Day Eight

SS Majestic

In port, Liverpool

Penelope.

The whisper began at her ear, but she heard it somewhere in the middle of her head, like a memory. A memory of what? She was so warm and content, as if her body were made of electrified air, buzzing quietly against the sheets. She stretched one lazy arm above her head, where it landed in a smooth pile of silky thread that would, if examined, turn out to be silver.

For a moment, she allowed herself a luxury she hadn’t known in twenty years: the slow intimacy of waking up in bed with a man. There was the familiar scent of tobacco and soap, the solid bulwark of the chest behind her, the stir of his breath at her temple. How had she lived without this?

Olympia, she whispered back.

“It’s almost dawn,” he said. “The ship has stopped.”

Of course. The background drone of the twin-screw propellers had ceased; the ship no longer pitched on a restless ocean. They had slid into port as quietly and surely as Olympia had made love to her during the night, and the result was the same: satisfaction, completion. The happy climax to a thrilling journey, so right and perfect that you forgot, afterward, that it hadn’t simply been inevitable.

“So it has,” she said.

He stroked her hair with his knuckles. “I must return to my cabin. Evict the interlopers before anyone suspects.”

“And I must pack.”

“Yes, that, too.”

His knuckles went on rubbing. She closed her eyes again; there was nothing to see anyway. Nothing to do, in this instant, except to savor this last caress.

He went on. “I’m afraid I shall have to disembark immediately. My men in London must know of this incident without delay. I shall wire them from the docks and board the first train.”

“Of course.”

Stroke, stroke. With her eyes closed like this, she could feel all of him, she could concentrate on everything at once. His smell, his touch, his low English voice. The way she fit into the zigzag of his body. She remembered her first sight of that body, so lean and energetic beneath the stiffness of his shirt and the gloss of his dinner jacket. A mere six days later, and she was waking up in its shelter.

“And you?” he said. “You will, of course, be making your way to London.”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?” The knuckles came to a halt, mid-stroke. “What the devil does that mean?”

“My dear sir, I have a world to explore. I have so much to catch up on. I might like to see Paris.”

“Paris?”

“Yes. I haven’t been to Paris since I was a schoolgirl.” She yawned. “And Florence, I think. Yes, Florence, before the tourists descend. But Paris first.”

“Why Paris?”

“Because Paris is always a good idea. Don’t you think?”

“I thought,” said the duke, in that rumbling tone she recognized, “we had agreed to make this journey together.”

“And I thought I told you I wasn’t going to become anyone’s mistress.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

She yawned. “Well, whenever you decide what you did mean, be sure to write. I’ll be collecting my mail at the American Express office on rue Halévy.”

“But how will you live? What will you live on?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

He sat up, overturning the covers, and reached for his shirt. “If I didn’t have to go up to London at the earliest moment—”

“My dear sir, don’t think anything of it. I’ve had a lovely time, truly. The loveliest. Go off and do whatever business it is you do. I hope we shall encounter each other again, by some happy coincidence.”

“By God, we shall,” he said, again in that delightful growl, thrusting his legs into his trousers. “You cannot possibly elude me, Mrs. Schuyler. I have the entirety of Britain’s intelligence at my disposal.”

She snuggled under the comforter. “How formidable.”

“Look here—”

“You’re going to miss your train, Your Grace, if you’re not careful.”

Without warning, he seized her face between his hands. “Listen to me, Penelope. Listen to me very carefully.”

She opened her eyes to an intense and familiar blue gaze, framed by bones and skin that might have been hewn from a New Hampshire cliff, and she thought, I will never forget this sight, I will think of him always the way he’s looking at me right now. “Do I have a choice?” she said.

“I am not, at my age, in the habit of making casual love to women. I am not nearly done with you. I have only just begun, as a matter of fact—”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. “Just kiss me good-bye and put the rest in a letter, when you get the chance.”

He made a noise of exasperation and kissed her, long and hard, and kissed her again. When he rose and slipped through the door, she hardly heard him.

“Not nearly done,” he said again, before closing the door.

She waited a minute or two, counting the beats of her heart. Imagining him climbing quietly up the stairs, deck by deck, until he reached the top.

Then she slipped her hand under the mattress and pulled out a leather portfolio. Her fingers spread across the cover, as far as they could reach.

“My darling fellow, I’m afraid you probably are.”