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  ‘Sophie is slim, intelligent and forthright.’ Crispin stifled a laugh. ‘Not your type at all.’

  His friend allowed a chuckle and leaned against the well-worn railing as he dismissed the subject. ‘If you say so, amico. You should forget the one who hurt your heart. If Venice didn’t cure you, there’s no use for it. Women are like butterflies, pretty to see and difficult to contain. Set her free. Enjoy the moment.’

  Relieved Ferris did not pursue exactitude in clarifying what he’d overheard, Crispin promptly changed the subject. ‘Wicked storm last night. How did you fair?’

  ‘With a glass of brandy and little discomfort.’ He slanted a glance, another question alive in his eyes. ‘I expected camaraderie. What happened?’

  Somehow the conversation had taken an ill-advised roundabout. ‘I was caught portside when the worst of the storm struck and barely managed to find cover in a cofferdam. At least I was protected from the onslaught of ravaging wind.’ Was his embellishment sufficient or overmuch? ‘I hunkered down without a plan and waited it out. Only a fool would venture above deck in that gale.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Ferris remained quiet for a long moment, though his gaze was unrelenting. ‘But it’s passed now, eh?’ He wagged his chin at the rising sun. ‘A new day dawns. Who knows what one will discover?’

  Crispin didn’t reply, unwilling to fuel Ferris’s imagination, or worse, increase his doubt.

  Chapter Six

  Amanda strode the length of the room, practising her stride in a pair of ill-fitted purloined breeches. She’d availed the tawny garment from the trunk Crispin left unlocked in the corner, spied after she’d made use of the items he’d left graciously on the table. How heavenly to feel clean, as clean as possible without a bath, breath freshened, hair combed and plaited, her face and hands scrubbed. It was after her makeshift toilette that she’d noticed the ugly stains on her skirt, a reminder of utter mortification when she’d emptied the contents of her stomach in front of a handsome gentleman.

  She rolled the waistband of the trousers a third time and took a few more strides before she pivoted to cross the floor on the diagonal. He was handsome, wasn’t he? And exceptionally kind. He’d helped her through her seasickness, his voice a deep, lulling tone, almost tender, as he wiped her brow and held her shoulders firm, yet all the while possessing a gentleness that revealed the greatest fragility in his care.

  She tucked in the hem of her chemise and the tails of the white linen shirt she’d also borrowed from the trunk. Crispin’s clothing smelled good, fresh with starch and a hint of bergamot. She buried her nose a little deeper into the cloth at her shoulder and inhaled again. Did his skin smell this wonderful or was it the other way around, his clothing offering the scent? With hope, he would understand her liberties in borrowing the garments in the same fashion as the items he’d left. She’d used the cake of shaving soap and remaining water to scrub her skirts clean, and once they dried she’d redress with little complaint. Perhaps she’d never need explain at all if he kept from the quarters longer than a few hours. Though that reality didn’t sit well. She didn’t rummage further than necessary, but if Crispin had a book or two in his trunks, she would thank him graciously. Boredom and restlessness were a constant battle. Perhaps she could venture above deck if she wore breeches instead of a gown.

  A sturdy knock brought her eyes to the door. Two beats and then a pause and two more.

  Crispin. They’d decided on the knock as a code in one of the many conversations shared in an attempt to calm her queasy stomach.

  Now, she opened the latch and stepped away, anxious to see his reaction.

  ‘Those are my breeches? Are those my breeches?’

  His incredulous questions and startled reaction had her smile inching higher. ‘Yes. They’re yours.’

  ‘I know,’ he muttered. ‘That’s worse.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind. I needed something to wear while my gown dried. It was stained from…well, it was stained.’ She motioned to where her yellow day gown lay draped over the spindle-backed chair.

  ‘This is highly irregular.’

  ‘Then you do mind.’ Her voice dipped with disappointment. She hadn’t meant to displease him. At present, her world had become rather small and narrowed down to interaction with one person only.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  Funny how his tone suggested the exact opposite. Whatsoever could be the problem? The situation was only temporary and it wasn’t as though she could sit around in her chemise waiting for her gown to dry. ‘Surely the sight of a woman in trousers shouldn’t come as a shock. You claim to be a notorious rakehell. I’d gamble you’ve seen women in all states of undress.’ She couldn’t resist the jibe. The look on his face worth every word.

  ‘I’ve said no such thing. But I have,’ he added belatedly. His eyes skimmed over her a third time and she wondered at his peculiar reaction. ‘I just didn’t expect you. In more ways than one.’

  ‘I’ll only wear them a bit longer, then I’ll take them off.’ She placed her hands on her hips for lack of somewhere else to put them. Had she chosen the wrong words? His eyes flashed brilliant and blue against his long lashes.

  Crispin swallowed thoughtfully, his tongue thick and mind blank all of a sudden. The last thing he expected when walking into his quarters was to find Amanda dressed in his breeches and shirt, the sheer white linen no disguise for her lacy chemise beneath. If he stared too long he swore he could see the outline of her breasts, the delicate points of her nipples a dangerous lure.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She canted her head to the side, apparently confused at his silence. ‘I don’t have any clothes.’

  He groaned and cleared his throat in an effort to evoke vocabulary.

  ‘Since I have no clothes—’

  ‘Stop saying that.’ He matched her eyes and then looked towards the far corner, focused on alleviating the growing situation in his smalls.

  ‘Why do you keep looking away? I didn’t think your breeches looked so terrible on me.’ She strode to the cheval glass and eyed her profile. He told himself not to watch.

  ‘They don’t.’ He dashed a smile as he watched. ‘This reminds of something my sister, Sophie, would do.’

  ‘Honestly, men have all the advantages. I rather like breeches. They offer so much unencumbered freedom. I’m always getting tangled in my skirts.’ She bent over and touched her toes. ‘Just look how easily that was accomplished.’

  Caught on the lovely curve of her bottom, he was slow to respond. Then, tearing his gaze away, his answer came out too forcefully. ‘Indeed. You’re of Sophie’s mind. Upset with the imbalance.’

  ‘Men can gamble, drink, stay out late and ride astride.’

  She rambled these off, caught up in the subject no matter he couldn’t stop staring at her body in his clothes. Worse yet, the reminder that her skin wore what he might, that her scent would linger, did nothing to tamp down unbidden desire. ‘I didn’t invent the rules. I just break them.’ He offered a devilish smile, determined to recover the upper hand.

  ‘I very much like breeches. I may try to go above deck in these.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing. One look at that pert nose and sassy chin and every man on this ship would be panting after you.’ He swallowed, guilty of the very same accusation.

  ‘But I’m bored within these walls.’ She tossed her braid over her shoulder and paced a length, then back again.

  He didn’t miss the swish of her hips, outlined nicely by the clingy wool. If she continued to parade around in front of him he would be forced to leave…eventually.

  ‘You might have considered that before you chose to stow away. Did you think you could have run of the ship? Blend in with the passengers and never be questioned?’ He waved his hand for emphasis though it might very well be true. How would anyone know if she was aboard? She could likely take her meals and walk the deck without ever being challenged. It was his own selfishness that kept her locked a
way. And then, of course, there was the matter of Ferris.

  Albeit safety for a woman, never mind a proper young beautiful miss, alone and unprotected, was madness in every sense.

  ‘I’m not so sure.’ She gave him a pleading stare that did strange things to his insides.

  ‘I’ll make it a point to return later. Perhaps we can play cards to pass the time. Then you won’t be so bored. Is that amenable?’ He could at least make an effort.

  ‘Oh yes.’ She brightened, the lamplight catching a gleam in her eyes. He didn’t dare approach to examine the effect closer.

  ‘I’ve brought you food and tea.’ He indicated the basket he’d carried inside. ‘I trust you’ll find what you need.’

  She answered with a smile that had him smiling too. Then he turned and left, anxious for a cleansing breath of sea air. Outside the door, Ferris approached, three steps from the corridor and apparently on his way to visit. Now there was a predicament he hadn’t anticipated. Ferris might stop by at any time. All this subterfuge and unavoidable explaining complicated what was planned to be a calm and thoughtful voyage home.

  ‘Let’s go above deck. I need some air.’ He motioned Ferris towards the stairs, thankful no discussion followed.

  The day proved fine and they took a place near the wood railing, tacky from the salt and mist. Crispin released a breath of relief.

  ‘What troubles you, amico mio? Ferris smoothed a palm over his face, though his eyes never lost their close interest.

  ‘Not a thing.’ If only that were true. ‘I have a lot to attend to in London. The closer we get, the more I contemplate what needs to be done.’

  ‘It’s good then, that we have over a fortnight of travel ahead.’ Ferris nodded. ‘You have the funds you need?’

  Ferris knew of the Underworld debt. Crispin had confided in the count early in their friendship and, with that, Ferris had kept Crispin informed of the most lucrative opportunities to regain wealth and profit. In time, Crispin honed his skill at cards to such mastery, most gamblers reconsidered before engaging in play. Subsequently, much of the amusement and distraction vanished, yet money begat money and there was always another fool who believed themselves a better player. Crispin had no difficulty amassing generous wealth.

  Instead it was the larger issue, the unhealed condition of his heart, which lent him sleepless nights. He planned to confront Maxwell Sinclair, proprietor of the Underworld gaming hell, repay his debt and then disengage from the lingering truth once and for all. Crispin had once wanted Vivienne, but she’d chosen Max and the realization now, that his affection had been nothing more than infatuation or misplaced attachment at best, caused him to feel all the more foolish. He wouldn’t be known as a besotted sop who fled London with a broken heart. Redemption would be had. His travels had offered distance and clarity, as well as the chance to wall away finer emotion. He had no desire to become lost in an abyss of affection ever again.

  ‘Where did you go? You’re not listening to a word.’ Ferris slapped him on the back in a bid for attention. ‘You need to stop wasting time on the past. Didn’t you enjoy the pleasures of my home? The accommodations and lovely companions I provided?’

  Crispin grinned, his answer honest. ‘Indeed, I did.’

  Anxious for company and otherwise bored beyond imagination, Amanda was thrilled when Crispin returned that evening. She’d replaced her temporary foray into men’s tailoring with her yellow gown and folded Crispin’s breeches and shirt atop one of the trunks. Every morning he would deliver a basket with breakfast foods and leave with his arms full of clean clothing, only to return later in the day wearing them. The amount of inconvenience she’d subjected him to had her feeling grateful and somewhat indebted.

  Perhaps Father could pay Crispin for his trouble. She didn’t know how to show her appreciation otherwise and simply a word of thanks would not suffice.

  ‘Are you ready for a game or two of cards?’ Crispin lifted the lid of the smallest canvas trunk and removed a polished satinwood box from which he extracted a deck of playing cards.

  Giddy with excitement, she held her tongue, a smile and nod all she could manage. With the largest trunk moved bedside and the single spindle-backed chair, they set about to play, Amanda on the edge of the mattress. She had no knowledge of card games, gambling not a preoccupation for ladies, and considering Raelyn’s fiancé had wagered away their future and broken his vow, it most assuredly was forbidden in their home. Father wasn’t a gambler by nature and his view on the matter was strict and unyielding. Amanda would never forget the day Raelyn’s fiancé’s name had appeared in The London Times, Father’s chosen source of news each morning at the breakfast table. Events had eroded terribly from that point on.

  But this kind gesture of cardplaying to alleviate the boredom of being captive in a small room was a specific exception to the rule.

  ‘We shall begin with the basics.’ He split the stack of cards, then flipped one half over and back again with agile dexterity. With a graceful change of hands, he shuffled the stacks, reversed the flow and reshuffled, assembling the cards with a flourish in the centre of the canvas.

  Startled by the display, she could only watch his hands and wonder at their strength and agility. He’d held her with such tenderness when she felt ill, but when she’d buffeted against him as the ship tossed and turned, there was no mistaking the muscular hardness of his body.

  ‘Remember…’ He quickly dealt two cards face down on the trunk before her. ‘Sometimes you win. Sometimes you learn.’

  She furrowed her brow and considered his advice. ‘So, even if I don’t have a winning hand, I’ll be better informed for the next round.’

  ‘Correct.’ He matched her eyes, his glittering gaze alive with mischief. ‘Your goal is Vingt-et-un, a sum of twenty-one.’

  ‘So, while my cards may not total twenty-one, I should attempt to come as close as possible to the sum and I should remember the cards played.’

  ‘Exactly. You’re a quick study.’ He said the words plainly though the vague suggestion of a smile played about his mouth.

  ‘I’ve always considered gambling to be ungentlemanly and for men who lack a moral compass.’ She flipped her cards over to reveal a pair of tens. He didn’t bother with his own.

  ‘I told you I’m not a good man.’ He retrieved the cards and began a new round. ‘I don’t know why you insist on believing otherwise.’

  As he instructed, she peeked at her cards, hardly bending the corner. Then she tapped on the canvas trunk to signal she’d like another.

  ‘Point proven. You already understand the simple play of the game.’

  ‘You mean there’s more than this?’

  He laughed and she smiled, delighted by the sound. ‘Yes. There’s an entire world more than this. The bluff, the skill, the perception and tells of your opponent. Knowing when to wager, how much to wager…’ He scooped up their cards, not acknowledging she’d bested that hand as well. ‘There’s no sympathy in cardplay. Always keep your cool. If you lose your head, you lose your chips.’

  That bit of advice came out in a wry tone, though she perceived a bit of reluctance. Or was it regret? Mayhap he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  ‘I understand,’ she said, nodding. A glance to the small window revealed night had fallen. Playing cards would serve as a godsend to pass the days if Crispin would allow her the luxury.

  As the cards were dealt, she attempted to put his advice into action and studied his face for any revealing indication. Such long lashes were wasted on a man, and his lips… his lips were designed for kissing. She huffed a little breath, overheated by the realization that she’d very much like to experience that kiss. Her foray into kissing was as limited as the same in men’s tailoring, but while on the ship she’d found a new freedom which expanded her thinking considerably.

  They settled into a warm silence as play continued, the sound in the room reduced to card shuffling and knocks upon the trunk. At one point, he angled out his
legs and his boots touched the toes of her boots. Her first instinct was to withdraw and allow him more room, but she found her feet reluctant to obey command, gladdened to have the small connection.

  She peeled her cards from the canvas, excited to see a perfect Vingt-et-un look back at her. She struggled against a smile.

  ‘Keep in mind, as your opponent, I’m watching every move you make. I wouldn’t doubt you have a perfect twenty-one in hand. Why would I continue to wager when you’ve shown me you’re unbeatable? The expression on your face, the anxious wiggle of your foot, even the gleam in your eyes, are signs you know you’ll win,’ he finished with a hint of chiding.

  ‘Oh.’ She pasted on a frown in a prompt attempt to bluff, but she couldn’t continue the charade and ended with a grin. ‘How did you learn so much about cards? You don’t look like a sharper.’ Though in truth, she had no way to know whether or not that was true. If all sharpers were as indecently handsome as Crispin Daventry, with as much effortless charm, the gossip mill would be ripe with that news instead of her latest embarrassing antics.

  ‘I applied myself to the task as an act of survival.’ He fell quiet after that and his statement was more cryptic for his reluctance to elaborate.

  Again silence settled, expectant and a little too eager to suss words to the surface, the exchange of cards, each flick and slap the only noise to be heard.

  Why would a titled gentleman strive to portray himself as a rakehell? The riddle buzzed around her brain in the forced solitude. He had applied himself to creating the opinion he was a rogue like no other, but his every accommodation, food, room and now distraction, even the fondness with which he spoke about his sister, proved he was anything but wicked. She searched his face as he deliberated his cards, the only outward sign of anticipation a muscle ticking on the side of his jaw.

  ‘Why are you trying so hard to be someone you’re not?’ The question was out before she could think better of it. Had she angered him? No. He flicked his eyes from his cards and flashed a quick smile.