Page 1 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)

D ocila froze outside her uncle’s library. It used to be her father’s library, but Uncle Hugo had taken over everything when Papa died.

“It’s settled then. You will hand over half of her inheritance to me on the day she signs.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Hugo,” said a gruff other voice.

Her breath froze in her throat.

“Was that Lord Cragswell?” Docila whispered to herself in dismay. Fear tightened her chest.

Surely not.

She knew Uncle Hugo resented that Papa had provided an inheritance for her, but surely he wouldn’t marry her off to a degenerate just to gain access to it. There was no way he could force her. These were the 1800s, after all — not the Dark Ages.

Could he?

Docila only knew of Lord Cragswell’s reputation in the village from the whispers amongst the servants and the leering looks he cast her way whenever she couldn’t avoid crossing his path, but she was well aware that no well wisher would consider her marriage to the man.

The walls of the once-warm corridor now seemed to close in around her, the portrait of her father staring down with sad eyes as if apologizing for leaving her to such a fate. Docila pressed a trembling hand to her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to give her presence away.

Fear gripped her and nearly stole her ability to move. But move she must, or she’d be caught dithering in the hallway. She hadn’t meant to be eavesdropping, but she couldn’t regret that she did.

Before she could convince her feet to move, though, she heard Cragswell ask, “How are you going to get her to come up to scratch?”

Docila would like to know the same thing. Another shudder ran through her.

There was a laugh that held no mercy. It sent a chill straight to her heart.

“I’ll keep killing her pets,” Hugo said with another evil chuckle.

The cruelty of the threat made her stomach turn. Her beloved spaniel, Molly, had disappeared just last week. Uncle Hugo had claimed the dog had simply run off, but Docila had never believed it. Now she knew the truth.

And she knew he meant the threat. Ever since Molly’s disappearance, she had started arranging for her friends and neighbours to take the animals she loved so much. She knew Hugo couldn’t hold that over her, but she imagined he could come up with some other ploy or in some other way force her hand.

“And if that doesn’t work?” asked Cragswell, his voice thick with something Docila didn’t want to identify.

“Then I’ll remind her of her duty,” Uncle Hugo replied.

“A woman has few choices in this world. She’ll come to understand that.

Besides, I’ve let it be known in the village that she’s unstable.

Should she refuse or try to run off, who would believe her over me?

I am, after all, her legal guardian and a respected gentleman. ”

The betrayal stung worse than a slap.

To think that while she’d been in mourning for her father, Uncle Hugo, her father’s own brother, had been spinning a web of lies about her. No wonder Lady Hartwell had been so stiff at their last meeting, or why invitations to social gatherings had dwindled in recent months.

She ought to have wed before Papa died, but she had been enjoying her independence. And she never thought her father would pass so quickly.

Docila took a deep breath and glanced around.

Everywhere she looked was dusty and clinging with the scent of decay.

Her once-glorious home was being left to ruin.

She knew that was why Uncle Hugo was trying to get his hands on her inheritance.

If only she could find a way to buy her freedom, pay him off, but she had no clear way of doing so.

Why would he be so hateful as to sell her to Bartholomew Cragswell?

She ran her fingers along the once-gleaming banister, now coated with a thin film of dust. The Persian rugs that had once been vibrant with colour were now faded and worn, the crystal chandelier that had illuminated the entrance hall now hung dull and lifeless.

Her mother would have wept to see it so.

Docila had done her best to keep up the house as her mother would have wanted it done, but it was a large house, and there was only so much one person could do.

Besides, it shouldn’t have been her responsibility.

What had Father been thinking to leave his property to his brother, who he couldn’t even enjoy spending time with?

What had made him think his brother would treat his daughter properly?

Papa had always seen the good in people, even when there was none to be found. He’d insisted that deep down, Hugo had a good heart. That belief was going to cost Docila everything.

Docila snuck back to her room as quietly as she could manage.

She knew her father had a tender heart and had hoped that entrusting his only child to his brother would somehow soften the crusty older man.

But that had not taken place. Of course, Father also never intended to die, which just goes to show that you can’t leave things to chance.

Her bedchamber, once a sanctuary of comfort, now felt like the last refuge in a hostile fortress.

The floral wallpaper her mother had chosen was peeling at the corners, and the window that overlooked the garden had become difficult to open, the frame warped from neglect.

Still, it was the one room in the house where she could be herself, where the memories of happier times hadn’t been completely erased.

Docila had known she needed to be prepared for any eventuality when her father died, so she had packed a small satchel with the minimum of supplies she would need just in case.

Father had always been prepared for any eventuality, and that had rubbed off on her, and was only reinforced when he had been taken so suddenly.

She pulled the satchel from its hiding place beneath the loose floorboard under her bed.

Inside were a spare pair of stockings, a nightshift, a set of undergarments, two older gowns no one had noticed had gone missing, and a small pouch containing the few coins she had managed to save.

Not much, but enough to start with. To this, she added a miniature portrait of her mother that she wore on a chain around her neck, tucking it safely inside her bodice, close to her heart.

Her hands moved swiftly, mechanically, as her mind raced.

Where would she go? Who could she trust?

The neighbouring estate belonged to Lord Whitmore, a crony of her uncle’s who would surely send her straight back. The village was too small; she would be found immediately. The only option was to go somewhere far, somewhere her uncle’s influence couldn’t reach.

She gathered the ends of a blanket together around her satchel, tying them in a knot so she could carry her things on her back, leaving her hands free.

This had the added benefit of bringing a blanket with her.

One could never know when that would be needed.

Hurrying down the back stairs to the kitchen, Docila crept into the room to gather more supplies to keep her going for a while.

She didn’t want the cook to see her, so that the woman could honestly say she had never seen Docila.

She had no one to turn to, no one she could rely upon.

Her world was far too small. Considering how often she had travelled with her father after Mama’s death, she ought to have made friends who would have served her well in this moment of need.

But it was a little late to lament that now.

The kitchen was mercifully empty, the staff having retired to their quarters for the evening. Docila moved quickly, taking a small loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and an apple, wrapping them in a cloth and tucking them into her makeshift bundle.

She hesitated, then added a small knife from the drawer. Not for protection, she couldn’t imagine using it against another person, but for practical purposes on the road ahead.

As she was slipping out the back door, Docila remembered the small likeness of her parents that was on a shelf in the hallway.

She hurried back to take it, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed missing soon enough to give away her absence.

Hopefully, Uncle Hugo wouldn’t think to look for her until it was far too late.

The silver frame caught the moonlight as she carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief. It was the only image she had of her parents together, commissioned shortly after their wedding. Her mother’s smile, so like her own, and her father’s proud stance beside her.

They had been so happy then, before illness had claimed her mother and a riding accident had taken her father.

Docila felt a pang of guilt: what would they think of her running away in the night like a thief?

But then she remembered her uncle’s words, his callous plan to barter her away like chattel, and her resolve strengthened.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty hall. “But I cannot stay and be sold.”

Docila dashed out of the house as though the hounds of Hell were chasing her, which, in a certain way, they were.

Oh, this was less than ideal. Docila knew she would have had to leave eventually, and Uncle Hugo would never have voluntarily allowed her to go, so this would have happened one way or the other.

Overhearing their plans had merely shown their hand and pushed Docila into action.

The night air was cool against her face as she made her way through the garden, keeping to the shadows of the tall hedges.

Her half boots, practical but worn, made little sound on the gravel path.

The moon, nearly full, cast enough light for her to see by, but also enough to make her visible to anyone who might be watching.

She ducked lower, her heart pounding in her chest like a frightened bird.