The Countess' Lucky Charm (4 page)

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 be 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.