“I would bet my life on it,” Bessie replied. “However, once that ship sails, I fear Miss Page might, under the circumstances, find herself obliged to become Mrs. Bertram Truscott, which would be a pity, in my opinion, since her heart will always belong to another.”
“Who?”
Bessie huffed. “Do Ireallyhave to answer that? Surely, you must know.”
He blinked several times. “You meanme?”
“Of course. Only you.”
Pendlewood stared at her for a moment and then glanced away again. “But I know what I saw,” he muttered, apparently to himself as he ran a hand through his hair. “Was Iwrong?”
Bessie’s throat tightened. “Wrong about what, my lord?”
“About what I…” Breathing hard, he regarded her once more, the agony on his face plain to see. “God forgive me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, for I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake. Truly terrible.”
I knew it!Bessie barely stifled a sigh of relief. “If you are referring to your relationship with Miss Page, I believe your terrible mistake might yet be rectified. But time is running out.”
A glimmer of hope, and perhaps a touch of panic, came to his eyes. “The morning tide, you say? Do you know what time it peaks?”
“Around six o’clock, I believe.”
“Around six o’clock,” he repeated. “Which dock?”
“East India, Brunswick,” Bessie replied, glancing again at the clock. “But you’re going to have to hurry.”
“What is the name of the ship?”
“TheLydia Jane.”
He gasped. “He named a bloody ship after her?”
“And it was still not enough to steal her heart, neither before nor after it was broken,” Bessie replied. “I suggest you make haste, my lord. To quote Chaucer, ‘time and tide wait for no man.’ And if I may give you some advice, it is this. If, God willing, you get there in time, to hell with decorum. In order to mend Lydia’s heart, you must speak from yours.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Ensconced in hiscarriage, which was currently hurtling through London’s streets at a less-than-sensible speed, Ambrose cast a critical eye at the sky. The sun had risen a short while ago, but remained hidden behind a thin layer of cloud.
“If, God willing, you get there in time…”
He’d prayed for fog, a request that, so far, had been denied. As they drew near the docks, however, they encountered a thin mist drifting in from the estuary. Not enough, he feared, to stop a ship from departing.
Please, God. Please. Ambrose had the door open before the carriage jerked to a halt. He leapt down, went to stand by the sweat-soaked lead horses, and gazed at the forest of bare masts that stretched along the length of the quay. So many ships!
The misty morning air, thick with the stench of river mud and foul water, rang with the shouts of men and the mournful cries of gulls. Three ships had already cast off, their gray silhouettes riding the ebbing tide and steered by attached rowboats as they made their way out onto the Thames. Ambrose could but pray that theLydia Janewas not one of them.
“Christ help me,” he muttered.
“Lookin’ for someone, Guvnor?”
Ambrose regarded the man who had spoken, a bearded fellow with skin like leather, and a grubby clay pipe clasped in a gnarled hand.
“I’m looking for a specific ship,” Ambrose replied. “TheLydia Jane, bound for Saint John. Where might I find her?”
“You’re too late, guv. TheLydia Janecast off ten minutes since.” The man pointed his clay pipe toward the three departing ships. “She’s the second in line, yonder. Were you supposed to be aboard? They weren’t waitin’ for anyone, s’far as I know. Ship’s manifest was all checked off.”
The world seemed to tilt before Ambrose’s eyes.You’re too late… too late… too late…
He snatched a breath of foul air and grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane as his view of the departing ships blurred. “No, I wasn’t supposed to be aboard,” he said. “I just… I just hoped to speak with someone before she left.”
