The Very Daring Duchess Part 26

Yes, yes, she'd wanted London, even selfishly, wickedly prayed for it, but never at this horrible price to Edward. Rationally, she knew none of this could be her fault-what influence could her prayers have had with the British Admiralty?-but in the darkest corners of her conscience she was convinced his misfortune was all her fault.

He had saved her life, and she had brought him nothing but this in return. For Edward Ramsden, she'd become the most unlucky creature alive, and as she bowed her head now beside him, it was not against the salt spray, but from shame and sorrow and guilt for bringing him so much unhappiness.

When she'd agreed to marry Edward, she'd truly believed she could put herself and her own wishes first, the way she always had before. She thought she could slip from his life as readily as she'd slipped into it, with a glib smile, a modic.u.m of truth, and a leavening of teasing charm, the recipe that had always served her so perfectly in the past. But now that escape would bring her more pain than she'd ever dreamed, for somehow she'd come to care for Edward Ramsden more than any other person she'd ever known.

No, more than that: She loved him, just as Lady Hamilton had said.

She loved him.

Plain and simple, three short words that meant both endless joy and boundless sorrow. For the more she loved Edward, the more she cared for his happiness and his future, the more convinced she became that she must leave him, the day-the minute!-they reached London.

"There lies the Antelope, Francesca," he said, startling her from her thoughts. "A sorry change for you from the Centaur, I'm afraid."

More likely a sorry change for him, she thought, as she followed his pointing arm. By comparison to the Centaur, even she could see that the Antelope was tiny, a mere thimble bobbing on the bay.

"With that great flapping mainsail, she's built for speed, la.s.s, not for fighting," he continued mournfully. "Leastways we must hope she was. She only carries six small guns, and scarce men to fire 'em. Why, there's likely more gunpowder in a single Chinese firecracker than on board that sloop. May the good Lord deliver us from the French, because that wretch Pettigrew couldn't to save his own worthless soul."

"Hush, Edward, hush!" she scolded in a shocked whisper. Didn't he realize that every morose word he spoke would be carried back to the Centaur by the men at the oars? "You told me yourself you'd never met Captain Pettigrew to judge him a good sailor or bad. And yes, yes, the Antelope is a sorry small vessel compared to the Centaur, but what ship isn't? All she must do is carry us to England, not fight another battle of the Nile."

"And a d.a.m.ned good thing, too," said Edward gloomily. "If Nelson had had an ounce of mercy in his carca.s.s, he would have simply had me heaved over the side to drown instead of suffering this slow torture."

"What a cheerful thought to begin our voyage, mio caro," she whispered sharply, taking back her hand. "If Admiral Lord Nelson didn't toss you into the water, then perhaps I shall instead, and spare us all."

He scowled down at his now-lonely hand, still resting on his knee. "I am sorry to be such a trial, Francesca."

"And so am I," she answered promptly, "just as I am sorry for your misfortunes and those of the rest of the entire world since the beginning of Creation. But let this be an end of all apologies between us, Edward. You are still a captain, a master, a hero in the greatest navy in the world, and you need not apologize before anyone."

"Except to you, la.s.s," he said heavily. "You never asked to be part of any of this. Once we reach London and I've been officially tossed out on my ear-"

"No!" she cried, so vehemently that the men at the oars forgot to pretend not to eavesdrop, and looked up. "I won't listen to any more of this, Edward, not a word! I refuse to worry and fuss over what might happen in the future. All I care for is this day, this moment, for that is all that's in my power to change!"

He sighed mightily, reaching for her hand again. "You'd sooner change the tide, la.s.s," he said. "Or me. Sailors must always look to the future, reading the sky for portents and the waves for coming storms. We must, or perish. But for your sake, I shall try to think only of today and no farther."

"Grazie," she said stiffly. The way he'd explained it made her sound as flighty as a will-o'-the-wisp, when all she really wished was to be able to cherish what she had with him now instead of the inevitable time when she must leave. But she couldn't have it both ways, and so with a sigh of her own she leaned her head against his shoulder and concentrated on studying the sloop that would carry them to England.

The Antelope seemed smaller still as they drew alongside her, her rail not a dozen feet above the water, and though the bo'sn's chair obligingly dangled down for Francesca to use, her ride upward in it to the deck was so short she wondered why they'd bothered.

While the Centaur's main deck had seemed as vast and sweeping as a ballroom floor, the Antelope's deck was fifty feet long at best, and that without a quarterdeck. She carried four small carriage guns on each side, and several smaller guns mounted on swivels at her stern, all the defense she could muster, and uneasily Francesca remembered how Edward had dismissed the sloop's defenses as mere firecrackers.

But most distressing to her was the feel of the Antelope beneath her feet. Even during that first storm the night they'd fled Naples, there had been a rea.s.suring solidity to the Centaur, while the Antelope was already agreeing with her skittish namesake, bobbing and rolling in answer to every swell and ripple in a fashion that Francesca found unsettling both to her well-being and her stomach.

The sloop's entire crew of ten men and two boys presented itself in Edward's honor, and, suspected Francesca, to satisfy their curiosity as well. Much-decorated, t.i.tled captains of ships-of-the-line would be rare pa.s.sengers on a sloop more accustomed to carrying dispatches and letters. Certainly Edward's arrival had been enough to fl.u.s.ter the Antelope's master, for Edward and Francesca had been on board a good five minutes before Pettigrew finally appeared, red-faced and out of breath and still fumbling with the b.u.t.tons on his best dress uniform coat.

"Good morning, sir," he said, huffing and puffing as he touched his hat to salute Edward. "Lieutenant Barnabas Pettigrew, sir, master of the His Majesty's sloop Antelope, sir, your servant, sir. And welcome."

As a lieutenant without influence or distinction, Pettigrew was only a captain by courtesy, not rank, and from the gray that streaked his hair and the rumfed belly that the rumpled, salt-stained dress coat refused to cover, the tiny Antelope was likely to be the only command he'd ever have. To Francesca, his disappointment and envy were clear as his gaze flicked over the gold stripes of braid on Edward's sleeves and the epaulets glittering on the shoulders of his exquisitely tailored coat of dark blue superfine, lined with white silk.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," said Edward with a slight nod and a smile. "You've a pretty little vessel here, and I'm eager to see how you run her out in the open water. I'll wager she fair flies in the right hands, eh?"

"Aye, aye, sir," answered Pettigrew automatically, but instead of preening at the compliment, he'd focussed on Francesca, his eyes narrowing with righteous contempt.

"Forgive me speaking bold, sir," he began, "but the little brown doxie must go back in the boat to sh.o.r.e. I run a G.o.d-fearing ship as His Majesty wishes, not a brothel, and I don't ship Italian concubines, not even for the high-born captains of first-rates."

For an interminable moment, Edward didn't speak, and to Francesca it seemed as if the entire crew was holding its breath until he did. She wanted to wither and drop through the deck from shame-not for herself, but for him.

"Lieutenant," he said at last, his voice deceptively calm, though loud enough for everyone to hear. "I believe I misheard you just now. I trust you have read your orders from Admiral Lord Nelson?"

Pettigrew nodded doggedly. "Orders said I was to carry you home to England, sir, fast as ever I could. Orders didn't say I had to carry your harlot, too."

Oh, Edward, my dearest, I know I said no more apologies, but this-for this I must say how sorry I am to be different, to be unworthy, to not be the porcelain-perfect English lady you deserve!

"Your orders said you were to carry me and my party, Lieutenant," said Edward. "And that includes my wife, Lady Edward Ramsden."

"Your wife," said Pettigrew with withering disbelief. "She's a dago, isn't she? Look at her, sir! What English gentleman-captain would marry himself to a woman like that?"

"I would, and I did, and was honored that she accepted me." Deliberately Edward took her hand, raising it as he linked their fingers to show the heavy gold band on her hand. "Because we must be shipmates, Lieutenant Pettigrew, I shall choose to overlook the seriousness of this insult you have paid me and my wife, and attribute it to your own ignorance and bigotry. But if I hear one more instance of your disrespect, sir, you shall answer directly to me, sir."

Pettigrew's throat worked visibly up and down, his eyes filling with both fear and resentment. "You would report me to the admiral, my lord captain?"

"No, Lieutenant, I would not," answered Edward with icy precision. "This would be between us. Pistols, sir, or swords. It would make no difference to me. Now my wife is weary, and would like to repair to our cabin."

Pointedly Edward turned toward the companionway to the lower deck, drawing Francesca with him.

"You must never duel on my account, Edward!" she said in a horrified rush. "Per favore, per favore, promise me you never will risk your life for such foolishness!"

"I will make no such promise, la.s.s," he said with a lopsided smile that, to her, seemed hideously inappropriate. "My honor and my regard for you make it impossible."

"Your regard, and your stubbornness, to risk your life over something as meaningless as what that man says!"

"Nothing is meaningless where you are concerned, Francesca," he said firmly. "But I wouldn't fret on that sorry b.a.s.t.a.r.d's account. Likely he's already fouled his own breeches at the mere possibility of facing me."

"My lord captain, a word, please!" called Pettigrew, belatedly hurrying after them, hat in hand. "My cabin-that is, the captain's cabin-it's not ready for you, not the way you'd expect. Seeing as I thought it was only you, sir, I'd put you in the first mate's quarters. But I'll clear my things out directly, and give it over to-"

"That isn't necessary, Lieutenant," interrupted Francesca with what she hoped was a brilliant smile. Though Edward felt otherwise, she knew from experience there was nothing to be gained by making idle enemies, or keeping them, either. "I've no wish to displace you from your quarters. I'll make do with the usual accommodations, per favore. No pretty frills for me."

"Francesca, my dear," said Edward swiftly. "I do not believe such a sacrifice is necessary."

"Oh, but I insist, mio caro," she said blithely. "I do not require fancy quarters for myself."

But she should have guessed as much from Pettigrew's smirk as from Edward's warning that the s.p.a.ce between the Antelope's decks would be a far cry from those of the Centaur. The companionway was narrow and dank, and lit only by a single, smoky lantern. There were no polished bra.s.ses or neat paintwork, no marine guards at attention at the louvered door where Edward stopped. He fiddled with the latch until it gave way, then pushed it open. As Francesca's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw a low, windowless s.p.a.ce that was more a closet than a cabin, scarcely large enough for her and Edward to stand together within. The only furnishings were a ledge-like dressing table tucked in between the beams with a looking gla.s.s above, and another, broader shelf with an unpromising mattress and coverlet that she realized was the bunk.

The lone bunk that, as husband and wife, they'd be expected to share.

" 'No pretty frills for me,' " repeated Edward balefully. "Frills, h.e.l.l. I'll go tell that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Pettigrew to give us his cabin, though I doubt it will be much better."

"Don't," said Francesca quickly, resting her hand on his arm to stop him. "I said I'd make do, and I will, and not give Pettigrew the satisfaction of believing otherwise. Besides, caro mio, it won't be for so very long."

"Long enough," said Edward, staring grimly at the bunk. "The better part of a month or more, if we run afoul of winds and weather. Peart will find me someplace to hang a hammock."