“As much as I hate to agree with that mushroom, for once she’s right. Some people are just unsociable, Rosie. If it’s any consolation to you, we’re far from the best society he’s snubbed. Even at White’s, he simply sits by himself and ignores everyone.”
“But why be so standoffish?” With a frown of concentration, Rosalie dug in her reticule for the key to her cabin. “We’re all in the same boat—literally. What else is there to do on an ocean crossing, except mix with one’s fellow passengers?”
Charlie shrugged. “I shouldn’t worry about the man. I daresay he’s never given us a second thought.”
Rosalie sighed. “No, I suppose not.” Retrieving her key, she unlocked her cabin door. “Good night, Charlie, dear.”
“The same to you, and tell Uncle I hope he’s feeling better. I suppose we’re blessed to have outgrown seasickness, eh?”
She nodded and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. She was blessed indeed—for that and for having taken so many voyages on so many vessels that she now ducked instinctively when passing through a doorway, and always kept one hand for herself and one hand for the ship. She scarcely noticed the constant crash and thump of waves against the hull or the creak of the boards, and it had been years since she’d last rolled out of her narrow berth at night.
Perhaps someday she might even be blessed enough not to spend most of her life at sea.
Charlie continued to his own cabin, and Rosalie stepped inside. The door communicating with her father’s quarters was still ajar, just as she’d left it before leaving for dinner. She reached up to remove the mosaic earbobs she’d acquired in Rome.
“Papa? How are you feeling?” she called through the open doorway. “I’ve been sitting with poor Mrs. Howard. She was suffering from the rough seas, too, though she seems a good deal better now.”
There was no answer. Rosalie dropped her earbobs on the dresser and went to the doorway. “Papa? Are you awake?”
When he didn’t reply, she stepped into his cabin to check on him one last time before preparing for bed. He was in his berth, still fully dressed but with his eyes closed. Should she wake him so he could change into his nightclothes? She set a hand on his forehead to check whether he might be feverish.
A moment later, Rosalie burst headlong from the little cabin in a blind panic. Flinging herself across the passageway, she began pounding on the first door she saw, the one directly across from her father’s cabin. “Oh, God! Help!” She hammered the varnished wood with the side of her fist. “Please, I need help!”
She was still pounding on the door when it opened a few seconds later. Rosalie had only a moment to register the pale, astonished face of the Marquess of Deal before he gripped her strongly by the wrists.
“Miss Whitwell,” he said in a voice of command, “whatever is the matter?”
It startled her to hear Lord Deal address her by name. “It’s—oh God, my father—” She glanced back toward Papa’s berth.
The marquess, still in his dinner clothes, released her and strode without another word into the cabin. She followed, watching as his tall figure bent over her father’s body.
She raised a trembling hand to her throat. “Is he...?”
Lord Deal looked over his shoulder at her, compassion in his dark eyes. “There’s a young gentleman traveling with you, is there not?”
She nodded. “My cousin, Charlie Templeton.”
“You should go to him. I’ll see to matters here.”
“My father’s not dead.” Why had she said that? In her heart, she already knew it wasn’t true. Papa’s forehead had been as cold as stone.
Lord Deal straightened and stepped toward her. “You’ve had a shock. You should be with family.”
She was shaking all over. “You have to help my father.”
“I’ll send for the captain.”
“He’s not dead.” Her knees gave way, and she reached out blindly behind her for support.
A strong hand caught her by the arm. “Steady, Miss Whitwell.” Gently, the marquess helped her through the connecting door to her own cabin and eased her to a seat on her berth. “I’ll fetch your cousin for you.”
“No, don’t go!” She was frantic with alarm.
“I’ll be back presently, I promise.”
She seized him by the sleeve. “No, please. Papa can’t be dead! What will happen, if he should be? They don’t—” She choked on the words. “They don’t bury passengers at sea, do they?”
“Let me fetch your cousin.”
But in her panic, she couldn’t seem to let go of Lord Deal. One hand still gripping his sleeve, she burst into wrenching sobs.
“Miss Whitwell...!” Even through the blur of tears, Lord Deal’s expression looked so dismayed that, despite her own hysterical grief, Rosalie couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He was a virtual stranger, yet here she was, clutching his sleeve in a death grip, her anguished sobs escalating to outright keening.
He went to his knees, to meet her at eye level. He leaned forward and, somehow, she ended up with her face against his shoulder and his arms wrapped around her. “Shh. It’s going to be all right.” His voice was calm and soothing, so understanding she could almost believe him. “You’ll get through this, I promise you.”
His reassurance only made her sob harder.
“It’s a shock, I know. But you’re not alone.”
“What’s going on here?” Charlie said from the doorway. “Good God, Deal, what did you do to her?”
Instantly, the warm arms and solid shoulder pulled away. “I didn’t—”
Charlie crossed to her in two swift steps to peer down into her face. “What happened, Rosie? Did he try something?”
“She needed help,” the marquess said behind him. “It’s Lord Whitwell—”
Rosalie raised a shaking hand and pointed to her father’s cabin.
Soon it was Charlie’s shoulder and Charlie’s arms offering her comfort while she sobbed brokenly. In her confusion she supposed Lord Deal had gone back to his own cabin, no doubt relieved to be quit at last of the awful scene she was making. It was beginning to sink in that her father was really and truly gone, and everything about her life had changed.
“I should have stayed with him. I knew he wasn’t well and I—I left him alone anyway. If only I hadn’t dawdled so long in Mrs. Howard’s cabin! Perhaps if I’d been here—”
Charlie shook his head. “There’s nothing you could have done. It must have been his heart. He looks to have gone peacefully, if that’s any consolation.”
Oh, God. This was what happened when she didn’t look after people. “I should have been with him! Papa was all I had left in the world.”
“You have me.”
“You’re going into the army.”
Charlie gave her a wounded look. “And you think that means I’m just going to abandon you to that rackety Uncle Roger of yours?”
“Perhaps Miss Whitwell would be more comfortable elsewhere,” Lord Deal’s low, cultured voice said from the cabin doorway.
Rosalie looked up. The marquess stood with the ship’s captain and the mate just behind him. He looked commanding and self-possessed, the picture of authority. So he hadn’t washed his hands of her after all.
“Yes, of course,” Charlie said. “You won’t want to stay in here, Rosie, not after—well, not by yourself. I’ll trade cabins with you.” He frowned. “Except you’re going to need a chaperone now. I’d prevail on Mrs. Howard, but I have a single cabin, and so does she.”
Lord Deal had been conferring with the captain and the ship’s mate in the doorway, but at this he looked their way. “I believe mine is the only other double cabin. I’ll trade with Miss Whitwell.”
Rosalie blinked away tears. “You can’t mean that. It would be too great an imposition.”
“I would never have made the offer unless I meant it.”
She took a deep breath. She owed the gentleman an apology. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you tonight. I shou
ld have gone to my cousin. I realize you have no special duty to me.”
Lord Deal’s eyes flickered over Charlie’s youthful figure, as if measuring his maturity and finding it slightly lacking. “There’s no need to apologize. You were beside yourself, and mine was the first door you encountered. One can hardly be expected to stand on ceremony at such a time.”
The captain and the mate had disappeared into her father’s cabin. Her hands trembling, Rosalie brushed tears from her cheeks. “What will become of my father now?”
“The crew will bear him to the deck, and unless you have some objection, Captain Raney will conduct the service tomorrow morning.”
“They mean to bury him at sea, then?”
“I’m afraid they have no choice,” Lord Deal said gently. “We’re still some two weeks from port.”
So it was true, then. Her father was gone. Even now, habit had her itching to do all the things she normally did for him—to pour his Madeira, to draw his footstool up to his chair, to laugh at his teasing observations on the day, to kiss his cheek and bid him a fond good-night. But she would never do those things again.
In danger of dissolving back into tears, she held herself together with an effort. Her chin came up. “Do you think I might have one last moment with my father, to say goodbye?”
“I’ll speak to Captain Raney for you.” To her surprise, the marquess added, “And may I say, Miss Whitwell, I admire your fortitude.”
Since she’d been sobbing on his shoulder not half an hour before, clutching his coat as if she might never let go, she wondered if he meant the remark to be cutting. But, no, he appeared to be in earnest. His chiseled features looked perfectly sincere.
She squared her shoulders, striving to show a little of the fortitude with which he’d credited her. “Thank you. For—for everything.”
Despite the sympathy in his dark eyes, his manner grew abruptly distant. “Pray don’t thank me,” he said, turning away. “I could hardly do otherwise, given the circumstances.”
* * *
The entire crew stood assembled on deck, heads bowed, as Captain Raney read the burial rite aloud from his dog-eared prayer book.
Ladies were not expected to attend funerals—grief could be an insupportable burden—but somehow David had known Miss Whitwell would insist on coming. Aside from the girl and her cousin, he was the only private passenger present at the early morning service. Not that David faulted those who’d remained sleeping in their berths. He’d chosen to attend only because—well, he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because it seemed wrong to move into a dead man’s cabin without even troubling to pay his respects.
Though the crew had brought the ship to a standstill for the burial, after the service the Neptune’s Fancy quickly returned to normal. Captain Raney spoke a few words to Miss Whitwell, then strode away to the quarterdeck. The sailors scattered to man the ropes. The bow turned, the sails filled again, and a deckhand hoisted the flag from its position at half-mast.
Soon, David and Miss Whitwell were the only passengers left on deck. The slim, black-clad girl lingered at the rail, her back to him, gazing out over the water at the horizon.
David knew better than to speak to her. He’d been watching her for most of the voyage, wishing he were the kind of man who could strike up an easy, harmless flirtation, but so far he’d resisted the urge to involve himself. He knew better, even if she did look forlorn, standing alone with the salt air tugging at her cloak.
Surely he would never have spoken to her if she hadn’t spoken first.
“I wonder what the women in India do,” she said in her soft, clear voice, “if their husbands die at sea?”
She was talking to herself, apparently unaware of his presence, but David answered even so. “What do you mean?”
She started and wheeled to face him. “Oh! Lord Deal.” She met his gaze, her spine straightening. “I thought you’d gone below with my cousin.”
It was a fine attempt at stoicism, but she lacked the raw material to carry it off. Her wide brown eyes were red-rimmed, and her porcelain complexion, richly curling dark hair and delicate features lent her a fragile, waiflike air. Besides, he could hardly forget how it had felt when she’d cried on his shoulder the night before. He hadn’t even danced with a young lady of quality since coming of age, and holding her had been as disturbing to his peace of mind as he’d always feared such an embrace would be.
“As I informed Mr. Templeton, there’s no urgency about clearing your father’s belongings from the cabin.” He took a step closer. “Forgive me if I intrude, but what did you mean just now, about the women in India?”
“It was nothing.” She looked down at her gloved hands in a self-conscious gesture. “I was merely thinking about the time I was twelve, and my father and I came upon a commotion in Bengal, in the eastern part of India. A man had died, and the village was gathered together for his funeral. It wasn’t the funeral itself that was causing the commotion, but rather that his widow was preparing to climb on her husband’s pyre with him.”
“A practice—fortunately rare—I believe they call sati.”
“Yes.” She nodded, looking surprised he’d heard of it. “And I was just wondering if, in a case like my father’s...” Her voice trailed off, and she shrugged. “It was only an idle thought, brought on by too many memories and not enough sleep. I wasn’t seriously considering jumping into the sea.”
He should thank her for the answer and walk away. Every instinct told him it was the wisest course. But against his better judgment, David joined her at the rail. “I didn’t know your father well, but I never heard anything but good spoken of him.”
She gave him a grateful look. “Thank you.”
“I was present in the Lords when he spoke on the matter of the Corn Laws, you know. He seemed a man of eminent good sense.”
“You remember his speech? But that was at least two years ago! I’m certain because we rarely spent more than a few weeks at a time in England.”
“I remember it well. He drew chuckles from the benches several times—not an easy thing to do, given the subject.”
A wistful smile tugged at her lips. “Oh, Papa had a wonderful sense of humor. Or perhaps I should say he had an irrepressible sense of humor, since it was a source of frequent exasperation to his family and friends.”
“He had a taste for practical jokes?”
Her smile broke out full-force, bringing dimples to her cheeks. “No, but he was particularly fond of puns, especially bad ones, and he never failed to trot one out whenever an opportunity presented itself. His favorite was a riddle—why is a goat like a buttonhole?”
David cocked an eyebrow in inquiry. “And why is a goat like a buttonhole?”
She peeped up at him from beneath dark lashes, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Adopting a comic Scots burr, she said, “Because it goes around a-buttin’.”
“Oh, good God.” David winced. “I’m sorry I asked.”
She laughed. He’d heard her laugh before, in the dining parlor, but this time—this time the sound sent a thrill of appreciation through him, like hearing the clear notes of a thrush’s song on a still summer morning.
His face must have gone blank with astonishment, for she sobered instantly. “Oh, no. You must think me heartless, laughing at a time like this. It’s only—”
“Only that it feels good to talk about someone you loved, and recall the happy moments? No, I don’t think you heartless at all, Miss Whitwell.”
“It’s a painfully bad pun, I realize, but that was Papa through and through. He was such a little boy.” Her smile reemerged, now fond and nostalgic. “I think that’s why he loved travel so much. Every voyage was a new adventure.”
Though he knew he should offer his condolences and move on, David couldn’t tear himself away. He settled against the rail, lounging with his weight on one elbow. “I take it you and your father often sailed together?”
“Goodness, yes. And my cousin joined us whenever his stud
ies permitted, though that wasn’t as often as we would have liked. Papa was determined to see as much of the world as possible. I’ve not only traveled to India, I’ve also been to Egypt and the Levant, up and down most of the Continent, and as far west as Canada and the West Indies. We added the Italies to the list last year, and this year, America.”
How old was she? Eighteen? Twenty? She must have spent most of her life roaming from place to place. “I’m impressed. Speaking for myself, I find travel rather wearying.”
“Oh, so do I.”
His brows rose in surprise. “But I thought—”
“Papa loved to travel. I just loved Papa. Not that I’m complaining,” she rushed to explain. “As agreeable as it would have been to stay home long enough to make friends my own age, I’m grateful now for the memories my father and I shared. I’ve seen so much. And perhaps you would enjoy travel more, Lord Deal, if you had a traveling companion.”
Perhaps—and perhaps he would enjoy passing a kidney stone. Still, her earnest defense of life with her father left him wondering what kind of future she could look forward to now, given Lord Whitwell’s sudden passing. It was none of David’s business, but she had come to his cabin the night before, dragging him into the thick of her family tragedy. “Forgive me for asking a personal question, but what becomes of your father’s title and property now?”
“I wish I could say they pass to my cousin Charlie, but he’s not a Whitwell. It all goes to my uncle Roger.”
Something in her choice of words nagged at him. “You don’t really mean all, I trust? Surely your father must have provided for you in some fashion.”
She looked down again at her hands. “I have a small competence, but most of Papa’s fortune was entailed. I’m sure my uncle will be quite willing to take me in.” She looked up with what was clearly meant to pass for hopeful good cheer, but it was a strained expression.
“I seem to recall your cousin objecting to that prospect.”
“You heard him calling Uncle Roger ‘rackety,’ did you? You have sharp ears, my lord.”
Lord of Secrets Page 2
