June 1816
Lucien Roper stood at the rail of the packet ship, watching the Dublin harbour recede into the distance. He inhaled the salty breeze and felt the bracing wind on his face. Voices of the sailors tending to their tasks rang in his ears.
Only a few more days, then, with luck, he’d be back on the deck of a ship of his own, with his old crew, and back to the life from which he’d received so much. A fortune in prize money. Recognition and respect. A place he belonged.
A woman’s laugh sounded over his shoulder, its sound so joyous, so unlike his restless mood that he turned, startled. She wore a grey cloak, shrouding her face.
What pleased her so? he wondered.
This was the sacrifice the navy life demanded of him. He was not free to court a young woman with a joyous laugh. Not for him to marry a woman and leave her for his mistress, the sea. He’d seen what happened when a navy man married and he and his wife spent most of their days apart.
As his own parents had done.
It had been a long time since he’d suffered the effects of having an absent naval father. Lucien himself had been at sea for more than twenty years now, since the age of twelve. This was his life and before it, a mere memory.
He was eager to get back to it. His beloved Foxfire had been sold for breaking up, no longer needed now the war was over, and the Admiralty had promised him a new ship. Of course, there were dozens of captains like him, clamouring for a ship, but he’d earned a spot near the top of the list. At least with the wind this brisk they could count on making it to Holyhead by the next afternoon and he’d be in London a few days later.
He studied the sky and frowned. This crossing would be rough. Maybe too rough. Likely their departure should have been delayed a day, but the sooner he reached England, the better.
Still...
He sauntered over to where the packet captain stood.
‘We’re in for a patch of bad weather,’ Lucien remarked.
The Captain knew who Lucien was—a decorated navy captain, a hero of the Adriatic Sea and Mediterranean.
‘What?’ The Captain looked surprised Lucien had spoken to him. ‘Oh. Bad weather. Yes. Must sail through it.’
Lucien had made it through many a storm. He’d make it through this one. He’d prefer, though, that the Captain seem less preoccupied and better able to attend to the weather and what was happening on his deck.
Like noticing the young grey-cloaked woman back away from sea spray and stumble a little.
‘Would it not be a good idea to order passengers to stay below?’ Lucien asked him in a tone more demanding than questioning.
‘Hmm?’ This Captain was as sharp as a slop bucket.
Pay attention, man.
‘The passengers,’ Lucien snapped, gesturing to the young woman, ‘should stay below.’
‘Oh?’ The Captain’s brows rose. ‘Of course. Was about to make that order.’ He called one of his men over. ‘Tell the passengers to remain below.’
Lucien shook his head in dismay and strode away. He traversed the deck and, out of habit, took notice of the seamen preparing for the storm. He scanned the sails and the ropes. All seemed well enough. Shipshape. He glanced back at the Captain who held a hand to his chest and seemed to be studying his coat buttons.
Lucien expelled a frustrated breath. He’d better get below himself before he began barking orders.
He walked to the companionway and opened the hatch. At the bottom of the stairs stood two women, both in grey cloaks. Which was the woman with the captivating laugh? He could not see the face of one, but the other was a beauty. An expensively dressed beauty. He might have spoken to them and hoped to finally see who had uttered such a lovely laugh, but it was clear he’d intruded on them. They stepped aside.
He nodded and passed them, but turned back. ‘You ladies should stay in your cabins. The sea is rough. Do not fear. A seaman will bring your meal to you.’
At least he hoped such an arrangement would be made—if the Captain thought to order it.
Lucien continued to his cabin.
* * *
Claire Tilson had quickly averted her face when the tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered gentleman opened the hatch and descended the stairs. Her heart was already beating fast; this encounter—this lady—had been disturbance enough, but she’d glimpsed the man on deck and he was every bit as handsome as she’d suspected, with thick brows and eyes as light brown and as alert as a fox’s.
What was wrong with her? Taking notice of any man. She’d just fled from the country house where she’d been governess to three lovely little girls, because their father had tried to seduce her—practically under the nose of his sweet wife. He’d sworn his undying love. As if she could trust a man who so ill-used his wife.
Claire shook herself. She need not be distracted. She needed, instead, to address this lady standing next to her, this lady she’d met a moment ago.
This lady who looked exactly like her.
Same brown hair. Same hazel eyes. Same face.
What do you say to a stranger who looked like your twin?
Lady Rebecca Pierce was her name, she’d said.
Claire waited until the handsome gentleman disappeared into one of the cabins near the end of the corridor, but she debated whether it was her place to ask for explanations.
‘We should do as he says, I suppose,’ she said