Much Ado about a Widow (The Widows' Club Book 4) Page 9

  St. Just’s grin was intolerably infectious, especially when he was being maddeningly charming—as he was now. She supposed this charming, boyish demeanor and desire to help others, no matter how misguided, was what had endeared him to her brother. In her experience, Jemmy was seldom if ever wrong about people. Of course, there was a first time for everything.

  “Thank you. That is very kind.” She managed to clip the words without biting her tongue. “This way?” She inclined her head toward the darker recesses of the passageway. Silly goose, of course they wouldn’t go back toward deck. What had come over her?

  “Yes, just there, on the opposite side from my cabin.” His gray eyes bright, he indicated for her to go ahead of him through the cramped space.

  Something in his voice—she had no idea what—made her stomach drop. True, that could be attributed to the swaying of the vessel, although it was not nearly as rough as she had believed it would be. She’d never been on a ship before, so she didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. Still, she must keep her mind on her task, which was . . . What was it she was attempting to do?

  Despite the cold weather outdoors, here, inside, was quite warm, making her head all a muddle. As she was no longer actively trying to escape, Georgie didn’t quite know what her purpose should be now. The present goal, she supposed, was to settle into her cabin and devise a letter to be posted to her father as soon as they reached Cornwall, explaining everything and asking his forgiveness for being kidnapped in the first place. Although how he could blame her for what had happened she certainly didn’t know. Still, she didn’t doubt he would. At least it would give her something to do. Doing anything was always better than simply staring at the walls, waiting for something to happen.

  With a nod, though she now couldn’t fathom what she was agreeing to, Georgie stepped cautiously toward the door he’d indicated, indeed identical to his. “Thank you, my—”

  Without warning, the ship pitched violently to the left.

  Georgie shrieked, flailing out for some sort of purchase. She’d have fetched up hard against the wall had it not been for St. Just, snaking his arms around her just in time.

  “Steady, my lady.” Effortlessly, he engulfed her in an embrace that was strong, and safe, and warm. Her back lay fully against an iron-hard chest, her head cupped in the cradle of his shoulder.

  She’d not actually realized how tall he was nor how solid his arms and chest were. For the briefest of moments she relaxed against him, indulged in allowing herself to imagine he was Isaac, with his strong arms holding her, making her feel safe and loved once more. Oh, but she had sorely missed that close, intimate contact this past year, no, almost two years now. How she missed him still.

  She shook her head—she refused to go down that path of misery again. Isaac would never come back to her, would never hold her again, never kiss her. The sweet memory of his love she would keep forever, but nothing else. Sadly, the only arms allowed to embrace her now were those of Lord Travers.

  Frightful thought. For the briefest moment she clung closer to Lord St. Just, as if he could shield her from her fate, but that was silly. She had willingly agreed to marry Lord Travers in exchange for her father’s good will. A steep price to be sure; still she was prepared to pay it. If only Travers were not quite so abhorrent. If only St. Just were not so devilishly good-looking . . .

  With a gasp, she pulled away from Lord St. Just. She could not allow herself to dally with his lordship on board this ship or any place else. And certainly not right outside her bedchamber. Retreating until her back bumped into the door, she held out a hand as if she were fending off the gentleman. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I do apologize. The Channel is quite choppy this time of year.” He still held onto her arm, and she was actually glad of it. She was so muddled by the bobbing and twisting ship—and by his touch on her arm—she had not paused to consider just how uncomfortable this journey that she did not want to take was actually going to be. Or how she might tolerate the voyage at all. Some people, she had been told, managed quite well, with few ill effects. Others, however, struggled with devastating sickness. Hopefully, she would be the former type of passenger.

  A growl behind her turned into a whimper. Poor Lulu. “Give her to me, Clara. I daresay she is not happy to be pitched about either.”

  Lulu yipped again, as if in agreement. She struggled in Georgie’s arms until Georgie was obliged to set the dog on the floor. “No biting yet, Lulu,” Georgie whispered. “I’ll give you the signal if I think it’s warranted.”

  With a snuffle that turned into a low growl, Lulu sat down and stared at Lord St. Just’s black Hessians, teeth bared and at the ready.

  “I think she’ll calm now, my lord. If we can only settle comfortably into our accommodations, I think we will all feel better.” Although, despite her words, Georgie had begun to feel distinctly unwell.

  The ship chose that moment to pitch violently. Georgie would have been thrown to the floor had St. Just not put out an arm to steady her.

  “As I said, the Channel is never a treat, even in good weather, but in January or February, well”—the wretch grinned as the ship rolled the other way—“it’s been known to turn the most fearless captain back to shore.”

  Georgie might have returned his outrageous grin had her stomach not chosen that moment to make itself known. The roiling of the waves was nothing compared to the rumbling from within.

  Shooting a stricken look at Clara, Georgie motioned her toward the door. Clara darted forward and opened it.

  Attempting to maintain her dignity even though she wanted nothing more than to breach protocol and cast up her crumpets here and now, Georgie walked slowly up the passageway.

  “If you do not mind, my lord”—the maid grabbed Georgie’s arm and guided her toward the doorway—“I will see to Lady Georgina.” Clara’s face puckered as she pulled her mistress into the chamber. “I’ll send for one of your men if we have need of anything.” Clara hurried in and shut the door sharply as Georgie sank down into a chair and gripped the arms until her knuckles turned white.

  Drat it, she would not succumb to this inconvenient weakness. Staring steadfastly at the table in front of her, Georgie willed herself to hold on. Her stomach, however, was past caring about embarrassment. She took a deep breath, fighting the awful sensation in her stomach, hoping that would help steady her. To no avail. “Oh, Clara. The chamber pot, quickly.”

  * * *

  Rob started as the maid slammed the door in his face, then tried to repress a grin, but the haughty Lady Georgina was about to be brought very low. The muffled groan and the stricken words, “The chamber pot, quickly,” told him he would get revenge on the lady through no effort of his own.

  Poor lady. He understood all too well the misery she’d be feeling presently. Sobering, he rapped on the door. “Are you all right, Lady Georgina?”

  Another, louder groan issued forth from within.

  “Can I get you something? Some tea and toast, perhaps?”

  The unpleasant retching sounds that ensued made him pity the lady heartily. He’d had his own stint with seasickness when he’d first begun sailing with his grandfather. An episode Rob had never forgotten, though he’d been a lad of ten at the time. Once he’d gotten his sea legs under him, he’d been fine. Until then, he’d wished for a swift death. So he sympathized with the lady, although he couldn’t help but believe the gods were exacting some sort of vengeance on his behalf. “My lady? Do you require anything?”

  The door jerked open, and Clara thrust a rather disgusting chamber pot into his hands. “If you’d like to be of use, my lord, kindly dispose of that and bring me several more empty ones.” She glared at him, and all thoughts of vengeance vanished. He truly didn’t wish Lady Georgina ill. “And the less said about food and drink, the better, although”—Clara again fixed him with an icy stare—“a bite of food and drink for me wouldn’t come amiss. I’ll be tending to her day and night by the looks of it.�
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  “I will be sure to see to it, Clara.” Nodding deferentially, Rob tried not to wince at the stench wafting up from the chamber pot. “I’ll also send a mate to swab down the cabin and help you with anything either you or Lady Georgina requires.” Holding the repulsive pot as far away from his nose as possible, he turned toward deck, then back to the maid. “It may sound cruel, but once the initial sickness is over, the best remedy will be for her to eat some hard biscuit and drink ginger tea. All sailors swear by it to cure seasickness.” He lowered his voice. “Also, tell her to lie still and let her body go with the ship.”

  The piercing look Clara shot at him could have skewered a weaker man, had it been a weapon. She held his gaze a full minute, then nodded and shut the door.

  Rob ran nimbly up the stairs to the deck, where the brisk, cold wind scoured away the reek in moments. “Clean this up, Ayers.” He snagged the first lad he saw and thrust the pot at him. “Find as many more as you can throughout the ship and take them to the lady’s chamber, along with a mop and bucket. You’ll see to their comfort and do whatever Miss Clara instructs you to do.”

  “Very good, Captain.” Ayers wrinkled his nose, but dutifully trotted off toward the bow of the ship.

  Rob turned toward the galley. For runs of a shorter duration, he usually brought no more than a three-man crew, plus himself. This time, however, as it was January, and the Channel presented even more of a challenge than usual, he’d brought along Barnes, to help cook as well as tend the ship when necessary. Rob popped his head into the galley and found the older man with a kettle on the stove and a bowl of potatoes on his lap.

  Stabbing a sharp knife into one potato to draw it from the bowl, Barnes looked it over with a keen eye before commencing to peel it. When he noticed Rob in the doorway, he tried to rise, but was waved back into his chair. “Don’t let me disturb you getting on with dinner, Barnes.”

  “You’re not disturbing me none, Captain.” The older man paused, knife in one hand, half-peeled potato in the other. “There’s not much time, so I thought a nice bit of beefsteak, roasted potatoes, and a ragout of vegetables would serve us right enough.”

  “Very good. I wanted to remind you we’ll have one extra mouth to feed tonight. Be sure we have ample provisions for her.”

  “Not two mouths, Captain?” Barnes’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly.

  “One only. And no, I’m not trying to starve one of our guests. Miss . . .” Blast, he needed to find out the wretched maid’s surname so he and the men could address the woman properly. “Lady Georgina’s maid is tending her mistress, who has a touch”—God he hoped it would not be a severe case—“of seasickness. Before you serve me and the men, you will take her meal to the cabin.” Rob gazed about the galley and seized a canister. “For now, please brew a weak ginger tea for the lady and ready some of these biscuits for her as soon as possible.”

  “Aye, Captain.” Barnes dropped the potato and knife into the bowl, set them on the table, and lit the stove.

  As he made his way back on deck, Rob reluctantly came to two realizations. First, that he hated to see any lady suffer—even if she might deserve the tiniest bit of it—and so he would attempt to help Lady Georgina overcome her mal de mer as quickly as possible. The other was that, having held Lady Georgina in his arms, although it had been a brief embrace, he could and would attest that she was a pleasant armful and much, much too high above the likes of Lord Travers. In those circumstances, Rob would have to act.

  Standing in the bow of the Justine, sailing into the dark, windy night, Rob vowed to do everything within his power to keep Lady Georgina Kirkpatrick out of Travers’s clutches. “So help me God.”

  Quite likely he would need all the help he could get.

  Chapter Eight

  Perusing the most recent copy of the Times, the Marquess of Blackham sipped his third cup of tea, taken without milk but with plenty of sugar. Breakfast was his least favorite meal, although using the time taken to inform himself about events in the world beyond East Sussex made the waste more palatable. He’d just turned to the back page when Quick, his unflappable butler, rushed into the room.

  “My lord.” The elderly butler puffed the words out, his eyes as wide as a skittish horse.

  “What the devil’s the matter with you, Quick?” Blackham folded the paper and tossed it on the table. “You’re white as a ghost.”

  “It’s Folger, my lord.” Quick still fought to catch his breath. He must have run all the way from the front door.

  “Yes, he was supposed to arrive this morning with Lady Georgina.” Consulting his pocket watch, the marquess raised his eyebrows. “He made damn fine time, although I trust my equipage did not suffer for it.”

  “That’s just it, my lord. Folger’s arrived, but without the carriage.” The butler swallowed hard. “Or Lady Georgina.”

  Blackham’s brows lowered almost to his nose. “Bring Folger here this instant,” he barked.

  “He is here, your lordship.” Quick scurried through the doorway and immediately John Folger stepped into the room.

  Had the man not been announced, Blackham would have scarcely recognized his coachman. The man looked as though he’d recently slept in the road. His jacket and pants had bits of dirt and dead leaves sticking to them and his boots were caked with mud. A lump the size of a pigeon’s egg puffed the skin above his left eye. “What the devil’s happened to you, Folger? And where are my carriage and my daughter?”

  Folger winced, as if steeling himself for a blow. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  The hackles on the back of Blackham’s neck bristled. “What do you mean you don’t know, Folger? You were entrusted with the care of both, so I would think it would be in your best interest to know where both of them were every minute of the day.”

  “I was, your lordship.” The coachman gripped and twisted the hat in his hands, although the brim had already been broken. “Until yesterday when we pulled into The Running Horse in Leatherhead. I’d gone into the woods to use the necessary when two fellows attacked me. Hit me over the head and I knew nothing until I came to this morning, tied up in the woods behind the inn. The two outriders and the groom were there beside me. Said the same thing happened to them.”

  “Pah.” Blackham threw down his napkin and rose. “Worthless, the lot of you.” He strode from the room shaking his head. “You should never have been alone. That way no one could accost you.”

  “But my lord.” Folger had followed him at a trot. “A man doesn’t take another man with him when he goes to take a piss.”

  “He wouldn’t need to stand there and hold it for you, man. Just guard your back to make sure you didn’t get waylaid.” Blackham hurried into his office, making for the huge black walnut captain’s table he used as a desk. “Are the others in pursuit of the villains?”

  Folger stopped, then backed up a step. “No, my lord. We asked at the inn this morning but all they could tell us was that the carriage left after about fifteen minutes with a fresh team. One of the ostlers did say he thought your carriage headed south out of the yard but was busy and didn’t pay much attention.” The coachman cleared his throat. “As we had no idea where the carriage or Lady Georgina might be, we thought it best to come here and raise the alarm.”

  “Raise the alarm?” Blackham stared at the man, wishing it were permissible to whip servants. “The time to raise an alarm was at the inn as soon as you came to and realized my property was missing. You have been utterly useless to me, Folger. Consider yourself sacked.”

  “Sacked, my lord?” The disbelief in Folger’s voice irritated the marquess to no end. Any other servant in his employ would have expected such an action automatically.

  “And without a reference. I’ll expect you to be off the property by noon.” Blackham slid into his chair and reached for his box of pens.

  “But my lord—”

  “Had you been this persistent at The Running Horse, Folger, I might no
t be bereft of my carriage and child at this moment.” The marquess drew a sheet of creamy paper to him. “That is all, Folger.”

  A sigh followed by a shuffling of boots on the carpet told Blackham the coachman had gone. Good riddance. Now to find out what had really happened to Georgina and his carriage at The Running Horse. Of course, this must be another scheme by his youngest daughter to avoid the match he’d made for her. She’d run off and married out of hand before. No reason not to believe she’d done it again. And if she had, there was likely only one person who knew about it.

  Dipping the pen in the inkpot, Blackham narrowed his eyes and glaring at the paper as though he had the intended recipient before him, began to write.

  * * *

  The splash of waves hitting the side of the ship near her head dragged Georgie out of the fitful doze she’d finally fallen into around dawn. The fierce movements of the ship had caused her to be violently and disgustingly ill throughout the night. Casting up one’s accounts had to be the most wretched feeling. She hated it more than anything—even worse than cats—and now she was to be captive on a bounding ship for an untold number of days, doing the very thing she despised most of all. If she didn’t already hate Lord St. Just for ruining her reconciliation with her father, she would detest him for visiting this plague upon her. She sat up in the bed and was immediately sorry. “Ohhh.” Her stomach roiled yet again. “If I live, I vow on Lucy’s grave I will have his guts for garters. Even if they are not a fashionable color.”

  “Beg pardon, my lady?” Clara appeared at her side immediately, wiping her face with a cool cloth. It didn’t really help Georgie feel better, but being fussed over soothed her soul a little. “Who is Lucy? Your mother?”