Free Midnight Star by Catherine Coulter Page A

least, enough for the moment. I admit to being surprised that he is so young, and unmarried. Somehow one tends to think that a true villain must be older, paunchy perhaps, with a dissipated face.”
    “Many of the men in San Francisco are young and unmarried, and if they are married, their wives and children are safely back East. Why do you think these . . . trollops are in such demand?”
    Off again, Chauncey thought. If only Mary knew the half of what Captain Markham had told her! At least she didn’t have to be fearful of his motives, for indeed he seemed to regard her as a daughter to be protected. “So many young, boisterous men, my dear,” he would say over the months they traveled together. “Wild, full of spirits, and dangerous upon occasion. Duels, fights, violence—they exercise little restraint. Practicewith the derringer I gave you, my dear. Even a lady such as yourself must be prepared. San Francisco is not yet civilized like New York or your home, London. Not, of course, that things haven’t changed over the last couple of years. More decent women now, but not that many more. The Vigilantes helped quiet things down. Two years ago, that was. Hanged some of those rotters, the Sydney Ducks, scum, the lot of them! Villains and criminals from Australia come here to rob and murder. Aye, you’ll stay far away from Sydney Town.”
    If Mary were to see the ivory-handled, very deadly derringer, she would likely swoon, Chauncey thought. She shot it well now. Over two months of practice, when Mary was snug in her bunk for her afternoon nap, had made Chauncey a competent marksman. Captain Markman’s first mate, Mr. Johansen, had been her instructor during the past month. He was utterly in awe of his captain, and so Chauncey felt as safe with him as she would with the vicar from her home in Surrey.
    Mary became silent, seeing that her mistress had fallen into a brown study. She does naught but think about that man, she thought as she smoothed out the sheets on her own small bunk. It’s unhealthy. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord. Mary frowned at her biblical turn of thought. She could just imagine Miss Chauncey’s fine eyes darkening with implacable determination were she to say something like that to her. “The Lord would likely take too long, if he ever got around to it,” she could hear Miss Chauncey say in a cold, remote voice.
    Actually, Chauncey was remembering her carefree life before her father’s death. She wasn’t certain now if she’d had two serious thoughts in her head then. “You’re such a loving, sweet little soul,” her father would tell her, ruffling her tousled curls. “But such a little scamp! What would your dear mother think, I wonder.” That loving, sweet little soul had seemingly disappeared. The scamp was long gone too, as were both her parents. She shuddered, wondering whether she would now be wed to Sir Guy, living in his home and paying obeisance to his mother, if her father hadn’t died in such circumstances. “There’s always some good, no matter how bad things look,” her old Irish nurse, Hannah, had told her as a child. But that was when a picnic was canceled because of rain. Poor Hannah, dying of cholera on a trip back to Ireland.
    Three months aboard a ship is enough to drive one mad. I’m becoming maudlin and stupid. I must remember; I must plan.
    “Is it time to get dressed for breakfast, Mary?”
    Mary nodded briskly. “Just about. There’s but a small basin of clean water, as usual.”
    “Ah, to be perfectly clean again,” Chauncey sighed. “A real bath.” She rolled out of her bunk and planted her bare feet firmly on the wooden floor.
    “Well, it won’t be long now. Captain Markham said we’ll be arriving in San Francisco in but three days! It seems like ten years since we left New York, much less England.”
    “I doubt San Francisco will be anything like New York,” Chauncey said as she drew her white bastiste nightgown over her head. “I