His Secret Heroine (7 page)

"Set mainsail," MacDevie said, his voice almost as still as the surrounding air.

The crew scurried up the ratlines and unfurled the sodden topsail. Debris littered the deck. Reggie left the ship to MacDevie and climbed down the ladder to the cabin.

He scratched on the door. "Miss
Hawarth? Miss Englefield?" he called, opening the door. "Oh. Perhaps I should return later. "

"Do enter, Lord Reginald," said the older lady, who was running a comb through the wet mass of Miss
Englefield's waving hair. "If it is safe now, might we have some light again?"

Reggie fished about for the tinderbox and conjured up a spark to the tinder, then lit the lantern. Both women sighed as the glow filled the small cabin like a warm embrace. Wrapped to the neck in a grey blanket, Miss
Englefield sat on the bunk, her very long hair flowing free and nearly straight. Reggie remembered wryly that most young ladies used curling irons these days. Beneath the blanket, the ridiculously long tail of his nightshirt draped below where he would have expected the hem of a dress. Her garments hung about the cabin, sodden and limp.

She would be all right, but would she forgive him? Almost worse than nearly drowning her, he had ordered her stripped with no thought to her sensibilities, and now she was forced to clothe herself in his night garments if she were to maintain even an impression of decorum.

"Has it passed, then, Lord Reginald?" Miss Englefield asked. He could not tell what lay behind the question. Anger? Disgust? Humiliation?

He tried to smile, but failed miserably. "We've ridden out the last of it, but we're blown off course and will be somewhat delayed in our return. You need not fear now, Miss
Englefield. I am terribly sorry."

"Yes, of course. But then you said we'd be safe, and I am quite well, really. You need not fuss over me. And you must have much to occupy you
on deck."

Did she dismiss him? He searched her eyes.

"You really must go, Lord Reginald," said Miss Hawarth.

He turned to leave. Yes. His presence would be embarrassing to a young lady forced to clad herself in a gentleman's nightshirt.

"Lord Reginald, thank you."

Reggie returned the weakest smile he ever remembered giving and hurried back abovedeck. Clear blue air surrounding them almost sparkled with
distant remaining rain as the deep gloom of the squall moved on, while to the southeast the dark line of another pending storm striped against the colors of a waning sunset. They would be long gone before it struck.

MacDevie's low voice carried across the deck, as calm as if there had never been a storm. The
Xanthe
found her channel and headed west through the narrowing river mouth. Reggie glanced at his watch, but it had been ruined, drowned in the green water swamping the deck.

H
e figured MacDevie was right. They were about three hours off their planned return time, even though they had caught the return tide, and it was already nearly seven of the clock. That left them only three hours to sail all the way to Tilbury before the tide changed again. But the wind favored them. If he must, he could put in to any port along the river and put the ladies up at an inn for the night.

And find himself leg-shackled by Friday, if he wasn't careful. He wondered how his paragon would feel about that? True, it would suit his purposes, but he was of no mind to cause the lady humiliation.

They neared Gravesend as the sun streaked the evening sky amidst the distant gray storm. Beneath his feet, he could feel the river's current rumbling rhythmically in the deck as the
Xanthe
angled across the incoming tide. Running with the wind or no, the current slowed them, and they would be very late indeed when they finally docked.

"Carry on, Mr. MacDevie," he said.

Darkness came on swiftly. He loved to sail after dark, with a moon cracking out here and there through the clouds, even though collisions were common at night, and small craft generally ignored. But this time the clouds fell away, with a half moon limning them with silver, making a perfect night for sailing.

With
Gravesend coming up, the ladies appeared on deck in their pelisses. He pretended not to notice the hem of his nightshirt, huge in proportion to the delicate lady, peeking below Miss Englefield's pelisse, dipping and rising in a most unfashionable way as if she had tied it up around her waist. The thick grey blanket draped over her shoulders like a shawl, and her golden hair hung unbound in long strands down her back, its ends flipping each time the wind blew in gusts.

"You'll catch a chill, Miss
Englefield," he said, unable to squelch his silly grin, for in her
déshabille
she was even more appealing.

"I am not of frail constitution, Lord Reginald."

"Anyone can catch a chill. You have been soaked to the bone."

"You were surely as wet as I."

"I am accustomed to it, Miss Englefield."

Only the barest of smiles hung on her lips, yet it warmed him more than any fire. "I wish to watch the remainder of the voyage if I may."

Circe. His indomitable Circe
. Reggie had been stymied by the next scene in his book, and now knew how it would play out, although he almost wished he didn't. "I shall rush you back belowdeck immediately if I see so much as a shiver from you."

Miss
Englefield nodded, and said nothing more. She stood close to him. Moonlight skated over the ripples and lit the shore.

"It is so very beautiful," she said. "I have been told there is nothing you love so much as sailing your
ketch. I see why."

Tiny amber lights in little boxes marked villages passed. Stark shadows of tall steeples marked the towns. Reggie could think of no answer, for the small noises of the ship and the night seemed to answer for him.

As the night wind picked up, Miss Hawarth shivered and quietly excused herself to return to the cabin, leaving them alone together on the deck.

"Is it true?" Miss
Englefield asked. "Or is there anything you love more than sailing?"

Reggie held his breath. Dare he say? Could he share his deepest secret with her? Whether or not she would keep it safe, he wanted her to be a part of the thing he loved so much.

"I love to write," he said.

Her eyes seemed almost dark as they widened and her brows lifted. "Indeed? Poetry?"

"Sometimes." But he lied. He had not rhymed two lines since he had first decided to pen a novel the previous year. "Sometimes a story." Perhaps she would take him for a mere
dilettante
.

Miss
Englefield's lips closed while they spread into a pleased smile. "What an unusual man you are," she said.

He wondered how she meant that. "I suppose I should have been a cit. I have always wanted to do all the wrong things, or so my father tells me."

"But at least you could support yourself if ever you must. I have never known of another gentleman to manage the ropes of his own ship. Of course, gentlemen do write, from time to time. Your friend Mr. Bronson, and certainly Lord Byron. That seems to be acceptable enough. But I think it is your unceasing energy that is so interesting. I saw you up there on the yard, when you exchanged places with Mr. Russell. Do you never tire?"

"Of course. But I do not sleep but a few hours a night. I never have, that I recall. I cannot imagine how I should manage if I did not have something to occupy me."

"Yes, then I suppose you should have been a cit," she replied, and the lilt in her voice matched the twinkle in her eyes. "You are out of luck, sir. You are stuck being the son of a duke. But you needn't fear, I shall not betray your secret. And perhaps someday you will reward me, and let me read some of your writing."

What would she think if she read about his Circe? Would she recognize herself? Somehow, he didn't think she'd appreciate that. Perhaps he'd put that one off for a while until she got to know him a bit better.

"What about you, Miss Englefield? Have you never had a secret yearning to do something with your hands? Something perhaps not so ladylike?"

"Of course not." Miss
Englefield stuck her narrow little nose in the air in a mockery of arrogance. "I have always been the most ladylike of ladies."

"Have you, indeed?" Reggie smirked as he surveyed her comical dress. "I rather imagine no other lady of my acquaintance would appear
on deck again after such an experience as you have had. You have confirmed my suspicion that you are a secret hoyden."

"Certainly not. Well, only rarely."

"Such as now." He laughed. "I think you would walk the yard as quickly as I, if you could."

"Oh, no," she answered, and laughed back. "I am perfectly happy to leave the difficult work to the men. And I am not at all fond of heights."

"Then what do you do, Miss Englefield? Does nothing call to you but the salon or the ballroom? How might you support yourself if the occasion called?"

For a moment a knife-sharp silence hung between them, and her eyes took on a solemn look as she watched him. "I
—" She hesitated, and her lips tightened over her teeth. "I sew."

Reggie laughed. "Oh, that is no great secret. Do not all ladies sew?"

"But I really love to sew. If I had to support myself, I would do that."

"I did not realize there was a market in silks," he said.

"No, I do not mean embroidery." She frowned. "I—" A great pause hung in the air between them as she worried her lip between her teeth. "I make my own clothing. All of it. I am a mantua maker's nightmare, I suppose, for I know what I want, and am much too particular. So I make all my own dresses and such."

"Ah," he said, arching his brows, "now, there's a secret. It is not done, my dear. I cannot imagine many ladies have the talent, or the desire. So my secret hoyden is also a secret seamstress."

Miss Englefield lifted her chin just a bit too high, and her overly pursed lips wiggled about enticingly. "Ladies, as a rule, are taught not to use any talents they might innately possess. I do enjoy the design, but I much prefer the actual sewing." A little grin crept onto her lips. "I could sew your sails as well as any sailmaker."

"Could you? Sailmaking requires quite a bit of strength."

"But I could do it. I've looked at them. I know how they are put together."

He couldn't help laughing.

"Truly, I could. I studied them carefully the first day you took us out."

He believed her, but it was best not to say so. "Do you mean to tell me, all the while I thought you quiet and conforming, you were actually figuring out how to construct my sails?"

"Not all the time. I paid attention to the rigging too."

Mirth rolled out of him uncontrollably. He wanted to hug her so badly that he had to turn around to disguise his desires until the urge passed.

"You do not believe me," Miss Englefield said, and Reggie glanced back suddenly at the odd pout in her voice. Her narrow little nose lifted once again, much too high for true disdain. Reggie recognized a bam coming.

"I would be a fine modiste." She lifted her skirts daintily, swishing them back and forth. "This is, in fact, one of my latest creations."

"Indeed."

Miss
Englefield swayed elegantly, swinging the lower hem of her pelisse and the nightshirt hem that dangled beneath it. "
Chemise du nuit
. Double-trained, you see. Both front and back."

"It rather looks like it puddles, instead."

She stared down at the excess fabric that dipped and swelled erratically, dragging on the wet deck. "Oh. You noticed that, did you? It is quite the latest thing. Puddles in puddles. Caught up at the waist with a length of hemp, in the natural color, of course." She exposed the length of cord about her waist, beneath the pelisse, and he laughed.

"You jest, sir, but the very best mantua makers have always looked to men's garments for their inspiration, the spencer, the pelisse. Perhaps trowsers shall be the coming thing. This is mine, my inspiration the male nightshirt, of the finest muslin, which billows elegantly in the skirt and puffs out in a rondel beneath the cuff of the pelisse."

Before him, his perfect heroine paraded and swirled in her imaginary gown, tugging the neckband up above the pelisse collar. Reggie surveyed the wristbands that dangled awkwardly over her wrists beneath the cuffs of her pelisse and threatened to engulf her tiny hands. She posed enticingly, one barely visible hand resting on a ratline.

"It will be all the crack, you will see. Made up only of the finest quality of men's nightshirts, preferably those previously owned by great or very adventurous men, the Duke of Wellington, perhaps. I believe I shall expand to French ones, too. But I think I shall not have Bonaparte's. He is much too short. It would not give at all the required look."

"And a shawl,
a la couverture
," Reggie added. "I see it is to be worn with bare feet."

She lifted the hem to observe her bare toes peeking out, and giggled. "
Au naturel
. It does quite complete the picture, does it not?"