The Countess' Lucky Charm

by A. M. Westerling

  Coins collected in his palm, he picked out a shilling, tucking it into his vest pocket before handing her the rest with a conspiratorial wink. “Keep these. You earned them.”

  Simone looked down at the coins in her hand and from the corner of her eye watched him swagger off, soon to disappear behind the bulwark.

  A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth and she tucked the coins into her pocket. Hugging herself, she marched back to the tiny cabin.

  It was empty when she arrived there. Grateful for the opportunity to steady herself, she poured some water from the tin pitcher on the trunk that served as nightstand into its matching basin and splashed her face and neck. After wiping her face on the cloth that hung from a peg above the nightstand, she lay down on her cot to ponder what had passed between them just now.

  Her air of insouciance when he had found her playing cards had been just that, an air. Inside, she was bitterly disappointed over losing the wager. She had wanted to please him and prove him right for believing in her ability to transform herself. As well, she had come to realize that she could build a better life for herself with a bit of education. Maybe even open a gaming house. And with the proceeds of the gaming house, make things a little bit better for Mrs Dougherty.

  Now she yet had a chance, for Temple had said he would continue the lessons. She’d have to find a way to repay him for that.

  Oy, her debts toward him were piling up.

  Then there was the matter of his kiss.

  The light from the oil lamp glowed through the curtain. She studied the wall beside her, counting all the knotholes she could see, then all the planks, and then all the nail heads. She even resorted to counting backwards from one hundred, not once, but several times.

  Anything to avoid thinking about the kiss because she wished for him to kiss her again and that was an entirely improper wish.

  * * *

  Simone slept when Temple finally returned.

  He had spent the last couple of hours prowling the deck, trying to scrub the desire that Simone had inadvertently evoked in him. It was just a kiss, he had scoffed to himself. Snatching a kiss was not something that caused him remorse. On the contrary, it had been good sport that had a time or two led to the adrenalin rush of a sunrise duel, which had made it even better.

  No, this kiss had been different. True, he liked her, in fact, liked her very much. But there was more to it than that.

  Simone aroused feelings in him he didn’t want to face. Not yet.

  He undressed quickly and climbed into his bunk. Her even breaths bathed the cabin in tranquillity but the thought of her behind the sailcloth tortured him. Her proximity had never bothered him before but now he paid for his folly. Tonight, this very moment, his loins ached. Manners battled with desire.

  Why not take her? She was an urchin, a disreputable ragamuffin.

  Because she trusted him, and he couldn’t betray her trust like that.

  With a groan, he pulled the bedclothes over his head in a futile attempt to block out the gentle sigh of her breath.

  * * *

  Gentry Ted threaded his way through the boisterous crowd filling his favourite pub in London’s east end, the Pint and Platter, until he found a spot at the scarred counter. Signalling the barkeep, he waited until the man came over with a pint of ale before he posed the question that had plagued him for the past few weeks.

  “Have ye seen Mona?”

  The barkeep stopped and, with a surprised look, glanced around the room as if he could spot the missing girl there. “No,” he replied. “No, I ain’t. Now that ye mention it, I ain’t seen her for at least a month.”

  “Nobody’s seen her, it’s like she’s dropped from the face of the earth.” Gentry Ted’s voice was puzzled.

  The barkeep shrugged. “Like as not she’s found greener pastures. She’ll come around.”

  “I ain’t so sure,” muttered Ted before lifting the foaming mug to his lips. Mona, that one, what a peach, had her hands in and out of a pocket in a twinkling, so smooth that the bloody nobs she picked had no idea.

  He well remembered the day he had dropped her off at Mrs Dougherty’s workhouse. Somehow, those blue eyes had stuck with him and he had made it a habit to check in on her regularly, sometimes even throwing a coin or two Mrs Dougherty’s way to help out. It had given him great pleasure to see her success on the streets, particularly after being told she was not suitable for that kind of work.

  He drained his mug, slapped down a coin, and stood to leave. He turned to scan the room as if Mona had somehow miraculously appeared in the past few moments but of course she had not.

  Adjusting his cravat, he made his way to the door and out into the street. He shook his head as he walked. Maybe Mona were just lying low because the constables were after her.

  Chapter Eight

  Temple and Simone did not talk of their kiss and after a while, it seemed as if it had never happened. The days sailed by as smoothly as the Annabelle sliced through the Atlantic Ocean. Two weeks flew by, then three, then four.

  The at times tedious morning sewing lessons had produced another dress, this one a sprigged muslin, as well as several shifts and a nightgown. Simone thanked Mrs Featherstone repeatedly and the kindly woman would always give an airy wave of her hand. “I say do unto others as you would have them do unto you. There’s nothing to thank me for. You making something of yourself and making your lord proud is all the thanks I need.”

  Her afternoons with Temple, however, were golden. She concentrated on every word and every phrase, wanting to do her best for then he would reward her with a smile or a curt “Well done.” She memorized endlessly, practicing the pronunciation over and over until Temple was satisfied she got it right. Then they would move on to the next.

  Nay, her afternoons were never boring, they were exhilarating.

  Bit by bit, she began to believe, she, Simone Dougherty could become a lady of quality and have a better life for herself.

  And bit by bit, she found herself falling in love with the darkly handsome Lord Temple Wellington, a man above her in station.

  A man who could never be hers.

  * * *

  “No!”

  Simone threw off the bedclothes and sat bolt upright. Perspiration drenched her nightgown and clotted her hair. Panting hard, she held her wet face in shaking hands. “No, please no.”

  Again.

  It had happened again.

  The nightmare where she was drowning, sinking into the murk of unfathomable depths. It had visited her with unfailing regularity when she was younger, less as she grew older, perhaps once every year or so. But now the familiar nightmare had returned and it still held a horror she couldn’t shake.

  “Temple? Did I wake you?”

  She pulled back the sail curtain to look over at his empty bed, the bedclothes still rumpled. She listened for a moment. Silence. There were no footsteps or shouts from without.

  She scrambled out of her bed and dressed quickly and, stumbling down the hallway, rammed the last few pins into her hair. It may not be tidy, but it would have to do.

  By the time she made her way above deck, she found Temple, flanked on one side by Dr Taylor and on the other by Gordon Dixon, leaning against the starboard railing.

  “What is it?” She moved to stand beside the young clerk.

  “Look!” Dr Taylor pointed. “Land ho. That’s North America.”

  “I must beg pardon?” Simone followed the doctor’s finger. “I don’t see anything. The horizon’s a bit blurred, nothing else.”

  “This might help.” Gordon gave her the looking glass that he had tucked against his side.

  “Thank you.” Squinting, she peered through the lens. “Are you sure that’s land?” she asked as she handed the glass back to him.

  “Oh, yes. You should have heard Robert sing at breakfast this morning.”

  “Who? Oh, Robert.” Of course, the captain’s bird, how could she have forgotten? Every morning she passed a few
crumbs into the cage hanging from the corner beam in the dining room.

  Gordon’s mention of breakfast reminded her of her own hunger.

  “There’s a scone for you on the sideboard,” Temple drawled, as if he had read her mind. He leaned around the clerk to look at her. His eyebrows lifted at her dishevelled appearance. “Is something the matter?”

  The concern in his voice warmed her right to the very tips of her toes. “Just a dream I have every now and then.”

  “I daresay a nightmare, judging by the looks of you.”

  She didn’t want to talk about it. “It’s over now. If you gentlemen would excuse me, I’ll go find my breakfast.”

  She found the scone on a plate covered with a linen towel. After spooning some preserves on it, she selected an orange from the ever present basket on the sideboard and returned to stand by the railing.

  She finished the scone, licking the stickiness from her fingers, then dug a finger nail into the dimpled peel of the fruit to pull off a chunk. One bit at a time, she threw the peels to the sea gulls and watched them swarm.

  He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not. As the peel dwindled, the pieces got smaller until she ended on he loves me. A childish, fanciful thought but one she yearned for. The reason being?

  The answer leapt into her mind like a soldier joining the fray.

  She loved him.

  Totally, irrevocably, loved him.

  She shook her head. Nay, that wasn’t possible. He attracted her, yes, but it was a doomed attraction for they were of disparate worlds.

  Perhaps she mistook gratitude for love.

  Yes, that was it, she was grateful to him for taking her along, giving her a chance to improve her life.

  “Oy,” she sighed, watching the gulls circling about much like her thoughts.

  Thankfully, the voyage was almost over. They had all been cooped up for weeks now and the prospect of setting foot on land enticed her. Too, once on land, she wouldn’t be in constant contact with Temple.

  She pried the fruit apart and sucked on the first bit, the flavour reminding her of the flavour of Temple’s mouth. Sweet yet tangy.

  The prospect of accompanying Temple to New Caledonia teased her. Her desire to be with him, to see the journey finished, warred with her sense of self preservation.

  How hellish would it be to be in his company day in and day out? All the while realizing the futility of her growing feelings toward him and the impossibility of her future twining with his?

  However, she couldn’t see a way out for only she knew where his package was and she doubted he would journey on without her. Perhaps if she simply told him of its location, she could persuade him to let her stay in Montreal.

  It seemed her only solution if she thought to save her sanity.

  Chapter Nine

  It was almost too easy, Simone thought, pulling from her shawl several leather pouches and a crocheted reticule and placing them on the little writing desk by the window of their room in one of Montreal’s quaint hotels.

  Satisfaction filled her at the realization the long weeks at sea had not diminished her talent. It had been no idle boast she’d made to Temple the night he found her in his trunk.

  Montreal proved to be fertile ground. At this rate, she would soon be able to repay Temple for her passage. And whatever remained would help her on her dream to start her own gaming house and help Mrs Dougherty.

  She picked up the reticule and emptied the contents on the desk: a lace handkerchief, a small pot of powder, a fan and several coins.

  The clack of the door knob and the screech of hinges in want of grease interrupted her.

  “What have you there?” Temple demanded as he entered the room.

  Surprise held her and she froze. The heels of his boots clicked on the polished floorboards, stopping only when he was directly behind her. His breath tickled her cheek and she dropped the reticule and whirled about, leaning back against the table to hide the pile of booty.

  “You startled me,” she bleated. Damn, couldn’t he have been a few moments more, long enough for her to count the money?

  Temple bent around her to look then let loose an oath. “Are you trying to get us thrown in jail?”

  “It’s money to repay you for my passage,” she blustered. He had caught her by surprise so she went on the verbal attack. “And just keeping me hand in.”

  “My hand,” he corrected her automatically.

  “We’re not getting thrown in jail,” she reassured him, trying to ignore the ominous frown on Temple’s face. “The bleeders didn’t notice a thing. I told you, I’m the best there is,” she finished lamely.

  Perhaps it had not been such a good idea after all. He didn’t look at all pleased with her. She rocked back on her heels, contemplating how to appease his anger over her thievery.

  He spoke before she could think of anything.

  “The best there was.” He ground out the words between gritted teeth. “You don’t need to be doing that anymore, remember?”

  “Really?” Simone stared at him. “Who would suspect me?” She clasped her hands primly under the bosom of the high-waisted sprigged muslin dress and batted her eyelashes.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re suspected or not. One does not behave in that manner when it is not necessary to do so.” He glared at her.

  “I think it is necessary. I should like to repay you for my passage for I wish to stay here.” She dropped her gaze. “In Montreal.”

  “Out of the question.” The authoritarian tone of his voice unnerved her and she snapped her gaze back to him. His lips were clamped firmly together and his eyes were darkened with disapproval at her suggestion.

  Oy, she hadn’t expected this reaction. What could it mean? Did he care about her behaviour more than he cared about her debt to him? Did that mean he cared about her?

  At the thought, hope spurted through her, only to be quashed at his next words.

  “You took something of value to me,” he declared. “I should like it returned and until it is, you will remain with me.”

  Of course. He only kept her because of the package she’d hidden back in London. She had best not forget that to him, she was a pickpocket, a street urchin, nothing more.

  She swallowed hard against the disappointment welling in her throat.

  “I’ll make a map for you,” she countered, hating the wobble in her voice. She swallowed hard once more to steady it. “Where to find your packet. I can’t write the street names but you can if I tell ye—er, you. Then you can get it when you return to London.”

  “Which I should like to remind you shan’t be for quite some time. Besides,” he pointed at the pile of stolen goods behind her, “you could find yourself locked up soon enough.”

  “They’ll not catch me.”

  Temple narrowed his eyes at her boastful words. “Enough nonsense, Simone. I will not leave you alone in a strange country.”

  Her bottom lip jutted out, along with her chin. Before she could say any more, he held up his hand.

  “Now get your shawl. I’ll buy you the boots I promised you.”

  She gazed at him suspiciously for a moment before she turned away

  A rueful little grin zigzagged across Temple’s lips as he watched her ready herself; when at last she turned to him, he was quick to stifle it.

  At her inquiring gaze, he pulled open the door. “After you.”

  His thoughts wandered as he followed her down the rather narrow hall. He should have known she wouldn’t stay in the hotel while he attended to errands for the upcoming journey.

  She was a child of the streets, comfortable with that life and more than capable of taking care of herself regardless of which city they were in. In her own fashion she had attempted to be honest and repay him for the favour he’d done her.

  He couldn’t really fault her for that. However, she did engage in risky business which would have unpleasant consequences for her if she got caught.

 
Why should I care what happens to her?

  He did care about her, he told himself, but only because she knows where the package is.

  He would have to keep a closer eye on her or he could forget any hope of a future as a genteel landowner with a genteel wife. Preferably one from an adjoining estate.

  Not one with golden curls and sparkling blue eyes and an adorable mutinous lower lip.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Temple sat in the one and only chair in their room and watched a slumbering Simone, curled up on her side with one fist tucked beneath her chin. A contented expression suffused her face—the earlier shopping expedition had been successful.

  Her new boots were lined up neatly beneath her bed. As well, they had passed a modiste’s shop by happenstance and he had felt obliged to buy her a heavy woollen dress with a matching fur-lined spencer, something with a little more substance than the two lightweight dresses she had made on board the Annabelle. The spencer she had spread over the foot of her bed to admire.

  The sight of her angelic face, relaxed in repose, forced him to face the unavoidable truth.

  His stowaway thief, the ragamuffin pickpocket and keen witted product of the streets, was stealing his heart one sorry chunk at a time. Oh, it wasn’t blatant theft but it was happening, slowly and surely.

  He shook his head. Nay, it couldn’t be. He had simply spent too much time with her. A trip to the nearest brothel would cure him and put things in their proper perspective. He stood, taking one last glance at her sleeping figure before stalking to the door.

  Once outside the hotel, he held his hand over the remaining coins in his vest pocket to stop them from clinking. They were heavy, almost as heavy as the night was dark, and his pocket sagged a little. He hoped no one would notice and take him for an easy mark.

  Gliding through shadowed lanes, he found his way back toward the river, back toward the brothels and gambling dens he knew he would find there. He stopped at the first one, just beyond the glow of light spilling from the open door, lifting his nose and flaring his nostrils as he drew in a breath to test the air, seeking a familiar scent.