Page 67 of Dukes Do It Better
Signing in and going through the motions, the salutes, the rigmarole required of reporting to his superior officers, was like donning a comfortable garment he’d somehow forgotten was an old favorite. If, in the back of his mind, thoughts of Emma lingered, well, they would go away soon enough.
In the end, Lady Emma would be no more than a squall in the sea of life. He’d foolishly thought he could handle her by letting the storm of emotions blow him wherever it led. The tactical error couldn’t be clearer. Any captain worth his salt knew there were two ways to deal with a squall—turn tail and ride it out, letting the wind direct your course for the duration, or fight through the middle and pray your sails survived.
He should have fought it. Fought the attraction and the sizzle under his skin her nearness brought. Fought the wash of contentment he felt when her laugh swelled on the breeze, and when Alton rested his head on Malachi’s arm, and everything had felt right in the world.
This is what a broadside knockdown felt like, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, his mast was in the water. But he’d be damned if she fully capsized him.
Squalls were temporary, no matter how beautiful the storm.
The halls of the government building smelled like floor polish and stale cheroot smoke. Muted conversations took place behind heavy wood doors. As he approached the desk of Admiral Sorkin’s secretary, conversations in the hall paused. Ignoring the heavy gazes of the men he passed, Malachi did his best to keep his eyes locked forward.
The secretary rose. “I’ll tell him you’re here, Your Grace.”
And so, he waited. One by one the conversations picked up around him, but they were quieter now, as if the participants were keeping their ears open for something. Their attention crawled like ants across his shoulders and nape until Malachi shifted uncomfortably in his coat.
“Admiral Sorkin will see you now, Your Grace.”
The secretary stood straighter as Malachi passed, raising his chin slightly so he could look down his nose.
“Close the door, Harlow,” Admiral Sorkin’s voice commanded.
Malachi did as he was told, a ripple of unease skittering over his skin. He’d known Admiral Sorkin for years, and other than at official events, they’d never stood on ceremony with one another. But his commanding officer’s tone had Malachi standing at attention and snapping a smart salute.
“Take a seat.” Sorkin waved a hand toward a leather chair, then took his place behind a massive desk that could have qualified as a man-of-war purely for its size alone. “There’s no need to beat around the bush. We have received disturbing information.”
Malachi cocked his head. This was not how he had foreseen the interview going. “What kind of information? From whom?”
“The informant prefers to remain anonymous for now. However, the author of a certain letter in my possession details damning evidence against you and has offered to be a witness in any action we take as we investigate the matter. The gravity of the accusation leaves me no choice but to proceed.”
The ripple of unease transformed into a wave of dread. “Sir, what is this about?”
In answer, Admiral Sorkin withdrew a stack of papers from his desk, then pushed the pile across the polished wood toward Malachi. “Effective immediately you are relieved of command, Captain.”
Malachi drew his eyebrows together in a fierce frown. “I’ve already been relieved of command of the Athena.”
“You will not be returning to the Athena. I doubt you’ll see a command of your own again during your career. But as you are now a duke, I don’t foresee an outcome where you serve a sentence in gaol. If nothing else, the memory of your father’s duty to his country will keep you from especially dire consequences.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Malachi reached for the stack of papers. Two words on the top sheet stole his breath. Court-martial. “What are the charges?” he managed to ask.
“We have reason to believe you forged transport papers in the name of the king and profited from the illegal transport of private citizens, treating them like prisoners and subjecting them to lives of hard labor. There will be an investigation, of course, during which time you will be on half pay.” Sorkin lowered his voice to a deep murmur and Malachi had to lean forward to hear the rest of what he said. “I’ll do what I can to lessen the consequences, but your father made enemies during his time. The chance to besmirch the title might have them circling like sharks now. Keep your head down, go through the motions, and we’ll get through this.”
Sorkin rose, forcing Malachi to stand as well, still clutching the sheaf of papers in his hand. “Expect the investigation to take several weeks. Your court-martial date will be sent to you via messenger. Don’t leave the country. And for God’s sake, cut your hair. You need to present to the jury as a competent captain in the Royal Navy and a duke, not a ragamuffin privateer. Dismissed.”
And he was. As the heavy door closed behind him, the secretary refused to meet his gaze. Walking down the hallway toward the exit meant traversing a gauntlet of stares and whispers.
An anonymous letter. Of all the cowardly ways to ruin someone’s life. But not so anonymous after all. The list of prisoners he’d forged papers for and transported illegally was extremely short. One. James Montague. And the only people who knew about his involvement in that escapade were Emma; her brother, Calvin; and the man who financed the whole thing, Lord Amesbury.
Malachi had lost not only a lover but also, obviously, his new friends.
Son of a bitch had a unique knack for revenge, he had to give Calvin that. Emma might have left Malachi high and dry, but her brother had sunk what was left of his career.
Chapter Eighteen
I had the dream again. His sightless eyes seemed to follow me, even though I knew he was dead. Why don’t dead men close their eyes on their own? He watches me while I sleep, and no matter how much I remind myself it was an accident, I still see him.
—Journal entry, January 22, 1824
If the duchess heard about the court-martial through gossip, there’d be hell to pay. So the following morning, after washing away all signs of the bottle of brandy he’d drowned in the night before, Malachi dressed to visit his mother.
