Andrew’s eyes snapped to Charles, and his friend winked, clearly enjoying himself.
For the madhouse. All of them.
Why, then, was a grin stretching Andrew’s mouth?
Tristan repeated the same from beside Charles—hewouldagree to the ridiculous gamble. Tristan was certain to find a wife, with his constant charm with women. He would be in no danger of losing one hundred pounds to each of them.
One by one, his friends were falling to the heat of the moment, and Andrew teetered precariously on the cusp of giving in. There was something attractive in the wager, something that drew him in beyond a desire to think of anything but the way only the ship’s too-fragile walls stood between him and certain death.
For months now, he’d been formulating his goals, deciding what he needed to do to prove himself in this world that only valued men like his older brother—men with a position in society and a sure future. Marriage would be the culmination of his success. A wife fit in perfectly with his goals.
One wife in particular—whom he’d spent his formative years catching frogs and climbing trees with, before the burden of responsibility had formed.
“Very well, I pledge that if I marry last, I will pay the required sum,” called Ambrose, holding to the edge of the opposite bunk. The man’s analytical mind had likely already conjured up a plan of action to succeed.
Again, Thomas raised a brow at Andrew. “Come now, of all of us, it is only you and Rowan who already have women waiting.”
Sophie Renard was hardlywaitingfor Andrew. She likely saw him as no more than a friend. An older brother, perhaps. But still, the challenge was thrown, and his honor bade him see it head on. Honor, plus a healthy dose of reckless abandon.
“Fine!” he shouted as he stumbled backward, slamming hard into the wall. His head spun. “I swear, on my life, that I will marry before any of you ridiculous fools.” Now, he needed only to convince Sophie of it.
The men cheered, and Andrew hit the wall again.
Convince Sophie… and survive the rest of this blasted trip.
Chapter One
London, January 1816
“You neglected to inform us that you are… a woman.” Derision dripped from Mr. Whitcomb’s tone. Her would-be employer had more hair on his eyebrows than on his head, and the lines on his face indicated he was not advanced in years, but was advanced in perpetual disappointment.
Sophie Renard stood in front of the ladder-backed chair, forcing a gracious smile and pulling back her hand from where it hung in the air over Mr. Whitcomb’s desk.
“My gender has no bearing on my intelligence, Mr. Whitcomb,” Sophie said.
As he grappled with evidently encumbered thoughts, she sat, though he hadn’t invited her. Surely it was a favor to him to do so; he couldn’t very well crane his neck up at her through the entirety of the interview.
He folded his hands in front of him, swallowed, and seemed to make an effort to calm himself. For a brief moment he pressed his eyes closed, and his shoulders relaxed. Her stomach knotted itself worse than a student’s tongue when asked the answer to a particularly complex equation. When those gray eyes focused on her again, they were altered. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have thought it was pity swimming there.
“I am afraid there has been a mistake, Miss Renard.” There was a light emphasis on her honorific.
A weight settled upon her chest, or rather, a particularly heavy stone was added to the weight that had been growing since she arrived at this home to claim her position as part of the Whitcomb Astronomy Project. She steeled herself for what she wished wasn’t coming, but knew was.
“Oh?”
Mr. Whitcomb nodded once. “We are, in fact, not in need of your services.”
Fear rose at the thought of losing this position, but she tamped it down. She was not a woman working within a man’s world without preparation. She reached into her reticule for the folded papers. “To the contrary, Mr. Whitcomb, I have your offer of employment here.”
Nearly all her life was to culminate in this position. She had worked towards it for years. Had quit her position teaching for it, and spurned offers of marriage. Now, finally, she would show her parents that all her efforts were worth it.
So long as Mr. Whitcomb could be brought around.
The man gave a tight smile. Tight and, she was fairly certain, annoyed. “I am afraid that offer was extended under false pretenses.”
Sophie grasped a fistful of her skirt then smoothed it out. “What exactly do you mean by that?” She had been prepared for this possibility, having applied for the job under the name S. Renard. But she was more than qualified, and it was not her fault she had been born, most regrettably, a woman. Despite Caroline Herschel’s great involvement in the sciences, her gender was beyond a minority.
But they were represented. Theyweremaking marked discoveries in the sciences. Just as Sophie would.
