bright morning light, piling crockery onto a tray—noisily—and generally making a racket. There would be no more sleeping. Well, he probably couldn’t have stayed much longer in any case. He’d hoped to leave immediately after Beauville finished his business with the Blue Bird.

After coming to Madam Bettina’s, Martín had sent a messenger to Beauville, instructing him to fetch Martín as soon as the ship was ready to leave. He had then proceeded to enjoy a lazy afternoon, an excellent dinner, and an exceptionally disappointing evening.

Martín was in no mood to tackle thoughts of last night. He climbed over a sleeping body and picked his breeches off the floor, struggling with the five buttons as though they were five hundred. His shirt hung from the corner of a portrait of George III, a flattering representation of the monarch before he’d become a recluse. Martín hunted everywhere for his waistcoat before realizing one of the women in bed was wearing it.

He patted her plump behind. “Chérie, you must give me back my clothes.” She muttered something as he prized the waistcoat free, but never woke up. Martín slumped on the edge of the bed and pulled on his boots, grunting at the effort. His neckcloth was tied around the other woman’s waist. He shrugged and immediately regretted the movement. He would leave the neckcloth. He was in no condition to tie it on his person, and he doubted it was in any condition to be worn.

He located his coat on a hook beside the door and took a generous handful of coins from his pocket, tossing them onto the table by the door. The women who’d raised him had taught him to always leave something extra. Especially if he wanted to purchase some discretion, a thing he’d never needed to do before last night.

“Merde,” he muttered, his face heating with shame.

Bettina was waiting beside the soldier from Keeton’s office, who was holding a cup of coffee. Martín took the coffee from the man’s unresisting fingers and swallowed the scalding beverage in one long gulp.

“Excellent coffee, madam.” He gave her a pained smile along with the empty cup. “You will remember the conversation we had last night?” Martín was surprised he remembered it after three bottles.

Her businesslike smile bore no resemblance to the ones she’d lavished on him the previous day and night. “I thought you wanted me to forget that conversation, Captain Bouchard.”

He rolled his eyes—which hurt—and reached for his purse, then placed what remained into her outstretched hand.

Her broad, pretty face creased into a sly smile. “Danke. This will help us all forget.” She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek before turning away.

Martín turned to the gawking sailor. “Come, let us go see what the admiral wants of me.” The man’s bulging eyes were on the voluptuous madam. “Or perhaps you would like to stay here, Kettle?”

“What? Oh, no, Captain, I’d best come with you,” he said with obvious regret.

“You are a frequent visitor of Madam Bettina’s?” Martín asked as they began the short journey to Admiral Keeton’s chambers-cum-office.

“A bit above my touch, sir. But there’s no shortage of much cheaper places. Every day more and more of them. Some come here because they ain’t got any other place to go. But a fair number, like Madam Bettina, come all the way from back home to ply their trade.”

Martín knew it was the same the world over, yet somehow he felt depressed by what the soldier said. Freetown was the creation of idealistic people who’d believed they could offer freed slaves a new and better life. As he looked around at the ragged town and desperate people, he realized it wasn’t the kind of life most people would desire.

It certainly wasn’t the life he wanted. Last night had been a dismal affair, no matter how much he’d tried to tell himself otherwise. Martín had needed to drown himself in wine just to get through the evening. For the first time in his life, he’d felt a twinge of shame at bedding whores. It didn’t matter that the women were free agents and not slaves; he would never go to someone who was compelled to service him. Still, the evening had felt sordid. Maybe that was why he’d not been able to . . . perform.

He scrubbed one hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Perhaps it had been because of all the wine he’d consumed. It had been a long time since he’d been the worse for drink. That must have been why . . .

Martín pushed the entire dreadful ordeal from his mind. He could only hope the whores would keep his secret.

He found not only the admiral, but also Captain Graaf and Sarah Fisher waiting for him in the rickety building. Martín groaned out loud, not realizing until that moment just how much he’d wanted to leave without seeing either one of them ever again.

Keeton’s smile looked rather strained. “Captain Bouchard, thank you for coming so quickly.”

Martín squinted at the man, wondering if he was making some kind of jest. He’d sent a damned soldier for him—what else was Martín supposed to have done?

“Please, have a seat, Captain.” The admiral gestured to the remaining chair, refusing to meet Martín’s eyes.

A cold sweat began to build on his forehead, in spite of the warmness of the morning. He put a hand on the chair back to prop himself up. “Thank you, Admiral, but I’m afraid I cannot stay too long. My crew is even now making my ship ready for departure.” Martín had no idea what either his crew or his ship were doing.

“Actually, they are awaiting my permission before they do anything. Please take a seat and enjoy some coffee, the best—from Java, one of ours now.” He was referring to the 1811 British capture of the Dutch possession. Martín shot a quick look at the captive Dutchman to see how he viewed the admiral’s comment. As usual, Graaf looked ill more than anything else. In fact, he looked worse than yesterday. He appeared to have found Freetown as exhausting as Martín had, albeit probably for other reasons.