by Jenna Jaxon
“No. Ohhh.” Georgie clutched her stomach. “She was Lulu’s great-grandmother. Oh, drat. Do you know any really awful curses, Clara? I want to curse Lord St. Just for doing this to me, but I don’t know anything truly bad to call him.”
“You mustn’t think such things, my lady. They’ll only make you feel worse.” Wiping her brow, Clara tsk-tsked under her breath. “Does that feel better?”
“No, it does not.” Georgie crossed her arms over her stomach again. “And since I am positive I cannot feel worse, I will chance the cursing all the same. Oh, dear. The pot, Clara. Quickly.”
In the moments that followed, the painful and slow death of St. Just was the sole image that gave Georgie any solace. Never would she ever forgive the man for torturing her like this. Finally, she eased herself back onto the bed, exhausted. “This must be how the medieval saints felt when put to the rack.” She breathed slowly, praying for her insides to settle. “I do believe, Clara, we might have fared better with the kidnappers after all.”
“I doubt that, my lady.” Trying to stifle a yawn, Clara took the chamber pot to the door and set it outside for Ayers to deal with. “They might just as well as not have taken you on a ship too. They took us directly to the docks, if you remember.”
“It could not possibly be worse than this.” Gingerly, Georgie turned on her side. When nothing untoward seemed imminent, she sighed slowly and sank onto the pillow. “At least they likely would not have abandoned me as Lord St. Just has done.”
“Abandoned you?” Shutting the door with a loud bang that made Georgie wince, Clara returned to her side, her face like a thundercloud about to pour down rain. “How can you say he’s abandoned you? Far from it, let me tell you. Quite a nuisance he’s made of himself, if you ask me. Knocking on the door all hours of the night, asking how you were faring. He’s been ever so helpful with suggestions for when you’re well enough to take tea and toast.”
“Ugh.” Georgie made a face and shuddered. Her stomach sent out its own loud protest. “He’s trying to kill me, although I may very well die before he accomplishes it.”
“I asked him about that, my lady, when you were so ill in the middle of the night. He assured me that this illness would pass and more quickly than you would ever believe. He said to tell you that no one ever died of seasickness.”
Glaring at the traitorous maid, Georgie swallowed down her rising gorge. The thought of any food whatsoever made her stomach clench painfully. “Perhaps I shall have to die then, just to prove him wrong.”
“I can assure you, my lady, you are not in the least dying. At least your speech seems to be rather lively for someone with one foot in this world and one in the next.” Clara stifled another tremendous yawn. “You sound much stronger than you did last night. Lord St. Just says if you’ll just take a bit of tea and toast . . .”
“Traitor,” Georgie hissed through clenched teeth. The mere words “tea and toast” made her want to retch again. “I cannot believe my own maid would plot my murder right in front of me.”
“Believe me, my lady, you’ll take more killing than this.” Clara dropped down in the chair beside the bed. “Can I do anything more for you?”
“Other than stopping the ship or putting me out of my misery, no.” Closing her eyes, Georgie concentrated on scenes of meadows with birds and butterflies amid a sea of violets. Oh, not a sea. She needed something more stationary—a carpet of violets, that would work. Carpets did not move, save when you beat them. Yes, violets. And Isaac.
Just as she was drifting off, the ship heaved up and down so violently Georgie bounced in the bed. Her eyes flew open and panic seized her; she expected to see water pouring in from somewhere. However, the cabin remained intact, thank heavens. Her innards, unfortunately, were making their presence known again.
A glance at her maid showed Clara still asleep, hand pillowed on her cheek. How the woman could sleep through such an upheaval, Georgie could not fathom. Thank goodness this sickness hadn’t affected her maid or Georgie would have been in even direr straits than now. She’d try to allow her to sleep a little while longer, though Georgie, of course, had little control over matters having to do with her stomach at the moment.
A whimper from below brought Georgie’s head up. “Lulu? Is that you?”
The little dog’s sweet tricolored face popped up at the side of her bed, her silky paws resting on the edge of the bunk, and she barked.
“Shhh.” Georgie glanced at Clara, but the maid hadn’t stirred. “Don’t wake her. She needs her rest.” Stroking the soft head she sighed. “Can you jump up here?” She patted the covers beside her. “Perhaps your company will make me feel better.”
Lulu’s head disappeared, then she sailed up onto the bed, landing directly on Georgie’s stomach. Lulu slid onto the bed where she sat panting and smiling.
“Oof.” Pain stabbed Georgie, bringing tears to her eyes. “Oh, Lulu. What have you done to me?”
A sharp knock at the door brought Clara awake with a snort. “What?” She looked around as if trying to recognize her surroundings. Her gaze found Georgie, and she jumped up. “I’m so sorry, my lady. I was so tired I must have dozed off.”
The knock was repeated, more insistently this time, followed immediately by St. Just calling, “Lady Georgina?”
Holding her aching stomach, Georgie shook her head. “Please don’t let him see me like this.”
Nodding, Clara made for the door, but before she reached the middle of the cabin, it opened revealing St. Just, bearing a tray with a bowl and a cup on it. A mischievous smile lit his face. “I see you are awake, my lady.” As if invited, he stepped briskly into the cabin.
“Oh, no, my lord.” Swiftly, Clara moved in front of him, barring further entry. “You cannot come in here.” The maid held up a finger as she paused to yawn. “It would ruin Lady Georgina’s reputation.”
St. Just eyed the sleepy woman, then trained his gaze on Georgie. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Raising her head to upbraid his insolence, Georgie caught a whiff of the hot soup he carried, and her protest turned to a groan. She clenched her teeth and screwed her eyes shut, willing her body to behave. If she cast up her accounts in front of the marquess she would die of shame. Dying might just be her best option in any case.
He set the tray on the table and turned to Clara. “I’ve dealt with seasickness before. Leave the lady’s care to me, and I’ll have her shipshape in no time.”
“I cannot do that, my lord—” The maid stopped, a huge yawn interrupting her objection.
“You’ll be asleep as soon as I leave the room, Clara. Then who will be left to tend to Lady Georgina? The dog?”
Lulu bared her teeth at him.
“Her name is Lulu,” Georgie managed to say before dropping her head back onto the pillow, exhausted.
“Well, neither Lulu nor Clara can take care of you at the moment.” Jaw set, he glared at Clara. “Go to the small cabin just down the passageway that is usually used for storage. Chapman has made up a bed of sorts for you there. All the crew is on deck, so no one will disturb you. Get some sleep.” He turned a thoughtful eye on Georgie. “In the meantime, I will see to Lady Georgina.”
Opening her mouth, hopefully to object to this scandalous proposal, Clara locked eyes with St. Just. Her shoulders sagged, and, with a fleeting, apologetic glance at Georgie, she fled the chamber.
Chuckling, St. Just settled himself into the chair. “I have that effect on servants when I deem it necessary.” He looked her over, concern showing in his gray eyes. “And this is necessary.” He pulled the chair closer to the bunk, settled back, and gave her the piercing look she assumed he’d given Clara. “So, my lady, what shall I do with you?”
* * *
Ten o’ clock in the morning was hardly the time for brandy, but Travers simply couldn’t help himself. He’d spent the best part of the night cursing his fate, St. Just, Lord Blackham, and Lady Georgina herself. In between curses he’d drunk glass after glass of the inn’
s middling vintage, which explained why his head had been thumping with horrible regularity this morning ever since he woke. After an hour of groaning, he’d finally called for more of the vile stuff, and a little hair of the dog had calmed his head to a dull throbbing.
“Crawford!” Oh, God. A white-hot sizzle of pain shot through his head, threatening to pop out his eyeballs. Curse St. Just most of all.
He’d been livid when Mr. Harriman had told him the name of the gentleman who had orchestrated the theft of Georgina’s trunks. A name vaguely familiar to Travers, belonging to one of the dozens of gentlemen of the ton to whom he’d been introduced over the years—the image of a tall, lean man with oddly bright gray eyes appeared in his mind’s eye—but not an intimate by any means. So definitely not a friend playing a joke. Much more likely a friend of his betrothed who was assisting her in fleeing and therefore knew where she was hiding.
Had he been at home he could simply have looked the chap up in a copy of Debrett’s, but he’d not find such a volume at this establishment. Cole and Brown had denied any knowledge of the man beyond this encounter, although their description of him had coincided with Travers’s own recollection of his appearance.
As the surgeon had dressed the cuts on his hand, he’d done the only thing he could think to do and sent his men out to scour the waterfront establishments searching for anyone who knew or knew of the marquess. Was he a local landowner? If so, the retrieval of Georgina might be easier than expected.
The surgeon’s parting instructions had been rest and the liberal application of spirits. This advice Travers had taken to heart, perhaps a trifle too well in fact, for he’d passed out before the men had returned. Steeling himself against the pain, Travers shouted again. “Crawford.”
The parlor door opened, revealing Crawford standing hesitantly, somewhat like a deer sensing danger but compelled to enter an open meadow all the same. He carried a jug of steaming water by way of peace offering. “Good morning, my lord.”
Despite the hushed tones of the valet’s voice, a searing, agonizing bolt shot from one temple to the other. Clenching his teeth against the pain until it passed, Travers hunched over the table, glaring at the man. “For the love of God, Crawford, be quiet.” He breathed deeply, and the ache receded. “Where are Cole and the others? Did they find St. Just or Lady Georgina?”
The valet set the washing water on the stand. “They returned around midnight with news, my lord. Should I fetch them here?”
“News?” Travers sat up so quickly his head snapped back, sending waves of misery through his skull. “What news?” he whispered.
“I believe you should speak with Mr. Cole for the exact details, my lord, but I gathered they located Lord St. Just.”
Squeezing his head between his hands, Travers tried to speak forcefully, though it came out a groan instead. “Send Cole to me now.”
Crawford scurried out.
Gingerly, Travers made his way the six steps to the wash basin and upended the jug over his head. Warm water cascaded over his hair and face, soothing him a little. He would tear the head from the marquess’s body with his own two hands, if only he could stop his own from pounding.
Using his sleeve to wipe his face, he shuffled back to the table and eased into the chair. Where the devil was Cole?
At last a hesitant knock sounded on the door.
“Come.”
Cole presented himself, hat in hand, looking chastened and frightened. As he should.
“Tell me that you found St. Just.”
Shifting from one foot to the other, looking as if he would bolt from the room any second, the big man bit his lip and said, “I did and I didn’t, my lord.”
The dull thumping in Travers’s head had returned, more insistent than before. “You did or you didn’t find him, Cole. It has to be one or the other.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, milord. We searched all along the waterfront, stopping at every inn and tavern we thought a gentleman might put up in.”
“And sampled the wares at each one, I’ll wager.” Travers stopped glowering at the man long enough to eye the bottle of brandy. Another drop would taste good, no doubt. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to Cole. He needed to gather his wits and concentrate on the man’s tale.
“Well, a pint here and there makes for easier talk.”
The man was probably right. “Continue.”
“Morris even went into the town proper, as far as Cherry Street, but none of us could find a sign of St. Just.”
“So you didn’t find him.” Why must this dimwit act as if he didn’t know he hadn’t found the man?
“Not then, my lord.” Cole’s voice took on an eager tone. “But on the way back here, Morris runs into an old chum, and they gets to talkin’ and come to find out, the chum works on the waterfront for a ship that was moored directly next to one called Justine, out of Penwith, Cornwall, owned by Lord St. Just.”
“The man has a ship moored near here?” Travers would never have thought of such a thing, but it played rather nicely into his hands. He and his men could storm the ship and recover Lady Georgina, or if she wasn’t there, brandish weapons and make the marquess tell them where she was hiding.
Cole edged back a step. “Not exactly, milord. Morris’s friend took us to the place where the ship was supposed to be, but it had gone. Sailed on the evening tide.”
Travers’s mouth dropped open. “And you waited until now to tell me?” He pounded the table until his hand hurt. This was simply too much bad luck for one man to have. Grinding his teeth, he tasted blood.
“I didn’t think it mattered, milord.” By this time, Cole had backed to the door and bumped into it. “If he was already gone.”
“Get out.” If the man didn’t leave, Travers might throttle him here and now.
Cole apparently saw the threat in his eyes and shot out the door, slamming it behind him.
“Crawford!”
“Yes, my lord?” The valet emerged slowly from the parlor.
“I need you to dress me before you go out.” After last night’s indulgence, Travers was rather disgusting at the moment, if truth be told. He required a bath, fresh shave, fresh linen, and his best blue superfine suit.
“Out, my lord?”
“Yes, I need you to first call at The Harbor’s Heart to see if Mr. Sturgehill has left word for me of his arrival. Then, check about passage for both of us to Cornwall. You cannot reserve us places yet, as we must await word from Mr. Sturgehill. Then come back here and pack up everything. We must be ready to leave the instant my venture with him is complete.”
“Very good, my lord.” Crawford turned toward the dressing room, then spun back around. “But where are we going in Cornwall, my lord?”
“Penwith. And Crawford, inform Cole he will be leading the others on horseback to that same area in Cornwall. They are to pack their things and be on the road within the hour.” With hard riding and a bit of luck the men would already be in place near St. Just when Travers arrived on the ship.
“Yes, my lord.” The valet hurried out.
Travers leaned forward and poured the final inch of brandy into his glass. He’d be damned if he let St. Just steal his bride away. Unless Blackham had already broken the contract. This whole scheme had been launched with that very contingency in mind. He prayed to God it had not come to pass.
Draining the last dregs from his glass, Travers weighed the wisdom of writing to the marquess to find out the lay of the land, so to speak. Of course, if Blackham had suddenly taken him in dislike, there was nothing to be done. The lady’s father would simply tell him that the offer of Lady Georgina had been withdrawn, and that would be that. Meanwhile, if he wrote simply to inquire about the plans for the coming wedding, might he not draw attention to his insecurities regarding the marriage? Blackham could see that either as a sign of weakness or disrespect and call off the wedding.
Gazing at the empty glass sourly, Travers shook his head. Too great a chance to take. He
would proceed with his original plan: get Lady Georgina into his bed, preferably with witnesses, and secure her as his wife shortly afterward. The end was all that mattered, no matter how he accomplished it.
Chapter Nine
As far as sick rooms went, Lady Georgina’s wasn’t actually as foul as some Rob had had occasion to visit. Despite her fatigue, Clara had kept her mistress as clean as possible and the room tidy. Still, a small cabin tended to retain odors. So getting the lady on her feet and out of the malodorous room would certainly speed her recovery. Being on deck, where the wind, though cold, was fresh, would make a world of difference to Lady Georgina. But in order to get her there, he would have to coax her to eat something. Therein lay the challenge.
“Lady Georgina.” With steadfastly closed eyes, the lady lay mute, although he’d swear she was not asleep. Stealthily, he poked his finger into her shoulder. “Lady Georgina.”
That drew a mumbled response he couldn’t quite hear. “I beg your pardon?”
She sighed and whispered a bit louder, “Please, go away.”
Shaking his head, Rob grabbed the cup from the tray he’d brought, the spicy steam wafting into the air. “I’m afraid I cannot do that. I have taken you on as my charge, you see, willingly or not, so I am bound to see you safely to St. Just or my honor is forfeit. You would not wish that, would you, Lady Georgina?”
Dead silence.
Well, he supposed it only natural she felt some ill will against him at this point. “Whatever your feelings for me, I am in charge of your welfare, which includes attempting to cure you of your seasickness. To do that you must eat.”
“No.” Scowling at him, she shook her head vehemently. “If I eat that I shall be violently ill.” She clamped her lips shut and stared at him, defiant.
“You may be a bit queasy at first, but once we get the tea down, the ginger will take effect, and you’ll feel much better. This has been a sovereign remedy for mal de mer for generations of sailors.” Perhaps a bit of a distraction would help. “Did you know that Admiral Nelson also suffered from seasickness? All his life. Still, during his entire career he fought it and died a hero despite the affliction.”