“The only men with whom I could possibly be acquainted and whom they do not also know could only be a fellow performer. I strongly suspect Bernice would actually prefer to die rather than be escorted anywhere by a male entertainer.”
Margery didn’t argue. He puzzled a moment, his perfectly manicured nails tapping the head of his ebony walking stick. His face cleared. “I know what to do.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Now, you return to your aunties and I shall be with you anon. Say not a word until I join you.”
“But—”
“Never fear, my dear. All is in hand.” And with that, he strode back to where the carriage driver was still unloading his trunks and started gesticulating urgently.
Lucy did as he instructed, retracing her route back along the wharf. She didn’t see that she had anything to lose.
Her great-aunts greeted her with surprised consternation. “You couldn’t have made it to the hotel and back already?”
“Ah . . . no, but everything is taken care of. Don’t worry.”
She sat down between the pair of them, contriving to look confident. They peered at her in concern. Lucy remained mute, crippled by ignorance and worried that whatever she said would somehow prove detrimental to Margery’s plan. But her uncharacteristic silence only made them more fretful.
“Now, Lucy . . .” Lavinia finally began.
“Don’t harass Lucy, Livie,” Bernice hushed her. “If she says everything is taken care of then I am sure that everything is taken care of. She has never failed us yet.”
She looked expectantly at Lucy. Very expectantly. “Of course, one might wonder what evolved during Lucy’s brief absence that has allowed her to state so confidently that everything has been attended to. It would be unnatural not to be curious.”
The expectant look became an insistent one. Lucy felt her resolve to remain silent begin to crumble.
“Because whatever she has decided not only affects her but intimately involves us.”
Ah. Guilt. Lucy had been wondering when that bit of ammunition would be brought to bear.
“Which I am sure she is well aware of—”
“Luuuucccy!”
Startled by the rich contralto voice trilling Lucy’s name, the three women swiveled on the bench. A female figure swept toward them, awash in a sea of billowing pink feathers, trailing a raft of fuchsia-colored lace. A huge Merry Widow hat dripping with cabbage roses and lilac sprays perched atop her a blancmange of pale gold curls.
She bore down on them like an ambulatory wedding cake, arriving to grab Lucy by the shoulders, haul her to her feet, clasp her to her bosom, and bus her smartly on the cheek before pushing her back down onto the bench. She beamed at Lavinia and Bernice.
“And are these the darlings whose company I am to be privileged to share on the crossing?” asked Margery, the World’s Premiere Impersonator of Female Characterizations.
Lucy studied “Mrs. Marjorie Martin” with frank admiration. Fully immersed in his female persona, Margery was charm incarnate, cooing about how he’d known “darling Lucy ever since her triumphant debut on the same musical stage as I.” He then revealed his surprise at spying “dear Lucy” whilst disembarking from his carriage and subsequent distress over finding the girl in abject misery over some possession or other left behind at some hotel, unable to reconcile herself to risking her aunts’ discomfort by taking a later ferry crossing, yet equally unhappy at the prospect of having them go on without her.
“So, of course,” Margery said, “at once I thought how wonderful it would be if I might join you. I realize that a strange woman,” here he had the temerity to actually wink at her, “of a certain age is a poor substitute for a beloved niece, but I would be so grateful if you would allow me the pleasure of your company. These European tours can be so lonely.”
The adroit manner in which he set the bait proved irresistible.
“Tours?” Bernice asked.
“Yes. Didn’t Lucy tell you? Naughty girl.” He dimpled at her. “I am touring the French countryside, bringing a bit of culture to the smaller cities before proceeding on to Paris where I will perform at the . . . Grand Opera House.”
Liar.
Lavinia gnawed her lip, wavering between being impressed or scandalized. Bernice had no such a quandary.
“You are someone famous!” she said, wide-eyed. “Are you Collectible? Lucy is a Collectible, you know.”
Happily, Margery, who adorned many cards, all of which took salacious pleasure in revealing his true gender, sidestepped the one question by answering the other. “I did know! And a lovely thing it is, too. Not as lovely as the original, of course.”
Bernice beamed.
“Do say I might join your little party,” Margery implored. “I am convinced we shall get on splendidly.”
The sisters convened a quick confabulation a discreet distance away from the charming Mrs. Marjorie Martin. As might have been expected, Lavinia initially balked: Mrs. Martin’s ensemble was simply too flamboyant for a gentlewoman’s.
But then Bernice pointed out that though somewhat ostentatious in dress, Mrs. Martin’s superior breeding and good taste was clear in her admiration of Lucy. Besides, the Litton sisters hadn’t been in society for decades. What did they know about what ladies wore these days? Except for Lucy, of course, and she was a young lady.
Mrs. Martin could hardly be expected to wear the same sort of gowns as a girl. Not that she was old, but she was definitely mature and, as with many beautiful women who spy the advance of age before they expect it, had discreetly remedied a few of time’s little indignities with the judicious use of cosmetic fixatives. One could not argue with the results, and if her gowns were a tad closefitting, well, Bernice generously opined, it would be unnatural not to want to show off so well-maintained a figure.
Loath to be thought stodgy compared to her sister—especially as everyone had always considered Bernice the more conservative one—Lavinia reversed direction and was soon championing their would-be fellow traveler as if she’d never looked askance at her boas and lace. Though she could not entirely approve of Mrs. Martin’s use of powder and paint, at least she was honest enough to concede that if powder and paint could do as much for her own features as they did for Mrs. Martin’s she might be tempted to employ them, too.
And so within five minutes the matter was settled.
“We’ll take all the luggage with us, Lucy, so you won’t have to deal with it,” Margery said after thanks and reassurances and courtesies and compliments had been traded. “Then your great-aunts and I shall find a nice cozy corner in which to tuck ourselves for a spot of tea and a chat, shall we?” She leaned toward the sisters and twinkled. “I always carry my own special mixture in a thermos when I travel. Along with a few sundry delicacies of which I am eager to see if you approve.”
The sisters nodded in pleased unison.
Margery turned to Lucy, a three-pointed cat’s smile on his face. “We shall see you in Saint-Malo this evening.” He turned toward the ladies, one arm open in an encompassing gesture. “Come along, my dears. We will want a good seat.”
Hurriedly, her great-aunts bid Lucy adieu and then, without a hint of reluctance, followed their new friend across the gangway and onto the ferry like ducklings after their mother. And why not? Mrs. Martin had the air of a seasoned traveler and was clearly a woman of the world and, while they would never question Lucy’s abilities, they were all well aware that she had never been out of Great Britain.
“Be off with you, Lucy!” Margery called, taking a position next to the rail and making a shooing gesture with his lace-gloved hands. “We will be fine.”
And then the sailors hauled the gangway up onto the boat and threw off the heavy cables. Margery linked arms with her great-aunts and led them toward the first-class salon as the ferry churned slowly out to sea.
The hansom cab Margery had used was long gone by the time she returned to the street so Lucy ended up walking to the hotel.
There it took seemingly forever before the desk clerk was able to locate the manager, who held the only key to the hotel’s safe. He was finally found taking a nap in one of the hotel’s unreserved rooms.
By the time Lucy had the jewelry case and Lord Barton’s all-important letter in her possession, ate a leisurely lunch at the hotel restaurant (because there wasn’t much else to do while she waited for the next packet) and walked back to the wharf, nearly three hours had passed.
She didn’t worry too much about Margery and her great-aunts. Margery would be reveling in his role. No, as long as her great-aunts didn’t tumble to Margery’s true gender, Lucy had no doubt that they would all enjoy themselves immensely.
She smiled at the ancient ticket agent still ensconced behind his grated office window as she approached. “Passage for one, please.”
“Missed your boat, eh? That’s too bad.” He started writing on his ticket stub. “When?”
“The next available.”
He put his pen down. “You’re not thinking of taking this afternoon’s crossing?”
“I’m not thinking of it. I’m intent on it.”
“Well, I hope you have more to wear than that, miss. ’Cause that coat ain’t gonna keep you dry in a squall.”
She followed the ticket agent’s pointed glance, looking over her shoulder at where her few fellow passengers were already boarding the ferry. Behind them a huge anvil-shaped cloud loomed up from the horizon. The sight gave her momentary pause. All her clothing was in the luggage accompanying her great-aunts.
“I shall stay inside if it rains.” She pushed her stack of bills under the small space beneath the little grate.
He pushed them back. “No if aboot it, miss. It’s gonna rain. Pitchforks. You sure you want to go?”
She pushed the bills forward. “I’m sure.”
He ignored her money. “You ever been on a ferry, miss? It ain’t no punt. Great, unwieldy creatures ferries are, slopping about with every pitch of the channel.”
She tamped down her impatience, telling herself that he only had her best interest at heart. He couldn’t appreciate that she was no shrinking society miss, but a stout-hearted adventurer. A little water wasn’t enough to put her off her pace because, really, how bad could it be?
Besides, she loved storms: the sharp, pungent scent of an oncoming tempest, the electrical prickling across her bare flesh, the wind whipping her hair and clothing about. It was invigorating and exciting and, truth be told, she was actually looking forward to experiencing a storm at sea.
“Indeed, I have, sir,” she said, smiling. “I truly appreciate your concern, but I was actually born on a ship. My father was a merchant vessel captain and my mother traveled with him. I learned to walk on a”—oh, dear what was it called? Oh, yes—“quarterdeck in the Indian Ocean.” She smiled brightly.
His eyes widened in surprise that quickly segued to admiration. “Thought you had a bit of the sea in your gait.”
She dimpled modestly. Of course he’d bought what she was selling. She’d expected no less. She’d fashioned a career out of telling people what they wanted to hear. Or needed to hear. She wouldn’t say she was a liar but sometimes she forged a more palatable truth.
He took her name, printed it on the ship’s manifest, and passed a ticket to her. “Safe passage, miss.”
She thanked him then made her way toward where the ferry was boarding its final few passengers. The wind had picked up. A freshening breeze tugged at her hat, threatening to lift it from her head. She clamped a hand atop her head, quashing down her hat’s crown. But the wicked wind found its way beneath her coat, sending it flapping about her calves.
Smiling into the coming storm, filled with the cheek and optimism that had been her companions since the day she was born, she flew across the gangway and onboard then up a short flight of stairs to the observation deck that perched atop the salon. There, she fell breathless against the rail, exhilarated, as, on the wharf below, workers hurried to untie the lines, worried eyes darting to the oncoming storm front. Beside her a smattering of her fellow intrepid passengers nodded a greeting, buoying Lucy with a shared feeling of anticipation.
She smiled back brightly, for the first time in months unencumbered by worry over Lavinia’s health or fear over the fate of Robin’s Hall. She felt free, bohemian, and adventurous. All she needed to complete her delight was a companion on her adventure . . .
At once an image sprang to mind, an image of a man with thick, blue-black hair and dark brows above lushly lashed black eyes, a wide, sensually shaped mouth, and a square jaw with a cleft in his chin. But what if Lavinia was right and Archie Grant was too staid to go adventuring? Perhaps he wasn’t a pirate after all. Perhaps he was just a stuffy professor, a stickler for rules and conformity.
No, not with that chin, he wasn’t. He might try to be, but The Chin would have out. That was the chin of an undomesticated ne’er-do-well, a scoundrel and a scallywag. A pirate.
She propped an elbow on the rail and cupped her chin in her hand, idly watching the last stragglers hurry aboard as her inner speculation grew increasingly more dramatic—and more gratifying. A pirate took what he wanted without a by-your-leave, through charm or by force, whichever best served his purpose. He would sneer at adversity and race headlong into the teeth of any storm . . . Like that fellow racing down the wharf.
A man was running pell-mell toward the ferry, his hand clamping his hat to his head, obscuring his features. In the other he clutched the handle of a leather valise. His unbuttoned mackintosh flew behind like him dark wings and the wind plastered his shirt to a hard, muscular chest—
Archie?
It was Archie. She snapped upright. Though closing fast, Archie was still eighty yards away. The gangway had already been pulled on board and the lines untied from the wharf cleats. The ferry was slowly pulling away, water churning between the pier and the boat’s port side.
“Don’t shut the gate!” she yelled at the pair of deckhands about to swing the metal arm shut at the top of the gangway. They squinted up at her through the salt spray.
Having spotted Archie, too, other passengers were adding their voices to hers. “Wait! There’s a man coming!”
“There!” Frantically, she pointed at Archie as she flew down the steps to the main deck. “You’ve got to open the gate!”
The sailors followed the direction of her finger to see the madman running down the wharf, clearly having no plan to stop when he reached the end. Feverishly, they hauled the gate back open and leapt to the side, waving him in.
His sprint had taken on the feel of a sporting event. The passengers on the deck above cheered him on as the sailors gesticulated wildly. Twenty feet from the end of the wharf he swung the valise up and around, sending it twirling through the air. It landed dead center of the gateway and skidded across the polished deck.
“Come on!” the sailors shouted encouragingly. Six feet separated the wharf and ferry.
“You can do it!”
Eight feet.
Ten feet.
“Jump, Archie! Now!”
He never paused, never broke stride. One minute he was on the wharf, the next he was sailing through the air, his arms pinwheeling as he landed, his momentum pitching him straight toward her.
Archie’s eyes widened with horror as Lucy set herself squarely in his path, her arms outstretched as if—good God! She was going to try to catch him!
Before he could react, he catapulted into her. A whoosh of air exploded from Lucy’s lungs as she flung her arms around his waist. Terrified he might fall on her he grabbed her around her waist and at the last second wheeled around. His back crashed against the salon wall. “Ow.”
A smattering of applause broke out around them. From the corner of his eye he saw one sailor glumly peel off a bill from the wad in his hand and pass it to another. They swung the gate closed. The show over, people scurried out of the elements and into the enclosed salon.
He barely noted them, too
intent on running his hands over Lucy to see if she was broken. Quickly and forcibly he discovered she was not only whole, but wholly female.
Her slender form flattened against him, her unexpectedly strong arms holding tight around his torso. A potent surge of physical awareness drilled through him. He took a deep, steadying breath, but that only made things worse since he inhaled her scent, a thought-disrupting combination of electricity and verdant earth and . . . and orange blossoms? Why would she smell like orange blossoms?
What was he thinking? He wasn’t even sure he knew what orange blossoms smelled like; he only knew they ought to smell like her.
She made a sound.
He released her at once, only to take hold of her shoulders and anxiously search her face. “Are you all right?”
He needn’t have asked. She’d let go of his waist, too, and now clasped his lapels, trapping him a foot away as she tipped her head back, laughing. Her rich brown hair had come undone and rippled in the wind, skimming across the backs of his hands, silky and cool.
“That was spectacular, Archie!” she exclaimed, green-gold-brown eyes sparkling with admiration. “Where did you learn to do something like that?”
He probably should release her. “Public school.”
She smiled. “I didn’t realize jumping was a standard part of a public school curriculum.”
Yes, he really should let her go, but . . . “I was an unruly student. The headmaster concluded that a physical outlet for my energy would aid my attention in the classroom.” Why had he said that? What could she possibly care?
“Oh.” She nodded wisely. “They thought to wear the unruliness right out of you, did they?”
“Something like that.” He could not imagine why they were having such a conversation on the deck of a ferry while a storm brewed all around. Yet here she stood, regarding him with as much fascination as if he’d just discovered a Neanderthal skull. And a good deal more approval. It was a little unnerving. A little heady.
The Songbird's Seduction Page 9