The English Lily (Tales of the Scrimshaw Doll)

by Wheeler, Kae Elle

“Niccòlo? I-I mean Signore de Lecce?” Kendra dropped Joseph’s arm and darted forward.

  “Si.” Niccòlo grabbed both her hands and brought them to his lips.

  “What are you doing here?” She sounded—winded, of all things.

  “Yes, Niccòlo, what are you doing here?” Joseph repeated.

  “Looking for you, Lady Ke—”

  “Lady Kate is famished, I vow,” Joseph interrupted quickly. He disengaged Niccòlo’s hold on her and saw her seated. She flashed him a dimpled grin—the minx—before turning back to his friend’s younger brother—his very distinguished friend, whom the younger brother favored quite pointedly. Of Italian descent, he was tall—nearly as tall as Joseph with dark brooding eyes and longish midnight hair. Another two or three years and Niccòlo would have the breadth of shoulder that inspired the romance of poets and artists.

  “How did you find me, Nic—uh, signore?”

  “It was not easy.” Niccòlo dropped into the chair beside her, forcing Joseph to sit across. He lowered his voice. “I had to stoop to asking questions dockside.”

  Perfect. Joseph quashed the inclination to roll his eyes and considered the Pandora’s box Niccòlo had possibly unleashed. He should have the two of them marry. Unfortunately, he needed her fortune. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. Besides, ’twould be most unfair to poor Niccòlo. She would chew him up, spit him out, and toss him overboard for fish food.

  Joseph glanced at the other patrons seated throughout the makeshift dining area just off the galley. To his annoyance, several male members of the group were sitting straighter, adjusting cravats, staring at her generously displayed bosom with avid interest. Too much interest. Particularly disgusting was the elderly rotund gentleman with the calculating eyes and heavy gray beard filled with bits of gravy. Somehow he didn’t think the earl would appreciate a son-in-law who might have twenty years on him. A shudder rippled up his spine.

  “Sir, there be trays of grub on the sideboard.” The statement came from a snaggle-toothed seaman.

  “Merci.” Joseph stood and made his way to said sideboard and filled a plate with eggs and rashers, even a scone. He glanced over his shoulder to where Niccòlo and Kendra had their heads together like two children in a whispering contest. He sighed and filled another plate.

  “Your daughter?”

  Startled, Joseph glanced up quickly. Gray-Bits Beard was asking if Kendra was his…he almost choked…daughter? Hell, he was all of nine-and-twenty!

  “Ah, I can see from your reaction she is not. Allow me to introduce myself.” His voice deepened. “I am the Marquis of Bute, John Trumball.”

  “My lord. Viscount Lawrie, Joseph Gray.”

  “Ah, I am aware of your father. Yarmouth, is it not?”

  “Yes.” Tension pinched Joseph’s shoulders. He could see the questions in the old man’s piercing stare.

  Yes. His mother was French. He was reared French, at least early on. And not many approved. Not many of the English aristocracy, leastways. Joseph happened to revel in the fact. There was also the minute issue of the Yarmouth Holdings, its lack of funds, and the neglect in which his late uncle had left the estate. Joseph offered a condescending smile, daring the old man to say what he so clearly was thinking.

  At times, Joseph dearly wished his father had been the youngest of three sons rather than second, thus leaving his cousin Seth to inherit. But, alas, that was not the case, and the line had fallen to his father and himself, and he’d need an heir of his own. The responsibilities would eventually fall to Joseph, which was just as well. Seth was a selfish rogue, renowned for his scandalous outbursts in gaming and whoring.

  Bute cleared his throat and sipped his tea, his gaze riveted on Kendra. “She’s a lovely piece, no? I’m on the hunt for a new wife, myself. She would do nicely. My last wife left me with three daughters, no sons. She died giving birth to the last.”

  “Indeed. And how old is the last?” Joseph inquired politely, though something in him bristled at the label “piece.”

  “Three or four, I’ve lost count,” Bute said cheerfully.

  Joseph was appalled. Mon Dieu. “Three years old?”

  “Three months, maybe four. Like I said, I’ve lost count.”

  Joseph turned his attention to his food and observed Kendra from a hooded gaze. She was lovely. He considered his last thought—an heir—and watched her gloved hands flit about gracefully as she whispered animatedly with Niccòlo.

  He shifted his gaze back to Bute. He’d kill the bâtard if he kept looking at her as if she were a side of beef. It was that thought that explained the next words to fall from his mouth like a gushing waterfall.

  “I fear her father has already promised her hand in marriage.”

  Chapter Three

  Kendra sat in her cabin at the bolted down table, her only company the gypsy doll in the chair across. A rush of heat, then cold, prickled her arms. She really did not feel well. But she was determined to decipher that piece of paper if it killed her.

  She passed a hand over her aching eyes before she spread the yellowed note out with one hand and bent over it intently. The script was lavish and difficult to read. A bitter bark of laughter escaped at that irony. ’Twould not matter if it were printed in blocked letters etched with genuine gold. She would still struggle with reading it. Such was her lot in life. If only…

  But, still, she concentrated fiercely on the words. There were two sentences, she could make out that much. She glanced over her shoulder to the door, listening to make sure Louisa was not approaching. All was quiet, and she went back to the task at hand. She brushed damp palms over her skirt before handling the missive. She blinked hard, then shook her head and forced her attention on the note.

  “Or, to, you…” she whispered. Her heart pounded in her chest. Unfortunately, the “to” sometimes looked like “ho” or “bo”—was “bo” a word? She squeezed her eyes tight, and pressed fingers to her temples where a palpitating pulse throbbed. Pride kept her from inquiring as to Louisa’s competency in reading. Why? she demanded silently. Why is it so difficult? Kendra breathed in as deeply as she could, but the air scarcely filled her lungs; the strangling confines of her corset had her near blacking out.

  She drummed her fingers on the table, studying the small slashes on the back of one hand. She hadn’t counted the scars in quite some time; there were eight of them, remnants of the punishment a frustrated instructor had inflicted on an inadequate student. Almost too small to be of note, but there all the same.

  There must be some easier way to learn the contents of this missive. A brisk tap at the door startled her. Quickly she slipped her hands into her gloves before answering.

  “Signorina.” Niccòlo clicked the heels of his boots together, extending a formal bow. “I thought you might appreciate a turnabout, topside. The air is balmy, and the captain feels the weather is too good to waste.”

  She actually felt somewhat feverish, but to refuse would be churlish. “Of course. I’ll just get my bonnet.” Kendra grabbed her hat from the foot of the bed.

  “What is this?”

  “What?” She glanced over her shoulder to where his gaze rested on the doll. “Oh, that was a gift from Lady—er, the Countess de Lecce. Lady Esmeralda.”

  “Are you certain? ’Tis very odd-looking, no?”

  “I suppose so.” She smiled. “I find her somewhat engaging, personally.”

  Niccòlo stepped into the cabin and over to the table. “Interesting note, no?”

  Blast. The note. “Uh, yes. Yes, it is.”

  Niccòlo picked it up and scanned it. A quick laugh erupted. “What is this nonsense about a curse?”

  A curse?

  “And true love?”

  “I-I’m sure I don’t know,” she said coolly. She could hardly ask him what it said now. She plucked the missive from his fingers and stuffed it into her apron pocket. “Shall we?”

  ****

  Joseph stood against the rail and let the warm humid air
ruffle his hair. There was nothing more invigorating than being at sea. Now if he could just conjure up some credible strategy for securing Lady Kendra’s hand... Niccòlo’s presence on board should not have been an issue, but clearly Kendra sported a tendresse for him. It was clear in how they put their heads together and whispered, her hand reaching for his arm, her soft laugh when he was near.

  Shoving a hand in his pocket, the tinkling of feminine laughter touched his ear, followed by Kendra’s soft-pitched voice. “Surely, you jest, signore. Don’t tell me your words were that you were looking for a maiden with a wart on her nose?”

  “I couldn’t have you sounding so irresistible, lest we find ourselves fighting the hordes of them through my search, signorina.”

  The signore’s voice held a throaty purr that set Joseph’s teeth on edge.

  “I fear I had to mention your flaxen hair, white-as-cream skin, and heavenly blue eyes, however.”

  Joseph rolled his own eyes and stifled a groan. They had not yet rounded the corner and seen him. He pushed himself from the rail, determined to interrupt before Niccòlo dropped to his knees to kiss Kendra’s feet. Or, worse, to propose.

  “If I may be so bold, signorina, why did you run? Were you so distraught by my brother’s nuptials?”

  Joseph halted, curious to hear her answer.

  Kendra cleared her throat with a delicate cough. “N-no, of course not. Lady Esmeralda is…uh…p-perfect for Alessandro,” she said softly. “I…”

  Joseph waited, breath held. He knew he should let his presence be known—not that he was hiding. Blast, he was in plain sight, on the deck of a ship.

  “You?” Niccòlo prompted.

  “I was ready for adventure, that’s all.”

  Kendra’s voice brushed over Joseph’s skin like fine East India silk. He could gift her with adventure. Once they married, he vowed, she’d have all the adventure she could handle for years to come.

  Her sharp gasp penetrated the fog in his brain. He straightened and faced them as they rounded the corner. “Lady Kate.” He smiled. “Niccòlo. I see you are taking advantage of the temperate weather. I fear it may storm soon, and we shall all be confined below.”

  A frown creased her forehead as she looked out over a darkening sky.

  The gathering black clouds did not appear encouraging, to Kendra’s dismay. She may not have thought out well enough this plan of hers to run to the Americas. The sea itself seemed unusually calm. The Bible clearly stated, “…always calmest before the storm.” So the vicar preached on Sundays, leastways.

  “What plans have you for this afternoon, my lady?” Lord Lawrie asked.

  She shook her head, and with a small prayer for smooth sailing said, “I’m sorry?” She turned to him with a slight smile. “I believe some of the other ladies and I will be visiting and embroidering our way through the monotony of sea life.”

  “That should keep you out of trouble.” His sardonic grin did nothing to ease the sting of his words. “Anything else might tax your delicate sensibilities.”

  Irritation skittered up her spine. “Do I trouble you, my lord?”

  “Most assuredly, my lady, but nothing I am not prepared to handle.” He took her gloved hand and bowed. Heat seeped through the thin fabric and up her arm to her neck, her cheeks. She snatched her hand away, disturbed by the unexpected sensations.

  His words sounded distinctly like a challenge. Niccòlo shifted beside her impatiently or uncomfortably, she was unsure which.

  “I shall escort you back to your cabin, my lady,” Niccòlo said, pointedly holding out his arm.

  “Thank you.” She kept her tone polite but shot Lord Lawrie a glare.

  Twenty minutes later, Kendra found herself situated between Juliette Chylton of Brighton and Mr. Charles Thomas, a schoolmaster who had grown up in Sunderland. Niccòlo sat trapped between Miss Chylton and Rebecca Selwyn.

  Kendra sighed, thinking it best to remain quiet with Miss Selwyn in the vicinity. Rebecca reminded Kendra of a vulture circling over dead sheep, with her gossipy nature and her too-close-together eyes and thin puckered lips. Kendra blinked away the picture. Her eyes felt scratchy and dry, her face overly warm.

  “And, what is it you instruct, Mr. Thomas?” Juliette asked. She was a pert, dark-haired beauty who could, no doubt, read with little trouble. Her forward manner was somewhat annoying, but Kendra listened while she concentrated on threading her needle through the delicate muslin.

  Mr. Thomas’s good-natured chuckle was indulgent. “I believe you mean, who is it I instruct.”

  Juliette grinned. “Who is it you instruct, then?”

  “The offspring of the local gentry. The subjects range from mathematics and geography to Latin and writing. Mostly young men, but a few indulgent parents are adamant about their daughters’ education, as well, I’m happy to say.”

  “My parents were certainly adamant about mine,” Juliette groused. “If I never read another book on Egyptology as long as I live, ’twill be too soon for me.”

  Kendra’s fingers moved with the winning speed of a horse at Ascot, crossing the finish line.

  “Oh, I should love to read stories of Egypt.” A wistful sigh escaped Winifred Digby, a homely girl whose barrister father had emigrated to the New World several years prior and sent for his wife and daughter as soon as he could arrange their passage. “ ’Tis Latin I abhor most.”

  The poor child had recently lost her mother and, with no other relatives, found herself relegated to America through no choice of her own. To Winifred’s credit, she grasped it all as a Grand Adventure. Kendra suppressed a shudder at the girl’s circumstances while still envying her attitude. It was all quite brave.

  She was frantic to steer the conversation in another direction. They would expect her contribution, whether she wished to be forthcoming or not. Her heart pounded in her chest. With a delicate cough, she cleared her throat. “What is that you are reading, Mrs. Blythe?”

  Mrs. Blythe was a woman of indeterminate years and a short round body, with a gray chignon at her nape. She did not care for the talk surrounding her unless it pertained to her present reading material. Kendra loathed drawing their attention, but she was desperate.

  “Bernard de la Harpe’s explorations in the great plains of the New World. ’Tis quite fascinating. Of course, he was not the first adventurer to explore his opportunities in the southwest part of the continent. The Spaniard Coronado first traveled through the area in the fifteen hundreds, though he left little evidence behind. You are welcome to borrow it once I’m finished.”

  Panic seized Kendra, and she froze. She found herself unable to speak; words stuck in her throat.

  “I’ve read similar accounts to my charges,” Mr. Thomas said, smiling. He had a kind face, young despite his thinning hair. He must have been quite active with his charges, as he was certainly not soft about the middle compared to that Marquis of Bute. “ ’Tis fascinating reading, what with the Indians they encountered. Life was truly uncivilized.”

  Saved by Mr. Thomas, she let out a small relieved breath.

  “The Spanish control most of the area currently. It sounds darkly romantic.” Mrs. Blythe’s eyes took on a dreamy quality.

  A surge of fury flooded Kendra’s veins. It took her a moment to identify the emotion. She was jealous. Jealous that they could all read without a speck of trouble, no aching head for their efforts, no ridicule for stupidity or not applying themselves. Her finger slipped, and she pricked herself with the needle. Stark red drops appeared, then soaked into the soft muslin.

  “Kendra? I-I mean Miss Faye?” Niccòlo stuttered.

  Troubled? Bah, every word struck as a condescending slap. She had to escape.

  “Is something the matter, Miss Faye?”

  Kendra raised her eyes to the concerned gaze of Mr. Thomas.

  “You’ve hurt yourself, Miss Faye,” he said. Before she realized his intentions, he peeled the glove from her hand. “Someone, please get water and a towel.”
<
br />   “I’ll do it,” Niccòlo said and rushed out.

  “Your pretty muslin piece is ruined,” Juliette said.

  “What are those marks on your hand?” Rebecca gasped.

  Kendra jerked her hand from Mr. Thomas and snatched up her glove, biting back another sting of tears. She could not abide the kindness or the humiliation. “Please, excuse me. I-I must find Louisa.” She dashed out, ignoring their protests. Let them talk. ’Twas nothing to which she was unaccustomed.

  The need for fresh air overwhelmed her. Nausea threatened. It was all she could do to make her way to the upper deck, posthaste, where large drops of rain were starting to cry from the clouds.

  She turned her face up. No one would see her cry. The rain would do it for her.

  Chapter Four

  “What the hell are you doing standing in the rain like an imbécile?” Joseph barked. The balmy air from that morning had dissipated into a cold wet blanket. “You’re not even wearing a cloak.”

  Kendra’s spine was so rigid Joseph feared it would snap if the ship took an unexpected lurch. Her gloved hand clutched its mate. She did not turn, nor did she admonish him with one of her scathing retorts. Indeed, she did not even look at him. Her despondency did more to diminish his anger than he cared to admit. A delicate shudder racked her small frame. She was freezing, shivering under the onslaught of the chilled rain.

  “Mon Dieu,” he muttered, slipping from his great coat. He dropped it about her shoulders and guided her back to the companionway. “What is it, Lady Kendra? Are you ill? Where is your maid?”

  “No! No, I’m…I’m not…I don’t know. I-I just needed…some air.” Her chest heaved in heavy gasps.

  “Well, now you need dry clothes. Come, let us find your maid, and I shall see about rallying some tea for you.”

  “Please, I just want to be left alone,” she said. Her voice was faint, hidden beneath his cloak.

  Joseph stopped. Gripping the folds, he turned her to him. He had to part the coat to see her downturned head. Her pale gold hair was soaked and plastered to her head. With an index finger, he lifted her chin. Two spots of red flushed her cheeks in an otherwise pale pallor. A stab of guilt pierced his chest. She’d been crying. “I’ll kill him.”