The Countess' Lucky Charm Page 2

  “Is it well hidden?” He whispered to Simone.

  Comprehension dawned on her face. “They’re after ye, ain’t they? The packet, ye nicked it from them.”

  He nodded, a thick scowl curling his eyebrows.

  “Aye, it’s well hidden,” she gloated. “No one will find it. Now ye can’t double cross me for if ye want it, you need me.” She flashed him a triumphant look.

  “Back to the quay, then,” he snarled. He had reluctant admiration for her street smarts, though, for she had had him pegged right from the start.

  “I can’t. I were hiding from the likes of him.” She pointed back toward the river and the burly constable heading their way through the evening mist.

  The smile that had crept across his lips at her savvy disappeared in an instant. It would seem his ragged pickpocket was in trouble with the law and required his intervention if he hoped to keep her with him—intervention requiring time he really did not have.

  She looked as if she was going to dart off and he trapped her hand in his elbow so she wouldn’t. As much as he hated it, he needed her help to retrieve his stolen goods.

  “That constable,” he explained through gritted teeth, “is our ticket out of this mess. Just keep quiet.”

  He turned to face the man, neck prickling at the thought of turning his back on his stalkers. He risked a quick peek over his shoulder to see they had disappeared, scared off, no doubt, by the face of the law. Relief settled in him like a fine cognac settled in one’s stomach after a rich meal and he faced the constable with renewed assurance.

  “Is everything all right here, my lord?”

  “Of course,” he drawled.

  The constable was clearly not convinced. He cast an appraising glance at Temple and then at Simone. “She doesn’t seem your type,” he said, pointing at her ragged black dress. “Fit more for Newgate prison.”

  At his words, Temple could feel the shudder coursing through Simone’s slender frame. The shudder subsided into trembles.

  For some odd reason, a protective urge flooded through him at her trepidation and, yes, fear. To reassure her, and to stop her from running, he placed his hand over her fingers where they peeked through the fold of his elbow.

  Recognition shone in the constable’s eyes. “Well, if it ain’t Mona Dougherty.” He turned back to Temple. “Now I know for sure she ain’t your type. Hand her over. A few words from me to the magistrate and she’ll be put away.”

  “I can assure you, she is my type. As a matter of fact,” he smiled down at Simone’s upturned face, “she’s coming with me to New Caledonia.”

  Damnation, I’ve done it now. The only good news was the relieved expression on her face. Beneath his fingers he could feel her trembles subside.

  The constable seemed unwilling to let matters be. He shook his head. “I don’t know, my lord. Mona is one of the finest pickpockets on the east side. I just haven’t had the pleasure to actually catch her in the act.”

  Temple frowned down at her. A pickpocket? Thievery for the betterment of one’s peers was one thing, but a pickpocket?

  She looked at him from guileless eyes. “Your package,” she whispered then she looked over to the constable and gave him a saucy wink.

  Temple sighed. She had him over a barrel and she knew it. “I shall relieve you of her presence, constable. As I mentioned, I am off to New Caledonia, well away from your bailiwick.”

  “I don’t know if that’s wise, my lord, I’ve seen her kind a hundred times before. Sweet as pudding to your face but the minute your back is turned—” The man swiped a sausage finger across his throat.

  Temple looked at Simone’s suddenly mutinous face, lower lip jutted out. She must have taken offence at the other man’s words. He gave her a warning look then turned back to the other man.

  “Truly, my good man, this woman is my travelling companion,” he said in his best upper crust voice. “Your services are not needed here.”

  “Well, my lord, if you say so.” The constable stood there a moment longer, tapping his nightstick against his leg. “If you change your mind, ask for Constable Carstairs.” He tipped his hat to Temple. “It’s good night to you then and if she sticks you, don’t say I didn’t warn you. As for you,” he turned to glare at Simone, “if I see you again, it’s off to Newgate with you. I know you’re guilty and you won’t always have his lordship here to save your skin.”

  “Thank you for the warning but I swear,” Temple placed his hand over his heart, “I shall be fine.” He was pleased to see Simone had understood the gravity of the situation and heeded his warning—she stood silent and with eyes demurely lowered.

  “It’s your skin.” The constable shrugged then ambled off.

  “Ooooh, did you hear him? I’m one of the best.” Simone grinned at the recognition, rocking from foot to foot beside him. Her words were boastful, her attitude cocky. After her initial fear, she now felt quite comfortable under his protection.

  Her eyes sparkled with life and much to his surprise, he realized the slender urchin intrigued him. Nonsense, he told himself. Utter nonsense. But he couldn’t stop himself from looking again at her sparkling eyes. Filled with verve, they were. Verve and high spirits.

  “Come on,” he growled, dragging away his gaze. “The chat with the constable slowed us and we’ve not much time. I’ve arranged with the captain to pick me up.” He pointed at a small row boat pulling into shore, a shadowy shape manning the ungainly oars. “Perhaps that’s the fellow.”

  He grabbed her hand and charged back down the lane toward the steps leading down to the river.

  “But he said I’m one of the best, didn’t ye hear?” Simone jogged beside him to keep pace with his long stride.

  “It wasn’t a compliment. It’s hardly an accomplishment to be proud of.”

  “Maybe for me it is.” Her tone was rebellious. “Maybe for me it’s the difference between going ta bed cold and hungry instead of just cold.”

  “And if you have the skills you claim, then why can’t you afford decent clothing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The sailor approached them. “Lord Temple Wellington?”

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?” Temple was appalled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Your cabin is through there.” The captain pointed toward a doorway before pocketing the coins. “See that she behaves,” he glared at Simone, “or it’s t
o the brig with her.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, coins jingling in his pocket.

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

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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