11. The Man in the Raspberry Suit

That was, Remora mused as they arrived at the wharf, quite possibly the most awkward carriage ride she had ever had the misfortune to participate in.

She’d tried to make small talk, truly she had, but never before had she encountered such a dour group of individuals!

McCoy glared at Jinn. Jinn closed his eyes and looked at no one. Bones stared morosely out the carriage window.

She’d had better conversations with an empty room.

With a whoosh of escaping air, the side of the carriage opened outward, copper gears in the ceiling spinning cheerfully. Once again grasping Bones’s arm for her exit from the carriage, Remora decided that enough was really quite enough. She could hardly move forward with her plan if the captain refused to speak to her, and McCoy looked disinclined to speak to anyone while Jinn was about.

The moment they boarded the ship, she fully intended to bring an end to this ridiculous pouting of his. She had no time for tantrums. It had taken three entire days to convince her uncle that she was going on her adventure whether he approved or not, and fully another day to track down the mysterious Ratchet person mentioned by Hank and gain ownership of the Miraj.

She needed to leave before the rest of the Price family descended upon her and began making demands upon her time and future. The hints of matchmaking and the attempts of assassination had already escalated to an irritating level. Just this morning, her porridge had been interrupted by a needlebot bearing a particularly nasty poison. It was the third attempt to kill her this week, and she had quite enough of it.

No, far better that she leave immediately. To do that, she needed Hank and the Miraj. It did her no good whatsoever to have a ship without a captain. Pirating was really not her strong suit, and she felt this was an excellent time to practice one of her uncle’s favorite managerial techniques—delegation.

As Jinn and McCoy descended the stairs, a tall man wearing a tailored suit in an eye-catching shade of raspberry approached. A white felt bowler topped his thinning brown hair, and his neatly trimmed mustache did not quite hide his yellowed teeth.

The stranger’s eyes met hers and held. Drat. That meant he was here for her. Assassin? Businessman? It didn’t truly matter—he was a delay regardless of his purpose, and therefore not someone she wished to talk to. She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt, fingers folding around her tiny derringer.

“Ah, Miss Price! What luck to have happened upon you!” the man exclaimed as he reached them.

She smiled politely. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I do not know—”

Hank interrupted. “Ratchet, you slimy shark, you look like a ponce in that costume. Why are you here? If it’s about the money, I’m good for it, you know I am.”

Remora’s grip on the gun relaxed. So this was the famous Ratchet? She looked more closely, noting the too-crisp lines of the suit and the perfectly snowy felt of his hat. Freshly tailored—he’d only recently purchased the suit. That meant his intent was likely business—rarely did someone buy a new suit when on a mission for murder. Particularly not a white hat—stains would be quite impossible to remove.

Ratchet’s bright welcoming smile faltered slightly, his eyes flicking briefly to McCoy. “Your debt has been paid, I’ve no business with you.”

“Paid?” said McCoy.

Remora sighed. Why would no one let her discuss this in private with the man? The trade agreements she had sat in on with her uncle taught her that captains were notoriously short-tempered when it came to their ships. She would prefer to bring up the matter gently rather than simply blurting it out.

“Was there something you needed, Mr. Ratchet?” she said, very deliberately not meeting McCoy’s gaze. The captain was staring at her with an unpleasantly suspicious look. She needed to change the subject.

Once again the center of attention, Ratchet brightened. “Yes! Indeed there is something I feel we need to discuss. It concerns your ownership of the Miraj. Perhaps we could speak . . . privately?”

Remora closed her eyes and counted to five. One of her more recent governesses had suggested it as a technique to control her tongue after she’d suggested to the Duke of Farthen that he might wish to wear a hat to hide the bald spot on the top of his head.

The counting never worked, but she held out the hope that someday it might.

“Mr. Ratchet,” she said, opening her eyes, “I do not feel that we have anything to discuss. Our business agreement was carried out in my absence. Mr. McCoy’s debt has been paid in full and ownership of the Miraj has been transferred to my name. You have your money; I have my signed Writ of Ownership. My uncle has seen to it that all of the appropriate legal authorities have been notified and all of the proper paperwork has been filed. Now if you’ll pardon me, “ she said, turning to Hank and refusing to cringe under his infuriated glare. “Mr. McCoy and I are late for a business meeting.”

“Damn right we are,” Hank said.

“Let’s not be so hasty,” said Ratchet, stepping forward. Her hand tightened on her gun again. It would be so much easier if she could simply shoot the man. Just a flesh wound. Something to slow him down. Nothing that would cause any lasting damage. Her uncle (and all of her governesses) had assured her that was an improper solution for social irritations, though they had yet to suggest a satisfactory alternative.

Impatiently, she stopped and gave Ratchet her attention once more. She really did not have time for this.

“You see, Miss—I sold the Miraj to you considerably below market value. I didn’t have to sell it at all. I did so as a favor to the noble Price family. There are many ways in which a ship like the Miraj could be used to our mutual benefit. You owe me a small moment of your time, at the very least. With your name and my business ideas, we could make a fortune!”

She frowned at him. “I already have a fortune. Furthermore, I owe you nothing. If you wish to engage in business transactions with the Price family, you should contact the Price estate directly. You couldn’t possibly believe this to be the proper way to—oh!” she paused, eyes widening. “Oh, heavens me, I nearly missed it. You’re grifting me, aren’t you?”

Ratchet took a step back, brow furrowing. “Oh dear.” She turned to Hank for clarification. “That is the correct term, is it not? Grift? Hornswoggle? Bribery? Blackmail?”

He blinked at her. Her smile dimmed. “Is that . . . not the correct word? I could have sworn it was.”

Bones cleared his throat, a sound like someone shaking a tin can full of pebbles. “Yes, Remora. ‘Grift’ is the proper word.”

“Wonderful! Thank you!” she said brightly, then turned back to Ratchet. “I’m terribly sorry, but I really am in quite a hurry. I would like to finish this conversation, though. I’ve never been grifted before! On my return, we shall have to continue. At your place, I think. With tea and biscuits, of course. We must keep this civilized.”

Ratchet’s mouth flapped, but no sound escaped. Hank barked a laugh, smothering it with a hand.

“Welcome to my world,” he said to Ratchet, then turned and began walking down the dock.

Remora hurried to join him, but paused briefly, turning back. “I am being quite serious,” she called to Ratchet. “You mustn’t forget the tea!”

She waved for Jinn and Bones to follow, then darted forward to catch up to Hank. She wouldn’t put it past him to try and set sail without her, and they had a lot to discuss.