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booted foot. “Mr. Easterbrook, allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Lily Raines Calhoun and her companion—” He broke off, eyeing the dark-clad woman in the spectacles. She stood with gloved hands clasped tightly as if praying for his immortal soul.
    If she knew Ryan Calhoun at all, she’d realize her efforts were for naught. He was doomed. It would take more than a lady’s fervent prayers to save him.
    Easterbrook bowed over Lily’s extended hand. Then he turned to the other woman. “Shiver my timbers, Miss Isadora. What in the name of Davy Jones are you doing here?”
    “You know each other?” Ryan staggered against a hatch coaming, putting out a hand to catch himself.
    “I was summoned from a social gathering at her father’s home, damn your eyes. I have no idea what she’s doing here.”
    The woman called Miss Isadora cleared her throat. “Well, I thought—that is, Mrs. Calhoun happened to ask about her… son, and since you’d mentioned that he was here with the Swan I thought, er, that is, Mrs. Calhoun was a guest at our party tonight, as were you, sir. Only she was a guest of the Hallowells—the groom’s family, you see. She seemed so eager to locate Mr.—er, Captain Calhoun, so I deemed it reasonable to suppose we would find him aboard.”
    Ryan wondered if the lady had been at the rum, so garbled was her explanation. He eyed her downward sloping shoulders, her twisting, praying hands. Christ, the woman was terrified.
    “Mr. Easterbrook.” Lily’s voice slid like warm molasses into the conversation. “Miss Peabody was kind enough to conduct me here when she learned I was looking for my son.”
    The timbre of her voice coaxed a puppy-dog smile from the old codger. Lily Raines Calhoun had that way about her. She was a sorceress with her voice, her accent, her intimate inflections. With the softest of comments, she had the power to mesmerize her listeners. Only Ryan could discern the steel beneath the gossamer silk of her voice. Especially when she said the words “my son.”
    He was in trouble. He was in terrible trouble.
    And as always, he didn’t give a damn.
    “And now, thanks to you,” Lily continued, sending a lovely, supplicating smile at Abel Easterbrook, “I have found him. Perhaps you would be so gallant as to drive us home, Mr. Easterbrook.”
    “It would be my honor,” Easterbrook said. “I can conclude my business in a moment or two.” He turned to Ryan. “I was shanghaied from a dancing party by my houseman. It seems Rivera is being sought by the police for questioning.” Clasping his hands behind his waist like an admiral, Easterbrook paced in agitation. “Police are on the trot for runaway slaves these days.”
    During Ryan’s absence, the Fugitive Slave Law had gone into effect, making it illegal to abet or harbor runaways. “Rivera’s not involved in that,” he said quickly. “He’s got more games than a ship has rats, but none of them involve fugitives.”
    “Then where in Hades is he?”
    “I’m afraid Rivera didn’t return with us. He married a woman in Havana and wouldn’t leave her.” There was, of course, much more to the story—a duel, a bribe, a furious father, a forced marriage—but Ryan knew better than to overexplain the matter, particularly in mixed company.
    “Well, he’s a criminal and good riddance,” Abel said.
    “He was a mighty fine interpreter,” Ryan reminded him, struggling to think past the fog of rum in his brain. “The best we had.”
    “So now I am liable for his debts, and I have no Spanish interpreter for future voyages. Well done indeed, Captain.”
    The woman called Isadora Peabody whispered something in a nervous breath.
    “What’s that?” Abel demanded grumpily.
    “I speak Spanish.” Miss Isadora looked appalled that she had actually dared to utter a word. Staring at the planks, she added, “Also French, Italian and Portuguese. My great aunt tutored me in languages, and then at Mount Holyoke Seminary I