The Countess' Lucky Charm (3 page)

“Oh these,” Simone waved her hand down. “These are my working clothes. No one notices me in them.”

Temple
snorted. “I dare say they do. You look like a rag bundle with feet.”

“
Hmmph
,” she sniffed. “Can a rag bundle do this?” And she held up the heavy velvet sack of coins that had been in his pocket.

That stopped him in his tracks. She tossed the bag at his feet with a disdainful attitude that made him feel like a callow youth. Appalled at his carelessness, he snatched it up and stuffed it back in his pocket. She must have dipped her hand into his pockets during their brief struggle for the gun.

“And this?” She flipped him the leather folder containing his letters of introduction and passport that she had somehow rifled from his jacket. His jaw dropped.

“Agreed,” he capitulated, holding his hands palms up. “You are the best.”

“Aye,” she said haughtily. “I am.” She took a few steps away then turned to him. “Are ye coming?”

Bemused at her sudden self-assurance and consequently feeling rather gauche and useless, he followed her.

They reached his piled belongings and waited beside them while below, the row boat bumped against the landing. The sailor, dressed in a striped jersey and pants, hopped out to secure it with a heavy twisted rope.

Temple
glanced back up the lane; the constable must have scared his pursuers for they were still nowhere to be seen. Just a few minutes more and he would be gone, well out of their clutches.

And hopefully, when the time came for him to return to England, they would have forgotten all about him and he could live his life in peace. Far away from the stifling niceties of London.

He turned his attention back to the approaching sailor now climbing the stairs toward them.

The sailor approached them. “Lord Temple Wellington?”

“And who wants to know?” Temple demanded. It may be a last minute trick on the part of the foot pads.

 
“I am Thomas Becker. Captain Featherstone of the sloop
Annabelle
sent me to fetch you.” He inclined his head. “At your service.”

“Very well, let’s get my things, shall we?”

* * *

Simone stood back and watched Lord Temple Wellington. He was a man of power and obviously accustomed to getting his way, as evidenced by his neat handling of the constable. He relayed instructions to the sailor with self-confidence and authority, every word uttered with an underlying edge.

He was nervous, though, for as they at last sat in the boat that would carry them to the three mast sloop tethered amongst many other ships in the middle of the Thames, he continued to scan the shoreline behind them. In some way, that nervousness made him more endearing, vulnerable somehow.

She studied his face closely. He had not shaved that day, for a dusting of black hair lined his firm jaw, over the chiselled chin and down his neck. His forehead was broad and smooth, although laugh lines fanned from the corners of his eyes. Lord Wellington, apparently, enjoyed a good laugh. An unruly lock of amber-streaked mahogany hair hung over his sharp, black brows. He wore his hair long, longer than the current mode for it curled over his stand-up collar. A fine looking man, and not one to bow to the current vogue. She liked that—it made him his own person and not under the sway of others.

His eyes shifted suddenly and he caught her staring. A half smile lifted one corner of his mouth. He knew, she thought, cheeks flaming. He knew she had been studying him and it hadn’t bothered him in the slightest.

She tore away her gaze, pretending great interest in the three masts of the
Annabelle
coming closer with every stroke of the oars. Her stomach fluttered as the boat smacked into the looming hull.
Oy
, Mona, me girl, what have ye gotten yourself into? Whatever possessed ye to seek refuge in his trunk? Why didn’t ye run when ye had the chance?

The flutter in her stomach became an outright pounding as she recognized her unplanned adventure had not been properly thought out. Where had Temple said they were going? New Caledonia? It sounded like somewhere in Scotland but the
Annabelle
was large, built for traversing the oceans and even with Simone’s limited knowledge, she knew Scotland was not that far.

“Miss, you must climb the ladder.” Thomas Becker’s polite voice interrupted her thoughts and she realized Temple had already disappeared from sight, up and over the side of the ship.

“What? Oh, yes. Yes.” She stood and grasped the rope ladder. It twisted beneath her hands and she began the arduous climb, bumping against the planks, scraping her knuckles, banging her knees until at last, she looked up to see Temple’s lean figure lean over, hand outstretched, to help her up the last few rungs.

With his aid, she clambered over the rail. Relieved, she clung to it for a few seconds to catch her breath then turned about to get her bearings.

A hatchet-faced man sporting a battered tri-corn and neatly trimmed grey beard bore down on them as fast as two bowed legs could carry him.

 
“Get that tart off my ship!” he shouted. “I am the captain and this, this….” He stopped, wheezing for breath a few seconds before continuing his tirade. “She’s not welcome. Get that scurvy strumpet off my ship. Or else.”

Simone’s heart sank at the glowering face and querulous voice. Captain Featherstone was not at all pleased to see her. Her first instinct was to dart away but the railing pressed into the small of her back, reminding her she had nowhere to run. A frantic peek at the oily, black liquid swirling below confirmed that.

Apprehension welled within her for she knew very well the captain could make things unpleasant for her. She risked a glance at Temple. The question was, how badly did he need the package? He could repudiate her here and now, leading to consequences she didn’t even want to think about. She sagged back against the rail. A snippet of advice from Gentry Ted swirled through her mind:
Never show your fear
.

She pulled herself upright and boldly met the captain’s gaze.

Chapter Three

The captain’s reaction didn’t surprise Temple and he stepped forward, unperturbed.

 
“Captain Featherstone, Lord Temple Wellington.” He bowed. “May I present my travelling companion, Miss Simone Dougherty.” He pulled Simone up beside him, pleased to see her drop a curtsy, albeit a little shaky. Thankfully, she kept her mouth shut—he didn’t need her interfering in his conversation with the obviously unenthusiastic captain.

“I don’t have passage for her,” growled the captain, eyes harsh and unyielding. “This is a cargo ship and what few cabins I have are full.”

“Perhaps she could share my cabin, Captain. Name your figure.” Share his cabin? What had come over him to suggest that? No, that wasn’t true. He knew why. He felt a certain kinship with her for they had something in common: they were both running from a “spot of trouble”.

Either that or impudent eyes paired with a scruffy cloak of defiance had addled his wits.

Whatever the reason, there was no backing down now. He dangled the money sack in front of the captain’s face, giving it a little shake so the clinking of coins could be heard.

The captain shook his head. “This is a respectable ship, my lord. My wife sails with me and she’s a god-fearing woman.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Simone. “I don’t have a cabin for her. The tart shall have to be returned to shore at once.”

Temple
groaned inwardly. Damnation, what was he to do now? He couldn’t return to shore with Simone or his life would be forfeit. And if she didn’t accompany him, he would lose any chance of retrieving his goods.

He turned around to scowl at her. She gave him a look of pure innocence and lifted her shoulders a little. Resigned, he turned back to the captain. “Surely we can come to an agreement.”

“Well, now, if she were your wife….” The captain’s voice trailed away.

“What? Preposterous.” His wife? Pass Simone off as his wife? Not only was her clothing outrageous, but the second she opened her mouth, everyone would know her for what she was—a street urchin.

“I could look the other way and make things smooth with the mistress.” The captain stared greedily at the bag of money still hanging from Temple’s fist. He rubbed his chin then named an outrageous sum.

“What?” Temple was appalled.

The captain shrugged. “That’s what it will cost you.”

“You must be mistaken," he sputtered, scarce believing his ears. The amount named would almost deplete him of coins.

“Not mistaken at all, my lord. This is my ship. That is what it will cost if you wish the girl to accompany you.”

Out and out robbery, that’s what it was. Furthermore, even though it had been his idea, the prospect of sharing his cabin was not an enticing one. Not only did he like his privacy, the constable’s warning about her slitting his throat still rung in his ears.

However, he had no choice. Temple turned around to glare at Simone and she smiled back at him sweetly. Rolling his eyes skyward in a plea for patience, he turned back to face the captain.

Captain Featherstone shrugged and crossed his arms. “I’ve given you an honest price. Take it or leave it. ”

Temple
scanned the shuttered face and thought longingly of the packet hidden Lord only knew where. Among other things, it contained gold guineas which would have been eminently useful at this particular moment.

“Honest price,” Temple muttered, pulling open the drawstrings on his money pouch. “Highway robbery, I dare say.” He counted out the coins and passed them over. Then he reached back for Simone and pulled her forward. “May I present my,
er
, wife. Lady Simone Wellington.”

He pretended not to notice her incredulous stare. He braced himself, expecting her to protest, but surprise must have held her tongue for she said nothing, just continued to stare at him, eyes round as saucers, mouth agape.

“Your cabin is through there.” The captain pointed toward a doorway before pocketing the coins. “See that she behaves,” he glared at Simone, “or it’s to the brig with her.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, coins jingling in his pocket.

“Aye, Captain.” Scowling, Temple faced Simone to crook a finger at her. “Come. We had better go below before the captain changes his mind.”

“I’m not
yer
wife,” she hissed. “Anyone with two eyes in their head can see that.”

“Never mind, just follow me.” He didn’t wait to see if she was behind him but strode away across the deck toward the rear of the ship.

* * *

A stunned Simone had no choice but to follow. His wife? What had possessed him to put forward such an absurd notion?

She trailed behind, through the hatch and down the narrow hallway until they reached the last cabin. He pushed open the door. “Enter.” He stood back so she could go in first.

Simone squeezed past, keeping her eyes on his crisp white neck cloth, sucking in her gut so that not a speck of her touched him.

She advanced several steps into the cabin because several steps were all she could take due to Temple’s luggage pushed beneath the port hole on the far wall.

Golly, the cabin was tiny—two narrow beds separated from each other by the sliver of aisle where she now stood. An oil lamp hung over one of the beds, a plank shelf and several hooks over the other.

She felt him move into the room, could feel his heat and she peeped over her shoulder to gauge his mood. He ignored her to yank off his jacket, hanging it on a peg beside the door.
Oy
, his manner was frosty. Losing a valuable package and gaining an unwanted wife in one fell swoop had not pleased Lord Wellington at all. She didn’t like it too much either. Lady Wellington? Who would possibly believe it of her?

She turned to find him leaning against the door, arms crossed. Two almost black orbs skewered her.

“Sit,” he commanded, pointing to the bunk to her right. “Yours.”

Simone shook her head. He sought to intimidate her and she would have none of that. Fists on her hips, she glared back.

“You cost me a pretty penny,” he growled.

“Well, I am
yer
wife.” She regretted the impish words the second they left her mouth. “I’ll pay ye back,” she added hastily at the thunderous expression on his face. Now was probably not the right time to remind him he had agreed when she had asked him to take her along. She straightened her shoulders and held her ground.

“Oh?” His brows lifted and scepticism blanketed his face.

“I swear.”

“How? And if you are to suggest the obvious—” He looked pointedly at the bunk. “Your favours do not interest me. Or maybe they would, after you’ve had a bath.” A mocking smile curled his lips. “I shall arrange for that. You smell and any cabin mate of mine is not going to smell.”

“
Hmmph
.” A wave of heat suffused her cheeks. She smelled? She tried in vain to remember the last bath she had and gave up. He was probably right, she did smell. Never mind that, the rogue, to even suggest such a thing as sharing her bunk.