“Will you come below deck, girl?” Aunt Whipple asked at her elbow. “Kendall has promised that there is comfortable seating to be had in the stateroom. And I should hate for the sun to spoil your complexion.” Her aunt looked pointedly at Allie’s raised chin and the useless bonnet atop her head. “Besides, I had a lovely chat with Mr. Simpson yesterday that I believe you shall find diverting.”
Aunt Whipple loved sharing gossip about people Allie knew not at all.
“Thank you, Aunt, but I believe I will stay here and enjoy the views once we set sail.”
Aunt Whipple lifted a solitary eyebrow, before pointedly surveying the ramshackle St. Katharine Docks around them—longshoremen calling to one another as they rolled casks down gangplanks, drunken sailors staggering along the quay, the ever-present scent of excrement that plagued the Thames hovering in the air. Lady Whipple pursed her lips, clearly weighing the miserable whole against the golden jewel of gossip on her tongue and finding it lacking.
“As you say.” Her aunt gave a disapproving sniff and retreated down the stairs.
The steam engine rumbled underneath Allie’s feet, and the smokestack belched black smoke, adding to the London haze.
TheSS Statesmanwas Kendall’s pride and joy. Though her brother was not necessarily an enthusiast of the sciences, he found modern technology fascinating. He could wax eloquent for hours about the utility of steam power, and he never tired of discussing theSS Great Western,the first steamship to cross the Atlantic not even a decade past.
Such curiosity was the only significant remnant of the Tristan of Allie’s childhood.
Therefore, it had not surprised her to learn he had purchased this ludicrously expensive boat, named it theStatesmanin honor of his own ambitions, and insisted on sailing it to Scotland.
Granted, the ship did not offer suitable accommodations for ladies—Kendall’s words, not Allie’s—and so they would dock at ports along the way and spend their evenings at a proper inn with proper food and proper beds—again, Kendall’s words, not hers.
For her part, Allie would be perfectly content with a hammock aboard ship—heaven knew she had slept in shoddier conditions over the years—but Kendall had merely clenched his jaw, then his fist, before walking off when she had mentioned as much.
So given his irritation . . . the suggestion hadn’t been a complete failure.
Currently, Kendall was closeted with the ship’s captain somewhere, likely barking orders and making a general nuisance of himself to men who knew full well how to run the ship. Or perhaps he was dictating missives to one of his two secretaries. Or consulting with his man of business in the solitary stateroom.
As a duke, Kendall never traveled anywhere without an entourage in tow—two secretaries, a man of business, and a valet, not to mention Allie’s own maid and another to wait upon Aunt Whipple.
To Allie’s purview, they only required a trumpeter and standard bearer to form a procession.
With a blare of a whistle, theSS Statesmanpushed out of her dock, the round paddle wheels on either side of the ship—one to port, one to starboard—propelling it toward the river lock that led to the Thames proper. Tall masts with sails furled stretched overhead, enabling the ship to utilize wind power when it was advantageous and steam power when it was not.
Allie watched the Tower slide past, teeming masses of humanity scurrying along the docks, walking the streets, sailing the river . . .
Was Ethan Penn-Leith currently among those throngs, hat pulled low to hide his handsome face? Or had he gone to ground, determined to wait out the scandal that dogged them both?
She had tried not to think upon Mr. Penn-Leith too much over the past week.
Of course, the task had proved difficult. Partly because, she acknowledged, Kendall had forbidden their acquaintance. And Allie instinctively aimed to behave in the precise opposite manner of Kendall’s demands. Even if in this case, all she could do was allow herself an illicit thought or two of Ethan Penn-Leith.
But she also mourned the loss of possibility. That she might—possibly, maybe—have enjoyed exploring a friendship with the Scot.
Which only served to illustrate the strength of the man’s pull on her and why her existence was better off without him. Safer. Easier to control.
Because if they had been thrown into one another’s orbits with more frequency, she might have found herself tumbling into—
“Rather bonnie day for a wee sail, I ken,” a familiar Scottish voice said behind her, as if summoned by the God of Mischief himself.
Yet again, Allie let out aneep!of surprise and whirled around.
Ethan Penn-Leith stood before her—tall, feet braced against the ship deck, that signature smile of his stretching from ear to ear.
Allie mirrored it back to him.
“Mr. Penn-Leith!” she exclaimed before remembering to wipe the far-too-happy grin off her face.
What was he doing here?
Kendall would have the poet’s head.
