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yelled before glancing quickly into the parlor in search of the landlady. Not catching sight of her, he spun away, racing toward the back of the inn, his voice raised in summons. "Fanny, Cap'n Darby's been killed!"
    Within minutes, the Pelican was a scene of pandemonium, a score of men wet from the storm crowding into the parlor, the alarm having been raised from the docks to the inn's front door. While everyone waited for the judge to come down from his quarters above, the dead man was carried in and placed on a long trestle table near the door. Even in the dim light, the brutality of the attack was evident. The man's head and face were a bloody pulp, distorted out of all human semblance, crushed flesh and bone bleeding onto the floor in a widening crimson pool.
    "It was his first mate Horton, for sure. He and Darby been at odds for years," one man brusquely said, staring down at the corpse.
    "Horton were drinkin' all day at the Bird's Nest," another noted, his voice gruff.
    "Heard tell he were swearing to make the cap'n pay for them lashings he got back last year. It must ha' been him." The man speaking nodded his head with certainty.
    "Seein' how he sailed off tonight without the captain, it looks likely."
    "Someone has to notify Crawford's."
    "And the widow Darby."
    A sudden silence filled the room.
    "Fanny can tell her," someone quietly said. "They's friends."
    "Can they find Horton and bring him back?"
    "Not the way he knows the seas," the man with the gruff voice bluntly observed. "Been sailing since he were ten."
    "He could sell the Betty Lee in some foreign port and live the rest of his life in style."
    "He were a violent man. . . ."
    The men's voices suddenly faded away in Serena's consciousness as the disastrous import of the words Betty Lee registered in her brain. The Betty Lee was her ship, she fearfully realized, the ship that was to take her away to Florence in the morning. It was gone, they said, which meant her luggage and passage money were gone. For a moment she couldn't breathe, so cataclysmic was the news. Everything she owned had been on that ship, including money she'd hidden in her paint box. Forcing herself to a calmness that threatened to erupt into a wail of despair, she desperately tried to deal with the devastating events.
    Fighting back her tears, she reminded herself she was alive, at least, unlike Captain Darby, who was brutally murdered and still as the grave short feet away. However much ruin faced her, it was far from the stark reality of death before her eyes.
    She needed options, she consciously deliberated, swallowing hard to stifle her tears. Think, she commanded her numbed mind. While she struggled to regain some modicum of reason, a cacophony of voices rose from the crowd, everyone speaking at once, when the local magistrate entered the room.
    He raised his hands to quell the uproar.
    As the clamor diminished, the elegant, young noble with dark hair came to his feet, his height and patrician presence immediately silencing the room. In a deep, temperate voice that gave no indication of the numerous bottles of Champagne he'd consumed, he said, "Perhaps I could be of help. Since I'm scheduled to sail soon, if you'd care to arrange an arrest warran t — s hould witnesses conclude Horton did the dee d — I could see that the appropriate authorities in various ports of call are made aware of his crime."
    Everyone's eyes were trained on the tall aristocrat, splendidly dressed by London's best tailor.
    He stood in placid repose as if he were familiar with legions of gazes centered on him.
    "Capital, young men," the judge exclaimed into the hush. "Bound to say Crawford Shipping would be beholden to you," he went on. "When do you sail and where?"
    "My yacht is at the ready. I'm bound for Naples, but I'm at your convenience, sir." Beau bowed slightly.
    "Well, then, come, my boy," the judge briskly said, "and you too, Camden. We need the particulars written down and the witnesses