When Crispin Daventry fled London’s most notorious gaming hell, the Underworld, with a broken heart and empty pockets, he wasn’t sure he would ever return.

But after a spell of debauchery in Italy with his new friend Count Este, he believes he has finally cast aside all thoughts of romance and is ready to pay back his debts, seeking his own unique revenge on the venue that bankrupted him.

So when an usual stowaway in the shape of Lady Amanda Beasley appears on his ship bound for home, life at sea suddenly becomes far more tempestuous. Concealing a young woman travelling alone is both improper and inconvenient, and a complication Crispin could happily do without.

Duty-bound by his gentleman’s upbringing, he agrees to protect her until they are back on English soil. But will a return to the capital of sin turn this damsel in distress into something more?

Return to the House of Sin

The Bastards of London

Anabelle Bryant

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Copyright

ANABELLE BRYANT is happy to grab her suitcase if it ensures a new adventure. She finds endless inspiration in travel, especially imaginary jaunts into romantic Regency England, a far cry from her home in New Jersey. Instead, her characters live out her daydreams because, really, who wouldn’t want to dance with a handsome duke or kiss a wicked earl? A firm believer in romance, Anabelle knows sometimes life doesn’t provide a happily ever after, but her novels always do. Visit her website at AnabelleBryant.com

[My sincere and heartfelt gratitude to the entire team at HQ Digital and HarperCollins for their dedicated work in bringing this novel to publication.

A special acknowledgment to my editor, Clio Cornish, who has always encouraged my ideas, supported my writing and offered her brilliant insight.]

[This story is dedicated to anyone who wishes to begin again, recreate themselves, find a new life within the old and aspire to be happy.

To my readers, thank you for your support and for spending time with my characters. I appreciate all of you and enjoy our conversations online.

And to my mom, most of all. ]

Chapter One

Bastard was a label he’d never own.

His blood ran pure blue.

And as a wealthy, revered paradigm of the English gentleman, heir to a barony, Lord Crispin Daventry was far better than his current self-destructive behaviour, the like spurred from a desire for distraction and instinctual escape of loathing. His indulgent routine of inebriation, debauchery and reckless gambling masked a quelling desire to smother emotion, blot out bitter memory, and at last forget, if only for one night.

Because she’d chosen a bastard.

He stared out of the window of his spacious apartments overlooking Canale de Grazia and watched the gleaming rays of sunrise shimmer across the water in glorious shades of marmalade and gold. Heat carried on the ocean breeze to caress his jaw, a gesture so ephemeral one believed the dawn hour in Venice possessed enchantment unknown anywhere else on Earth. As was habit, he witnessed the day’s awakening and considered his options; how to become a better man, return to London and repair his tarnished reputation, all too quick to recognize the foolish litany as a composition of deceit and reassurances.

With a smirk, he reached across the gilt trestle table for a glass of merlot, abandoned half full during last night’s amusements. His residence housed the culmination of each evening’s conquests, his popularity within the city’s fast set somewhat legendary. He laboured to perpetuate the illusion lest anyone suspect he was not as he seemed and the masquerade of vengeful rogue, scorned lover and unrepentant aristocrat be destroyed. Somehow, he’d managed to grow comfortable within that particular lie.

In one manner, he’d become what she’d wanted. A bastard. For no parent would wish him for a son, his transformation likely unrecognizable to his own mother, their ancestral relations decorous, straight-laced and, above all else, proper. This contrast, thrown against the local rakes who womanized and purported an ostentatious reputation of scandalous activity, granted him liberties. For while he indulged in dishonourable habits here in Venice, by being of golden English birth no one kept watch on his behaviour. Italians were generous with their admiration and stingy with opinion.

His thoughts moved to his closest comrade, Antonio Ferrisimo, Count of Este. Were it not for their fast friendship, Crispin would never have found his place among Venetian society. Ferris provided a loyal, if somewhat reckless, alliance, and was the one person he would despair at leaving when he finally returned to England.

With the help of the count, Crispin put forth a reputation soon multiplied by the masses, as a man outrageously wealthy and determined to win at any cost. He’d ruined men, caused women to beg, and left a trail of broken hearts and empty purses in his wake. He wasn’t an ordinary aristocrat in need of amusement, but an elite gambler, one without a heart and therefore unstoppable, as he would feel the tug of risk in every wager and ignore the momentary fright some men knew when in over their head. Unfortunately, this portrayal was mostly fiction.

Crispin drained the glass and placed it down with deliberate care, the thought of his family left in London without explanation one of his crueller acts. Still, Venice had long ago become tedious and he’d lingered on, stalled by equal measures happenstance, survival and good fortune until practised dissolution became a way of life and moral code.

He released an exhale of derisive contemplation. He’d abandoned England a year ago, the circumstances disreputable and problematic, and in turn changed in too many ways worth unriddling at the moment. For all his chary planning, he’d at last stopped running in Venice. How utterly ironic. To flee a broken heart and find oneself settled in the city of love.

Love.

The word burned like poison on his tongue.

Love destroyed.

He’d loved her with everything he had within him and he’d failed.

This past year amidst his newly created life, he’d proven his worth as more than enough. The realization settled as he glanced over his shoulder where last evening’s company slept. Sex made for swift disillusion when one raced to outrun the past. He returned his eyes to the open window as the cerulean sky stretched and yawned, all at once awake and poised to place a tender kiss upon the water. It all seemed fitting. To tirelessly tread, submerge, drown, yet never escape the impetus to one’s misery as if caught in an in-between, his own personal purgatory.

‘Cara mia.’

He didn’t turn at first, aware of what she admired. A broad back with nary a trace of excess, rigid strength divided by the natural depth of his spine, unwilling to yield as it scored hard planes of smooth muscle, two halves of the whole. Still, underneath, beneath muscle and sinew, he remained raw.

He waited a few beats longer before he offered his attention.

Daniela sat up, her eyes glossy and drowsed. The counterpane fell away to reveal seductive curves and delicate olive skin, her nipples erect and rosy, an invitation for his mouth to accept.

‘Come back to bed.’ She drew out each syllable in a seductive complaint, her voice as warm and silky as the sheets he’d left moments before. ‘It’s too early, tesoro.’

Her distress prodded him to smile, though he dropped it away. Daniela was beautiful and insatiable, generous with her delectable body and adventurous in sensuality as if an innate quality of her culture. The variety of women he’d enjoyed since arriving embraced sexuality wholeheartedly, much to his pleasure. How unlike the reserved propriety of England’s females. With contrary convenience, Venice and its rich excess served as the ideal prescription for deflecting heartache and becoming lost in the lush temptation of an Italian actress.

‘Si, come back to bed.’

Or two.

Mirella pushed back against the pillows and lounged beside Daniela, her liquid gaze tracing over his height from head to waist, stalled there no matter he wore trousers caught low on his hips. From her shoulder, she collected a handful of unruly tresses, tangled from bed play, and dropped the weighty lengths to her back before pursing her lips in an enticing pout.

‘We were up all notte.’ She soothed a palm over the empty space on the linens which separated her from her sister. ‘Even a great leone needs his sleep.’ From the way she stroked her collarbone, fingertips trailing downward to brush lightly over her breast, she had anything but slumber in mind.

Still, her tenuous command of his language was charming, her penchant for calling him a lion endearing, and he found himself beside the mattress and atop the sheets before he could ponder things further. Why waste time on mental anguish when one could sink into decadent abandon, the ladies anxious to chase away his sorrows? He murmured agreement as he pulled Mirella closer, Daniela’s breasts pressed tight against his back. Perhaps he would postpone his travel plans. England promised a world of confrontation and hurt, bitter truths and harsh expectation, while his delicious companions provided the opposite. Indeed, home would have to wait.

‘I wish we were home already.’ Lady Amanda Beasley whirled in a flurry of skirts, her temperament twisted halfway into an impatient fluster, her cheeks pinkened. Several curls tumbled from beneath the brim of her bonnet and her eyes snapped with alternating degrees of anger, frustration and outright bewilderment. ‘We’re polished society, daughters of the Earl of Huntingdon and respected members of the ton, but here we stand in a damp and drafty coaching inn at the mercy of an impertinent bout of disagreeable weather. What will happen next?’

Her sister, Raelyn, knew better than to interrupt. Like a kettle filled with steam, once Amanda’s impetuous temper found a vent, she would cool and in good time regain a sensible demeanour. It wasn’t Raelyn’s fault their plans had taken an unfortunate and inconvenient turn. No one controlled the weather and the unrelenting rains left the roadways muddy and impassable. Although the whole of their sudden jaunt across the continent did find its root in Raelyn’s misfortune, much like their miserable stretch of travel.

All day, gloomy clouds mocked their progress. Mile after mile of roads lined with bare crab apple trees passed amidst dusty, bleak nothingness, mute until an onslaught of rain struck with vehement insistence, the sound of the relentless downpour akin to Raelyn’s tears inside the carriage. Wasn’t their extended travel sufficient punishment? Watching her sister’s genuine discontent reminded of the delicacy of Raelyn’s disposition in comparison to her own. Clenching her teeth and praying for patience, Amanda’s remorse had transformed into fortitude. Each raindrop’s ping on the coach roof counted the seconds until it became the drum of her pulse. Somehow they’d managed to arrive at the wharf without further complications.

At this very moment, their father sought the necessary information concerning their passage while Amanda, Raelyn and their maid, Enid, waited across the room. It was Raelyn who’d insisted they continue through the torrential downpour, but Amanda was hard-pressed to place further blame on her sister’s shoulders. While Raelyn nursed her broken heart, Amanda was equally as eager to accomplish their itinerary.

‘Whatsoever will we do if we miss our passage? Another ship won’t leave for France until a fortnight or longer.’ Raelyn’s voice turned an odd tone, caught somewhere between incredulity and barely constrained exasperation. Amanda identified the emotion as fear, her sister unwilling to be left alone with her thoughts of what might have been.

Like her sister, Amanda wanted to leave Italy as soon as possible. France was the last stop on their travel agenda and then they would return to England. The whole of it amounted to a month’s worth of unexpected inconvenience because Raelyn had become entranced with her suitor, bewitched by his promises, and subsequently jilted. Whenever Amanda recalled these facts, she fought the urge to roll her eyes. Raelyn was a darling of the ton, sought by the handsomest suitors and invited to every distinguished event. Amanda reasoned this occurred because Raelyn carried herself with unmatched grace and delicate composure or was born under a lucky star she’d missed at birth. Either way, her sister accomplished effortless charm. Even through despairing sadness, Raelyn’s tears were neat, her lids hardly swollen, and lashes a-glisten. No doubt several gentlemen awaited her return, eager to console and offer entertainment after her recent disappointment.

Of course, Father’s suggestion of a change of scenery and distraction through adventure had snagged Raelyn’s attention like a fish to bait, her sister anxious to escape the pitying gossip and perfunctory sideways glances sure to feed society’s vicious rumour mill once the emotional debacle became lively fodder. With no choice but to accompany them, as Raelyn and Father composed her entire family, Amanda left behind numerous friends, several social engagements and a stack of tempting invitations for the season.

It was imperative their travels adhered to the schedule Father had planned or Amanda would never be returned to England in time to attend the event of a lifetime, a grand soiree in celebration of Princess Charlotte’s presentation at court. It promised to be spectacular and still nursing her wounds after missing the Frost Fair in February due to her sister’s struggles with an impertinent cold, Amanda was determined to ameliorate her disappointment by attending the festivities. At last, she would have the opportunity to prove her own elegance and self-reliance. She’d practised a delicate laugh when no one was in earshot and reminded herself often to tuck in her elbows, skirts, and slippers for that matter. Her tendency to fall prey to endearing mishaps, as her father labelled them, was an attribute she strove to expunge from her person.

Therefore, she held no dreamy notion of falling in love or dancing with a handsome suitor at said event. Love seemed a fickle and somewhat cruel emotion. On most days, she genuinely sympathized with Raelyn’s misfortune, though lately all that wasted effort did nothing more than convince Amanda she wanted no part of sentimental entanglements. Father had never loved another after Mother passed away and Raelyn’s heart seemed devastated beyond repair. Who would invite the painful torment labelled true love?

Now, a random ray of sunlight brightened the room to prove the skies had at last cleared and she huffed a breath of impatience as Father approached with a strained smile.

‘Everything is in order. I have the paperwork in hand for our passage to France. It’s a miracle the ship hasn’t left yet, but in that, the poor weather showed us favour.’ The Earl of Huntingdon dashed a glance in their direction. ‘We haven’t a moment to spare. Follow me. I’ll cut a path through the confluence outside the embarkation area, while the both of you continue to follow behind me. It’s crowded and we’ll need to move quickly. I’ve hired two footmen to facilitate our trunks aboard the ship.’ He motioned towards the door. ‘This way now. France awaits.’

With their paperwork in hand, Father led them wharf-side, a proverbial stone’s throw to the anchored ships awaiting wind to billow their sails. Raelyn straightened her shoulders and stepped before Amanda, two inches taller for the two years she’d lived longer. As sisters, they resembled each other in appearance, but in disposition Amanda and Raelyn couldn’t be more opposed. Raelyn believed in fate and love, instant attraction and a benevolent force greater than herself. She found love often, with an intensity that almost frightened.

Amanda worked with fact and bald scepticism, emboldened by too much bookish education and a discombobulated belief she was better off without the trappings of marriage. She often found herself at the mercy of confusion and mishap, to which she had no ready explanation.

Regardless of these contrary viewpoints, Amanda followed Raelyn and Enid in the shadow of the earl, across the busy thoroughfare and towards the wooden slats of the walkway leading to the docks. The stench of rotten fish, abandoned cargo and assorted rubbish assailed her senses as she neared the embarkation platforms and she turned her head away. As Father had mentioned, the area was overcrowded with pedestrians, travellers, carriages and cattle, though Amanda did her best to keep pace with her sister.

At one juncture, she was jostled so unexpectedly, she glanced over her shoulder to ensure the footmen followed, all at once apprehensive amidst the bustling assemblage. Where were all these people going in such a hurry? Formal travelling habits and uniformed livery became a blur of brown and grey against the drab wooden crates and pilings. A trickle of unease warned she needed to pay attention. Was that an angel whispering in her ear? She liked to believe when a forewarning occurred it was her mother offering wisdom. Amanda should take heed.

Careful to keep sight of the top of her sister’s bonnet as it wove through the press a few yards ahead, she raised her eyes towards the sky. Like looming giants in a fairy-tale story, the enormous hulls of two handsome galleons grew larger with every step. The vessels might have been sisters, much like herself and Raelyn, with only the slightest of differences when one examined each closely. Paused by a sense of awe, the galleon on the left unfurled a huge sail. The white cloth snapped full of wind, the subsequent jolt of the ship against its ropes startling. Best Amanda cease daydreaming and hasten aboard.

Dropping her attention, she searched the crowd ahead, all at once aware she’d become separated from her father and sister by the urgent press of interlopers and travellers. With a quick scan backwards, she noticed the footmen were no longer visible. Stifling a gasp, she hurried along and searched her memory for Father’s description of the ship. Had he mentioned the galleon’s name? Her eyes scanned the gold lettering painted in a flourish across each ship. Alas, their names were in Italian. She wouldn’t find help there. Sidestepping a suspicious-looking puddle, she pushed her boots into motion and scurried towards the gangway, anxious to locate her family and have her journey safely underway.

Chapter Two

‘This seems…’ Antonio Ferrisimo, Count of Este, sliced the air to his left with a sweeping gesture meant to indicate the full-rigged galleon’s main deck. ‘What is the word? What word?’

‘Precipitous? Extreme? Dire?’ Crispin rattled off the trio of adjectives, amused by his friend’s fractured English.

‘Sudden.’ Ferris smiled, a swift flash of white teeth in the darkness. ‘Severe.’

Crispin leaned against the wooden railing and eyed the waters of the North Sea. He pulled a thin leather strip from his pocket and tied back his too-long hair while he considered his friend’s comment. Ferris was correct in notice, the decision to return to England made with certainty, though it was hardly unforeseen. Crispin had contemplated the when of it every morning since arriving in Venice. ‘I’ve had this trip in mind for weeks.’ He wouldn’t confess the notion lived in his brain always. The time had come to return home and face the problems he’d left behind. ‘It’s more shocking that you’ve decided to accompany me.’

‘I have many acquaintances in London.’ Again, the charming smile appeared in the stillness of early morning. Ferris lived life by his own rules. As a wealthy count, he kept the world in his pocket, a plaything to amuse him. ‘I’m curious of this Underworld establishment and the men who own it. Besides, Venice will be boring without you, amico mio.’

‘Ah, so we discover the truth of the matter.’ Crispin glanced to his friend and then back to the endless blue tides. ‘I worry for you. You’ll find this voyage boring and then England, a pale comparison to the lifestyle to which you’re accustomed. The two cities have very little in common. This trip alone may depress you. How will you survive three weeks without a female in your bed?’

As if the crew conspired to underscore his suggestion, two burly sailors approached the railing and deposited a stack of crates three paces from where they stood. The workers’ scent carried on the breeze, subtle as of the moment, but unmistakably pungent and indicative of men who lived without a home, bound to wherever the sea took them, far removed from polite society.

Ferris noticed too. Crispin followed his gaze, as if the count only realized now to what he’d committed himself. All around them the industrious crew worked to prepare for the voyage. Sailors shimmied up the mainmast to tighten ropes and secure knots, others belayed nets to pins or hurried across the assorted decks to set all to rights before they underwent the sea. Crispin took it in with a satisfactory glance, the sun’s first light limning the bow to reveal the fine vessel in an outline of muted white. Sails were run up their masts to beckon everyone aboard despite the hour remained early, departure set for just after dawn.

‘No women. That’s a horrible truth.’ Ferris scanned the waist and upper decks, then lifted his gaze to the sky overhead as if wishing for an angel to fall from the darkness. ‘And the sky is the colour of sadness. Your miserable company will have to suffice.’

They shared a chuckle before they fell silent. Crispin kept his eyes on the ocean, turbulent in kind to his emotions of late, a reminder the three-week journey would be his last chance to sort through the problems in his life. It wasn’t the debt he’d left behind that troubled him. The gaming opportunities of Italy had assisted in his handsome recovery and skill, honing his ability to that of an elite sharper. With no more than a glance, he could repay the money owed to the Underworld three times over.

He pushed aside his turmoil and sought refuge in the conversation. ‘One minute I’m a friend you cannot live without and now I’m miserable company?’

A nearby crewman cranked rope into coils and readied the rigging. Light glinted off the bobbing waves in welcome. Something about the sunrise guaranteed forgiveness. The promise of a new beginning, perhaps. Whatever the reason, Crispin took strength from its glory as much as possible, although, this morning, strains of light struggled to penetrate the cloud cover. Dawn wasn’t nearly as spectacular in London. A message waited in that observation.

‘I’ve seen only one dowager on the gangway thus far, hunched over and bitter-faced. Indeed, I’ll have an empty bed but I’ll make up for my abstinence once we reach London. You know the finest ladies, I presume.’ Ferris practised optimism as much as possible.

‘I do.’ At one time, Crispin had been a welcomed guest in any societal drawing room. ‘Which is why I won’t introduce you. The English cherish their morals more seriously than your people. Spinsters, elders or the occasional married couple on their wedding trip are all we’re likely to encounter on the ship. No woman of good standing would travel unescorted. But…’ He paused as if delivering a notable bit of news. ‘You’ve a private passenger room. With your snoring, no man dead or alive could find sleep.’ Unfortunately, the haste with which they had booked passage had excluded the better quarters and, with limited cabins for purchase, both men would need to make do with less luxury than accustomed.

‘You wound me.’

‘I doubt it. Your conceit is impenetrable and has survived my sharpest jibes.’ Crispin offered his friend half a grin. ‘In regard to the lack of females, might you make your own pleasure for a change?’

‘What other choice do I have?’

The two men shared a private grin. Indeed, Ferris spoke correctly. Crispin had experienced his fill of distraction. The females of Venice had shown him sensual generosity, but it was nothing more than that. He wanted no part of love or affection, determined to return to London with his heart repaired and the wisdom to disallow any woman to find a way in ever again.

Amanda waited at the end of a near-vacant walkway, stalled before a forked entrance which led in opposite directions to the ships in preparation to depart. She hadn’t found her family and, recalling Father’s insistence they hurry, didn’t wish to commit an error with no time to waste. Still, there was no one to ask in the dusky start of morning. Everyone had seemingly boarded and both massive vessels appeared in a flurry of activity. In the distance, people waited to see the ships pull from the shoreline, but if she managed to hurry all the way back to where the strangers stood, she would have no hope of boarding the correct vessel. She frowned, all at once nervous. This wasn’t a time for indecisiveness or misstep.

The ship to her left already had its sails unfurled. Hadn’t Father mentioned they’d barely made it dockside in time? A raindrop struck her cheek and urged her feet forward. She’d never be returned to England if she didn’t get the journey underway. Without doubt, she’d find her father and sister onboard as soon as she gained a sightline to their level. From her position below, she could see little aside from the overwhelming height of the galleon.

Buoyed by these conclusions, Amanda climbed the gangway to the ship on the left, careful to skim the shadows created by the elongated bow. She advanced up the ramp until she stepped on deck, her eyes roving the passengers for any sign of Raelyn and Enid, her father or one of the hired footmen, though she’d barely registered their appearance. Everyone began to look similar and with the fast-paced action on deck her difficulties were multiplied. Father would never leave her behind, but a pulse of fear, stark and sharp, raced up her spine to remind, by her own distraction, she knew little of their plans and should have stayed closer to her family as they moved through the crowd.

All around her swarmed a hive of activity. Several crewmen collected rope to coil tight aside the railings. Barks of command and affirmation volleyed back and forth between the men as cohesively timed and succinct as the gears composing a clock’s inner works. A great noise from behind caught her attention and she spun, the very same gangway she’d accomplished not two exhales prior now disconnected from the dock, unhooked and shoved aside by the hulking strength of a dozen brawny men. She’d boarded without a moment to spare. Her father would be pleased with her sensible ingenuity. What a jolly story it would make this evening in the passenger dining room. She just needed to locate him and their rooms as soon as possible. It would set everyone’s mind at ease, no doubt.

Overhead, a flap of unfurling flaxed linen pulled her eyes skyward as several square sails billowed full of air, the call of a crewman in the mizzen-top castle so high above he appeared as minuscule as a bird against the clouds. His bark of command kicked her heart into a vibrant rhythm. She enjoyed the workings of ship travel and had read several books on the subject, but enough of her gape-mouthed interest. As the galleon pulled away from shore, her pulse began a heroic gallop. She must locate Father and their quarters onboard. A woman alone on a ship presented a terrifying reality. Indeed, what was she doing? Had her brain stopped working? She couldn’t remain frozen in place. Once she spoke to the captain or purser, he would direct her where passengers belonged and assist in finding her family.

Assured there was no reason to panic, she advanced towards the stairs leading below deck as a broad-shouldered crewman brushed by too close for comfort. His leering glance trailed behind him.

Swallowing the fast lump of emotion in her throat, she leaned against the side of a tall stack of bailers in an effort to make herself invisible in wait for reason to return, yet it seemed of no use. As the sun struggled to shine in the drab slate sky, her yellow day gown appeared bright as a candle’s flame in comparison to the weather-beaten wood surrounding her.

Not two breaths later, a lanky crewman who adjusted the rigging of the backstays to the mastheads eyed her with an incisive stare, his head tilted in question. With a stroke of serendipity, a hard jolt brought the man’s attention to his task and the galleon pulled out to sea with a rush of spray and bellow of throaty ayes from the working men. Several passengers crowded the railings to watch the great ship take to open water with lively celebration overriding the ship’s activity. Amanda could only watch and listen, paralysed with indecision as she gathered snippets of conversation from the crowd.

Homeward bound.

Italy was lovely.

Not long for England now.

The words reached Amanda’s ears with the subtlety of a slap to the cheek. England? Yes, she yearned to return to England, but today she was bound for France. With Father and Raelyn. It composed the last stop of their journey. Surely, she’d misheard.

With a desperate tether to sensibility and an unwelcomed beat of panic, she approached the rail and eyed a freckled deckhand who gathered a heavy mooring line into a sturdy crate.

‘Pardon my enquiry, but to where is this ship bound?’ A nervous quiver made her words sound queer. A familiar ache of vulnerability settled in her stomach.

‘England.’ The mate narrowed his gaze as if to decipher how she could be aboard a ship without knowledge of its destination, but drawn back to the task at hand, dismissed her just as readily.

It had to be a mistake on his part. Had the crewman heard her enquiry correctly? Was he educated enough to understand? To her horror, an alternative conclusion formed on the heels of her mental confusion.

Good heavens, had she boarded the wrong ship?

No.

Breath seized in her lungs with the growing suspicion the worst was true. What could she do? She should seek out the captain. But would he disrupt the travels of every passenger aboard to deposit her back on Italian soil? She swung her head and viewed the diminishing coastline. How had they ventured so far in such a short time? She’d no money. No clothing. Or protection. A stampede of terror-stricken complications bombarded her brain. How would a woman, alone, survive on a three-week journey if she had none of the barest necessities?

Placing her hand over her heart, she forced herself to breathe and deny the prick of tears which stung her eyes. She was an intelligent woman of twenty-two years. This problem could be solved. She’d need a bit of ingenuity and creative thinking, but she wouldn’t perish. One step at a time. It was generally how she approached all matters in life whenever discombobulation threatened. She’d survived that afternoon when her pelisse snagged the carriage door latch and she was caught in an ungainly trot down Bond Street. She’d persevered the embarrassing incident last season at Gunter’s Ice Shop. Even society’s gossipmongers no longer regaled stories of that upset. And without too much damage to her reputation, she’d survived a laughable quadrille quandary at Almack’s.

The threat of a megrim, or worse, a bout of detestable weeping, forced her to withdraw from the railing and move towards the stairs. It would be wise to keep out of sight until she resolved a plan. A bit of clear thinking would remedy the situation. Thus, she needed to locate a room to sort out her options and decide the best way to approach the captain. Once he knew of her predicament and her father’s influence, he would undoubtedly overlook the fact she’d mistakenly become a stowaway, penniless, without wardrobe or companion. The captain would take pity, wouldn’t he? Otherwise, standing in a bright yellow gown on deck, she would draw notice and that was the very last thing she desired. Currently, the captain oversaw the negotiation of the ship as they embarked on their journey. Now was not the time to attempt an alarming discussion. She needed to think.

With adequate knowledge of ships, she found her way to the private quarters located in the bow. When she’d travelled with Father, Raelyn and Enid, they’d taken three rooms on the portside, and she hoped to find a similar situation. How she would determine whether or not the room was occupied remained unknown.

A frantic rhythm lived in her pulse as she tried the first two handles only to discover the doors locked. She continued down the polished wooden planks, as quietly as possible, but not overly concerned, as above deck remained a cacophony of noise. Loud thuds, hollow scraping and an occasional exchange floated through any available opening and confirmed her boot-heels wouldn’t be detected. With the next attempt, her palm slick with sweat, the cool brass lever twisted to the right. She opened the heavy door and ventured inside before she could contemplate the consequences.

The room stood empty and dark. She hurried to the small chestnut table nailed to the floor and lit the glass lantern to illuminate the space. Disappointment caused her nose to wrinkle. Three large trunks crowded the corner and a broad impression on the mattress, composed of rumpled sheets and an overturned blanket, announced the room as occupied. Aside from the bed, a wide table, stool and working desk with a wooden bowl of implements composed the sparse furnishing. A slender hat rack waited beside the door. There was a standing panel which jutted from the wall and a long oval mirror used for dressing. A narrow closet in the farthest corner stood ajar. She walked to it and measured her height against the doorframe and noted the compartment was empty.

Her heart lurched as two male voices penetrated the door and, in a squirrelly moment she would reflect on later as pure cowardice and poor decision, she wriggled into the closet space and pulled the panel closed, mortified when she discovered the wood swollen from humidity and unable to seal properly.

‘Just as I told you, little more than a bed, table and desk. Your quarters are the same as mine, Ferris.’

A clipped, cultured, decidedly English voice echoed within the silent room and she sighed in relief. At least she’d be able to converse with the passenger in a reasonable manner. Englishmen were civil, judicious gentlemen. Still, she attempted to pull the door closed further to prevent an unwanted confrontation.

‘Wait, did you hear something?’ the same voice asked his companion.

She waited, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

‘Nothing besides the mice and rats. Ships are notorious for their rodent population,’ a thicker, foreign voice replied.

She recognized the Italian accent immediately, but as the words registered, a high-pitched squeak escaped and she bit her bottom lip for the mistake.

‘Perhaps that was it.’

The men didn’t seem overly concerned and a sound akin to a trunk being dragged across the floor occupied the silence.

‘This is a step down. My grandfather’s yacht would have been more… what’s the word? Decadent. Next time, we’ll sail to Greece. Life is different there. I’ll show you.’

‘England is different as well, although I’m curious what you’ll make of London.’ The scrape of a chair came next. ‘We’ll continue this discussion later. I’m damnably exhausted. I’ll see you at dinner, Ferris. Try not to cause chaos in the meantime. No one needs the devil aboard.’

‘Me? I’m a saint. How is it you say?’

A pause followed and Amanda found herself angled forward with anticipation.

‘It takes a thief to catch a thief? Birds of a feather—’

‘That is the pot and kettle talking, eh?’

Baritone laughter filled the interior and then, with the click and subsequent clack of the door, the room fell silent.

Might both men have departed?

The answer came too quickly. She heard two thuds, a reminder of her father’s boots falling to the boards when he sat before the fireplace in his study. Good heavens, was the gentleman in the process of undressing? The closet door remained open the width of three fingers and, while she had no clear sight anywhere except to the opposite wall, her heart kicked into a panicked rhythm in concern she might see something she shouldn’t. Or miss something interesting instead.

What was she to do? She hadn’t eaten breakfast and if she didn’t melt from the cloying heat of being cramped in a narrow closet, the boisterous growls vibrating from her stomach would eventually reveal her hiding place.

The room fell eerily quiet. Not a rustle of a sheet or creak of a chair. The air thickened, each inhale an effort, and all because she waited, unsure what was to occur. Did the gentleman sleep? He’d stated he was exhausted. Could it be that easy? Were he to fall into a fitful slumber, she might silently slink past him and out, in search of another, more suitable room.

Ideas came to mind, entertained and rejected with lightning efficiency, all in the space of a few heartbeats. Sweat trickled down her spine as she sought to summon patience, one deep inhale after another until she realized she sounded louder than she intended. She stifled mid-breath and it was then she heard it. A matched sigh as frustrated and concerned as her own. With punishing trepidation, she pressed her teeth into the soft flesh of her bottom lip just as the closet door whipped open.

A man stood on the other side, his shirt sleeves rolled and cravat undone, yet his eyes, bright blue and acutely intelligent, held her in a captive gaze that shook her soul. A cataclysm of emotion swept through her, causing her hands to tremble, her heartbeat thrust into an off-kilter spiral, not from fear but something altogether unknown, and as they stood, stare upon stare, words evaporated on her tongue until all she could manage to produce was a startled gasp.

Chapter Three

‘My ears did not deceive me. Indeed, I heard a mouse.’ Crispin eyed the young miss wedged inside the room’s closet with wry amusement. Whoever she was, she was on her way out. Stowaway, lunatic or pleasure seeker – this last idea gave him pause – he wouldn’t be caught in a situation that brought him further anguish or, worse, a wife. Never mind the illegalities and complications this situation promised.

‘I’m not a mouse.’

She squeaked out the words, her face pinched into a bemusing scowl that further confirmed the irony of his statement. With direct insistence, she held his stare. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t blinked since he’d thrown open the door and exposed her hiding place.

‘Would you like to come out of your hole, little mouse?’ He stepped aside, his stockinged feet silent on the floorboards, amused at her quick objection to his tease.

Her eyes widened, a flash of brown or was it green? He couldn’t tell within the dim confines of the cupboard. With a fair amount of grace, she wriggled her way out of the closet and made a show of shaking out her skirts. She was slim with a high, pert bosom that caught his attention until he noticed her round bottom. Her gown, absent of the layers most women suffered, outlined her figure and explained further how she fit into the narrow space.

Indeed, he amended, the lady was no mouse at all. Flushed cheeks and long mahogany lashes accentuated a pretty face, where striking cheekbones and pink lips finished the portrait of beauty. Who was she and why had she chosen to hide in a closet? What she was doing in his quarters was another matter altogether.

‘Thank you.’

Her voice sounded tight, nervous, or had he imagined he’d had that effect? Too many nights spent with too many actresses, opera singers and widows cluttered his memory to render him clumsy with the manners required of a highborn lady. Somehow, despite her less than refined dress and awkward appearance in his quarters, he knew before him stood a proper miss.

‘You’re welcome.’ He defaulted to manners. ‘Should I ask why you’re hiding in my closet or would you prefer I march you to the top deck and speak to the captain directly? I believe we’re not so far from the coast that we couldn’t turn around.’ The captain of The Haven would hardly inconvenience the passengers and crew for the appearance of a stowaway, but she didn’t have to know that, and indeed, his tactic worked. The colour drained from her face and he mourned the loss of the fetching blush she’d worn so prettily.

‘No. I mean… yes.’ Amidst her flummox she gave her head a little shake as if she wished to jar the answer loose. ‘I can explain.’

She didn’t begin readily, but he waited, a captive audience to the fiction she would concoct at his expense. The pause offered time for him to further assess her appearance. Long wavy hair, the colour of fine brandy, evoked the same spirited effect and was pinned back to reveal the gentle curve of her neck, the skin creamy and pale. He’d spent so much time in the arms of Italian lovers of late, the stark contrast of fair skin and delicate beauty proved arresting. Against conscious thought, his fingers twitched as if urging him to touch and discover if his assumptions rang true, to place a kiss there, or better, feel her satiny smoothness against his tongue. He silently cursed himself for the ridiculous idea. He’d indulged in debauchery overlong if he could no longer speak to a lady without wondering of the texture of her skin. Alas, he was that much a bastard. The worst kind.

‘I wandered into your quarters mistakenly. When I heard you enter, I panicked and chose the closet when the better choice would have been to tell you at once and exit. I’ll leave you now as to not cause further trouble.’ She looked at him directly, her eyes as guileless as they were crystalline. And yes, they were green. A fine mossy colour which reminded of England and all he’d left behind.

She made to move around him, but he stepped in to block her path.

‘Where will you go? Do you have passage on this ship?’ He had no reason to care other than a distant and buried sense of protective chivalry ingrained in him from birth and long ago tarnished. He couldn’t help but reflect on his sister Sophie’s tomfoolery. She was always working her way into one problem or another, much to his amusement. He wondered idly if she had accomplished her goal of entering the Underworld, a gaming hell that served as his greatest foe and biggest embarrassment, but he wouldn’t take his thoughts there this moment. He shot his eyes to the lady before him, willing to offer a bit of help if needed.

‘I may have acted a bit impetuously.’ She dared a tight smile at this admittance and he noticed she was really quite lovely when she wasn’t startled. ‘I may have boarded the wrong ship altogether, actually.’

‘Well, you can’t stay here.’ He walked to the front of the room, anxious to create distance and reason a solution, where he paced a line and worked through the predicament. As was habit, he spoke aloud, listing his thoughts and contemplating his options. ‘Nor can I put you out. A ship is a dangerous place for women, and while I can offer my protection, I wouldn’t be with you at all times. The risk is too great otherwise. I know for a fact the ship’s quarters are all reserved. Ferris complained about his accommodations and the captain explained there are none to spare. Furthermore, I doubt the captain would look too kindly on a stowaway, no matter how fetching.’ He finished ruminating and lifted his eyes to catch her expression, confused and slightly bewildered at best. Had he spoken out of turn? What had he said as he cogitated?

‘I don’t know what I can do otherwise.’ She stepped closer, her forehead wrinkled with worry. ‘I must return to England. My happiness depends upon it. I won’t burden you with the story, but I would never have acted in a rash manner if this journey wasn’t of calamitous importance.’

Interesting, indeed. His mind spun with sympathetic suggestions. Perhaps her mother or father suffered on their deathbed, or worse, a child struggled to survive. Could she possibly have borne a child? She appeared too young, but then what did he know about maidens? The one woman to whom he’d offered his heart had rejected him. Several levels of embarrassment and humble wound-licking ensued until he’d hied out of London with a vow never to fall prey to the vicious affliction others labelled love. Still, he couldn’t ignore the utter turmoil detailed plainly on the lady’s face.

‘What’s your name, mouse?’ He heaved a breath of disgust. Somehow, he knew he was journeying down a road aimed for mental derangement and he had no room in his life for irrationality, his predicament already crowded with too many knots to untangle.

‘Lady Beasley.’ Her voice was barely a whisper. ‘You may call me Amanda, if you’d like.’

It was more information than he’d expected and he would have preferred she hadn’t offered her Christian name. Their alliance would be brief and inconsequential. At the most three weeks in length, though he doubted even that time span would pass before discovery and subsequent consequence took Amanda down a different path.

‘Well then, Amanda. I’m Crispin Daventry, Lord Hastings. Crispin, if you prefer.’ Her expression eased and he eyed the door, wondering if he should fasten the latch. If Ferris interrupted, all hell would break loose. Hadn’t his friend protested of no winsome companionship only an hour earlier? This young woman would catch a blind man’s eye.

‘Thank you.’ A cheerful note filled her words.

He waited, his mind still mulling the matter of her urgent return to England. ‘What will you do?’

‘I’ll find a way to stay out of sight. I’ll be fine, Crispin.’ She sounded much more like a mouse now, her voice high and thready, most likely due to the impossibility of her suggestion.

And was that a glimmer of tears?

His eyes rose to hers at the sound of his name in her voice. Peculiar that, for some reason, he wished to hear her say it again.

Discarding the inanity, he pushed on to more important matters. ‘You won’t be fine. A woman alone on a ship full of randy sailors and lonely crew is far from safe. Until you determine otherwise, you may stay here.’ The suggestion, outrageous in its nature, surprised him as it tumbled from his mouth. What was he doing? How would he endure three hours, never mind three weeks, at sea with a young woman in his quarters?

He couldn’t. And the surreptitious show of chivalry left him baffled, though the next conclusion was a punch in the face. Bloody hell, he would have to bunk with Ferris. The man’s snoring rivalled a roomful of tormented animals, the heavy breathing, droning snorts and unexpected gasps identical to the sounds he remembered from his childhood visit to the National Zoology Museum during mating season.

‘I’ll find other accommodations.’ Resigned to his magnanimous gesture, he sunk into the only chair in the room, refusing to surrender his seat despite she remained standing. Let her sit on his bed. He’d already sacrificed enough. ‘You can’t leave these quarters. Not only are you aboard without a purchased fare, but I didn’t exaggerate the concern for your safety.’

‘I understand.’ She nodded, a question already tumbling from her lips. ‘How will I eat?’

He threw his head back and laughed, the situation ripe with irony. Perhaps this was his punishment for shirking due responsibility overlong. Again, images of Sophie’s harebrained plots and escapades rose to mind. ‘I’ll bring you food.’

‘And a bath occasionally?’

‘Amanda.’ Her eyes shot to his in much the same way he’d received her bid for attention, but now a flicker of annoyance challenged his patience. ‘Why should I be inconvenienced, whether by sleeping on the floor or finding somewhere else to lay my head? Keep in mind that I’ll become an accomplice to your deceit and the captain could very well malign my name and report my actions if I’m discovered, having us both hauled to a magistrate as soon as we’re docked. Why would anyone take that risk for a stranger?’

‘Because you’re a good man,’ she replied with sincere importance.

‘Incredible notion, capital mistake. You’ve wandered into the wrong quarters if you’re expecting goodness. I’m the worst rogue: selfish, arrogant and obscenely indulgent.’ He stood, straightened his shoulders and approached her with what he hoped was a menacing expression.

‘No. You’re a good man. You may wish for the world to see otherwise, but beneath that portrayal lies a soul composed of kindness.’

He was unnerved by her description. ‘For all your flummery, I can only consent to this foolhardy plan because I easily envision my sister in a likewise situation.’

‘Thank you.’ She rushed forward, hands extended, and he wasn’t quite sure what she meant to do.

‘You’re welcome.’ He caught her wrists, circling each one with his finger and thumb as if to touch her skin would be the death of him, and, by stalling her pursuit, released her just as quickly. ‘You have Sophie’s buffoonery to credit for this acquiesce.’ Then, fearing he might do something that proved the trait ran in the family, he turned and left the quarters in search of a clarifying jaunt on deck.

Amanda stared at the closed door in awe of her good fortune. She’d managed to skirt below deck undetected, and gain safety in an open room, as well as find a responsible gentleman aboard who would vacate his quarters in a generous act of chivalry. Thank heavens for Lord Hastings and his automatic assumption she was a stowaway. She had boarded the wrong ship despite her purchased passage on the other galleon. Truly, she saw no reason to correct him. It would be downright rude, wouldn’t it? He was a lord. Pity she hadn’t thought to ask more about his family. Father and Raelyn would indeed approve of her association and wish to thank him properly when they were all reunited in London.

Enid, her maid since the nursery, would assuredly recommend him for his fair hair, as rich and golden as a chest full of treasure despite the unconventional length. His lovely blue eyes glittered like sunlight on the water. Crispin was strikingly handsome, if one preferred the sort, all uncompromised masculinity and strong stature. Although there was a moment when she glimpsed a different man beneath the exterior, almost in kind to vulnerability. She shook her head with the wayward thought. None of that mattered, really. She would bide her time, keep to the room, and return to England.

England. She had anticipated her return through a different lens, but she’d be forced to make the best of circumstances now. If only she could somehow contact her father and sister. She worried over their wellbeing. Would they continue to France without her? Search for her in Italy? The predicament was wretched and all due to her befuddled mistake. Perhaps confessing this to the captain proved the wisest choice. Still, there was no way to remedy the problem or forward word to her father. Her one small decision had immense consequences.

She sat down at the table to contemplate how she would spend her time and her stomach growled. She placed a hand against her abdomen. Hopefully Crispin would return soon. She needed to think of some way to repay his generosity. A plentitude of unanswered questions bothered her brain. She stalled, restlessness causing ill ease.

How nice it would be to have a book or deck of cards to pass the time. She wondered if Crispin packed any such distractions in his trunks? She could never go through them. But when he returned with food, she must remember to ask. Stopping in front of the mirror, she pulled the pins from her hair and dropped them into the bowl on the desk. As she threaded her fingers through the lengths she fanned out the tangles before setting to work on weaving a large braid as tightly put together as her plans for the future.

Unexpectedly, the ship pitched to the left and she swayed with the motion. During her trip to Italy, the ocean allowed smooth travel and the ship made excellent time into port. She hoped this voyage proved as peaceful. Taking a turn around the interior to occupy her time, she counted how many footsteps composed the circumference of the room. Then she counted each pace across the diagonal until, with a huff of boredom, she plopped down on the bed to try the mattress. It was thin and somewhat lumpy, though she had no right to complain.

Rising from the bed, she walked to the tiny window above the table. If the table weren’t nailed to the floorboards, she would have had a clearer view of the outside world, but as it was, she couldn’t stretch nearly as far as necessary to see anything worthwhile, her line of sight composed of the wooden wall adjacent to the door.

Again, her eyes fell to the trunks against the wall. Could a book be inside? Crispin appeared a knowledgeable and educated fellow. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to breach his trust. If for some reason he changed his mind and rescinded his offer of this room, she would never reach England unscathed. Worse, if the captain made her stowaway adventure public, she would be ruined, her family shamed and maligned by her negligent actions. That embarrassment would become Raelyn’s doomed fate as well and together their future would present a burden to Father, never able to marry his daughters into suitable, respectable futures. The series of graceless episodes that composed her foray into society were mild and amusing by account, but a scandal of magnitude would be tragic and unforgivable.

A shudder ran through her and she settled further on the mattress, weary from the excitement of the morning. Perhaps she should lie down and attempt a nap before eating. Hunger proved an annoying distraction and she was terribly tired. Hadn’t Crispin expressed the same? But now he would have to sleep on the floor, or worse, find some corner of the ship to occupy. This knowledge paled her good fortune by degree.

Sometimes life offered less than desirable circumstances.

Chapter Four

‘What are you doing here?’ Ferris answered the door, his shirt untucked and open. ‘I was sleeping.’

‘So I heard.’ Crispin stepped over the threshold and into the room, identical to his own and about to become more cramped. ‘I may sleep here tonight. If you don’t mind.’ He tried for a casual tone, but knew better than to expect his friend would not question this turn of events, most especially after Crispin had made a point of insistence about their equivalent accommodations.

‘What’s wrong with your room?’ Ferris pulled out the only chair and pushed it forward before he dropped to the bed and reclined, his hands folded behind his head, eyes closed.

‘I found a mouse.’

‘Not a rat?’

‘Not a rat.’ Crispin allowed a half-smile to twist his lips. Amanda Beasley. Amanda was an occurrence he hadn’t planned upon. He could only blame himself for what transpired afterwards. Some long-lost resurrected sense of duty had made him suggest she have his quarters, his sister, Sophie, the cause. Despite his better judgement, he knew discovering the lady and agreeing to harbour her couldn’t end well. Worse, he’d volunteered to withstand the punishing sound of Ferrisimo’s snoring.

‘Is this how you plan to spend the afternoon? Lazing about?’ Restlessness spurred the questions. He already had much on his mind with his decision to return to England, and the sudden displacement from his room did more to evoke a beat of tension.

‘Lazy is such a strong word. I prefer selective participation.’ Ferris peeled an eye open and stared at him in profile. ‘You’ll not regret this decision.’

Ferris was glad for the company. One could hear it in his voice.

‘I already do.’ Crispin might have elaborated but the buzzing drone of his friend halfway to slumber eradicated any further conversation. Left to his own devices, he scanned the interior and forced himself to accept the consequences of his rash inconvenience on Amanda’s behalf.

As all the paid private rooms were identical, there was a single bed. The crew slept in hammocks and there were hooks from the ceiling here if one needed to accommodate more travellers, although three weeks’ travel suspended by rope didn’t appeal unless one intended to fashion a noose.

The witty premise prompted him to smirk.

He stood, spared another survey of the empty walls, and then left, intent on finding the saloon. He would fill his stomach first and return to his original quarters with something for Amanda to eat. She was slight of figure, slim through the waist and hips, and while he had no reason to notice, he remembered. Supplying food would become a chore. She’d mentioned a bath as well. How quickly things were becoming complicated. It had seemed a logical solution to offer Amanda the safety of his room. But now, caught between decks, hungry, tired and saddled with Ferrisimo’s constant company, he wondered if he’d created a bigger mess than the one he sought to resolve in London.

These regrets carried him across the waist deck and towards the firebox and working galley, his mood dampened by the undertaking and misty drizzle produced by the waves. The crew no longer scurried across the boards. A few passengers roamed the main deck, but for the most part the ship had settled into the knowledge all would be a-sea for a lengthy duration. Just as Ferris napped below deck, most travellers unpacked their trunks, rested or simply organized what would be their home for almost a month.

He found the stairs to the saloon adjacent to the whip staff where a wiry young man manned the rigging and eyed him with speculative curiosity. He met the lad’s stare before he dropped below, taking a moment to unroll his sleeves and straighten his clothing, though nothing would help the wrinkled mess that was his shirt. Of course, ship travel hardly required formal attire. Crew members worked on most decks in nothing more than a flowing tunic and pair of short pantaloons. With this to assuage his pride and dishevelled appearance, he ducked into the dining room and discovered it near empty. A late meal would not be provided for several hours.

Amanda’s appearance complicated most every part of this trip. What would force a young woman to undertake the dangerous travel without escort? He’d forgotten to question her, lost somewhere between her fetching blush and brilliant green eyes. And her hair… he wondered if it was as thick and silky as it appeared.

The ship pitched forward and he braced a palm against the wallboards. The sky appeared mostly clear when he was above deck, but storms at sea could blow in quickly. Hopefully, strong winds and smooth sailing would grace their journey. He battled enough inner turbulence without adding the treachery of dangerous weather.

Collecting a few biscuits from a basket near the kitchen, he wrapped them in a linen napkin, climbed the stairs to the main deck, and discovered the weather had undergone a change. Thick, gloomy clouds, grey and plentiful, hovered over the water to obliterate the sun. The sea, angry to be interrupted, splashed and sulked, its depth black-blue and fathomless. Whatever loomed on the horizon threatened to be disruptive to their travel. With any hope, the winds would carry the storm away faster than the ship sought passage through it.

Taking a turn towards the private quarters, he stalled in front of the door to confront yet another issue he’d invited. What if Amanda was asleep inside? He could leave the biscuits on the table and return to Ferrisimo’s room. But what if she were in a state of undress? That suggestion caused his brows to climb high and he rapped on the door as if to clear the image before it gained clarity.

Nothing happened.

Of course. How would Amanda know it was he who wished to enter and not a stranger meant to cause harm or discover she’d stowed away? He blew out a breath and turned the lever, cracking the door slowly, so as to not cause a startle. He noted she should have secured the latch. Anyone could walk in. They would need to discuss safety and agree upon some sort of signal that differentiated him from others. Additionally, a stern reprimand was in order to ensure she remembered to fasten the lock.

An unescorted female was perfect plucking for a randy sailor. A surge of protectiveness swept through him and he credited it to his close relationship with Sophie. He mourned how he’d left his sister without a word of his welfare. She must be beside herself with worry, yet he hadn’t so much as sent her a letter. It was poorly done of him, most especially how he’d complicated matters with Sophie’s dearest friend, Vivienne, and made a mess of things at the Underworld. These latter thoughts stirred up too many uncomfortable feelings and he stepped inside the room prepared to confront whatever lay inside.

‘Amanda?’ He hoped to allay her fears as quickly as possible. With any hope, she hadn’t sought refuge in the closet again. To that end they would have to negotiate their arrangement. Otherwise he’d go mad before the ship reached England.

But all his forethought and apprehension proved for naught. She slept on his bed, the bed now her bed, positioned on her side, palms folding under her cheek the way a child might fall asleep while listening to a favourite bedtime story. The sight evoked a thread of tenderness he didn’t believe existed in him any longer. Not wishing to disturb the scene, he placed the biscuit-filled napkin on the tabletop and eased out of the room. Caution told him not to stare at her longer than necessary. He didn’t wish to notice things he was better off forgetting.

Amanda woke with a start. Had someone spoken? The ship answered with a creak and a groan in what could only be described as complaint. Her eyes adjusted to the dank interior, drawn to something white atop the table. She rose with a slight stagger. The rolling motion of the ship after lying abed caused her steps to be unsteady, but when she reached her goal she discovered a crumpled white napkin with two biscuits. At first taste, they were dry and crumbly. She had nothing to drink but welcomed the food regardless. Life aboard a ship was compromise and she’d made the choice to stow away instead of confronting the captain. She couldn’t expect to visit the passenger dining room, now could she? What if someone drew her into conversation and discovered the truth of the situation?

She’d fallen asleep recounting her good fortune. The tiny window which allowed light from the open hall showed only blackness now. With Crispin’s assistance, she could navigate this journey and be returned to London in time to keep her social agenda. Thus attending the soiree at the height of the season. She smiled softly. The event was her one chance to alter everyone’s perception and change their opinion of her.

Nibbling the edge of the second biscuit, she shot her eyes to the trunks piled in the corner. What composed a man like Lord Hastings? He seemed a gentleman in every respect, no matter he boasted his poor reputation. Nothing untoward had happened to cause her to believe otherwise. Did he share a romantic relationship? Someone to love and with whom to plan a future?

Howsoever would she pass time within the confines of the quarters without company? Would Crispin spare her time for conversation? Perhaps she could convince him to visit for no other reason than to help the hours pass. She sat at the scarred table and traced the curved lines ingrained in the wood. Three weeks. Twenty-one days. She would go mad.

She stood from the table with resolute determination, only to grapple for the corner as the ship lurched right. Whatever weather preceded their path, it promised to be violent. A tremor of thunder and subsequent flash of lightning confirmed her suspicion as her pulse leapt into a fast rhythm. Storms at sea were things of gothic novels and old tales shared before the hearth, not something to be experienced firsthand. The placid waters during her trip to Italy seemed a distant memory now. Father had shared his wealth of knowledge pertaining to ships and answered her myriad questions, the experience interesting and pleasurable, but this trip seemed in adverse at the moment.

The vessel swayed, rocking her with vertiginous force as an unexpected wave of nausea gripped her stomach. She’d hardly eaten. It couldn’t be the food. Perhaps the combination of her nerves, the unpredictability of her circumstances and the ocean’s upset conspired to wreak havoc with her disposition. Best she located the chamber pot in case the need arose.

Torn with indecision, it was several hours later when Crispin returned to check on Amanda. Lunch had come and gone, followed by supper and, with a lack of finesse he would never claim as his own, he’d left a basket of food on the hook beside the door and knocked before leaving the passenger quarters swiftly. Soon after, the weather had shifted. Intelligent passengers locked themselves away to avoid the onslaught of rain and lashing relentlessness of waves across the deck. Daredevils, scoundrels and those who tempted fate held fast to the railing and watched the angry sea wage war. Crispin was of the latter, but with a recent case of conscience he worried over Amanda locked tight in his former chambers.

All around him crewmen worked to secure the ship and prepare for a night filled with tumultuous weather. That same wiry sailor who’d eyed him earlier scurried by, surefooted on the slippery deck, despite he carried a coil of rope twice his size. In truth, Crispin needed to return to Ferris and take to his own sleeping quarters, but first he’d check on the fetching stowaway. Besides, he needed to collect the basket and discuss the terms of their agreement. He couldn’t imagine delivering food to her door for over a fortnight. Not only would other passengers become wary, but he wasn’t up to the task. Most of his life had been spent in the usual way afforded gentleman with a title. He visited his club, whiled away time riding, shooting and playing billiards, as well as socializing with the best set in London. His home was fully staffed with impeccable servants who provided for his every need.

When he’d settled in Venice, he’d accommodated himself in much the same manner. Ferris was anxious to welcome him into a lifestyle of merriment that obscured the ghosts Crispin evaded, chasing them away and replacing unrest with beautiful women, liquor and senseless abandon.

In regard to Amanda, earlier in the day he’d delivered one basket of food, packed solidly with ample portions of oatmeal, molasses, bread, butter and rice, as well as a bottle of wine and flask of water. He’d remembered the necessary glassware and implements, and wished to avoid frequent visits to the saloon. The awkward image of him carrying a laden bundle through the decks would draw unwanted attention. The direct, unabashed circumspection with which the young crew member had eyed him earlier lingered as a disturbing curiosity. Whether the lad thought of him as an easy mark or watched for some other reason, the observation didn’t sit well.

Of further concern was the increasingly poor weather. What had begun as a light rain had quickly transformed into a nightmarish fury. Shards of violent lightning crackled through the skies in the north and the ocean waters reverberated with turbulence, making for a difficult walk across the boards and even more disagreeable evening if one didn’t have a temperament for sea travel. Luckily, his stomach was reliable. Still, he belonged below deck. Not a passenger could be seen along the narrow corridor and an occasional complaint from the ship’s timber coalesced with foul oaths of fright heard through latched chamber doors.

At last, managing not to stagger though the ship tilted and pitched unexpectedly, he neared the room meant to be his quarters, surprised to see the basket hung in the same position as earlier. Hadn’t Amanda mentioned her hunger? Had she heard his knock? Perhaps she’d confused his signal with the crewmen who fastened the hatches and secured every rope and strap above deck.

Troubled and disappointed in his failure to manage the situation more adeptly, he lifted the basket from the hook and, after a bracing knock, turned the lever and stepped into the dim interior. He noted with a degree of annoyance, the door should be locked. He’d wished to speak to her about the careless gesture, but she’d slept through his earlier visit.

Outside in the passage, the wind yowled, bouncing from wall to wall as the ocean lashed. Here within the chamber, not a sound could be heard. He set the basket to the floorboards and moved to the oil lamp where he turned the key and illuminated the small space in the light of a shallow flame. It was then he heard a pitiful moan.

What the devil?

Amanda sat on the floor in the far corner as if she hid from the world, steeped in darkness, her eyes downcast, arms folded across her knees. She’d removed her boots and her stockinged toes, as white and opalescent as her complexion, peeped out from the billowed hems of her day gown. Her hair had been plaited, pulled back to reveal her pasty complexion, paler than moonlight. Beside her, with a shivery tremble, rested the chamber pot.

He groaned, out of depth and drowning fast.

Bloody hell, was she seasick?

In answer to his mental question the ship pitched upward, suspended as if on marionette strings for what seemed a terrifying instance of weightlessness until it dropped at a sharp angle and returned to the waves, the slide of the basket across the floor tapping against his right boot as it displaced from its resting spot near the wall.

He stepped backwards a few strides to regain his balance, his constitution intact though Amanda’s moan sounded pained. Her eyes lit on him, distant and panicked, as she pushed upward in an attempt to stand.

‘May I help you in any way?’ He took a wary step forward. He wasn’t exactly sure how ill she was feeling and he neither wished to embarrass nor upset her, while common decency demanded he offer assistance.

‘Talk to me. Please. I’ve been locked away for hours.’

Her voice rasped in the near darkness and, despite the ship continued to rock and sway, the words prickled over his skin with alluring awareness. He reacted, his tone defensive. ‘By your own doing.’

With a hollow, metallic clink, the chamber pot slid out of grasp to the far corner.

‘The truth doesn’t make the time pass faster. Please stay, if only a short while.’

She sounded frightened and he told himself as he grabbed the wooden bowl on the desk and emptied its contents, he acted out of kindness and necessary obligation as an older brother would when a family member became sick.

She took an awkward step and he reached her just in time as the tides pummelled the sides of the ship and tossed it across the waves. Amanda landed against his chest with a warm thump before he steadied her, bracing one hand to the wall as together they sank to the floorboards, acutely aware of her nearness and how incredibly soft and pliant she’d felt for the less-than-a-heartbeat moment she’d buffeted his chest with a subtle, unintentional nudge. For want of something to do with his hands, he placed the wooden bowl between them, the lantern on his other side. With great relief, he saw no evidence of her having expelled anything and, with peculiar contrast, noted the faint smell of gardenia. Perhaps she used scented soap or expensive perfume, some unmistakable light musky fragrance that was evident now with her proximity. It stirred him with an unexpected carnal bid for attention. His body throbbed with sudden heat, his chest all at once tight, each breath worse as her scent stole into his lungs and settled.

In the dim light of the candle, he searched her face. Perspiration dotted her brow and a few strands of hair pressed to her forehead like damp ribbons. Her eyes were glassy. Had she cried while he was gone? Her gown was a rumpled mess no iron would ever repair.

‘What shall I talk about?’

‘Anything.’

Her husky voice trickled over him and, for no apparent reason, he too began to perspire. The chamber was cool. There was no way to explain his unexpected reaction. He couldn’t be nervous. ‘With any luck, this weather will pass in a few hours. It poured buckets earlier but now the wind’s pitching—’

‘Not that.’ She gulped a mouthful of air and blew it out through puckered lips.

He watched her profile, mesmerized in the fractured shadows cast by the lamp. ‘Right.’ He exhaled and restarted. ‘Did you eat the biscuits I left? It wasn’t much but the barley stew—’

‘Not food either.’ Her voice squeaked high and she pressed her lips together.

A healthy portion of guilt settled in his stomach at how poorly he’d taken care of the situation through the day. For some unknown reason, he’d wanted to stay away, concerned she might pull him further into her convoluted appearance aboard ship. On another level, an internal and emotional one, he’d warned himself not to get close. He wanted nothing to do with affection of any kind.

‘I brought the bowl.’ Bloody hell, he sounded like an ass. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t touched her and, despite the ship’s acrobatics, he’d managed to keep at least eight inches between their shoulders. He’d placed the bowl on the floor in that space. It seemed the logical thing to do though he didn’t reckon why exactly. ‘Did you enjoy your visit to Italy?’ It was an innocuous subject. One that would serve his purpose.

‘Yes.’ Her voice brightened a smidgeon and a rush of satisfaction filled his chest. ‘But I’m immensely relieved to travel home. I have an important event to attend. Something I hope will change my life’s status for ever.’

The walls shuddered as the ship took a sudden plummet and, in an ironic trick of the ocean’s majestic force, her answer registered and his heart fell to his stomach right along with the tides.

Chapter Five

Lord, but she felt awful. Once the foul weather struck, a heavy wave of queasiness consumed her stomach with no intention of release. How spoiled she’d become by the voyage with Father. Perhaps this storm was a manifestation of conscience in reaction to her foolhardy error. Or worse, a presage of Raelyn’s temper and Father’s wrath once they discovered she’d stowed away instead of speaking to the captain directly.

She hauled in a deep breath. She needed to calm because at the moment she didn’t know whether to cry, scream or retch. Every part of her body seemed oddly disconnected and, while she clenched her eyes and attempted to reassemble herself, too much time spent with her eyes closed caused her stomach to object with a violent quiver in kind to the storm. Thankfully, to this point she hadn’t needed to empty her mostly empty stomach, but the desire to do so was strong and, instead of feeling relief, she struggled, on the verge of tossing up her accounts despite she succeeded in keeping her innards tucked inside.

‘At last a topic that improves your mood.’

Crispin sounded annoyed and she couldn’t blame him. She’d displaced him from his quarters, claimed his bed and now, not only dependent for food and survival, begged for distraction. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘There’s no need to apologize.’

Something in his tone told her that was a lie, but she couldn’t worry over it presently.

Nothing was said for a moment as the ship lurched. The miscellaneous items which had once found their home inside the bowl and now lay on the desk scattered in every direction as the vessel regained balance. Fear caused her to tremble and she couldn’t help but inch closer to Crispin’s warmth. He was broad and strong and, just by being at his side, her nervousness abated and stomach levelled.

‘An engagement with your beau, I presume.’ His words were muttered low.

‘Is courtship always the automatic assumption when discussing a woman’s agenda?’

‘Aren’t most women interested in whirlwind romance and a betrothal ring soon after?’

‘I’m not sure about the whirlwind part.’ She blinked several times at the irony. ‘My sister, Raelyn, believes a gentleman needs to know a lady for at least a year before understanding their personality.’

‘Ha!’ His scoff revealed far too much. ‘I propose it takes longer. Women and their frivolous decisions would not be understood in decades, centuries, I’d gamble.’ Then he chuckled and added a low remark filled with chagrin. ‘There’s a poor choice of words.’

She wished more than the single flame lit the interior. How she would have liked to see his face and measure the emotion in his eyes when he’d said the last few sentences. That same note of vulnerability, a combination of wounded pride and broken heart, laced each syllable of his complaint. They hardly knew one another but she could detect Crispin had suffered at the hand of an ill-fated relationship. Just another example of why she avoided romance.

Her stomach shifted, but she clenched her teeth and breathed deep. She couldn’t be sick now. Not when conversation proved so elucidating. The ship heartily agreed with a creaking groan of wood and rigging, the exclamation clank of some abandoned article thrust against the railing. She wrapped her arms around her middle and darted a look in his direction.

‘What of your family?’ A yowling protest of wind underscored his enquiry.

‘My mother passed from a spiteful, wasting disease when I was a young child.’ She paused, but then hurried to finish. ‘Oh, and there’s Enid, our maid. She’s served Raelyn and me since the nursery. And with Father, that’s my entire family.’ Amanda swallowed and turned to stare into the blackness across the room. As much as she wanted to face Crispin at her side and converse properly, the vigorous ebb and flow of the ship combined with her distressing nausea made for a poor combination. She all but whispered these words.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ He relaxed against the wall, settling into the conversation until he turned and leaned closer. ‘It’s rather odd, isn’t it? Your appearance on this ship in my quarters.’

She matched his intense stare.

‘Now that I examine things more closely, I have dozens of questions for you. How does one board a ship incorrectly? Were you travelling alone? Are you running from a problem you believe unfixable? Have you done something wrong, Amanda?’

A comfortable little silence fell between them and, for several long minutes, only the wind and water could be heard. Her mind fixated on the uncomfortable discovery of how she liked the way he enunciated her name, drawing on each syllable as if reluctant to let each one go.

His last question held a complex note of dubious distrust, as if he’d perpetrated the same oversight himself and judged it as disreputable. But then, by his own tongue, he boasted of his poor character.

‘Not on purpose,’ she replied without hesitation.

‘One would wonder.’

Somehow, through the process of the conversation or mayhap the pitch and fall of the ship’s motion, they’d become closer. The wooden bowl still remained between them, but their bodies angled, almost touched, and in an odd, confusing urge she had no way to explain, she yearned to lay her head upon his shoulder and draw from his steady support and relax into his strength. Anything to quiet the clamouring churn of her stomach.

‘Running from things hardly solves the problem.’

His voice dropped an octave and a tremor coursed through her to settle deep and remind of her cashmere blanket, a gift from her father when he’d travelled to India several years ago. She treasured that blanket, not just for its warmth and sentimental value, but its unique comfort. Whenever she missed her mother or allowed sadness to grip her heart, she’d wrap herself tight in the incredible softness and dream herself to sleep. How odd his voice would console with equal measure.

‘Are we still discussing my unfortunate appearance upon this ship?’ She honestly couldn’t be sure.

‘Well, it doesn’t matter overmuch. I’m sure you’ve a bevy of suitors to demand your attention, no matter your small family. Anyone would notice you’re a beautiful woman.’ He didn’t turn; still, the impact of his words echoed with sincerity.

That may have been the nicest thing a man had ever said to her. Lord, she must look her worst, skin clammy and sea-green. She’d managed not to cast up her stomach, though every minute the battle waged stronger and, despite the quivery sensation deep in her abdomen, the mortifying feeling, the one that said she would most certainly make use of that bowl before evening’s end, another part of her, separate and not as impacted by the rigorous turbulence, tucked his kind words away for later.

She took a minute to admire his profile in the lantern’s glow. He possessed a strong chin and aristocratic nose. High, sharp cheekbones composed a distinctly handsome face. She knew his eyes to be cerulean, bluer than every shade and depth of the ocean surrounding their voyage, yet nothing could overshadow the beauty of his hair, dark gold threaded through with fairer strands that glistened like captured starlight.

Running. She’d never considered it, but Crispin spoke with such affirmation she was tempted to enquire from what he ran.

‘So, you need to return to England for your wedding then?’

She might have corrected his preposterous presumptions, but the ship dove and plunged, uplifted with a brave hurdle, and when she opened her mouth to answer, she gagged, a dry heave of embarrassment and insipient nausea.

‘Does the mention of marriage always evoke that reaction?’ Humour laced his words and he slanted a mischievous glance in her direction. ‘I possess the same opinion.’

She gulped some air. ‘You have an unconventional viewpoint.’

‘I warned you. I’m not a good man.’ This was said matter-of-factly and then nothing more.

The sparse calm between turbulent shifts had ceased and, before she’d recovered, the galleon rolled left, suspended by a wailing surge before it righted to a vertical position. In a moment of unexpected boldness or abject fear, she lifted her palm from where it lay braced on the floor and gripped his shirt sleeve. Her first thought was of heated strength, the muscles of his forearm under her fingertips hard and unyielding, but then his body shifted at her touch and became pliant and infinitely welcoming.

To her dismay, all was lost after that. The first retch gripped her with tactless discourtesy and she reached for the wooden bowl as the galleon gave a sharp jerk. She might have found herself as helpless and adrift as a piece of flotsam had Crispin not caught her at the shoulders. He hauled her to his side, in an inelegant but effective motion, and wrapped her braid around his fist so it wouldn’t fall forward into the bowl she’d positioned on her lap.

Nothing emerged despite her harsh convulsions and when the wave of nausea passed, she croaked out her own attempt at levity. ‘See. I knew you to be a good man.’

His hands held her firm, braced to offer support and comfort, despite the floor tilted and the storm raged on. When his hold eased, she tried to reclaim her portion of the floor until, all of a sudden, she doubled over, a retched gargle of bile and whatever little contents were left inside her expelled alongside her mortification.

Tendrils of humiliation crept up her spine. She longed to sink through the floor to the bottom of the ocean. Anything to hide from the self-censure and embarrassment of vomiting in front of this man who’d done nothing but rescue her since she’d stepped aboard the ship. Anchored by his hold on her shoulders, her hair tight in his grasp, she pressed her lips closed and eased back against the hard wood wall.

‘Now we’re done with that…’ Crispin slid his eyes to the left, wary of how Amanda would accept his assistance. Ladies were delicate with matters males dismissed out of hand. Men drank too much, expelled their rotten gut into a nearby potted plant and reached for another drink of the same poison. The fairer sex became disconcerted when the lace on their sleeve wrinkled.

He dared another assessing glance. The worst of it seemed past, though there was no way to be sure. Perhaps he should see her to the bed. His mouth quirked as he suppressed a smile amused by a different circumstance than the norm. Not that Amanda conjured those kinds of thoughts. Thoughts of soft, fragrant skin, lush curves and seductive kisses. Nothing of the kind actually. Her hair was matted from perspiration, the braid tangled and partially unravelled, and despite she’d expelled next to nothing from her stomach, the last image she would evoke was one of a romantic nature.

Ferris was to blame. His nonstop lament over the lack of female companionship aboard the ship must have instigated Crispin’s wayward thinking, because even embarrassed and the worse for wear, at the peak of a serious bout of seasickness, Amanda remained delightfully attractive.

‘I must look and smell repellant.’

Her raspy admission broke him from his mental reverie. Heaving a breath more to cleanse his thinking than to clear his lungs, he lifted her into his arms, stalking cautiously across the floorboards to the bed, mindful in case the ocean should attempt a pitch of tomfoolery for good measure.

‘You’d do well to stay put.’ Her sorrowful green eyes beseeched him as he spoke, apparently still dazed by his sudden effort as he placed her on the narrow mattress. ‘I believe we may have battled the worst of the storm, but there’s no way to know and I’m certainly not going to investigate at the moment. Why don’t you lie quietly? Try to rest. Close your eyes if you can bear it.’

‘What will you do?’

Did she worry on his behalf? He leaned in to offer reassurance. ‘I’ll sit in this chair and—’

The ship asserted a portside roll and he stumbled forward, catching himself from a teetering collapse at the last opportunity lest he’d have tumbled atop her on the mattress. The situation as it was, was highly improper; a bachelor’s private quarters, a naïve, unchaperoned miss who believed herself in love, more be it the most foolish notion as she hurried home to England, a disillusioned rogue who considered affection akin to the plague. He remained nose to nose, eyebrows to eyebrows, perched above the narrow mattress, a scarce hair’s breadth apart.

He drew a long, unsteady breath that had nothing to do with his precarious position and the ocean’s continual turbulence and everything to do with her startled green gaze.

Very pretty eyes, at that.

Her lashes lowered and he wondered at her thoughts. Had they wandered towards avenues other than the complications of storm and stowaway? The moment ended as abruptly as it had begun and he righted himself, taking extreme care not to touch, though the temptation insisted like a fever in his blood.

The very devil.

‘Pardon.’ He didn’t say more and pivoted on his heel, no longer surefooted. ‘I’ve just the thing.’

He walked to the stacked trunks in the corner, shoved the first aside and straightened the second. Removing a key from his trouser pocket he unlocked the trunk and unbuckled the leather straps, to at last open the lid with caution should the ship conspire to foil his efforts. Rummaging through the assorted contents, he withdrew an embossed leather case, unbuttoned the closure and recovered a tin of tooth powder, along with a tortoiseshell comb, cake of soap and square of clean linen.

‘I realize this is highly irregular.’ He returned his attention to the bed, prepared to offer her use of his personal toiletries, but his words died away, arrested as her peaceful repose.

She’d fallen asleep. He would have doubted it possible considering the erratic rhythm of his heart and considerable upheaval of prevailing stormy weather, but from exhaustion or escape she slept soundly now. He placed the items on the table, a bit more disappointed than he anticipated, before he closed the trunk and attempted to find rest in the hard, spindle-backed chair.

Amanda feigned sleep, willing her soul to quiet, convinced the unusual circumstances were to blame for the unrelenting conflicted emotion she experienced. When Crispin had stumbled and almost fallen atop her on the bed, she’d anticipated the contact rather than prepared to ward him off. When he’d caught himself, a misplaced pang of disappointment riddled through her. Clearly her disastrous bout of seasickness wreaked havoc on her sensibilities. It posed the only intelligent explanation.

This muddle of disputed logic carried her into a fitful sleep and when she awoke, the ship had quieted significantly, on course with her pulse. She rolled to her side and peered across the murky interior, the single flame from the lantern on the table the only source of light. The hour remained late.

Crispin sprawled in an unforgiving chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded atop his chest. With regret, the pose promised aches and pains come morning and the realization pierced her as sharply as a well-aimed arrow.

How selfish of her to claim his bed. How chivalrous of him to sacrifice on her behalf. She smiled with the knowledge he’d showed her the consideration. With her grin in place she lay back onto the pillow and drifted softly into sleep once more.

When next she woke, he was gone, the lamp extinguished. Muted daylight leaked into the room via the open corridor. A new day dawned. She sat up, tested her stomach’s resilience with the motion and found her constitution returned and intact. Her eyes fell to the table and his proffered kindness. Tender appreciation drenched her at the sight.

He was a good man.

A tortoiseshell comb waited beside soap, clean linen, a glass of water and small tin of tooth powder. Her fingers shot to her braid, at work immediately to unravel the matted strands.

Crispin rocked on his boot-heels, his eyes on the horizon. A lazy glimmer, not unlike his mood, seamed the precipice where sky and ocean became one. As was his habit, he waited for the new day, only this time he didn’t so much contemplate his personal situation as much as the woman locked away in his private quarters. They were only two days into a three-week voyage. How long would he be able to perpetuate the charade?

And more importantly, why should he risk his reputation, freedom and future for a stranger who fancied herself in love, anxious to return to her beau in London? He was not that man, the noble-hearted hero of whom poets composed ballads or taverngoers created bawdy songs. When he’d fled London, his pride in tatters, he’d had but one thought: to recoup his losses and return to England to restore his good name. Redemption and vindication. He wouldn’t only repay his debt. He’d return to the Underworld, nothing more than a disreputable house of sin, and reclaim his reputation.

Vivienne and Maxwell Sinclair, be damned.

If the lady chose a bastard over pristine heritage, he could do little more than wall his heart and refuse emotion to penetrate. He’d accomplished each of these goals.

Still, his family deserved better. First, he would clear his enormous debt at the gaming hell with the wealth he’d accumulated in Venice.

As of a few days prior, all seemed neat and as intended. Even Ferris’s unexpected accompaniment hadn’t disrupted his plans. Therefore, he would not allow Amanda to rearrange a homecoming ten months in the making.

Some uninvited, niggling voice chided he should enquire as to her intentions once the voyage ended. A young woman could not hie into the streets of London without escort or security.

‘She reminds me of Sophie. Led by the romantic notion of love and powered by impetuous energy.’

‘Of whom do you speak?’ Ferris’s rich baritone sounded overly intrusive in the stillness of the dawn.

‘I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud.’ Crispin turned and eyed his friend.

Ferris joined him at the rail, a curious expression on his face, though his eyes were clear and his face shaven aside from the dark scurf on his chin.

‘My sister.’ Crispin purposely confused the question. ‘Sophie thinks with her heart not her head.’

‘Si. The improved version of you, with a much more appealing figure.’ Ferris moved his hands in a shapely silhouette of luscious feminine curves, his brows a-waggle.

‘Sophie is slim, intelligent and forthright.’ Crispin stifled a laugh. ‘Not your type at all.’

His friend allowed a chuckle and leaned against the well-worn railing as he dismissed the subject. ‘If you say so, amico. You should forget the one who hurt your heart. If Venice didn’t cure you, there’s no use for it. Women are like butterflies, pretty to see and difficult to contain. Set her free. Enjoy the moment.’

Relieved Ferris did not pursue exactitude in clarifying what he’d overheard, Crispin promptly changed the subject. ‘Wicked storm last night. How did you fair?’

‘With a glass of brandy and little discomfort.’ He slanted a glance, another question alive in his eyes. ‘I expected camaraderie. What happened?’

Somehow the conversation had taken an ill-advised roundabout. ‘I was caught portside when the worst of the storm struck and barely managed to find cover in a cofferdam. At least I was protected from the onslaught of ravaging wind.’ Was his embellishment sufficient or overmuch? ‘I hunkered down without a plan and waited it out. Only a fool would venture above deck in that gale.’

‘Perhaps.’ Ferris remained quiet for a long moment, though his gaze was unrelenting. ‘But it’s passed now, eh?’ He wagged his chin at the rising sun. ‘A new day dawns. Who knows what one will discover?’

Crispin didn’t reply, unwilling to fuel Ferris’s imagination, or worse, increase his doubt.

Chapter Six

Amanda strode the length of the room, practising her stride in a pair of ill-fitted purloined breeches. She’d availed the tawny garment from the trunk Crispin left unlocked in the corner, spied after she’d made use of the items he’d left graciously on the table. How heavenly to feel clean, as clean as possible without a bath, breath freshened, hair combed and plaited, her face and hands scrubbed. It was after her makeshift toilette that she’d noticed the ugly stains on her skirt, a reminder of utter mortification when she’d emptied the contents of her stomach in front of a handsome gentleman.

She rolled the waistband of the trousers a third time and took a few more strides before she pivoted to cross the floor on the diagonal. He was handsome, wasn’t he? And exceptionally kind. He’d helped her through her seasickness, his voice a deep, lulling tone, almost tender, as he wiped her brow and held her shoulders firm, yet all the while possessing a gentleness that revealed the greatest fragility in his care.

She tucked in the hem of her chemise and the tails of the white linen shirt she’d also borrowed from the trunk. Crispin’s clothing smelled good, fresh with starch and a hint of bergamot. She buried her nose a little deeper into the cloth at her shoulder and inhaled again. Did his skin smell this wonderful or was it the other way around, his clothing offering the scent? With hope, he would understand her liberties in borrowing the garments in the same fashion as the items he’d left. She’d used the cake of shaving soap and remaining water to scrub her skirts clean, and once they dried she’d redress with little complaint. Perhaps she’d never need explain at all if he kept from the quarters longer than a few hours. Though that reality didn’t sit well. She didn’t rummage further than necessary, but if Crispin had a book or two in his trunks, she would thank him graciously. Boredom and restlessness were a constant battle. Perhaps she could venture above deck if she wore breeches instead of a gown.

A sturdy knock brought her eyes to the door. Two beats and then a pause and two more.

Crispin. They’d decided on the knock as a code in one of the many conversations shared in an attempt to calm her queasy stomach.

Now, she opened the latch and stepped away, anxious to see his reaction.

‘Those are my breeches? Are those my breeches?’

His incredulous questions and startled reaction had her smile inching higher. ‘Yes. They’re yours.’

‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘That’s worse.’

‘I hope you don’t mind. I needed something to wear while my gown dried. It was stained from…well, it was stained.’ She motioned to where her yellow day gown lay draped over the spindle-backed chair.

‘This is highly irregular.’

‘Then you do mind.’ Her voice dipped with disappointment. She hadn’t meant to displease him. At present, her world had become rather small and narrowed down to interaction with one person only.

‘I didn’t say that.’

Funny how his tone suggested the exact opposite. Whatsoever could be the problem? The situation was only temporary and it wasn’t as though she could sit around in her chemise waiting for her gown to dry. ‘Surely the sight of a woman in trousers shouldn’t come as a shock. You claim to be a notorious rakehell. I’d gamble you’ve seen women in all states of undress.’ She couldn’t resist the jibe. The look on his face worth every word.

‘I’ve said no such thing. But I have,’ he added belatedly. His eyes skimmed over her a third time and she wondered at his peculiar reaction. ‘I just didn’t expect you. In more ways than one.’

‘I’ll only wear them a bit longer, then I’ll take them off.’ She placed her hands on her hips for lack of somewhere else to put them. Had she chosen the wrong words? His eyes flashed brilliant and blue against his long lashes.

Crispin swallowed thoughtfully, his tongue thick and mind blank all of a sudden. The last thing he expected when walking into his quarters was to find Amanda dressed in his breeches and shirt, the sheer white linen no disguise for her lacy chemise beneath. If he stared too long he swore he could see the outline of her breasts, the delicate points of her nipples a dangerous lure.

‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She canted her head to the side, apparently confused at his silence. ‘I don’t have any clothes.’

He groaned and cleared his throat in an effort to evoke vocabulary.

‘Since I have no clothes—’

‘Stop saying that.’ He matched her eyes and then looked towards the far corner, focused on alleviating the growing situation in his smalls.

‘Why do you keep looking away? I didn’t think your breeches looked so terrible on me.’ She strode to the cheval glass and eyed her profile. He told himself not to watch.

‘They don’t.’ He dashed a smile as he watched. ‘This reminds of something my sister, Sophie, would do.’

‘Honestly, men have all the advantages. I rather like breeches. They offer so much unencumbered freedom. I’m always getting tangled in my skirts.’ She bent over and touched her toes. ‘Just look how easily that was accomplished.’

Caught on the lovely curve of her bottom, he was slow to respond. Then, tearing his gaze away, his answer came out too forcefully. ‘Indeed. You’re of Sophie’s mind. Upset with the imbalance.’

‘Men can gamble, drink, stay out late and ride astride.’

She rambled these off, caught up in the subject no matter he couldn’t stop staring at her body in his clothes. Worse yet, the reminder that her skin wore what he might, that her scent would linger, did nothing to tamp down unbidden desire. ‘I didn’t invent the rules. I just break them.’ He offered a devilish smile, determined to recover the upper hand.

‘I very much like breeches. I may try to go above deck in these.’

‘You’ll do no such thing. One look at that pert nose and sassy chin and every man on this ship would be panting after you.’ He swallowed, guilty of the very same accusation.

‘But I’m bored within these walls.’ She tossed her braid over her shoulder and paced a length, then back again.

He didn’t miss the swish of her hips, outlined nicely by the clingy wool. If she continued to parade around in front of him he would be forced to leave…eventually.

‘You might have considered that before you chose to stow away. Did you think you could have run of the ship? Blend in with the passengers and never be questioned?’ He waved his hand for emphasis though it might very well be true. How would anyone know if she was aboard? She could likely take her meals and walk the deck without ever being challenged. It was his own selfishness that kept her locked away. And then, of course, there was the matter of Ferris.

Albeit safety for a woman, never mind a proper young beautiful miss, alone and unprotected, was madness in every sense.

‘I’m not so sure.’ She gave him a pleading stare that did strange things to his insides.

‘I’ll make it a point to return later. Perhaps we can play cards to pass the time. Then you won’t be so bored. Is that amenable?’ He could at least make an effort.

‘Oh yes.’ She brightened, the lamplight catching a gleam in her eyes. He didn’t dare approach to examine the effect closer.

‘I’ve brought you food and tea.’ He indicated the basket he’d carried inside. ‘I trust you’ll find what you need.’

She answered with a smile that had him smiling too. Then he turned and left, anxious for a cleansing breath of sea air. Outside the door, Ferris approached, three steps from the corridor and apparently on his way to visit. Now there was a predicament he hadn’t anticipated. Ferris might stop by at any time. All this subterfuge and unavoidable explaining complicated what was planned to be a calm and thoughtful voyage home.

‘Let’s go above deck. I need some air.’ He motioned Ferris towards the stairs, thankful no discussion followed.

The day proved fine and they took a place near the wood railing, tacky from the salt and mist. Crispin released a breath of relief.

‘What troubles you, amico mio? Ferris smoothed a palm over his face, though his eyes never lost their close interest.

‘Not a thing.’ If only that were true. ‘I have a lot to attend to in London. The closer we get, the more I contemplate what needs to be done.’

‘It’s good then, that we have over a fortnight of travel ahead.’ Ferris nodded. ‘You have the funds you need?’

Ferris knew of the Underworld debt. Crispin had confided in the count early in their friendship and, with that, Ferris had kept Crispin informed of the most lucrative opportunities to regain wealth and profit. In time, Crispin honed his skill at cards to such mastery, most gamblers reconsidered before engaging in play. Subsequently, much of the amusement and distraction vanished, yet money begat money and there was always another fool who believed themselves a better player. Crispin had no difficulty amassing generous wealth.

Instead it was the larger issue, the unhealed condition of his heart, which lent him sleepless nights. He planned to confront Maxwell Sinclair, proprietor of the Underworld gaming hell, repay his debt and then disengage from the lingering truth once and for all. Crispin had once wanted Vivienne, but she’d chosen Max and the realization now, that his affection had been nothing more than infatuation or misplaced attachment at best, caused him to feel all the more foolish. He wouldn’t be known as a besotted sop who fled London with a broken heart. Redemption would be had. His travels had offered distance and clarity, as well as the chance to wall away finer emotion. He had no desire to become lost in an abyss of affection ever again.

‘Where did you go? You’re not listening to a word.’ Ferris slapped him on the back in a bid for attention. ‘You need to stop wasting time on the past. Didn’t you enjoy the pleasures of my home? The accommodations and lovely companions I provided?’

Crispin grinned, his answer honest. ‘Indeed, I did.’

Anxious for company and otherwise bored beyond imagination, Amanda was thrilled when Crispin returned that evening. She’d replaced her temporary foray into men’s tailoring with her yellow gown and folded Crispin’s breeches and shirt atop one of the trunks. Every morning he would deliver a basket with breakfast foods and leave with his arms full of clean clothing, only to return later in the day wearing them. The amount of inconvenience she’d subjected him to had her feeling grateful and somewhat indebted.

Perhaps Father could pay Crispin for his trouble. She didn’t know how to show her appreciation otherwise and simply a word of thanks would not suffice.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.