The Way to London

by Alix Rickloff

  Fortescue pushed off his desk to pace slowly toward her, a tiger moving in and out of shadow and light. She couldn’t stop the shiver down her back or a darting glance around the room as if she might escape the inevitable. “Let me refresh your memory. His name is Yoon Hai. His uncle and father between them own one of the largest trading agencies with connections and subsidiaries all over the Far East. We had them to dinner when the Golden Seas Corporation and Fortescue, Myers, and Brill were contemplating a stock swap. I told you to make nice with the young one while I conducted business. Coming back to you yet?”

  “That’s right. I remember now.” Lucy tried for a dismissive shrug. “Sorry. Was my idea of nice not exactly what you had in mind?”

  Fortescue grabbed her upper arm, his fingers digging into her muscle as he yanked her to her feet. “Don’t you dare joke with me. Not now.” His face was inches from her own, his pale eyes glittering dangerously. “This morning, Yoon Jianguo made an unscheduled visit to my office to let me know I’d better keep my whore of a stepdaughter away from his precious heir or there would be serious financial repercussions.”

  “Hai and I were—”

  “I don’t care if you rogered him ten ways to Sunday, but Yoon Jianguo does. I’ve been ordered—ordered, mind you, as if I was a lowly junior clerk—that you’re to leave Singapore immediately. They don’t want any complications while they negotiate Yoon Hai’s marriage contract.”

  “Marriage?” she managed to croak through numb lips. “To whom?”

  He flung her away to pace before the hearth, hands behind his back. His Brylcreemed sophistication shattered, revealing the bullying thug beneath. “How the hell should I know? Some Chinese bitch with wide hips and a hefty dowry. Did you think it would be you?”

  “Of course not. But where am I supposed to go? You can’t just toss me out. You’re my father.”

  “Stepfather. And I’ll arrange passage for you on one of the troopships heading for England. If you’re lucky, you’ll be back in old Blighty by Christmas.”

  “And if I don’t want to leave?”

  “You don’t have a choice. If Yoon Jianguo’s firm withdraws its backing of my Borneo project, my company is sunk. You’re leaving, and that’s it.”

  “Amelia?” Lucy swung around, hoping her mother would act like one for once and come to the rescue. She despised Singapore, but it was home—of a sort. At least it was the closest thing to a home she’d ever had.

  Only the empty glass and the slight tremor in Amelia’s voice spoke of any emotion. “I’ll cable your aunt in Cornwall. She’ll have you.”

  Lucy was watching her mother drive away in a cloud of Chanel all over again.

  She straightened, her chin clamped high, her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Don’t bother. I’m twenty-one years old. Old enough to look after myself.”

  Her stepfather gave a bark of disbelief. “With what? If you think you’re going to live off me, you’ve another think coming. I’ve had enough of your sponging. What have I ever seen of gratitude?”

  Lucy managed a snide smile and a flash of her eyes. “Are you saying if I’d slept with you, you’d have been happy to set me up with a little flat in London? I guess it’s too late to take you up on your offer.”

  Amelia’s slap rocked Lucy back on her heels. “Shut your mouth.” Her hand trembled, bracelets jangling. “You have one week. Then you’re on a boat to England. Let your aunt deal with you. I’m done. I should never have brought you out here. You’ve been nothing but trouble.”

  Lucy’s face burned and tears pricked her eyes, but the rest of her felt empty and slightly sick. “I’m exactly what you made me, Mother dear.”

  As the car took the curve by the football ground on Kampong Bahru Road, Lucy caught her first glimpse of the P&O liner Strathleven straining at its moorings in Keppel Harbor. Its funnels had been repainted a steel gray and the gleaming brass and polished wood fittings shone dull and scuffed after two years of troopship duty. Lorries loaded khaki-clad British reinforcements for the trip into the city or to the military base at Changi while Tamil porters with handcarts and canvas-covered removal vans mingled with money changers and government officials. Passengers stepped from yellow-topped taxis, touring cars, or in some cases rattling rickshaws driven by Chinese coolies in their woven bamboo hats.

  Fortescue’s Rolls nosed its way through the crowds, uncaring of those it shoved aside as it approached the wharf. Lucy clutched her handbag as she eyed the activity from behind dark glasses, half-hoping to spot Yoon Hai come to see her off.

  A stupid hope.

  She’d tried a dozen times in the past week to contact him, but their usual go-betweens had grown suddenly scarce and a last-ditch call to his uncle’s offices had elicited a chilly rebuff from the clerk who answered the phone. The family had left for Kuala Lumpur on business. That was all she discovered before Amelia’s arrival downstairs cut short her phone call.

  The drone of planes drew Lucy’s gaze to the sky, where a skein of RAF Brewster Buffalo headed north over the straits toward Johore and Pahang. Last night, the shrill wail of an air raid siren and the krump of antiaircraft guns had roused her from sleep and sent her wiggling from under her mosquito netting and into the garden, where servants and family gathered to eagerly watch the sweep of searchlights as they hunted incoming Japanese bombers.

  It had been a short-lived moment of excitement that amounted to nothing more than lost sleep, short tempers, and a ready-made excuse for her mother to plead a headache this morning and stay in bed, leaving Fortescue to accompany Lucy to the ship.

  “Amelia promised to see me off.”

  Fortescue didn’t even glance up from his newspaper. “She’s indisposed but sends her best wishes for your safe trip.”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t want her to overtax herself on my account.” She inhaled a calming drag on her Sobranie in an attempt to chain her anger and subdue the unexpected ache in her chest.

  “Don’t be dramatic, Lucy. Your aunt will send someone to meet you when you arrive.”

  She ground the cigarette out in the ashtray, imagining it was Fortescue’s thick skull. “Are you banishing me because I slept with Yoon Hai or because I didn’t sleep with you?”

  Other than a twitch of his upper lip, he remained unmoved. “You always were a vulgar young woman with a childish and tiresome urge to shock your elders.”

  “And you were always an arrogant prat with his brains in his cock.”

  His lip curled with distaste as he leaned forward to direct the syce where to park. The family driver got out to haggle with a wiry leather-skinned Tamil who proceeded to load Lucy’s luggage onto his handcart.

  “He’ll see to it you’re safely aboard and that you stay there until the ship sails,” Fortescue directed.

  “You think I’m going to sneak off? And do what? Run away with Yoon Hai into the sunset and live off coconuts and love? Not my style at all.”

  “Perhaps not, but you’ve had a rather nasty upset. No telling what the distress might do to your delicate feminine sensibilities.”

  “I’m not going to throw myself overboard in a fit of despair if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  The tide of boarding passengers swam around her. The carter tugged at her sleeve, beckoning her toward the gangway. “I suppose this is it then. Tell Amelia I’ll write when I’ve arrived. I shall miss her.”

  “She’ll be relieved once she knows you’re safe with your aunt.”

  Lies on both sides, trite and meaningless. At least neither of them was so far gone as to embrace or—God forbid—kiss the other good-bye. That would have been taking hypocrisy a step too far.

  The carter urged her on as he took up her luggage, and she followed him up the wide gangway. People thronged the decks, getting their last glimpse of Singapore and loved ones they were leaving behind. Lucy found herself near the bow, her linen traveling suit sadly crushed, the ribbon in her hat long since wilted in the high sun. She looked out over the wharf
, but Fortescue’s car was already gone, the crowd thinned as the great liner made ready to sail. A few lingered. A small blue Austin 7 pulled alongside a delivery van and a pair of ambulances, the driver emerging to stare up at the great liner.

  She looked again. His black hair shone in the sun. His crisp gray suit was perfectly tailored to his lean body. It was Yoon Hai. He lifted an arm, though she couldn’t tell if he’d picked her out of the passengers striving to shout their last farewells. Still, her spirits lifted at the gesture. Someone would be sorry to see her go.

  The wail of an air raid siren sent the crowds shifting and heaving as every eye looked skyward. On the wharf, men scurried. The ambulances drove away. The lorries gunned their engines as the last soldier leapt aboard. Yoon Hai was lost amid the scramble for better cover or a better view.

  Lucy leaned over the railing, craning her neck, as the ship inched from its berth. The water churned green and frothy as shirtless, brown-skinned men coiled great hempen ropes. The sirens seemed to grow more frantic, though the sky remained empty of planes. Her hat was torn free of its pins to blow away in the rising breeze. An elbow in the ribs knocked her off balance. She fumbled to catch herself, but the railing was slippery. A shove in the back pushed her closer to the edge. Just as she thought she must go overboard, someone grabbed the collar of her frock. Pulled her to safety.

  “Careful, lass. It’s a long way down.”

  Both feet firmly on deck, she started to thank her rescuer, freezing with the words still on her lips.

  Corporal McKeegan smiled an infuriating good-natured smile, that same expression of amusement hovering in his carefree blue eyes. “Well hello there, Miss Stanhope. Fancy meeting you here of all places.”

  She almost wished he’d let her fall.

  Chapter 3

  After two weeks of shipboard life, Lucy would have traded a tidy sum for solid ground under her feet, edible food, and stimulating conversation. She shared a tiny cabin with an older widowed woman of a melancholy disposition and a penchant for weeping unexpectedly who, when awake, spent her time recounting stories of her dearly departed husband, Edgar, and when asleep, rattled the paint from the walls with her seismic snores.

  “You must have a spare room somewhere in this behemoth. I don’t need much. A clean bunk, preferably on the starboard side to catch as much of a breeze as possible. And one far enough away from the stairs that I’m not subjected to a steady clatter of feet up and down. Is that too much to ask?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Stanhope. Every cabin is full and every bunk taken. We’re transporting not just paying passengers, but a large contingent of British and Commonwealth troops, and there isn’t space to accommodate you.”

  She’d had a version of that conversation at least half a dozen times, the ship’s bursar refusing to budge an inch and growing more short tempered with every request. It had gotten to the point where he avoided eye contact and about-faced when he saw her coming. She’d only managed to corner him this evening when he’d been caught up in sorting out an argument between a contingent of Dutch troops and Turkish sailors and couldn’t disentangle himself before she pounced.

  “Then what am I supposed to do?” she complained. “Remain awake for the duration of our voyage?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, miss.” He offered her a clipped bow as he swung away, striding down the passage as if he couldn’t escape her fast enough.

  Muttering under her breath, she made her way up on deck. Swift-moving clouds threw shadows across the blue-green water and a warm salty breeze tugged at the ends of her scarf. Following the teeth-loosening rattle of a four-inch naval gun, she came upon a knot of soldiers and a half dozen young civilians taking turns firing at errant seabirds as if they were German dive-bombers. At the center of this laughing eager crowd stood Corporal McKeegan, his guinea-gold head silvered with spray, his face damp as he exchanged good-natured gibes with his fellow gun crew.

  She quickly ducked back around the corner before he spotted her, then chided herself for a coward. What did she care if he saw her? Who did he think he was anyway? She was not going to tiptoe around this ship as if she didn’t have as much right—if not more—to be here. Chin up and spine straight, she spun on her heel, determined to march right past that gun emplacement and to hell with all of them.

  With her most self-confident air, she threaded her way through the group of admiring masculinity, smiling as she acknowledged the tip of a cap or a welcoming nod, warming to the heat of a half dozen gazes and the back-and-forth of murmured compliments.

  Corporal McKeegan tossed her a friendly smile that she answered with an ambivalent dip of her head as she continued walking, eyes fixed on the golden haze of the western horizon in her most forbidding Queen Victoria inspecting the troops imitation.

  That turned out to be a mistake.

  Catching her heel on a warped seam in the plating, she lurched forward, but instead of regaining her balance with, at most, an embarrassing wobble, she skidded awkwardly along the slick deck. Arms flailing, she sought to catch herself, but momentum and gravity conspired against her. She landed on her backside in a puddle of oily water that immediately soaked through to her knickers, leaving her with a tender tailbone and a bruised ego.

  Queen Victoria would not have been amused.

  Smacking away the half dozen hands offering assistance, she scrambled to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster.

  “You all right, lass?” That voice . . . that damned laughter-laden voice.

  “If you value your life, Corporal,” she replied through clenched teeth as she clutched the railing, favoring an ankle, heat burning her cheeks, “I would advise you to keep absolutely silent.”

  “Mum’s the word.” Laughter gleamed in his blue eyes and his shoulders shook as he struggled to keep a straight face.

  Wishing nothing more than that the whole ship might choose this moment to sink, she continued her stately, and slightly drippy, progress down the deck, her ankle throbbing with every soggy step. Just as she thought gravity might win out over dignity, a hand steadied her under the elbow, scraped, dirty, and grease stained. She inhaled the reassuring scent of Yardley’s and cigarettes.

  “Let’s get you somewhere you can sit down before you fall down—again.” He just didn’t give up.

  “I’m quite able to—” She stumbled, a stabbing pain shooting from her ankle to her brain, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

  “Of course you are.” He placed a hand around her waist—cheeky devil. “Where’s your cabin?”

  “Nice try, soldier boy. As if I haven’t heard that question a dozen times since this ship left port.”

  “Right, then. I’ll take myself off and leave you to it.”

  His sudden abandonment sent her reeling in an undignified stagger. She swung drunkenly before latching on to him as if her life depended on it. He bore up under her awkward weight, his arms sliding down her ribs before she ended up on her backside a second time. He looked down on her with an I-told-you-so lift of his brows that made her want to knock him into next week.

  “Perhaps I could allow you to assist me as far as the lounge,” she said through a clenched jaw.

  He grinned. “Whatever you say.”

  Together, they edged their way along the deck and through a doorway into a long pillared space where passengers sat to enjoy the ocean breezes out of the scorching sun. He helped her to a chair. She sank into it with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  He seemed surprised at her manners, which only served to irritate her further. She wasn’t a complete cretin.

  “Look, lass, we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start over. Pretend we’ve never met.” He stuck out a hand. “Corporal Michael McKeegan. Sapper with the Royal Engineers. Born and bred in Somerset, a little place called Charbury. Ever heard of it?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve been denied that pleasure.” Oh dear God. He was sitting down across from her. Waving over a steward. That would teach her to be polit
e.

  “You’re not alone. Barely a dot on the map. My family owns a garage there. We can fix anything on wheels.”

  “Sounds positively fascinating.” Two glasses of lemonade appeared. She hated lemonade.

  “Don’t know about that, but it’s a living. Not so much since petrol rationing took effect. Now we’re more into scrounging and scavenging. A bit of a tinker’s junk-all for the locals according to my mum. She’s been holding down the fort while I’ve been away.”

  His persistence was really quite extraordinary. Few lasted this long when met with her wall of indifference. She was almost—mind you, almost—impressed.

  “I’m sure the king is readying your knighthood even now.”

  “Damn.” He leaned back with a sad shake of his head. “It must be bloody uncomfortable walking about all day with that bashing great stick up your arse.”

  “You dirty-minded bastard.” Her face flooded with heat. “I’d scratch your eyes out if I didn’t think it would be a marked improvement.”

  Rather than being offended, a corner of his mouth quirked upward, his eyes agleam with mischief. “That’s better. I knew you weren’t all priss and prisms. You’ve a bit of the fighter in you.”

  He was clearly not going anywhere. She couldn’t escape on her sore ankle. Trapped, she chose to make the best of it. Tapping the rim of her glass with one polished nail, she surveyed him with new interest. “So, Corporal McKeegan, if you’re a soldier, aren’t you headed the wrong way? Seems like all you lot are headed toward Singapore, not away from it.”

  Was it her imagination or did he tense just a bit, his gaze narrowing as he stared into his lemonade, his thoughts clearly a million miles away? Then he smiled, and the moment passed. Perhaps it had never existed. “Malaria. Knocked me off my pins for weeks. Wouldn’t have been so bad but it keeps coming back.” Now that he mentioned it, he did have a sickroom pallor beneath the jungle tan, a bleakness to what she had to admit would otherwise have been a handsome face if one was into those boy-next-door kind of looks.