Page 10 of Much Ado about a Widow

“She’s right, my lord. Those men overtook his lordship’s carriage at the last inn where we changed horses. It was only by God’s good will and my lady’s quick wits that we managed to escape those villains.”

St. Just furrowed his brows and pinched his lips into a tight knot. “Come with me.” He turned left, down a narrow path between piles of crates bound in rope and huge casks that reeked of spirits so strongly it overpowered the stink of fish. Georgie’s nose twitched, and Lulu sneezed.

After several minutes of twisting and turning the boarded walkways gave onto a sandy trail heading back toward the water. The press of sailors had thinned out so that only a few, here and there, attended to coiling rope or unloading goods onto the sand from small boats. The stench of fish had returned, more potent than ever.

“Ugh.” Georgie clamped her hand over her nose.

St. Just grinned. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I thought I had already.” Gingerly she removed her hand and wrinkled her nose.

“This way, my lady.” He led them to a small rowboat beached in the sand, large enough for five or six passengers.

“Where are we going?” She had assumed he was taking her to an inn so she and Clara could rest before arranging transportation home.

“To my ship.”

She stopped, stunned. “You have a ship?”

“I do. That one there.” He pointed to a tall ship with two masts towering high, perhaps fifty yards offshore. On the bow was written the name Justine. He gestured to the rowboat. “Let me help you in.”

“That is your ship? And we have to row out to it?” The sand seemed to sway beneath her feet.

“That is the accustomed method.” He offered his hand first to Clara, who stepped in and headed to the back of the boat, then to her. “My lady?”

“Why must we go to your ship?” A lead balloon sat on her chest, pressing her down until she couldn’t move.

“You asked for my assistance. I am offering the only safe place I have available to me.” He cocked his head to look at her. “Is there a problem?”

“I thought you were taking us to an inn, somewhere on dry land where we could—”

“I am afraid this is the best I can arrange at such short notice.” He waved a hand toward the ship. “If you visit me in St. Just I believe I can oblige you with a suite of rooms. However, in Portsmouth, I am somewhat at a loss for other accommodations.”

Beggars cannot be choosers. “Very well, then, my lord.” She reminded herself it was only temporary. “We are in Portsmouth, then?”

“Portsmouth Point, to be exact. Take my hand, my lady.”

She grasped it and stepped into the boat. If she ever brought Odd Fellow to justice, she would make certain he would swing for making her undergo this ordeal.

“I’d suggest you hold your dog so he doesn’t come to mischief.” St. Just pushed the craft into the water until it floated, then climbed in and grabbed an oar. He doffed his coat, turned his back to them, sat on a plank, and began to row in long, even strokes.

Fascinated, Georgie stared at the play of muscles across his back as they flexed and moved with the precision of a well-sprung carriage.

Lulu barked and struggled to get down, bringing Georgie out of her daze. “She’s a she.”

“Ah, and apparently dislikes being misidentified. I beg your pardon, Miss—?”

“Lulu.” Drat the man. He was trying to be charming, but only succeeding in annoying her.

“Miss Lulu, then. Here we are.” He pulled them alongside the Justine, tied a rope to a cleat on the side of the ship, then grabbed a rope ladder that had been left hanging over the side. He looked at them expectantly. “Which of you wants to go first?”

For the second time that day, Georgie’s heart thundered as though she were embroiled in a race. “We have to climb up the rope?” She shook her head. Enough was enough. “Ladies do not climb ropes in view of a public beach, Lord St. Just.”

“I appreciate that, Lady Georgina. Far be it from me to suggest you are not a lady.” His eyes twinkled. He was enjoying her discomfort far too much for a gentleman. “However, the Justine has an alternate plan for boarding you, never fear. Cartwright,” he called loudly, bringing forth a sudden thumping of feet on the planks of the ship.

Georgie gazed up, and the pale blond head of a sailor appeared over the railing.

“Aye, Captain. You ready to—” Cartwright’s words stopped as though cut off with a pair of sharp scissors. His deep blue eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord, but what is happening?”