The Dressmakers: Silk Is For Seduction Part 11

"How did you know?" she demanded, hands clenched.

Though he felt his face heat, he answered carelessly, "I sent my porter to spy on you. He was loitering about your hotel in the small hours of the morning when you and your maid departed from it, in a fiacre. At first he a.s.sumed you'd merely set a shockingly early hour for meeting Mademoiselle Fontenay. Then, when he counted the number of portmanteaux being stowed in the vehicle, he grew curious. From one of the inn servants, he learned that you had quit the hotel. Your destination, he discovered, was the posting office, and you were traveling to 'visit a relative.' In point of fact, I should be asking how you contrived to get out of France. You left hours before any of the officials who must approve your exit were even awake."

"It didn't occur to you that I might have made my arrangements previously?" she said.

"Did you?" he said.

"Ah, your spying porter didn't find that out," she said. "What a pity, because I'm not going to satisfy your curiosity. I've been traveling for a day and a half over wretched French roads, and I'm tired. Good night, your grace."

She dipped the barest of curtseys and walked away from him.

He fought the urge to follow her. He'd behaved absurdly enough as it was. For what? What did he think he'd achieve aboard a steam packet mobbed with travelers? He was lucky this was an English boat, or they would not have delayed its departure for him. As it was, he'd paid ma.s.sive bribes to change places with other pa.s.sengers. Even so, had he been a man of lesser rank, he'd be waiting in Calais for the next vessel.

Staying in Calais was what he ought to have done. No, he ought not to have left Paris at all. Six more weeks of freedom, and he'd thrown them away-for what?

But he'd done it, and having spent a day and a half racing over abominable roads, he was hardly likely to stand tamely on the dock, watching the packet sail away.

His behavior was lunatic-but never mind. In truth, Paris was growing wearisome, and a mad race to Calais was better excitement than anything he'd done in recent weeks, perhaps months. Certainly it had been worth it, simply to see Noirot's shocked expression when she caught sight of him.

Surprise, indeed. He doubted anybody or anything had surprised her in a very long time.

He stayed on deck until the packet had sailed out of the harbor and out into the Channel. He noticed the clouds drifting across the heavens, dimming the starlight and moonlight, but he thought nothing of it. The sky over the English Channel was never perfectly clear.

He went below, where he let Saunders peel off his coat and relieve him of his neckcloth, waistcoat, and boots. Then his grace fell into bed and instantly asleep.

Not an hour later, the storm struck.

Marcelline staggered out into the narrow pa.s.sage. The smell was foul: scores of panicked pa.s.sengers being sick. Her own stomach, usually reliable even in rough seas, heaved. She paused for a moment, breathing through her mouth, willing her insides to quiet.

The s.h.i.+p lurched hard to her right, and she fell against a door. From behind it came shrieks and shouts, the same she'd heard from other cabins. The vessel screamed more loudly, its timbers groaning as the waves knocked it about.

She walked on unsteadily, telling herself that this was normal, the ropes and timbers protesting the sea's pummeling. Her heart thudded all the same, with fear. It was hard not to imagine death when every lurch threatened to overturn them, and the vessel itself seemed to be screaming.

The crew had closed the hatches, but water washed in. Under her feet, the deck was wet and slippery.

Nearby, someone was crying.

"Repent!" a man shouted. "Thy time is nigh."

"Go to the devil," she muttered. Yes, she was afraid, as any sane person would be. But her time was not nigh and she was not going to die. She was not going to drown. The s.h.i.+p was not going down. She had a daughter and sisters waiting for her in London.

She trembled all the same, and her stomach churned. She was never sick. She couldn't be sick. She hadn't time. Jeffreys was ill, desperately so, and needed Marcelline's help.

But oh, she did not feel well at all.

Later. Later she could be as sick as she wanted.

One thing at a time.

She came to the door she thought was the right one, the one where she'd seen the liveried servants loitering earlier. She'd heard, on her way back to her cabin, that the Duke of Clevedon had commandeered the best cabin for himself and two lesser ones for his retinue.

She pounded on the door. It opened abruptly at the same moment the s.h.i.+p gave an almighty lurch. She slid, stumbled, and fell straight into the cabin. Two big hands caught her and pulled her upright.

"Dammit, Noirot. You might have broken your neck."

The hands bracing her were warm and firm, and she wanted to lean into him. He was big and strong and so was his personality. An image rushed into her mind of medieval knights protecting their castles, their women-and for one mad moment she wanted nothing but to put herself in his hands.

But she couldn't. She daren't lean on him.

She certainly daren't look up. She did not feel well at all, at all.

"Had... to... come," she managed to say.

"I was on my way out to find you, to see if you needed-Noirot, are you all right?"

She was looking down at his feet and thinking that any minute now she was going to be sick on his costly slippers. But the sea had ruined them already. Pity. Such fine slippers. He had big feet. Funny.

"Quite well," she said, gagging.

"Saunders, brandy! Quick!"

Yes, that was it. Brandy. Why she'd come. Brandy. Jeffreys needed it.

So, heaven help her, did she.

"My... my s-seamstress," she began. "Sh-she-"

"Here." He put a flask to her lips. "Drink."

"I'm n-never sick," she said.

"Drink," he said.

She drank, welcoming the fire sliding down her throat. If it scoured her insides, so much the better.

For a moment she thought she'd be well again.

Then the deck tilted and she slid and stumbled. This time his arms were about her, though. "Don't," she said. "Going to be... going to be-"

"Saunders!"

Something was thrust in front of her. A bucket. Good.

Then she was retching, doubled over, so sick she couldn't see straight. Her head pounded and her knees gave way.

Sick, so sick.

Someone was holding her. Men talked above her head. His voice. Another's. She was s.h.i.+fted onto something soft. A bed. Oh, that felt good. To lie down. She would simply lie here for a moment while the boat rose and fell, rocked this way and that.

But no. She hadn't time for this.

Someone slid a pillow under her head, then drew a blanket over her. That felt so good. But she wasn't supposed to feel good. She had to get up. It was Jeffreys who needed help. But if she moved, she'd be sick again.

Must lie very quietly.

Impossible, with the s.h.i.+p pitching so. Slowly it tilted up, then slowly down again, and all the while, the horrible noises, ropes and timbers grinding and creaking and groaning as though all the souls of the drowned were rising to meet them. From a distance came the sounds of pa.s.sengers crying and screaming. And somewhere above all the noise of the s.h.i.+p, she heard the storm's fury, the wailing wind.

h.e.l.l, she thought. Dante's Inferno. Or that other thing. Not a poem but a picture of h.e.l.l, of the d.a.m.ned. Curse it, what was wrong with her? She couldn't lie here, wondering about paintings.

"No." She could barely form the words. "Not me. My-my- s-seamstress."

"Your maid?" His voice was so calm. So rea.s.suring.

"Jeffreys. She's badly ill. Brandy. I came for... brandy."

More talking, over her, around her. She heard screaming and shouting, too, but far away. The world went up, then down, and down, and down.

Don't let me be sick again. Don't let me be sick again.

Something cool and wet touched her face. "Saunders will see about your maid," the familiar voice said.

"Don't let her die," she said. Or did she? Her voice sounded far away, so small against the infernal clamor about them. h.e.l.l, she thought. This was like the h.e.l.l the righteous ranted about. The h.e.l.l in the pictures.

"People almost never die of seasickness," he said.

"They only wish they might," she said.

An odd sound. A chuckle? It was his voice, low and close. Behind it, around it, above it were horrible sounds, like death. A long, drawn-out moan, a terrible grinding, then a crack.

The s.h.i.+p... cracking open...

"We can't go down," someone said. Had she spoken?

Don't talk. Lie quietly. Don't move. Don't breathe.

"We won't go down," he said. "It's bad, but we won't go down. Here, swallow this."

She moved her head from side to side. That was a mistake. Bile rose. "Can't."

"Only a drop," he coaxed. "Laudanum. It will help. I promise."

She couldn't raise her head, couldn't even open her eyes. The world was spinning round and round, leaping up and down, throwing itself from side to side.

Where am I?

He lifted her head, so gently. Was it he? Or was it she, spooning medicine into Lucie? Lucie, Lucie.

But she was away from this. She was safe in London with her doting aunts, who spoiled her appallingly. Lucie was safe because her mother and aunts had turned into three witches, brewing potions to keep her alive.

They had not fought so hard only to leave Lucie an orphan, because her mother had made a foolish mistake. A man-mistake. More than six feet tall and beastly arrogant and... oh, those big, beautiful hands.

"A little more," he said. "Another drop."

Take your medicine. Get better. Get back to Lucie.

She swallowed it. So bitter.

"Vile," she said. "Vile."

"I know, but it helps. Trust me. I know."

"Trust you," she said. "Hah."

"Clearly you're not dying."

"No. Devil won't take me."

The low chuckle again. "Then we're all safe."

She wasn't safe. The storm raged and the s.h.i.+p moaned and rose and fell and flung itself from wave to wave. She'd been in rough seas before. She knew this was very bad, and she wasn't remotely safe. Yet while her mind knew this, her heart understood matters altogether differently: his voice, his surprisingly gentle touch, and the calm of his presence. Rea.s.suring. How ironic!

"Ah, you're smiling," he said. "The opium is starting to take hold already."

Already? Had she fallen asleep? She'd lost track of time.

"No, it's you," she said. How far away her voice sounded, as though it had traveled to London already, ahead of her. "Your ducal self-a.s.surance. Everything will give way to you. Even Satan's own storm."

"You're definitely improving," he said. "Full, mocking sentences."

"Yes. Better." Her insides seemed to be quieting. But her head was so heavy. She opened her eyes, and that was hard work. He was leaning over her. The light was too dim to make out details, and nothing would stay put. His eyes were deep shadows in his face. But she knew they were green. Jade green. Or was it sea green? A color not many women could wear successfully. A color not many women could withstand... in a man's eyes.

She closed her eyes again.

She felt the cool cloth on her forehead. So gentle. A feeling she had trouble naming washed over her. Then she realized: She was protected. Sheltered. Safe.

What a joke!

"Strange," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes," she said.

The world grew heavy and dark, then everything went away.

Clevedon had no idea how long the storm lasted. He'd long since lost all sense of time. He'd awoken in a room heaving this way and that, to a clamor of panicked voices, a roaring storm, and the creaking and groaning vessel. He'd been sick, a bit. But his was a strong stomach-as numerous drunken entertainments testified-and the first thing in his mind was Noirot, somewhere on this boat. He'd been about to go to her cabin, medicine box in hand, when she fell through his door.

Since then, he hadn't time to be sick or to worry about anybody else. Her pearly skin was dull and drawn. That much one could see even in the dim light. She'd been shockingly ill, and delirious. That was so unlike her. She was strong, strong to a fault, and the change had him halfway into a panic before his frantic mind sorted it out.