Page 4 of The Storybook Hero
Alex tugged at the cuff of his coat. “As William says, that was in the past.” A pause. “Long in the past.”
The earl fixed him with a penetrating look, one that mingled both exasperation and sympathy. Under such scrutiny, it was Alex who finally looked away.
“What on earth made you think I might agree to such a proposal?” he asked softly. His usual cynicism quickly reasserted itself, and he gave a curt laugh. “Obviously, it would solve a great number of problems—William would be free of the burden of my quarterly allowance and the rest of you would no longer have to fret about what blot will fall next on the family name.”
“I thought you might say yes because I remember a young man who had just the sort of pluck and resourcefulness to bring off something like this.”
“That man died ten years ago,” said Alex harshly.
“Did he?” asked Chittenden quietly. “My memory must be getting addled in my old age—I thought only Jack died.”
Alex gulped the remaining contents of his glass and thumped it down on the mantel hard enough to set several of the silver candlesticks to wobbling.
“It’s not fair to ask—” began Thomas.
“It’s much too great a risk—” blurted out Olivia at the same time.
Their voices were overridden by the marquess’s own protest. “You must be mad, Uncle Ivor. To think that Alex …” He hesitated a fraction, his gaze raking over his youngest brother. “… could be counted on to act responsibly. The first whiff of vodka or flounce of a skirt and he’d forget all about our young cousin. Pluck and resourcefulness you say? More like indolence and recklessness. God knows, this family is aware that he has more than enough ofthosequalities!”
A muscle twitched on Alex’s rigid face and he paled slightly.
Thomas touched his elder brother’s shoulder. “That’s enough, William.”
“Indeed it is,” agreed Thomas’s wife. “I have never understood why you all blame Alex for?—”
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Augusta,” said Alex coldly. “Neither do I need your pity.”
His sister-in-law fell into a wounded silence.
“Naturally I’m overwhelmed by your confidence in my abilities, dear brother,” continued Alex, his tone changing to one of obvious sarcasm. “Actually, you should be voicing a hearty encouragement, knowing the chances are good that I would follow Jack to the grave.”
“I … I have never said that I wished such a thing,” protested William.
Alex’s lips curled in a mocking smile. “No,” he agreed. “You have never said it. You are much too much a gentleman to voice what you really feel.”
“For God’s sake, none of us would wish for any harm to befall you, Alex. I think you know that,” cut in Thomas.
“Do I?” Alex walked slowly to the sidetable and refilled his glass nearly to the brim. Downing it in one swallow, he made a point of filling it again before speaking again. “My thanks for such an enjoyable eveningen famille, but if you will excuse me now, I have a pressing engagement. “ He made an elaborate show of consulting his pocket watch. “And since I pay by the hour for the favors I receive, I should not like to be even a minute late.” A thin smile toyed on his lips at the yelp of outrage from the marquess. ”Don’t bother getting up, William—I know the way out.”
“Think about it, Alex,” counseled Chittenden as his nephew stalked toward the door.
The only answer was the heavythunkof the oak door falling shut.
A crackleof what sounded like gunshots pierced the frigid air, causing the solitary figure at the railing of the merchant ship to start with alarm. It took a moment for the young lady to realize that the sounds were not made by any firearms but by the frozen canvas of the topsails as the crew aloft set the vessel into motion. She pulled her shabby cloak even tighter around her willowy form and watched as the oak-planked hull gathered way and the bustling dockyards began to recede. The freshening wind bit through the thick wool, but rather than retreat to the cramped confines of her tiny cabin, she chose to remain on deckfor a while longer. The prospect of having to endure the mindless chatter of her cabinmate—the plump wife of a minor diplomat rejoining her husband after a visit to her relatives—for the entire voyage was enough to set her already unsettled stomach to churning.
Besides, she thought with grim humor, she had better get used to the cold.
The portside watch jumped into the rigging close to where she stood and scrambled aloft to obey the series of orders bellowed by the officer on deck. Intrigued by the strange terms, as incomprehensible as Hindu to her landlocked ears, the young lady watched with great interest as the men swung out precariously on the yardarms and let out another expanse of sail.
“Excuse me, Miss, but you would be better off below, out of harm’s way.”
Though the officer’s voice was polite enough, the meaning was clear. For a moment, she was tempted to ignore the veiled order, but thought better of setting herself at odds with those in command so soon. With a last look at the winking lights of Isle of Dogs, and with the London and the Royal dockyards at Greenwich, she made her way across the rolling deck to the main hatchway.
Below deck, the combination of murky darkness and fetid air caused the bile to rise in her throat. With lurching steps, she managed to locate her cabin and stumble to her narrow berth.
“Don’t worry dearie, you’ll soon get used to it,” came a shrill voice, more irritating for its grating cheerfulness. “Most everyone is dreadfully sick for the first few days, though I must confess I seem to have been blessed with a strong stomach. You’ll recover—unless you are one of those unfortunate few who never find their sea legs and remain miserable for the entire journey. Why, I traveled to India with Joseph in the spring of ‘95, and let me assure you, that was a voyage to remember …”Mrs. Phillips launched into what promised to be an interminable account of the trials of shipboard life.
Miserable?Hah, that was an understatement, thought Miss Octavia Hadley as her insides gave yet another heave. It was a good thing she had more than enough practice in letting wave after wave of whinings or complaints wash over her with as little effect as the salty chop was having against the thick wooden hull of their vessel.
