The Countess' Lucky Charm (5 page)

Temple
had won it fair and square in a game of cards with Mortimer-Rae but the man had refused to hand it over. It was that, wrapped in oiled cloth, which Simone had stolen.

Finding her in his trunk had been an unfortunate stroke of luck and, as much as he admired her bravado, he did not relish the idea of her tagging along.

He gritted his teeth. Of necessity, he would accept her company. To put it plainly, he needed the packet she had stolen from him.

* * *

“I really like the dress,” Simone said shyly once she and Mrs Featherstone were seated at one corner of the ship’s dining table. She knew Temple had told her not to speak but she really wanted to thank the woman for her kindness. She looked down and smoothed her hands over the soft pale lavender wool, trimmed with lace about the collar and cuffs. So finely spun, it felt like silk beneath her calloused fingers. “I
ain’t
never had one so fine. Thank ye.”

“You are welcome,” Mrs Featherstone replied absently, her mind on the task before them and not on Simone. As she placed items on the table, she listed them off. “A needle, a thimble, some thread.” She paused. “Now, where did I leave the scissors, they must still be in our cabin. I trimmed the captain’s beard this morning.” She stood up. “I shan’t be a moment.” Without waiting for a reply, she darted out of the room.

Simone watched her leave. The captain’s wife looked like someone’s granny, plump and grey-haired, her affable face unlined save for a few wrinkles about the eyes and mouth. Hopefully, her temperament matched the pleasant exterior. Simone did not relish informing the woman she did not know how to mend.

Footsteps pounded down the passage way; someone shouted. Apprehensive, Simone looked to the door. It wouldn’t do for the captain to find her here unaccompanied. It grew silent; she looked out the small row of windows to her left.

There was not much to see, water then sky, water then sky as the ship challenged the waves. The shifting horizon seemed to taunt her—up, how could she repay Temple, down, she must think of something, up, how to repay Temple, down, she would think of something.

“Who gave you permission to be in here?” A gravelly voice cut the air. Simone jerked her head around.

Captain Featherstone stood in the doorway, barring her exit, fists clenching and unclenching. His eyes were narrowed, his brow creased with displeasure. He took a menacing step toward her.

Words left her; she stared at him. He was not much taller than her but stocky and well-muscled. If he wanted, he could drag her from her seat and toss her in the brig. Overboard even.

“Me passage has been paid.” She pushed back her chair and stood to face him. She refused to be cowed by his bullying manner.

“That doesn’t give you the right to wander about.”

“I’m not wandering.
Yer
wife and I are sewing.”

“That is so, captain.” Mrs Featherstone pushed her way past her husband. “Leave us be, you have more serious matters to deal with than worry about this young woman.”

“I don’t trust her,” he growled.

“She’s under my care,” she soothed. “I enjoy the female companionship.”

After a few more glowering seconds, the captain turned on his heel and, without saying a word, stalked off.

Shaking her head, the captain’s wife turned to Simone. “He’s a good man, really he is. A bit hard-headed from time to time is all.” She laid a bolt of periwinkle blue seersucker on the table along with a pile of garments. The very ones, Simone supposed with a sinking heart, needing mending.

“This is a lovely colour for you. Look what else I have.” She held up a pair of tooled kid slippers. “The captain bought these for me. But they simply don’t fit.”

“Oh,” Simone sighed, reaching for the slippers. She held them up to her face to inhale the rich leather scent, unable to picture the brusque captain buying a gift for his wife. Laying the slippers to one side, she fingered the lightweight fabric. It had an interesting texture beneath her fingers. “It’s pretty.”

“Go ahead and start on the new dress. I’ll address the mending and then help you.” The captain’s wife picked up a needle and threaded it deftly. She plucked a linen shift from the pile and began to sew, head down, humming, needle fair flying through the fabric.

Feeling useless, Simone sat and fingered the seersucker. The seconds ticked by until she could no longer delay.

“Mrs Featherstone?” She hated how her voice squeaked.

“Yes?” The other woman didn’t lift her head.

“I, ah, I don’t know how
ta
sew.”

“What did you say?” The needle stopped mid-air; the captain’s wife did not lift her head.

“I don’t know how.”

Mrs Featherstone raised her gaze, her face a picture of disbelief.

Simone smiled weakly.
Oy
, she hated to disappoint the captain’s wife, she were a nice lady.

“You’re not long married to Lord Wellington, are you,” she said icily. Her mouth compressed and she tilted her head to look Simone full in the eyes.

Simone bit her lip and shook her head.

“And you did not borrow my dress because you lost your luggage, did you?”

Again, Simone shook her head.

Mrs Featherstone pursed her lips; her eyes narrowed. Disbelief was giving way to anger, for her cheeks had gone apple red. “I find you a rather unorthodox choice for Lord Wellington as you’re clearly not of his station. However, it is none of my concern. You are both paying passengers and it’s not my place to question the captain. Or, for that matter, to question your lord about you. He has presented you as his wife and therefore I must assume you are.”

“I, ah, could learn
ta
sew,” Simone stammered, trying to steer the conversation away from her supposed marriage in a futile attempt to quiet her own discomfort. “Really, I could. I want to. I really want to.”

She didn’t wish to provoke the woman. As the captain’s wife, perhaps she had the power to throw Simone in the brig. Which was the last place Simone wanted to be. She shivered.

“But.” Mrs Featherstone held up a finger. “I don’t like being lied to.” Her voice was reproving; her face stern.

“I am sorry. Really, I am….” Simone’s voice trailed away. Miserable, she lowered her gaze. It caught on the lovely slippers. She reached over and pushed them across the table.

The other woman pushed them back. “Keep them. They’re of no use to me.”

Startled, Simone looked up.

The red on the woman’s cheeks began to fade; her expression settled back in its customary pleasant lines. “You must promise me that you shall not lie to me any further.”

Chastened, Simone bowed her head. “I promise,” she mumbled.
Oy
, how long had they been at sea? Three days? Within a matter of minutes in Mrs Featherstone’s company, Simone had been found out. She had met none of the others on board yet and already her position as Lady Wellington was suspect.

“Our passengers are usually men.” Mrs Featherstone’s voice was brisk. “I’m thankful for your company. So yes, I shall teach you.”

 
Simone jerked her head up. The woman, despite her doubts over Simone’s background, had made a charitable offer. Gratitude flowed through her at the woman’s kindliness and she resolved not to disappoint her. “Ye think I can learn?” She looked down at her hands, the knuckles scraped and nails broken. They looked like workman’s hands, not meant at all for womanly arts.

“Without a doubt.” Mrs Featherstone’s voice was firm. “Idle hands beget the devil’s work. Depending on the winds, we have another five or six weeks at sea. I warn you, I am going to be a stern taskmaster.” She waggled a finger at Simone. “I expect nothing less than your full attention.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Simone mumbled, still doubtful over the whole idea. However, she didn’t want to fail the kindly woman sitting across from her.

With a sigh, she picked up a needle.

Oy
, she wanted to please Mrs Featherstone but sewing didn’t seem nearly as important as figuring out how to portray a convincing Lady Wellington or how to repay Temple.

* * *

Lesson finished, Simone made her way above deck and spied Temple near the bow. With his dark hair blowing in the wind, he looked like a pirate, or at least what she imagined a pirate would look like. Even his expression was pirate-like, dark and brooding, and his fists still clenched the rail. She wondered about his thoughts. They must be troubling to him, for his fingers were taut, whitened against the wood.

Matching her gait to the movement of the ship, she started toward him. He glanced over and his face cleared at seeing her.

She tucked her new slippers under one arm and leaned on the railing beside him. “
Ain’t
ye sick anymore?”

“A little.” His mouth made a rueful moue. “But I had a nap and the ship’s surgeon has assured me I shall live. His recommendation is for fresh air of which,” he swept his arm about, “there is plenty.”

“I been thinking,” she began, hesitant to broach the subject. She was grateful to him for bringing her along and didn’t know how to say it, or show it. “About how I could repay ye.”

He cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I could teach ye a thing or two.”

“Now what, precisely, do you think you can teach me,” he teased. “How to sew?”

“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I don’t like sewing. It’s tedious and makes me eyes ache.” It seemed pointless to tell him this morning had been her first attempt at it. “No. A few tricks favoured by pickpockets. So ye know what to look for.”

“I think not.” Patently disinterested, he looked away, out over the water.

“I see.” She rubbed her chin.
Oy
, what else could she offer, she had nothing of value. Nay, that wasn’t quite true—she knew the location of his mysterious package. Which didn’t do her any good at this precise moment. “I know.” She brightened. “Perhaps I could entertain ye. We could play cards. Or dice.”

“Cards or dice?” Astonishment coloured his voice.

“Aye. Or don’t women play that in your world?” It was the first reference she had made to the social chasm between them. He appeared not to notice and for that she was grateful. She felt awkward enough as is so close to him, sharing his cabin.

“I shall think on it. In the meantime,” he slanted a glance at her, “why don’t you tell me where you came from? What of your parents?”

“Mrs Dougherty is the only parent I ever knew.”

“Who is Mrs Dougherty?”

“Someone who took me in.” She pointed her finger then changed the subject. “Look, there’s a sail on the horizon.” Temple didn’t need to know about the workhouse on Bishopsgate Street. She shivered as a sudden cloud veiled the sun.

“You’ve a chill, get your shawl.”

There he went again, being all solicitous with her. It made her feel special. She straightened her shoulders and pushed back from the rail.

“Before you go, why don’t you put those on?” He pointed to the kid leather slippers tucked beneath her arm.

Her head jerked around. Was he teasing her again? But no, his face was solemn. “Is it proper?”

“Is what proper?”

“To take me boots off in front of ye.”

“It’s not really, but….” He leaned toward her. Her heart lurched and began to beat a wild cadence; her breath froze in her throat. So close she could see the golden flecks in his eyes. So close she could smell the man scent of him—spicy and smoky and something else. With an effort, she forced herself to pay attention to his next words. He wasn’t for the likes of her and she would do well to remember that.

“I shan’t tell,” he whispered.

She shrank back. Seemingly unaware of his effect on her, he grabbed the slippers, brushing his elbow against her breast as he did so. Lightning heat burned her skin beneath the fabric of her dress; her face heated.

Mercifully, he stepped back but not before placing the slippers at her feet. Her heart resumed its normal rhythm and she drew in a large, shaky breath. She pulled off first one boot, then the other before glancing at him. He watched her, intent, predator-like.

In an instant, Temple grabbed the boots and pitched them overboard.

“
Oy
,” she squealed. “Them were my only pair.” She dashed to the railing in time to catch the sad sight of her boots disappearing into the green murk. She rounded on him, arms akimbo and forehead wrinkled. “Why did ye do that?”

“They’re disgusting and they stink.” He nudged the slippers with his toe. “Now put these on. Don’t worry, I shan’t say a word about the hole in your stocking.”

A crimson-faced Simone followed his orders.

“Much better,” he remarked casually.

Yes, thought Temple, the sight of two trim ankles below the too short dress was infinitely more pleasing. He let his gaze linger on them before raising it to look her square in the face.

“Have ye looked
yer
fill?” Her icy voice matched her cool manner and she glared at him.

He couldn’t help it—his laughter burst forth.