When You Wish Upon a Duke Page 12

  Jason was transfixed. “And did they?”

  Isobel smiled at the horizon. “They did, thank God. And they had the time of their lives. Jane could speak of nothing else. For weeks. Soon her sisters and friends wanted their own Paris holidays. After that, they wanted to see Rome. Hamburg. My life as a travel agent was born. Eventually, demand grew beyond what I could sustain. I was working from a tiny desk in my bedroom at the Starlings’. My uncle connected me with the Hookes and their Everland Travel shop—this was when Mr. and Mrs. Hooke were still alive. I was hired on and given this lovely purpose in life. And a way to support myself. By then, I was ready. Mostly healed and eager to be on my own. Since then, I’ve launched old women, young women, friends, sisters, generations of females, on adventures throughout Europe.”

  “Remarkable,” he whispered, and he meant it. “But you’ve no wish to travel yourself?” He flicked the coin into the air and caught it.

  Isobel was silent for a moment, staring at the damp leather of her gloves. Finally, she shook her head. It was hardly a proclamation, but she appeared very earnest. She looked as if she wanted very much for it to be true. She looked as if she needed it to be true.

  She said, “I’ve traveled. Now I want only to stay back. To be safe. To . . .” she shook her head, “. . . keep out of trouble.”

  “Does this mission qualify as trouble in your view, Miss Tinker?” he asked, his voice just above the sound of the waves.

  She laughed without humor. “Of course it is trouble. Pirates. Smugglers. Dashing foreign agents.”

  “But we are doing good work, you and I. Noble and honorable work. Someone has to sort out this situation before lives are lost or—”

  “Yes, yes,” she cut in, “before England is at war with Iceland.” She cocked her head and gave him a look. “Highly unlikely, don’t you think?”

  He opened his mouth to challenge her, but she forged ahead. “Look, it may be good work, but it’s hardly ‘honorable’ for an unmarried woman to travel alone with a—with you.”

  She looked away. Jason longed to catch her chin and turn her face back.

  “You would not have asked,” she swallowed, “a respectable lady to drop everything and serve as your translator on this journey.”

  “Not translator,” he said softly. “Attaché. And I don’t see it as dishonorable. Not in the slightest.”

  “Come now. Sailing away with you would ruin my reputation, if I had a reputation to ruin.” She looked up at him. “But I don’t, do I? And we both know it.”

  “I’ve given no thought to your reputation, Miss Tinker,” he said. The words were out before he’d examined them for the truth.

  Had he thought of it?

  “My parents were never married,” she stated. “I spent my youth mostly unsupervised, flouncing around Europe with other unsupervised girls and truly laddish boys. The result of this was exactly what one might expect, and I survived only by the skin of my teeth. And because of my uncle and aunt.

  “Which,” she finished, “brings me back to the reason I asked about Sir Jeffrey. Their compassion may well have saved my life, and I promised myself to repay their kindness by being the most well-behaved, respectable niece in Britain. To be a source of pride and goodwill and no disgrace.”

  “Your uncle is so proud,” Jason said. “It’s very clear.”

  “My uncle would not consider sailing to Iceland in your company to tangle with pirates to be a source of pride, Your Grace. And neither do I.”

  “Ah . . .” he said.

  “I’ll not lie about it to them, of course,” she said. “Obviously they will learn of the new building and my relocation to Hammersmith. But I would rather . . . mention it in hindsight. Months from now. If and when we all return unscathed.”

  Now she turned her back to the ocean and flopped against the railing. She looked to him. “My point is, I absolutely must return from all of this business entirely unscathed.”

  She paused. Jason realized it was his turn to speak. “Don’t give it a second thought,” he said, flicking his coin.

  She laughed.

  “No, really,” he went on. “I’ve convened the very best in hired muscle, and I, myself, am very handy in a fight. You needn’t worr—”

  “I do not mean physically imperiled, Northumberland. I can take care of myself when it comes to pirates.”

  “So you mean . . .”

  “I mean,” she said, “I’ve a job and a reputation and a surrogate family. They all depend on how I conduct myself. And with whom. In Mayfair, my conduct was easy to maintain. On a brig, cutting across the North Sea with you, the challenge is greater. My aunt and uncle will be well aware of this. Any person who understands the notion of ‘unchaperoned travel’ will be aware of this. That is what I mean by unscathed.”

  “Do you feel . . . unsafe, Miss Tinker?” Jason asked, tossing the coin. It was a stupid question, but he meant to buy himself time. Of course he’d not thought of this.

  “It makes no difference whether I feel safe, as you well know,” she said. “What care have people for my safety when they can speculate about my purity instead. My clients value my respectability. My character and choices must be above reproach. My aunt and uncle want me safe, of course, but they also want a life for me with no closed doors. I want this life.”

  Jason was nodding his head. “I understand how maidenly virtue works. I simply hadn’t focused on it.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. No one expects a bachelor duke to be virtuous.”

  “Well, I don’t expect you to be virtuous.” The truth, he realized.

  She laughed. “No, you wouldn’t expect that either.”

  No, no, no, he thought. “What I mean is—”

  “You don’t have to explain. You would never have approached my cousin Jane for this mission, even though Jane is intrepid and eager for adventure. And why? Because she is the daughter of an MP and the granddaughter of an earl. She’s unmarried and she lives at home with her parents. This ‘mission’ would be unheard of for her, as well it should be.

  “But me?” she went on. “A girl in a shop? With ‘a file’ in the Foreign Office and no known father? You didn’t hesitate; in fact, you hounded me—”

  “I didn’t hound—”

  “You lured me to Hammersmith under false pretenses and then bribed me with property.”

  “Also there was no lure—”

  “Make no mistake,” she cut in again. “I don’t say this to accuse you. I know which way the wind blows for girls like me. This is merely a reminder. There are many ways to be ‘scathed.’ And just because I am an actress’s daughter who works for a living, I shouldn’t be—”

  “Stop,” exclaimed Jason.

  “. . . shouldn’t be—"

  He pulled off his hat and pressed it against her face, obscuring her from the forehead to chin.

  “Pause,” he said. “Please.”

  Isobel, her face now covered by his hat, raised a gloved hand and pressed the hat halfway down with two gloved fingers. Her blue eyes peeked out over the brim.

  “A small benefit of being duke is the privilege of finishing a sentence,” he said. “On rare occasion. Or so I’ve been told.”

  He pulled the hat away and she interjected with, “What I meant to say—”

  He extended the hat again, covering her lips. Again, only her eyes were revealed. Unless he was mistaken, they twinkled with amusement.

  “Miss Tinker,” he began. “I do not see you as the daughter of an actress or a girl in a shop. I see you as a resource. From the beginning, your noted qualities were independence, intelligence, and a sort of . . . oh, let’s just call it ‘lack of fuss.’ ”

  If he also saw pretty, exciting, and incendiary, he elected not to mention these. Yet.

  He continued. “Call me selfish, but your reputation or impressionable sensibilities, whatever they may be, did not figure in. If Cousin Jane Starling had a history in Iceland, spoke the language, and had knowledge of the mis
creants who now hold my cousin hostage, I would have recruited her instead—and it would not have mattered about her father or grandfather. Any of my superiors will readily attest that I’ve never had patience for what is ‘appropriate.’ It is one of the many qualities that made me an effective spy and will, no doubt, make me a terrible duke.

  “As for your respectability, I offered to provide a companion or maid—I urged you to include your girl, Samantha Smee, for this journey. You refused. Fine, I don’t care, one fewer person with whom to bother. But please don’t accuse me of targeting you because you somehow view yourself as . . . as an easy mark. If you must know, all women are easy marks for me, and I don’t distinguish. I would never split hairs over how pure they may or may not be. But also, I’m no predator. Make no mistake. Women come to me.”

  Now she laughed, as he’d hoped she would.

  He shot her a grin and shoved his hat back on his head. “Release yourself,” he finished, “from worry about being ‘scathed’—not by our proximity or this mission. If anything inappropriate happens, it will be by your hand.”

  He leaned his hip against the rail. “But thank you for reviewing the reasons you are to be held suspect in this area. One can only hope there is more dubious behavior to discover. I’m beginning to feel it is my virtue we should be worried about. Not yours.”

  She was shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

  He was a little ridiculous, but Jason wouldn’t be accused of preying on her or her alleged murky reputation. What care had he for anyone’s reputation? None.

  “No one bothers with the virtue of a handsome bachelor duke,” she informed him. “You’re expected to be indiscreet—which is why I raised the topic in the first place.”

  “Handsome, am I?” he asked. “Seems to be the second time you’ve mentioned this. Perhaps the seduction has already begun. Compliments are a known enticement. I can feel myself softening to you already.”

  She let out a frustrated gasp. “If I intended to entice you, Your Grace, the last thing you would feel was soft.”

  Jason laughed, a loud, delighted bark into the wind. Isobel smiled too. He saw her moment of triumph before her face tightened with indignation.

  “But we’ve already kissed,” she said. She exhaled in defeat. “You kissed me.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “Did I?”

  “You know this.” Her pale cheeks were turning red.

  “Yes, I suppose I did. But it was done in service to this delicate reputation of yours. To evade the night watchman. If I’d been recruiting your cousin Jane, I would have kissed her too.”

  Isobel seemed to think about this, a frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. Perhaps she didn’t fancy him kissing her cousin Jane Starling.

  Not that it mattered. Jason saw only her. In his mind’s eye. In his memory. In his dreams. Now. He hadn’t lied when he said he wasn’t a predator. But that did not mean he did not want.

  He watched Isobel shake her head in the manner of someone dislodging a bad thought. The motion loosened her cloak, and the heavy wool fell open. Her neck and collarbone were bare. She tapped two gloved fingers at the base of her throat.

  Jason tried not to look, failed miserably, and watched her fingertips. What did she wear beneath the cloak? How much weight had she lost to seasickness?

  He felt sweat on the back of his neck. The late-summer air was just above freezing and it was colder still in the wind, and he was sweating. Jason didn’t sweat because of women—not on the deck of a freezing brig or anywhere else for that matter.

  He was just about to tell her again not to worry, but a wave rocked the brig, tipping the vessel nearly forty-five degrees. Rigging clanged and swung, wood creaked. With no warning, Jason and Isobel were pitched sideways. He lashed out his right arm to catch the railing just as Isobel lost her footing. He caught her at the waist with his left hand and dragged her against him.

  “Careful,” he shouted over the sound of crashing waves. “I have you. Hold on.”

  She froze against him for a long, sideways moment. The brig rode the swell of a wave. Jason held to the railing with one hand and to Isobel with the other. At the highest point, the angle of the deck was nearly put to rights. The ship seemed to hover in the mist. Then it dropped, slamming downward with bone-cracking force.

  Isobel let out a little moan, breathing against his chest. Jason cinched his arm around her and she burrowed deeper, wrapping her arms around him and nosing inside the open flap of his coat.

  “I have you,” he repeated into her hair, straining to hold on to the rail.

  She made a nodding motion against his chest and mumbled something indistinguishable.

  “What?” he shouted.

  She plied her head off of his chest and peeked up. “My cabin,” she said, her voice cracking. “I need my cabin.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “I’ll take you. Will you allow me?”

  She nodded again and ducked her head against him, pressing so tightly he almost lost his footing. He shifted, finding a more secure hold, and began the careful, unsteady journey from quarter deck to forecastle hatch.

  Isobel tripped along with him, shifting a little with every step, making their progress easier. She fitted her tiny body more securely to the hollows and dips of his. With every step, she burrowed closer.

  It occurred to him that dragging her across the slippery deck of a bobbing ship felt like the most correct, natural thing in the world. A small, bright spark flashed in his chest, the flick of flint against stone. A beckoning. He put one boot in front of the other, following the spark.

  Chapter Ten

  Isobel told herself that her sunset rendezvous with the duke had been a known—nay, a planned encounter. She’d pursued the conversation to be perfectly clear. The duke’s intentions must be honorable. Her intentions must be prudent and with an eye toward her future. They spoke to be reminded that no respectable person would approve of their circumstances.

  If, in that encounter, she’d revealed too much; if she’d (God help her) clung to his muscled body with too much enthusiasm—well.

  Not every planned thing went off perfectly.

  She’d not failed at making her point.

  And rough seas could not be helped.

  As to her unknown wish to share the details of her life with him?

  It all just sort of spilled out, didn’t it?

  And so now he knew.

  Rather than punish herself, Isobel embraced mindless seasickness instead. For the next day and night, she lay on the cool floor of her cabin, riding the waves of nausea and the heavy hand of skewed balance.

  When, finally, she felt well enough to drag herself again on deck, she vowed to do better. If the duke was there—and perhaps he would not be—she would exchange pleasantries and one or two facts about Iceland, but nothing more.

  “She lives,” called a familiar voice when she finally made it down the corridor and up the ladder that led to the deck.

  The sound of his voice sent a twinkling shimmer through her, like a chime that had been softly tapped with a mallet.

  She frowned. She’d spent the last thirty-two hours barely able to rise from the floorboards and now she shimmered?

  Isobel ignored it and concentrated on climbing steadily from the hatch, finding her balance, and putting her face to the wind. The great, roaring whoosh, even before she felt the gust, was a relief. When the cold slap hit her with salt and sea spray, she sucked in her first restorative breath.

  “I tried several times to look in on you,” Northumberland called behind her. “I listened outside your door. All I heard were a few muffled thumps. The steward assured me that he’d seen signs of life, so I left you to it. You’re . . . better, I hope?”

  “I am the same,” she said, squinting to adjust her eyes to the light. The sun was setting, but the sky at dusk was brighter than her candlelit cabin. It was a balm to see natural light and breathe fresh air.

  The railing at th
e stern was yards from the hatch, but she reached it without assistance. The smooth wood was cool and solid. She clasped it with both hands, breathing hard from exertion.

  “If you’re trying to make me feel guilty,” he said, coming up beside her, “it’s working.”

  “No effort is required to make you feel guilty,” she said. “You are guilty.”

  “Ah yes, that’s right. Guilty of—?”

  “Dragging an afflicted woman across a roiling ocean to . . . entertain your itch for adventure.”

  The duke thought about this and nodded slightly to the open sea. “Another reference to this mission as less than essential? Come now, Miss Tinker, be honest, what do you really think?”

  “I think I’ve fallen into ownership of a beautiful brick building, all my own, with an adorable flat above it and an opportunity to exponentially improve my life. Beyond that, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “What of my cousin and the other men from Lincolnshire? You care so little about them?”

  “I’ve no doubt that your cousin and his friends are rather uncomfortable at the moment. How lucky for the both of you that this rescue delivers them and postpones your ascension to duke.”

  “You think this mission is a diversion for me,” he accused.

  “I think perhaps becoming a duke will be no diversion at all—for you.”

  Northumberland chuckled and shook his head, but he did not argue. They turned their faces to the wind, watching the sky turn from pale blue to indigo, with streaks of apricot and cream. It was a breathtaking canvas.

  “Good God, what a view,” he said, exhaling.

  Isobel squinted into the mist. It was undeniably beautiful, and the heavens would only become more vivid and otherworldly the farther north they sailed. The strange colors and mystic light would take his breath away.

  Isobel could acknowledge the beauty but it flooded her with painful memories instead of awe. Seven years ago, the strange, spectral sky had made her homesick and she hadn’t even had a home to pine for—not really.