“First I should like Mister Yap to have a very thorough scouring in a hot bath. We’ll burn his clothes and in the meantime he can don one of my robes.”

Brigham, whom he’d known only to be efficient and unflappable, looked more than mildly horrified at the prospect of bathing Yap. Then he squared his shoulders. “Very well, my lord. As you wish. I shall heat up water for a bath.”

“Good, and a basin for me, as well,” Amberhill said. It would be a relief to wash the remnant gore of Keeler from his hands.

Brigham nodded, turned on his heel, and left the room, taking his light with him.

“What’s that ya said about a bath, sir?” Yap asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.

“You are going to take one.”

Even in the dim light, Amberhill could make out the mortified expression on Yap’s face. “B-but I gave ya the story. You said it would be worth my while.”

“And it will be. After your bath. I do not conduct business or eat breakfast with anyone who has not bathed in months.”

“Years,” Yap corrected, with no small amount of pride.

“Indeed,” Amberhill replied. He’d have to give Brigham a bonus when he was through with Yap. He wondered how much of the pirate would remain after the grime was scrubbed away.

In any case, he did not think his business with Yap would be concluded even after the pirate bathed and ate a hearty breakfast.

No, he did not. He had plans.

CANDLESTICKS

Amberhill rummaged through Morry’s wardrobe looking for anything that might fit Yap. He’d not had the heart to go through Morry’s things. Even now, it caught in his throat when he saw a familiar frock coat and remembered Morry in it, or a favorite waistcoat or shirt, and felt the texture of velvet, wool, and tweed, with a remnant of the musky scent of the old gentleman still hanging in the air.

I should give all this away to people who can use it, Amberhill thought, but every time he considered doing so, the idea hit resistance. He felt as if giving away Morry’s clothing was like losing a piece of the man who had been like a father to him. It was difficult enough to think of clothing Yap in it.

So he focused on pieces that might simply fit the pirate. Trouble was, Morry had been trim throughout his life, and Yap was rather round.

He withdrew a pair of trousers that might do. A pair that might be worn at a country gentleman’s hunting estate. They were looser in style than the others, though it would still be a close thing as to whether or not they fit. He found a hearty broadcloth shirt, too, and a waistcoat to match the trousers. Finally, Amberhill took out an old gray cloak that was voluminous enough to fit Yap.

As he removed the items from the wardrobe and placed them on Morry’s old bed, Brigham appeared in the doorway. The sun was well up, and in the light that flowed into the room, he saw how wan his manservant appeared. He looked as though he wanted to be ill. He stood there in his shirt sleeves and apron, with a scrub brush in one hand and something else in the other.

“You are done with Mister Yap’s bath?” Amberhill asked.

Brigham nodded. “My lord, it was most unspeakable. The filth!” He shuddered. “I took this from his hair. Among other things.” He exhibited a hermit crab, antennae twitching, on his palm—it still had some of Yap’s gray hairs clinging to it. “The tub, when we finished—no! I cannot speak of it.”

Brigham paled so much Amberhill feared he might faint. “Where is Mister Yap now?”

“At breakfast.”

“You’ve done well,” Amberhill said. “Take the rest of the day for yourself.”

Brigham whimpered and now Amberhill thought he might cry. “Thank you, my lord.” With that, Brigham turned slowly away, as though dazed, and walked down the corridor with his scrub brush and hermit crab. Amberhill hoped he wouldn’t have to find another new manservant after this.

After pulling out pairs of stockings and shoes that might fit Yap, he went downstairs to the dining room. It took moments for him to realize that the man he observed sitting there sawing into a ham steak was the same man he’d brought home. Gone was Yap’s straggly, matted hair. It was cropped close to his scalp, and gleamed more white than gray. Without the dirt and rags, and freshly shaved, wearing one of Amberhill’s old bathing robes, he appeared more a gentleman than a pirate sitting there amid the oak paneling of the dining room.

Yap paused and said, with his mouth full, “Will ya be joining me, sir?”

“Chew and swallow before you speak, Mister Yap.” Amberhill was suddenly reminded of his old nursemaid teaching him manners.

His cook, Mistress Landen, evidently had not witnessed Yap in his more odoriferous condition, and flittered and flustered to bring him fresh helpings of eggs and ham and fried potatoes. She slathered his toasted bread with butter and jam and placed it before him. She preened when he requested fresh cups of kauv, and blushed and giggled when he winked at her. Amberhill had never seen such behavior from his matronly cook before. Just as well he gave Brigham the rest of the day off. The man would be appalled.

Amberhill sat at the head of the table and Mistress Landen was back with another plate filled for him.

“Eat up, my lord,” she said. “You should follow Mister Yap’s example. He has a fine appetite.”

Yap grinned as he chewed, and Amberhill thought he might lose his appetite altogether.

“These here ...” Yap paused, remembering to gulp down his food first, and started again. “These here vittles are very good, sir. Land flesh! How I missed it all those long years at sea.” He pushed another chunk of ham into his mouth and chewed with vigor.