Chapter Seventeen
The coach arrived at the Bumgartens’ house promptly at ten o’clock the next morning. Trunks were bundled down the stairs and two cloaked figures descended to the hall carrying hatboxes and leather satchels of personal items. Claire hurried out and climbed aboard the coach while Frankie paused to wait for Red and their mother.
“Your things are already loaded?” Their mother came out of the dining room with Uncle Red and looked for a moment like she might extend her arms to Frankie. Instead, she clasped her hands and assumed a stoic expression. “You have thinking to do, Frances. Make the best of this time with our dear friend and heed her advice.”
“Aww,” Red growled, annoyed at Elizabeth, and barreled forward to engulf Frankie in a bearish hug. “You take care, Frank.”
“I will, Uncle Red.” She felt a lump in her throat as he released her. “And you’ll take Aramis out for a ride now and then?”
“I promise,” he said, looking as forlorn as she’d ever seen him—even more than when the countess rejected his proposal of marriage.
“Where is Claire?” Elizabeth asked, glancing back at the stairs.
“She’s already aboard,” Frankie said. “She asked me to say her good-byes.” When her mother scowled, she added, “She’s a bit overcome.”
Elizabeth straightened and nodded.
Moments later, Frankie was climbing aboard the coach and settling her valise on the seat beside her. The hooded figure leaning against the far window of the coach reached out for her hand and Frankie gave her gloved fingers a reassuring squeeze. They hadn’t counted on Elizabeth coming out on the step to wave to her younger daughter.
Frankie held her breath as she waved for both of them and then settled back as the coach began to move. They were silent for several minutes, measuring the blocks and then the miles before “Claire” lowered her hood and looked at Frankie.
“We did it.” Sarah’s face was aglow with the excitement of their deception. “You’re away free.”
“Thank God,” Frankie said, peering out the window as if expecting an angry mob in pursuit. Finding no such thing, she turned to Sarah. “Now, you remember what to do? Take the coach to the train station, have a porter send the trunks to the countess—you have the money, right?—and then get back to the house before Mama realizes you’ve been gone.”
“Easy as pie,” Sarah declared. “I slip in and out all the time without her knowing it.”
“Well, you’ll be the sole recipient of her attention now that we’re out of the house, so be careful.”
“Count on me,” Sarah said, grinning, and a small mound rose beneath her cloak and started to move from her lap up to her shoulder. Frankie watched in both horror and relief as she retrieved her pet ferret from beneath her cloak and stroked the little creature’s head.
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t let that thing loose in my room while I’m gone,” she said. “The little beast steals everything in sight.”
* * *
Reynard was waiting for her at one of the less desirable berths at the docks. He had secured them passage on a wooden steamship that had seen better days and now carried light freight between London and Calais.
“I don’t suppose they have a first-class berth,” she said, looking at the peeling paint and salt-crusted windows of the aging vessel. He wrested her larger bag from her hand and ushered her toward the gangplank.
“Any ship with a first-class anything would demand to know who we are,” he said, leaning close to her ear. “That would mean putting us on a passenger manifest that would go to a bursar’s office and be subject to prying eyes. You do want this mission to be a secret?”
“Of course,” she said with an uneasy feeling as she stepped around a sizeable hole in the gangplank and looked down to see an oily strip of water between quay and ship. Please God, let the gangway be the only place there are holes in this boat.
He headed for what looked like a small flat-roofed house that had been plopped down on the weathered deck. “Just so you know . . . I thought it best that we stay together. The captain said weather is rolling in and there was only one cabin to let.”
She stopped stock still, scowling, and he turned back to usher her toward the most prominent opening in the cabin section. A grizzled old fellow in a faded blue coat and a military-style hat missing some of its braid stepped out of their target as they approached.
“This must be the missus, then,” he said with a grin showing gapped, tobacco-stained teeth. He tugged at his hat brim and looked her over with a gleam in his eye. “Pity it’s such a bad day fer sailin’, ma’am.”
“My dear, meet Captain Mercy.” Reynard gave the old fellow a nod.
“You say it is a bad day for a crossing?” she said, resisting Reynard’s urging toward the main hatch.
“Aw, yeah. Terrible.” The old boy’s grin broadened. “Wind’ll be comin’ up to gale and rain’ll be comin’ down in sheets. Welcome aboard.”
The captain reeled off to bark orders at his crew.
She turned on Reynard.
“The missus?” she said through tightened lips.
“It would hardly do for us to share a cabin as Mr. Boulton and Miss Bumgarten, would it? For now, I am the mister and you are the missus. Safer all around to have everyone think you’re a married woman.”
“I have to be married to travel safely?” she muttered.
“If you weren’t so abominably pretty, it wouldn’t be a problem.”
She gave him a wicked smile. “I’ll try to look uglier.”
This trip was going to try every nerve she possessed.
Her last glimpse as they stepped through the hatch into the cabin area was of several faces turned their way. Hard visages. Weathered tough. With eyes that shone the way the rats’ eyes in a cellar glow when light hits them. She shivered.
The cabin was bare except for a narrow bunk with a stained and threadbare mattress, a washstand that looked like it hadn’t been used in a decade, and a battered lantern that swung from a gimbal overhead. The light in the cabin was as dingy as the small window that admitted it.
She stood for a minute, clutching her satchel to her, looking around.
“How long does this crossing take?” she asked.
“It depends,” he said, setting down her valise. “Tide, wind, rough water—could be eight hours, could be two dozen. We’re under steam, so we’ll get there . . . sooner or later.”
She frowned, thinking. “Claire and Julian had to make this crossing.”
“He’s done it before. He’ll know what to expect.” He took her satchel from her, set it on the floor beside her valise and his, and removed a blanket from atop his valise to spread over the bunk. “May as well get comfortable.”
Her frown turned on him. “How comfortable?”
“Sitting down, comfortable.” He sat on one end of the bunk and then leaned over to pat the other end. She contemplated it for a moment, reluctant to make contact with anything in the cabin.
“What is that smell?” She wrinkled her nose at the moldy odor.
He sniffed. “Rot of some kind, I expect.” He flicked a bit of curled paint and possibly wood from the window behind him. “She’ll hold together until Calais. That’s all we need.”
“I believe I’d rather pass the time in the dining room with the rest of the passengers.” She was out the door before he could stop her.
She found the dining room down the hall and down a couple of steps. It was in fact the ship’s mess . . . a modest space lighted by small, high windows and containing a pair of tables bolted to the deck. Old sailing memorabilia was nailed to the wooden shiplap walls. Oars, nets, and gaff hooks, dusty signal flags, and faded posters listing seagoing timetables hid some of the weathered paint. Pegs along one wall held mackintoshes for the crew, and rubber boots lay in haphazard piles under the windows.
There didn’t seem to be other passengers, unless she counted two men in a far corner who were smoking pipes. One wore a reasonable-looking pinstriped suit and the other a bulging set of tweeds. Around the tables in between sat several roughly clad men nursing mugs of coffee or something a mite stronger. Their weathered faces turned with interest as she entered and paused just inside the doorway. There wasn’t another female aboard, she realized, nor another gentleman. She began to reconsider her determination to avoid being alone with Reynard.
“Well, well. Wot we got ’ere?” A tall, rangy fellow wearing a coarsely knit sweater and cap looked her up and down, and the other men present followed suit. He shoved to his feet and sauntered toward her, smug and openly appraising. A second fellow joined him, a short, brawny fellow with dusky skin and eyes as dark as his coal-stained hands. This one’s arms were thick; heavy muscles protruded from ripped shirtsleeves—a stoker, she realized. Three others looked ready to join them in whatever they had in mind for her.
Frankie swallowed hard, but stood her ground. She knew this kind. Like timberland wolves and coyotes on the plains, they could smell fear and were attracted to it. Sometimes, like now, they sought it out.
“A fine slip o’ muslin,” the stoker said with an ugly laugh.
“Whaddaya want, sweetness?” the tall one said, edging close enough to touch her, but not yet attempting it.
“I was hoping to find a cup of tea to warm my bones,” she said, realizing belatedly that mentioning “bones” was probably a bad idea.
“Aw, missy, I’ll warm yer bones fer ye.” The tall one moved even closer. There was bawdy laughter and some low muttering she was glad not to understand. “Truth be—we’ll all take a turn at it.”
“Thank you, but no thank you,” she said with a fierce little smile, bracing and raising her chin a notch. “I’ll settle for tea.”
She felt her throat tightening and every second stretching to include a small eternity. At best, they wanted a bit of rough entertainment. At worst—Lord, she didn’t want to think about worst. What possessed her to leave the safety of the cabin?
* * *
Reynard stood just outside the doorway, his fists clenched, but he wasn’t sure who made him angrier, the salt-pickled sailors or Miss Too-Independent-for-Her-Own-Good. She seemed to be holding her ground, but the slightest tick of movement could start something he might have to finish in a bad way. And they’d be a few hands short to make a safe crossing.
He stepped into the mess behind her with an icy glare, and flicked back the left side of his coat to reveal the pistol he wore in a shoulder holster. Only one man in the room recognized it as a quick-draw “naked” holster from America, and that man had seen that very gun and holster in use a time or two.
The two ringleaders froze at the sight of Reynard’s unspoken threat. The change in their faces and the direction of their attention caused Frankie to glance over her shoulder. He quickly flipped his coat back over the gun.
One of the pipe smokers at the back—a muscular fellow with a blocky face and a bent nose that gave his face a dangerous cast—rose to break the tense silence.
“I believe the cook can find you a spot o’ tea.” Grycel Manse, Reynard’s friend and sometimes informant, turned and gave a couple of hard raps on the nearest wall with a meaty fist. The apron-clad cook appeared at the galley hatch with a scowl, and he politely asked for “some tea for the lady.”
The cook surveyed the room, took in Frankie’s appearance with surprise, and disappeared back into the galley.
“Perhaps you’d prefer to wait for it in your cabin,” Manse said, glancing between her and Reynard.
“I would. Thank you, sir,” she answered, then turned to exit past Reynard. His heart was thudding as she moved past him and up the hallway to their cabin.
By the time he paused outside the door for a deep breath and entered, she had decided to sit on the bunk after all, her arms wrapped around her waist.
“Did you learn what you needed to learn?” Reynard said, stopping before her with his hands propped at his waist.
“That we don’t have a dining room or much chance of getting anything edible on this vessel? I did.”
“I was referring to the potential dangers aboard this ship.”
She looked him in the eye. “Was that a gun I saw under your coat?”
“You saw that. Fine. I am carrying a gun.” He crossed his arms and spread his feet a bit since the deck was starting to tilt, ever so slightly.
“May I see it?”
“Hell, no. The thought of you with a loaded firearm in your possession gives me palpitations.” He had a quick and alarmingly erotic vision of her standing in her nightgown with a gun aimed straight for his . . . heart. “If anyone needs shooting, I’ll be the one doing it.”
“Fine.” She didn’t look like she thought it was fine. “I could always use an oar. They have a couple of spare ones in the mess.”
He stared at her, remembering all too well her grit that first night and her dead-on aim with a bread paddle. A laugh escaped him, and he was a little surprised. Tension, he told himself. Some people laughed like hyenas when they were in danger.
A knock on the door made him spin around and reach for the latch. Outside stood Manse with a tray bearing two steaming mugs of tea. “Good,” he said, “thanks.” She slid from the bunk and was beside him before he could close the door.
“That was quite lovely of you, sir. We appreciate your kindness.”
“Anytime, missus,” Manse responded, playing his part well. “Crew’s a bit rough. You’ll want to keep to the cabin.” He glanced at Reynard. “I’ll look in from time to time to see if you need anything.”
“You do that,” Reynard answered, registering the twinkle in Manse’s eye as he took the tray and shut the door.
“You might have been more courteous to that gentleman.”
“He’s no gentleman,” Reynard said, trying to decide whether to tell her that Grycel was along for the journey. “I suspect he might be quite put out to hear you label him one. He thinks gentlemen are selfish, mean, and lazy. Present company excepted.”
“You know him?”
“I do. He’s a business acquaintance.” Something made him add, “And a friend.” He turned that last part over in his mind, deciding it was true. He was a friend and a good one at that.
“He looks kind of dangerous,” she said, sipping from her mug as she settled back onto the bunk.
“He is.” Reynard settled at the other end of the bunk and leaned back on one elbow to sip his drink. He was relieved to find it was simple tea. No need to lower inhibitions with spirits when he was stuck this close to the desirable Frankie. “Grycel Manse was a bare-knuckle fighter for a few years and put a number of men’s lights out. None permanently, but it was a close call once or twice. I met him at Mehanney’s Gym. We sparred a few rounds one day and when I quit seeing stars, we went out for a drink at a nearby pub and started a fight with some locals. Since then, he keeps his eyes and ears open for me. He knows a lot of people.”
He watched her drinking in that story and could almost see her adding that piece to her assessment of him. Something in him wanted to say more, to tell her more—personal things—ideas, information, conclusions.
“So that’s how you get your ‘secrets.’ People like Mr. Manse.”
He studied the tea in his mug.
“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s just an unguarded word here or there, sometimes a dinner with a well-placed acquaintance or a favor for someone who needs it. No lurking at keyholes or scaling walls to peer in second-story windows.”
“I wouldn’t have expected that.” She grinned. “You’re too . . .”
“Too what?” he asked, watching her sort through a number of descriptions she either refused to assign to him or refused to reveal.
“Cultured. Elegant. Maybe a bit too superior,” she said.
She clearly wasn’t one for gilding the lily, he thought. “All true. Honest and yet, not unkind. A rare and admirable combination of traits.”
“Much like yourself,” she said, letting her eyes linger a bit too long on his sprawled frame.
“Me? Admirable? Beware, Miss B. I am a gossip hawk, after all.”
“Just when did you become a gossip hawk?” When he shook his head, she pressed on. “What was your first ‘secret’?”
He sighed and finished his tea in one gulp, thinking back. “I believe it was when George Rector wet the bed in our hall at school. Smelled horrid. It was the dead of winter and he was a plebe—a new student—eight years old and missing Nanny. He was in tears and so frightened—I claimed it was me—said I peed in his bed because he was a proper toff. He was forever grateful.”
“That’s terrible.” She gaped at him.
“Not really. Since he’d supposedly had a hard ‘welcome to,’ the older boys mostly left him alone after that. And I earned points for being a right little bugger. So, we both came out like daisies.” He sighed. “Never told a soul it was him. Until now.” He frowned, thinking that he was in danger of opening more of himself to her than was wise. “And that secret taught me a lesson that has served me well to this very day.”
“Which is?”
“Secrets are valuable. Everybody has secrets, and most people would go a long way to protect them.”
“Even you?” she asked, and he felt a curious spur of emotion and looked up into her warm blue eyes.
“Especially me,” he said, unable to look away.
“About your family?” she said.
“Why would you say that?” He sat up slowly.
“Isn’t that where most secrets start? Look at my family—chock-full of things we’d rather other people didn’t know. Some things—like the reason for this mad dash to Paris—we’d rather members of our own family didn’t know.”
There was something in her gaze and weighting her words, something left unspoken.
“My heritage is fairly well known: only child of Gareth Boulton, the second son of the previous viscount. The first son, my uncle Ormond, had no children who lived, so when my father died—I was all of two years old—I became his heir. My mother was a good woman, but not especially hardy. She died not long before my seventh year.
“I was sent away to school after that. I was small and underfed, scrawny actually. My smart mouth got me into trouble routinely and I probably wouldn’t have survived my first two years if not for your brother-in-law, Ashton Graham. He was a scrapper and stuck up for me and for his older brother, Arthur. I owe him more than I can say. Which is the whole reason—”
He looked down, then away, wishing he could take back that last part.
* * *
“The whole reason you’re here?” Frankie was taken aback, and felt a sinking in her chest. “You’re paying a debt to my brother-in-law. And here I thought it might be my too-pretty face and charming conversation.”
She took a deep breath and chided herself for reading romance into the odd but intriguing relationship developing between them. Soaring passion? Soul-deep communion? A love to last the ages? Clearly, her mother was right about one thing: she had read too many novels.
“Well, it doesn’t matter why you’re here,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as him, “you’re here and helping me. Whatever the outcome, I will always be grateful for that.”