The Countess' Lucky Charm

by A. M. Westerling

  The captain shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “I shall teach Simone proper table manners.” He ignored her sudden gasp and focused on the captain.

  The captain shook his head. “We have a good five weeks ahead of us. A monkey could learn to eat during that time. You must up the stakes.”

  “I shall turn her into a proper lady. Speech, comportment, everything.” Inspiration struck as he thought of his limited supply of coins. “If I do, you return our fares.”

  “And if you do not?”

  “We pay you double.” The brash words slipped out before he realized the consequences. They had better win—he took pride in the fact he always covered his wagers but the sad truth was, he didn’t have double the fare.

  “You have yourself a wager, my lord.” The captain leaned forward and held out his hand for Temple to shake. “Our last dinner on board will be the test and Mrs Featherstone shall judge.”

  “Agreed,” Temple said as he shook the proffered hand. “Please go on with your meal and do not pay us any attention.” He inclined his head to the others at the table and turned his regard to Simone, who sat there scowling with bottom lip jutted out, plainly not pleased with the wager.

  He flashed a reassuring smile and picked up his knife and fork. “The utensils are there for a purpose, Simone. The fork goes in your left hand and the knife in your right.”

  Reluctantly, she complied with Temple’s instructions, holding the utensils awkwardly upright before her. Her lip still jutted out and for a crazy instant, he wanted to kiss it back into place. He shook his head at the ridiculous notion. Concentrate on the task at hand, he told himself.

  “Good.” He nodded his approval at her death grip on the utensils. At least she wasn’t arguing with him, which he had been expecting when he saw her rebellious expression.

  She continued to scowl.

  “Now watch me.” Temple placed his fork in his own slice of beef and neatly cut off a morsel with the knife. Again he waited for her.

  Silent, she glared at him and her left hand quivered as if she would rather stab him with the fork than her own piece of meat.

  Nonetheless, she followed his instructions.

  “Oy,” she grunted. “It ain’t as easy as it looks.”

  The meat slid about on her plate as she struggled with it. She managed to cut off a chunk, holding it triumphantly in the air. Unfortunately, the piece she had cut was too large and she chewed for some time before choking it down. “It takes so much longer to eat,” she complained.

  “Yes, nevertheless dining is an activity meant to be enjoyed.”

  “This ain’t very enjoyable,” Simone muttered as she tackled the beef again. After fumbling with it a minute or two more, her face flushed and she gave up, piling her knife and fork with a clatter on the plate before pushing the plate aside.

  She stood then and, paying no heed to the startled glances of her dinner companions, stalked off, a perfect picture of frustration.

  Temple excused himself and caught up to her in the hall outside their cabin. She had her hand on the latch and at the sound of his footsteps she tipped her nose in the air in an apparent ploy to ignore him.

  “Simone, wait.” He grabbed her elbow and turned her about.

  “Don’t ye think ye should have asked me?” The words exploded from her as if from a fermenting keg left in the sun too long.

  “About what?”

  “About the bet with the captain. About making me into a lady.” She swallowed hard.

  “How could I? The opportunity presented itself and I took it. You’ve been looking for a way to pay me back. It seemed a reasonable solution.”

  “Reasonable ta ye, maybe.” She pulled her elbow free to frown at him. “Not ta me.”

  He recognized her belligerence for what it was: apprehension and self-doubt. “Why are you afraid? I vow, I shall shape you into a lady of quality in no time.”

  She looked at him, disbelief shining in her eyes.

  “Use your wits. You learned to pickpocket, the best in London if I recall your boastful words. Now use your talents for something else. Look upon it as a dare.”

  “But what if I can’t do it?” she whispered, eyes wide. Her gaze held his for an instant before she looked away.

  “Nonsense. You’ll be an apt pupil, you’ll see.”

  With a start, he realized he meant every word. He had been in her company enough to know real intelligence hid beneath those distracting blue eyes.

  Too, there was nothing he enjoyed more than a challenge and this promised to be a good one. He pulled open the cabin door. “After you.”

  “Thank ye.” She marched in ahead of him, ducking behind the sail that had been tacked to the ceiling to serve as curtain.

  He could hear the creak as she sat down on her bunk.

  “Simone?”

  “Aye?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get it mastered in no time.”

  “Aye.”

  “Simone?”

  “Aye?” Her voice was muffled, as if she were trying to stifle sobs.

  “Are you all right?” He reached over and swiped aside the curtain, hooking it behind a nail.

  As he suspected, tears streamed down her cheeks. His heart squeezed at the sight and then squeezed again when she managed to pull herself together enough to glare at him.

  “Can I have me privacy please?” She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Good night.”

  “Of course. I shall spend my evening elsewhere. Good night to you.”

  Simone watched the door close behind him. Golly, he confused her, difficult but kind too, to offer to teach her even though he knew of her dubious background.

  But how could he possibly turn her, Mona Dougherty, late of Bishopsgate Street, into Lady Wellington, a lady of quality? Ladies of quality weren’t found in the workhouses and busy streets of Houndsditch and Spitalfields.

  Genteel ladies were born that way, born into a life of privilege and protection. They didn’t become ladies as the result of a frivolous wager so how could he expect that of her?

  She drooped forward, propping her elbows on her knees to cup her chin in her hands. Two tears balled and slid down her cheeks to drop unnoticed in her lap. She wanted him to be proud of her, wanted him to smile at her in that dark-eyed way that turned her knees into jelly. In short, she wanted to be the very thing she wasn’t: a lady of quality.

  She considered what he had said, about using her wits. Although it seemed a Herculean task, he had said she could learn. She sat up and wiped her cheeks.

  Learn she would.

  And if I don’t?

  Chapter Six

  Several days later, on the foredeck of the Annabelle, Simone wondered if she had made a serious mistake.

  “Ee-ewe,” she said, face screwed in concentration. Her lips refused to form the word properly and it felt like she had chestnuts tucked in her cheeks.

  “No, like this,” Temple prompted. “You.” He said it slowly. “Watch my mouth. You.”

  “That’s what I said,” she retorted before trying it again. “Ee-ewe.” Oy, how many times would she have to repeat it before he was satisfied?

  As many times as it would take, she vowed. I don’t want to disappoint him.

  “Well, actually, it’s not quite what you said. But you’re getting closer,” he encouraged.

  The two sat side by side on the plank bench behind the foremast. Above them, the sails strained against the overcast sky and the lack of sun turned the ocean around them to dull pewter.

  The dreary sight didn’t dampen Simone’s spirits for she sat with Temple, basking in his undivided attention. Plus, she wore a new dress made from the periwinkle blue seersucker that Mrs Featherstone had given her. She ran her hands appreciatively across her lap before hugging her borrowed shawl closer against the chill in the air. She turned her head to look Temple square in the face.

  “Why can’t I just say ye like I always done? And who makes up the rules anyway,�
� she added mischievously, wanting to see his reaction to her impertinence. Darkening eyes and a frown flashing across his face rewarded her.

  “Hundreds of English scholars before you made up the rules,” he said stiffly, holding up the grammar book discovered in the ship’s library only this morning. “You are not one to argue.”

  “Ye,” she said defiantly. Then she smiled at him. “Ye.”

  “I’m just telling you how it’s pronounced properly.” Exasperation tinged his voice. “To be a lady of quality, one must sound like a lady of quality.”

  “Yer no fun.” She stuck out her tongue at him. “EE-you. You.”

  “Better, much better.”

  “You.” She said it again. “You.”

  “Very good.” He smiled at her. “How was your sewing lesson this morning? Mind you answer me with proper diction.”

  She liked it when he smiled at her, it turned her insides to mush, like pease pudding. Her gaze lingered on his lips, at the even white teeth they framed. Her breath caught in her throat. How would it feel to brush her lips against his? Highly improper, she knew, but oh, so very, very tempting. Without realizing it, she leaned toward him a little.

  “Simone?”

  His voice penetrated her reverie. With an effort, she straightened and pulled her thoughts back to his question, but not before one last, regretful look at his mouth.

  “The lesson went well, thank ye, no, thank you, my lord. I learned how ta—er, to finish a button hole.”

  “Again,” he commanded. “Speak slowly if it helps.”

  “The lesson went well, thank you, my lord. I learned how to finish a button hole.” She clapped her hands. “I did it, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. On that note today’s lesson is finished. Shall we take a turn about the deck before supper?” He stood up and held out his hand to her.

  “That would be lovely, my lord.” Simone said it slowly, carefully.

  She was learning but oh my, what a challenge. Her mind always raced a sentence or two ahead of her mouth so she had a tendency to mangle the words even more. But Temple was unfailingly patient with her. Fun to be with, too, with always an amusing anecdote or observation to break the tedium of her instruction.

  She put her hand in his and stood. His warm fingers clasped her cold ones and she felt the vigour pulsing through him. She looked down, mesmerized by the sight of her small fist clasped within his large, very masculine one. Reluctantly she pulled her fingers free.

  “Simone, I should put the book away. Carry on without me, I’ll join you.”

  It had become their habit over the past few days to take a stroll up and down the deck and she looked forward to it every day for it marked the end of the daily lesson.

  And she also looked forward to how he pulled her fingers through his elbow as if she were a real lady walking through London proper. Sometimes she would even let herself think fanciful thoughts about being his real lady. Not for long, though, only a few minutes. She didn’t belong in his world and well she knew it.

  “Yes, my lord.” She answered him promptly. That phrase had been easy to master. She liked to fall back on it as much as she could to build her confidence.

  She made her way to the bow to wait for Temple and gripped the rail, looking down at the skirts swaying about her legs.

  The pretty seersucker dress was the first item of new clothing she had ever owned. What a lovely sensation it had been this morning to slide the stylish gown over her head, over her arms, smoothing it down past her hips until it fell to her ankles. The stateroom had only a small cracked mirror and in vain she had pirouetted in front of it, trying to see as much of herself as possible.

  “Now here be a pretty piece, just the thing for a lonely sailor.”

  A raspy voice interrupted her thoughts and an arm draped boldly about her shoulders, trapping her.

  “Wh—what?” Simone tried to free herself but pressed against the railing by the sailor, she didn’t have room to manoeuvre.

  “Give Petey a kiss, cutie.” The sailor leaned toward her, wet lips mere inches from her face. She almost gagged on his rancid breath.

  “No!” She struggled against the man, pulling on the rail in an effort to lean away as far as she could.

  “Oho, I like ‘em with a little fight.” Petey grinned and tried to kiss her again.

  Frantic, she managed to gain enough space to kick him in the ankle. At the blow, the sailor loosened his grip a fraction, giving her the opportunity she needed. A swift knee to the soft flesh at the apex of his legs and Petey doubled over with a grunt.

  “That’ll teach ye to bother me.” Satisfied with her handiwork, she stepped back.

  “Ye’ll rue the day you crossed Petey Malone,” he gasped, still hunched over. He swiped at her with one hand. The other arm he still held protectively over his middle.

  “I kin take care of meself.” She took another step back, out of the sailor’s reach. “Next time, it shan’t be such an easy blow.”

  Her warning must have worked, for Petey’s eyes widened and he dropped his arm.

  It took her a second or two to realize that Petey’s eyes were not on her, but rather focused behind her, over her left shoulder. Surprised, Simone turned around.

  Disbelief surged through her, followed by joy at the sight of Temple, stone-faced and with murderous intent in his eyes. He had come to her rescue, as if she were a real lady.

  Temple reached forward and grabbed the man by the throat, holding him at arm’s length. “I suggest you apologize to Lady Wellington.”

  “She ain’t no lady. She ain’t nothing but street trash. Ye can’t blame a sailor for taking a little fun when he can have it,” the man whined.

  “Apologize or else.” Temple’s threat took tangible form and hung in the air between them like a sinister shadow. The two eyed each other until finally, Petey looked away.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, my lady,” he spat out, a dull flush staining his weathered cheeks. It was obvious the man was not happy about the apology.

  “I accept your apology on, er, my wife’s behalf,” Temple growled. “Now take yourself off and be about your business.”

  The sailor couldn’t resist a parting shot as he limped away. “Yer a fine one to talk. She ain’t yer wife. Ye’ve been sharing her bed for days now, when are ye going to share with the rest of us?”

  Temple said nothing, although the sudden clench of his jaw showed the other man had hit a nerve. He waited until Petey disappeared from view, then swung about to face Simone.

  “Are you all right?” The anxiety in Temple’s eyes warmed Simone like the sun peeking through on a chilly spring day. No man had been concerned about her before. No woman either for that matter, although occasionally Mrs Dougherty would fuss about Simone’s comings and goings.

  “Aye, it were nothing,” she replied.

  “It was nothing,” he corrected gently.

  “It was nothing,” she repeated. “Nothing I haven’t managed before.”

  Stern-faced and silent, he nodded.

  His harsh features daunted her. Had she done something wrong? “I didn’t really hurt him.” Her voice trailed away and she clasped her hands together.

  Unexpectedly, a grin split his face. “I daresay you handled yourself like nobody’s business. Where did you learn that little trick?”

  “I saw a thing or two out and about on the streets. But Mrs Dougherty taught me that one. She were, no—was—worried about me. She didn’t like me being a pickpocket.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. She said with my looks I should try and better myself. I tried, really, I tried but….” She stopped and shrugged her shoulders. “Beggar woman? Bar maid? Whore? None of that appeals to me. Kitchen help? Housemaid? I don’t come from your world, my lord. Growing up in a workhouse and with no references, do ye think I could find myself a position in a fancy house? And if I did, then find myself with a bun in the oven because I caught the eye of the master?” She looked Temple full i
n the eyes. “It didn’t take me long to figure I could do much better at going after the careless ones. It ain’t, isn’t,” she corrected herself, “respectable, but at least I got me dignity.”

  Or I did have until I started sharing your cabin.

  Simone looked away to the distant horizon. Did she imagine it, or had the sky become a little darker? She sucked in a breath of air and exhaled it slowly. It served no purpose to voice her doubts. Temple had been nothing but kind to her and she must try harder if she wanted to confirm his faith in her abilities. It was just so difficult sometimes.

  “You do,” Temple nodded. Yes, he thought, she had her dignity but at what price?

  Furthermore, his reaction to the sailor accosting Simone had surprised him. Rage had overtaken him and his first thought had been to throttle the man.

  Plainly, other than Mrs Featherstone who was perhaps too nice to voice her disbelief, no one on the ship believed they were married. Petey provided ample testament to that. Feeling a dolt, Temple began to understand Simone’s delicate situation. Her virtue may be intact but who in their right mind would believe that of her? She wanted nothing more than to earn a decent living with dignity and respect, taking what the fates had handed her and making the best of it.

  He studied her profile closely. Her nose was straight but pert, the jaw delicate, and the eyelashes long and lush. Her neck where it disappeared into the ruffled collar of her dress was creamy smooth. By looks alone, if he had met her at any society function rather than on the docks one foggy evening, he would never doubt her background. Intriguing, really, for she did not fit his idea of a street urchin in the slightest. She was too, too—his mind grasped for the proper word—patrician.

  Nonetheless she was what she was and for the wager to be successful, she would have to accustom herself to being his social equal, with all the rules and restrictions of the ton. It was up to him to see it happened.

  “Simone, you must be chaperoned from now on.”

  “Why,” she asked him sarcastically. “Everyone knows we are not married.”

  “Everyone knows you share my cabin but we know it’s a matter of convenience only. Just because everyone thinks the worst doesn’t mean it’s true. A lady of quality would be chaperoned.” He shook his head. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”