Page 2 of Lady Tempts a Rogue

At the docks’ far end, a rickety hackney drawn by a sway-backed horse trundled along the cobbles, its wheels echoing hollowly in the gray, fog-shrouded atmosphere. A black cat darted in front of the coach, its tail pointed straight as it fled an invisible foe.

Not superstitious or given to frightening easily, Trinity nevertheless could not stave off the shudder scuttling from her waist to her nape and then padding across her shoulders like a kitten tiptoeing on a prickly bush.

A premonition?

Of what?

A deckhand yelling an ear-burning curse dragged her attention back to the commotion around her.

A wry grin pulled her mouth upward at the sides.

These past years, she had acquired knowledge of vulgar vocabulary that would cause Mrs. Hester Shepherd, the proprietress of the foundling home and school where Trinity had spent her childhood, to blush crimson.

Having been raised to be a proper lady, Trinity had never let such uncouth expletives pass her lips. But should she ever require a hardy curse guaranteed to make one’s ears burn, she could summon several creative and physically impossible expletives with no effort whatsoever.

That she did not understand what half of them meant was of no consequence.

The Daunting Duchess—such a regal name for a rather nondescript frigate—sailed in less than an hour at high water.

Trinity’s attention drifted toward the dock.

Odd that the captain had not ordered the gangway removed yet.

Weren’t all the passengers aboard?

A tendril of hair that had escaped her neat chignon tickled her cheek.

Frowning, she brushed it aside.

Late this afternoon, when she and Mrs. Peagilly—presently enjoying a cup of ginger tea to stave off seasickness—boarded the vessel, Captain Horatio Breckett mentioned that seven other passengers also sailed to Morocco.

Trinity’s girlhood friend, Faith Kellinggrave, and her new husband, Lord Constantine, were to have voyaged on the ship too. Unfortunately, Lord Constantine’s father, the Duke of Landrith, had suffered a serious riding accident, causing the postponement of Faith’s wedding trip until he recovered.

Besides two businessmen, Amos Truman-Shelton and Lawrence Meriwether, Trinity had met the diplomat, Sir Godfrey McKinnick, his wife, Martha, and their two freckle-faced children, Gladys and Georgie—a thumb-sucking little chap still in short pants.

That left one passenger unaccounted for, though they might’ve boarded before Trinity and Mrs. Peagilly and, if a poor sailor, tucked themselves into their berth for what might be an unpleasant day or two or three.

Trinity had suffered horrid malaise on her first ocean voyage, but never again, thank God. Such was not the case for everyone, and she was most grateful her body had somehow adjusted to the sea’s churning and bobbing so that sickness never afflicted her again. She’d truly thought she would die those first several hours and pitied those suffering seasickness for days on each voyage.

Earlier, when Mrs. Peagilly assured Trinity she could spare her company, her employer had also vowed that as long as she drank ginger tea, she would not succumb to nausea.

Trinity glanced to where the full moon hung in the sky, but given the almost eerily fine mist shrouding the horizon, the distant orb only managed a faint, silvery glow. The captain must be confident the haze would lift or, at the very least, disperse as they headed out to sea.

Trinity certainly hoped so.

She did not want the rolling fog to steal her last view of England’s shoreline or obstruct the glittering stars above. The nocturnal lights appeared much more vivid and ever so much closer over the ocean than on land.

She’d always considered celestial navigation an extraordinary skill. Had she been a man, she might’ve pursued a life at sea. Years ago, she had borrowed a book from Glen Furrows, the sailing master on the Liberty June, about navigation using the stars. Scrunching her nose, she tried to recall the thin tome’s title, but memory failed her.

Hunched into her wrap, a comfortable Kersey woolen shield against the evening’s permeating chill, she staunchly determined not to go below until England’s shoreline disappeared—which might be far sooner than she liked given the uncooperative weather, dash it all.

During the first couple of years traveling the Continent and other marvelous locales with her first employer, Mrs. Wescott, Trinity had enjoyed herself immensely. For certain, at the onset, she’d been homesick for England, but orphaned and raised in a foundling home, Trinity had no one waiting for her or anyone who cared about her, other than a few friends from her time at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young women.

Mrs. Wescott provided Trinity, a girl of unimpressive origins, with an opportunity of a lifetime. While Mrs. Wescott had preferred frequenting traditional and popular tourist sites, Mrs. Peagilly was a whole other precocious and tenacious creature. Far more adventurous and less attached to creature comforts than Mrs. Wescott, Mrs. Peagilly relished the unexpected and scintillating adventure.

Those were her own words.

Once, the courageous woman had found a juvenile, four-foot python asleep on her cot.