Caroline rolled off the bed in a trice. She opened the door as the man answered that “dinner would be at six. Ocean hours, you see, ma’am.”
The lady was probably around Caroline’s age, though her serious gaze and youthful face belied one another. She might be a mature twenty, or a youthful thirty. She was genteel, although her black dress was more in keeping with a governess or lady’s maid than a lady of rank.
“How do you do, ma’am?” She gave Caroline a nod. She was very pretty, with curly dark hair partially subdued by braids and a hat. “You must be Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes, but you have the advantage of me.”
“Of course. I’m Mrs. Scott. I’m traveling with Lady Marston and her husband, Sir Mark Marston.”
“TheMarstons?”Caroline said. “I heard nothing of this. Sir Mark and Lady Marston cannot possibly plan?—”
“Ah, there they are now,” Mrs. Scott said.
Two middle-aged persons entered the dining room. Caroline had not seen them in some time, for she had been in Hertfordshire, Bath, or Derbyshire for the past year, but she had met them many times in London. He was a baronet with property in the north, but he and his wife rarely left London, where they were something of a byword.
Lady Marston was tall and severe with a face like a hatchet, presently even more severe than usual. Her half-coat of stripedwool was boldly black and white.. Sir Mark, on the other hand, was nearly a foot shorter, and rotund in the manner of a cream puff. His pantaloons were of the latest sort, his waistcoat a virulent green, and his collar points—for a morning aboard a packet ship—absurd. To finish it off, he wore a wig, which only the most stubborn of the previous generation still did. It did not match his modish attire at all, and he was only in his fifties or early sixties, so he could not even claim great age as an excuse. It was a small bob-wig with a roll over each ear, and it gave him a ridiculously comic air. She would’ve recognized him anywhere.
They had no children, unless rumor could be believed, which purported that at least three—but possibly as many as ten—by-blows of Sir Mark had been discreetly sent out of London to be fostered by tenants on his country estate.
One thought was uppermost in Caroline’s mind as she studied the couple: If Lady Marston and Sir Mark could stomach a trip in this tiny box to Istanbul, then Caroline Fitzwilliam could certainly not back down.
“How do you do, Lady Marston?” Caroline said. “Sir Mark?”
The gentleman squinted in the gloom to make out her face. “Very well—thank you. I can’t quite—have we been introduced?”
Caroline looked briefly at Lady Marston, but that lady only eyed the weather-stained table with disapprobation.
Caroline’s pride flared up. The Bingleys were not an old, titled family, but she had been in company with the Marstons any time these five years. “I believe that we were first introduced by Lady Sefton. I am Caroline Fitzwilliam, formerly Bingley.”
“Ah, of course! I’ve a dreadful memory.” Sir Mark bowed and his stays creaked alarmingly. Lady Marston dipped her head. Her one ostrich plume, black to match her costume, was a striking exclamation.
Another gentleman entered the dining room from the passageway, followed closely by Richard.
“Hullo; have I found the party?” the young man exclaimed. His fair hair was rather long and caught back carelessly in a tie to avoid the wind. He wore the glossy black boots of a gentleman who used champagne in the blacking, and a coat that must have come from Stultz. He had a cane, although he did not otherwise appear to belong to the dandy set—he had no golden fobs dangling from his waist or rings on his fingers. His broad frame spoke more of a budding Corinthian than a dandy. He looked as if he’d be more comfortable in a boxing ring at Gentleman Jackson’s Salon than in the current situation.
He made a general bow. “I don’t know the custom aboard ship, but it seems apropos to introduce myself. I am Theodore Belvedere; my friends call me Belly.”
The posh Sir Mark eyed him through a quizzing glass. “I like your cravat. Brighton Fall?”
“No, sir, the Mathematical. All the crack at Cambridge just now.”
Sir Mark’s gaze traveled up, and he winced faintly as he took in the man’s windswept hair.
Young Mr. Belvedere laughed. “I know I look a mess! My apologies, ma’am, miss.” He bowed again to the ladies. “I was late in arriving at Falmouth. I’ve come from London as fast as may be and have dressed all by guess for three days past.”
“Three days?” Caroline repeated. “Why, we took ten.” To be sure, she and Richard had stopped in Bristol, Exeter, and Portsmouth. Once to see another officer, and several times merely to see sights from this region which Caroline had never visited before.
There was a belated round of introductions. Caroline was curious about Mrs. Scott—unsure if the lady was companion, lady’s maid, or fellow passenger—but her curiosity was still not satisfied after Mrs. Scott’s introduction. Lady Marstonperformed that office, waving one thin hand in the young lady’s direction. “This is my—friend, Mrs. Scott, who accompanies us.”
“And what takes all of you on this voyage?” Richard asked, coming to offer his arm to Caroline. “We are sent to Istanbul on government business.”
Young Mr. Belvedere raised his hand as if he were still at Eton or Harrow. “I’ve been sent forth by my father on something of a Grand Tour. Athens is my goal. The continent isn’t fit at present, of course, but I gather mypaterthinks if he sends me round the long way I’ll still gain some polish. See the ruins, meet more of society.” If he resented being sent off in such a fashion, he certainly did not look it. His father must not greatly prize his safety, for it was the outside of foolish to send a young man to foreign lands without a companion.
Sir Mark shook his head severely. “Not with that hair, young man! Even I know that to take the Grand Tour with such a ragged mane—! Athens is a civilized city. Why, you might meet anyone there. Where is your tutor, boy?”
“I left him—or, he left me, rather.” His affability was unimpaired at their gapes of shock. “He was always a dead bore, and he didn’t above half want to go. He could only complain about resin in the wine and the dangers of sea travel. I’m not so loose in the haft I can’t undertake a journey on my own. I’ve letters of introduction to several of my father’s friends in Athens, or failing that, Rhodes. I shall do.”
Sir Mark raised his quizzing glass with an air. “I beg to differ.”
