“You cost me a pretty penny,” he growled.
“Well, I am yer wife.” She regretted the impish words the second they left her mouth. “I’ll pay ye back,” she added hastily at the thunderous expression on his face. Now was probably not the right time to remind him he had agreed when she had asked him to take her along. She straightened her shoulders and held her ground.
“Oh?” His brows lifted and scepticism blanketed his face.
“I swear.”
“How? And if you are to suggest the obvious—” He looked pointedly at the bunk. “Your favours do not interest me. Or maybe they would, after you’ve had a bath.” A mocking smile curled his lips. “I shall arrange for that. You smell and any cabin mate of mine is not going to smell.”
“Hmmph.” A wave of heat suffused her cheeks. She smelled? She tried in vain to remember the last bath she had and gave up. He was probably right, she did smell. Never mind that, the rogue, to even suggest such a thing as sharing her bunk.
But why wouldn’t he? He could have me and no one would think twice on it. He is the lord and I am nothing to him.
For a frantic instant, she contemplated escape but the die had been cast—she was on her way to New Caledonia with him. As his wife.
A deep breath steadied her nerves. “I shall pay ye back,” she declared stoutly. “Where we go—be there cities? I can pickpocket there. No one could best a Londoner at that. What do ye fancy—jewels, folders, coins? I can pick just about anything.”
He continued to glower at her. Her confidence wavered. It promised to be a long and uncomfortable voyage if she and Lord Temple Wellington could not come to some kind of accord.
“What’s a brig?” she asked brightly, hoping to lighten his mood. “I heard the captain say that’s where I should go.” She grinned at him, willing him to smile back at her.
“Jail. Like Newgate only a lot smaller.”
“Oh.” She scratched her nose. “But so long as I behave, I ain’t going there, right?”
“Right,” he nodded.
“I can do that,” she said earnestly, hands clasped in supplication. “I can behave, ye’ll see.”
“Aye, we’ll see.” He continued to lean against the door with arms crossed, looking down on her with hooded eyes.
Her stomach grew queasy. It must be the motion of the ship. It couldn’t be the frank perusal of the handsome lord causing her discomfort. Could it?
Her cheeks grew hotter as the seconds ticked away.
“First things first. Tell me, why are you so desperate to come with me?”
A hundred glib answers churned through her mind. Her gaze fell to the rich fabric of his clothes. Temple looked every inch the ton that he was. She could spot them a mile away, tantalizing her with the thought of the rich purses they carried, purses that to them meant nothing, perhaps an evening’s enjoyment, but to her and the others in the workhouse meant survival for another day.
“I really didn’t mean to come with you. It’s just that it were a chance too good to miss. An adventure.” She stopped, knowing she was lying.
A black eyebrow quirked in doubt; his mouth twisted.
The reason sounded lame, even to her ears. Nay, it wasn’t adventure she wanted. She could find adventure aplenty on London’s streets.
How could she tell him he presented a sudden opportunity to change her life? How could she tell him of her years at the workhouse on Bishopsgate Street, with its intolerable food, its sickness and desperation, and always, always, the cold?
She shivered at the memories.
“Are you chilled?” The solicitous question startled her, as did the sudden change of subject. He seemingly had accepted her answer.
She shook her head.
“It is late,” he said abruptly. “I suggest we retire for the night.” He turned to grab the latch on the door. “Tomorrow we can see about getting you organized. I shall give you privacy to settle yourself.”
Tar-scented air gusted into the room as he stepped through the door, slamming it behind him.
Bemused, Simone sat for a moment, fingering the medallion hanging about her neck, the one Mrs Dougherty said had been in Simone’s possession when she had come to the workhouse. Touching it always gave her courage, as if it carried some great secret; it hadn’t failed her yet and it worked now. She was unhurt and in one piece, wasn’t she?
She straightened her shoulders before removing her tattered bonnet and shawl to place them on the shelf above her head. She kicked off her boots and grabbed the neatly folded blanket from her bunk. Curling into the fetal position on the thin feather mattress, she drew the blanket up to her chin and held it there with clenched fists. Beneath her, the motion of the ship changed, from an imperceptible bob to a gentle glide.
The Annabelle had set sail.
Simone’s thoughts drifted much like the ship drifted with the current. She didn’t want Temple to know she had hidden in his trunk to escape prison. His leaving London had been a bonus. She didn’t know how long it would take to sail to New Caledonia but it would give her extra time for the constables to forget about her. And surely a few days sharing a cabin and playing the part of Lady Wellington was a small price to pay.
She couldn’t turn back, even if she wanted to. Mrs Dougherty would worry about her and she felt bad about that, but there had simply not been the opportunity to bid farewell.
And what in the packet was so important to Lord Wellington that he would willingly take a stranger with him, indeed pass her off as his wife? An inquiring squeeze through the folds of oil cloth had indicated something hard, perhaps a small box. Small but heavy. How pointless to wonder about it, though—the well-hidden packet would have to wait for their return.
No, the more pressing matters were how to appease her cabin mate and how to play her part as Lady Wellington.
Temple had demanded payment from her, knowing full well she did not have it. He had been jesting about sharing her bunk. Hadn’t he?
Chapter Four
Several days later, an awestruck Simone watched the Annabelle cut through foam-crested waves in a spray that flared out from the bow like a glittering diamond shawl. Above her head, the sails snapped and billowed and below her feet, the deck surged, rising majestically to meet each wave before dropping, down, down, only to rise again in a never-ending motion.
England lay behind her, a barely visible line on the horizon. Before her, the Atlantic Ocean rolled away so far that it didn’t stop until it met the sky.
And the sky—clean, crisp, dotted with lace white clouds against a brilliant blue such as she had never seen.
It was beautiful.
It was terrifying.
It was exhilarating
It was her road to a new life.
“I ain’t ever smelled air like this before.” Simone gripped the ship’s railing and filled her lungs, a pleasant change from London’s foul air.
She glanced sideways at Temple, draped pathetically over the handrail. It was all that stopped him from tumbling into the green swells below. She supposed she should warn him to hang tight but then decided against it. The poor man suffered too much already without her nagging at him.
“Ah, Temple?”
He grunted.
“Ye know I’m not a lady of quality.” This was the first opportunity she had had to broach the subject with Temple. He had avoided her blatantly, difficult to do on the confines of the Annabelle, but somehow he managed it.
“What did you say?” Temple barely got the question out before another bout of retching overcame him.
“I’m supposed ta be yer wife but I’m not a lady of quality. What happens when everyone on this ship figures that out?”
“Oh that.” He managed to shrug even though his hands clutched the rail so tightly his shoulders could barely move. “Once the voyage is over, we’ll never see any of our fellow passengers again. What they think of us is of no concern to me. Besides, I’ve already introduced you as my wife. Who said you needed to b
e a lady?”
Amazed, she looked at him. “Ye really don’t care, do ye?”
He shook his head.
“But what do I have ta do? To be Lady Wellington?”
“It’s simple, really. Pretend shyness. Keep your eyes lowered. If you must converse, smile and nod.”
It seemed straightforward. “Very well.” She nodded. “Yer the lord. If ye don’t care, I suppose I don’t care.”
But she did care, in fact, cared very much. It was so very, very improper of her to share a cabin with a man. Even the man who had saved her neck.
“Ohhhh,” Temple moaned, interrupting her thoughts.
She looked at him, the very picture of misery, and sympathy swelled within her. “Oh my, yer face is green. Maybe ye need something ta drink? I’ll get it for ye.” She wanted to help him but the ship’s surgeon had said the only thing that would help him was time to get his sea legs. Perhaps she could get his mind off his suffering.
“Why did ye leave London? Ye were being chased but yer a lord. No one would listen to the likes of them, ye didn’t have to run.”
He turned her way, his face twisted in agony. “It’s not a topic I care to discuss at this particular moment.”
“As ye wish.” Simone looked out over the vast Atlantic for several moments before curiosity nudged her again. “Where is New Caledonia?”
He groaned and pushed himself to standing, hands gripping the rail. “In the new world. Canada to be precise.”
“Couldn’t ye find a closer place to hide?” She wrinkled her nose. The ton—who could make sense of them?
“I am not hiding,” he retorted. “I thought to make my own way and find my fortune. To that end, I have become a partner in the North West Company.”
“But ye already have money.”
“Nay.” He shook his head. “My family may have means but I do not.”
“Yer a younger son, then,” she said shrewdly. “Ye got yerself in a spot of trouble and now yer shipping off for a bit to let things mend.”
“It’s no concern of yours.” His voice was testy and he took several deep breaths in an obvious attempt to hide his annoyance. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
She had hit a nerve. His comment on finding his fortune was not so far from the truth. Remorse surged through her at the realization her passage had cost him dearly and his demand for repayment had, in fact, had some basis to it. Her promise to repay him, an idle boast at the time, took on new meaning.
“Keep your eyes on the horizon, young man.” The solicitous voice gave Simone a start and she turned to see Mrs Featherstone, the captain’s wife standing behind them.
“The seasickness is nothing to scoff at,” the other woman continued. “Are you drinking your ginger tea?”
“I am.” He nodded.
“Good.” She tapped Temple on the shoulder with her fan. “You’ve kept Lady Wellington to yourself much too long. I came to claim her. May I?”
“Of course.” Temple’s lukewarm voice clearly indicated he had reservations over the invitation.
Simone glanced at him, half expecting him to blurt out the truth about her but he stood, eyes closed, clenching the railing as if his very life depended on it. Poor man, the voyage promised to be long and uncomfortable for him.
“Oh, don’t fuss, I shall look after her.” Mrs Featherstone smiled, mistaking Temple’s trepidation for a young husband’s reluctance to lose his wife’s company. “I thought to fill our days with mending and such,” Mrs Featherstone remarked as she moved off, Simone in tow.
“Mending?” She cast a frantic glance to Temple, who had now opened his eyes and looked their way. She didn’t know how to mend. Or sew. Or do anything a lady of quality would know how to do.
Horror filled her. It wouldn’t take very long in the other woman’s company for Mrs Featherstone to realize Simone was not Lord Wellington’s wife.
* * *
Temple turned to give Simone an encouraging wink. She couldn’t avoid Mrs Featherstone’s company forever and as long as Simone followed his instructions, all would be fine.
He watched until she disappeared around the main mast. It had been quite a battle to get her to bathe but it had been well worth the effort.
Clean, Simone was pretty. There was no denying the allure of the rose pink lips, the creamy skin and pale blonde, curly hair. A bit too skinny for his liking, perhaps, but nothing a few weeks of decent food wouldn’t fix.
She wore a dress borrowed from Mrs Featherstone. It hung like a sack from her skinny shoulders and exposed her tatty boots, but its lavender colour enhanced the blue of her eyes.
An idle thought crossed his mind—what would the London seamstress so favoured by his mother do for his companion? A decent outfit would improve her already appealing looks that much more. He shook his head over the absurd thought. It would never happen so why waste time thinking on it.
He took another breath in an effort to settle his stomach. Ginger tea, ugh. It reminded him of being spoon-fed the nasty stuff by an unsympathetic nanny, of which there had been a parade throughout his early childhood.
Simone’s questions, however, had set his mind to churning. Why, in fact, had he decided on a sojourn in the new world? A myriad of reasons, really, starting with his boredom with the superficiality of London society and culminating in a partnership gone awry.
The partnership with the unsavoury Peter Mortimer-Rae, a well-known fixture in London’s east side, had provided him with a tidy, albeit illegal, source of income.
However, Mortimer-Rae had not taken kindly to Temple’s sudden decision to leave London; words had been exchanged and an angry Temple had stormed off but not before grabbing the carved teak box inlaid with semi-precious stones sitting on Mortimer-Rae’s desk. The box held gold coins and the deed to a sizeable property in North Yorkshire – in short, Temple’s future as a country squire once things settled down.
Temple had won it fair and square in a game of cards with Mortimer-Rae but the man had refused to hand it over. It was that, wrapped in oiled cloth, which Simone had stolen.
Finding her in his trunk had been an unfortunate stroke of luck and, as much as he admired her bravado, he did not relish the idea of her tagging along.
He gritted his teeth. Of necessity, he would accept her company. To put it plainly, he needed the packet she had stolen from him.
* * *
“I really like the dress,” Simone said shyly once she and Mrs Featherstone were seated at one corner of the ship’s dining table. She knew Temple had told her not to speak but she really wanted to thank the woman for her kindness. She looked down and smoothed her hands over the soft pale lavender wool, trimmed with lace about the collar and cuffs. So finely spun, it felt like silk beneath her calloused fingers. “I ain’t never had one so fine. Thank ye.”
“You are welcome,” Mrs Featherstone replied absently, her mind on the task before them and not on Simone. As she placed items on the table, she listed them off. “A needle, a thimble, some thread.” She paused. “Now, where did I leave the scissors, they must still be in our cabin. I trimmed the captain’s beard this morning.” She stood up. “I shan’t be a moment.” Without waiting for a reply, she darted out of the room.
Simone watched her leave. The captain’s wife looked like someone’s granny, plump and grey-haired, her affable face unlined save for a few wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. Hopefully, her temperament matched the pleasant exterior. Simone did not relish informing the woman she did not know how to mend.
Footsteps pounded down the passage way; someone shouted. Apprehensive, Simone looked to the door. It wouldn’t do for the captain to find her here unaccompanied. It grew silent; she looked out the small row of windows to her left.
There was not much to see, water then sky, water then sky as the ship challenged the waves. The shifting horizon seemed to taunt her—up, how could she repay Temple, down, she must think of something, up, how to repay Temple, down, she would think of something.
/> “Who gave you permission to be in here?” A gravelly voice cut the air. Simone jerked her head around.
Captain Featherstone stood in the doorway, barring her exit, fists clenching and unclenching. His eyes were narrowed, his brow creased with displeasure. He took a menacing step toward her.
Words left her; she stared at him. He was not much taller than her but stocky and well-muscled. If he wanted, he could drag her from her seat and toss her in the brig. Overboard even.
“Me passage has been paid.” She pushed back her chair and stood to face him. She refused to be cowed by his bullying manner.
“That doesn’t give you the right to wander about.”
“I’m not wandering. Yer wife and I are sewing.”
“That is so, captain.” Mrs Featherstone pushed her way past her husband. “Leave us be, you have more serious matters to deal with than worry about this young woman.”
“I don’t trust her,” he growled.
“She’s under my care,” she soothed. “I enjoy the female companionship.”
After a few more glowering seconds, the captain turned on his heel and, without saying a word, stalked off.
Shaking her head, the captain’s wife turned to Simone. “He’s a good man, really he is. A bit hard-headed from time to time is all.” She laid a bolt of periwinkle blue seersucker on the table along with a pile of garments. The very ones, Simone supposed with a sinking heart, needing mending.
“This is a lovely colour for you. Look what else I have.” She held up a pair of tooled kid slippers. “The captain bought these for me. But they simply don’t fit.”
“Oh,” Simone sighed, reaching for the slippers. She held them up to her face to inhale the rich leather scent, unable to picture the brusque captain buying a gift for his wife. Laying the slippers to one side, she fingered the lightweight fabric. It had an interesting texture beneath her fingers. “It’s pretty.”
“Go ahead and start on the new dress. I’ll address the mending and then help you.” The captain’s wife picked up a needle and threaded it deftly. She plucked a linen shift from the pile and began to sew, head down, humming, needle fair flying through the fabric.
The Countess' Lucky Charm Page 3