The shores of Calais were just off the port bow, the harbor filled with sailing vessels of every kind, from paddle steamers to packet ships, cutters to schooners, ferries to merchant ships as imposing as frigates, and each were vying for position in the slender strait.
After the fourth hour of their journey, the deck of their packet steamer was becoming quite the crush. Passengers who weren’t driven aloft by curiosity were doing so due to the ripe stench of the hull below from the many who’d suffered bouts of seasickness on the journey.
Meg, who’d always possessed an iron constitution, hadn’t felt the least bit queasy. However, when the aunts’ maid had cast up her accounts into a makeshift bowl of her apron—the contents of her breakfast of coddled eggs, kippers, porridge and sausages looking as though they were strained through a fine mesh sieve—even Meg had needed to escape or become the next victim of the retching epidemic.
For that reason, she had been content to stay on deck for the duration and sketch in her book.
Even though she wore an ivory veil to protect her face from the sun and spray, her bonnet ribbons were whipped to a shred from the salty sea air. But she didn’t mind. She was eager to put England and heartbreak far behind her.
She knew that on foreign soil she would be less likely to think about Daniel Prescott. Less likely to feel the hurt and sense of inadequacy she’d carried with her ever since he’d told her she was too young to know her own mind. And less likely to recall that, even then, she’d been determined to wait for him . . . only to have her heart shatter when she’d read his letter.
Dear Miss Stredwick,
I have married . . .
Meg reached beneath the veil to wipe the sea spray from her cheek just before the aunts joined her at the railing.
“Would you look at that sight, sister?” Myrtle said on a gasp of delight. “From this distance, Calais looks rather like a table set for a grand party, with towering puddings, sculpted pies and steaming tureens all just waiting to be tasted.”
The younger Parrish sister was wholly unconcerned with the wind that toyed with her coiffure, the stray locks of silver floss escaping from beneath her bonnet, and the hems of her Saxon blue pelisse and worsted wool skirts being buffeted against her legs.
Maeve, on the other hand, was buttoned up to the chin, her hat ribbons secured into the high collar of her slate gray traveling costume. “You’re looking through the eyes of your appetite again.”
“Well, it has been over four hours since we left that Dover inn and the positively sumptuous buffet. I’ve never seen such a mountain of food.”
“Indeed, and we had the pleasure of seeing it again in Mrs. Pendergast’s lap,” Maeve said with a shiver. “I’m surprised you can even think of food after the carnage we witnessed.”
“I have pushed it from my mind as cleanly as an unsightly fishbone from the edge of my plate. After all, we have a grand purpose for our trip—to collect as many of the Continent’s finest recipes that we can carry—and we certainly shall not allow a little bilious reckoning to stand in our way. No. We must forge onward for the greater good.”
“That was actually quite a sensible argument,” Maeve said with a surprised lift of her brows.
Myrtle cupped her hand to the side of her mouth and said to Meg in a stage whisper, “Besides, I do my best flirting when I’m hungry.”
“Oh, sister. Whatever shall I do with you?”
Unrepentant to the core, Myrtle grinned. “Just imagine . . . for every muffin man and nut seller in England, there are likely croissant and macaron sellers here. Can I help it if I want to sample as much as I can without spending a single franc? And do not give me that put-upon expression, Maeve Parrish, for I recall how much you batted your eyes when we were last here, whenever our brother was looking away.”
“I was six and twenty. That was over”—she cleared her throat—“well, a handful of years ago, at any rate. It hardly signifies.”
“I daresay you broke a heart or two.”
Maeve shook her head, but there was a hint of a wistful smile on her lips. “It was rather thrilling. And I suppose the most exciting part about traveling abroad is that one can be whoever she wishes to be for that one moment in time.”
“And you were a flirt. Admit it,” Myrtle said with a laugh.
“Hush, you.”
They were both flirts as far as Meg was concerned. Between Maeve’s sly flattery, honed to an art form, and Myrtle’s cheeky grins and audaciousness, there hadn’t been a single baker or confectioner from Somerset to Dover who’d stood a chance of resisting their charms. And with every new recipe conquest, they appeared to enjoy themselves immensely.
Over the course of their journey, they’d also shared the stories of their long-ago grand flirtations—the ones that their thoughts always returned to with fondness.
Meg didn’t have any fond reminiscences like theirs. Instead, she had Daniel Prescott’s letter, along with the knowledge that her soul’s counterpart was now married to someone else.
She sighed as her gaze swept over the shoreline. Strangely enough, it actually did resemble a buffet table set with a feast of spired puddings, squat pies and square layered cakes with thatched roofs, she mused distractedly as her thoughts drifted toward the future.
What romantic moments would she have to look back on when she was in her dotage?
The answer was rather dismal. And she realized with surprise that she wanted to have stories like theirs. Or at least one.
One grand flirtation.
Yes, she thought, feeling the notion plant itself inside her heart and take root in all the broken places.
Why shouldn’t she flirt a bit? Or a lot? This was her holiday, after all. And when she returned to Wiltshire to spend the rest of her life as a spinster, she might have a memory to look back on with a smile.
The only problem was, in her two Seasons, there hadn’t been a single gentleman who’d seen her as a woman. Instead, most had treated her like a girl, practically dismissing her with a pat on the head. In fact, the only man who hadn’t done the same had been the duke.
When he’d caught her wandering through his halls, he’d assumed that she was a husband-hunter. Not a girl but a woman. A woman capable of conspiring and scheming in order to seize what she wanted.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from walking away. But there had been a moment, when he’d looked at her, when something dark and altogether thrilling flared in his gaze . . .
“Aha!” Myrtle said, peering over Meg’s shoulder and giving her a start. “Now I realize why each of the handsome gentlemen that Maeve and I have pointed out on this trip have failed to spark your interest. None of them wore spectacles.”
“Whyever would you—” Meg broke off when she saw the aunts looking down at her sketchbook. There, plain for all to see were a pair of spectacles, perched on the nose of a familiar brooding face. She quickly closed the book. “Merely scribbling.”
She hadn’t mentioned her encounter with the duke. If she had done, she was certain they’d never have let her leave without securing a wedding date.
Of course, that wasn’t to say that they’d have had any luck in that regard. Even if they had managed the unlikely feat of bringing the unduly pedantic duke up to scratch, she would have refused. She believed in love and fate and would never consider marrying out of mere obligation.
Even so, for the past two days, they’d spoken of little else than their disappointment at not meeting him, making it impossible for Meg to scrape him cleanly from her mind. And with so much talk of him, was it any wonder that she’d inadvertently drawn his likeness?
“I had a music tutor who wore a monocle,” Myrtle said dreamily. “He had silver streaks at his temples and once told me that I had exceptional breath control.”
Maeve pursed her lips. “That tutor resembled a one-eyed owl, if you ask me. And the instant our brother saw him admiring your . . . breath control, he sacked him on the spot.”
“Hmm . . . I’d forgotten that part.” Myrtle’s brow furrowed for a moment before it cleared, then she shrugged offhandedly. “Oh, well. It never hurts to be admired. And speaking of . . . I’ve heard that the Duke of Merleton wears a pair of eyeglasses and looks rather handsome in them.”
Meg felt the collective weight of their bright, wedding-breakfast gazes drop pointedly to the newly closed sketchbook. She was half tempted to hurl it into the sea.
Shifting from one foot to the other, she cleared her throat. “Does he? I’m sure I shouldn’t know.”
“A pity we did not happen upon him at his estate.”
Myrtle sighed forlornly. “And we so wanted you to meet him.”
“I thought you said you were only after the recipes,” Meg accused. “Though, it seems to me, you had an ulterior motive all along.”
Maeve nudged her sister with a sharp elbow. “What Myrtle meant to say is that we thought you might have charmed more recipes out of him, if you had met.”
“Yes, indeed. That is precisely what I meant.”
Right. And I was born yesterday, Meg thought wryly.
However, this exchange only made her feel justified in keeping her brief encounter with the duke a secret. And she was inordinately glad that she would never cross paths with the spectacle-wearing bachelor Duke of Merleton again.
All she wanted was to find a man to flirt with on her holiday. And not one who would incite the aunts’ matrimonial expectations. Surely, that shouldn’t be too difficult. Should it?
* * *
An hour later, they were officially on French soil, the air briny and charred and full of promise.
The port of Calais was bustling with activity and industry. Passenger ships crowded the docks, and freight was being unloaded by surly crews and stacked in crates on the damp cobblestones. Hawkers milled about, shouting the prices of their goods. And anxious family members waited for the passengers disembarking on wobbly sea legs.
Standing in line for the customs agent to check their bags, Maeve shook her head with sympathy as her gaze drifted to the seawall where her maid stood, shoulders hunched and a hand clamped to her mouth. “I fear Mrs. Pendergast is still a bit green around the gills. Though, I daresay there isn’t much left in her accounts to cast up.”
Holding her steady was Meg’s own maid, Bryony Cooper. The fresh-faced girl offered assistance to her fellow abigail by mopping her brow with a handkerchief. The two of them had traveled in a separate carriage with the trunks, and it was not until earlier that morning in Dover that Mrs. Pendergast revealed that she had never sailed before. And as the apron that had been given a burial at sea could attest, the now sallow and raddled woman did not take well to the tidal surges.
“Oh, how I wish we were not trapped forever in this line. I’m sure she would be much improved if we were already at our hotel. I’ve heard that seasickness can linger for an entire day,” Myrtle added with sympathy.
Maeve frowned as she looked toward the conveyances, where scores of passengers were crowding into a filthy three-rowed coach. Ushering them inside with impatient gestures were two surly outriders and an unkempt driver who wore a stained red kerchief tied around his neck.
“They look more like highwaymen than respectable drivers,” she said and summarily shook her head. “We cannot allow her to travel in that vile diligence, else she will be ill for a week. Or worse.”
Hearing this, their porter dashed off to hail two of the waiting cabs—one for their trunks and the other for them. Even so, it would be a while before they could leave, especially since they were still waiting for the customs agent.
“I do not see a reason for Mrs. Pendergast to linger,” Meg said. “If you would permit me, I will take both maids to our cabriolet. Then the three of us shall follow in the one that will bear our trunks.”
“Splendid notion, my dear.” Myrtle beamed on a sigh of relief.
Maeve nodded but with hesitation as she reached for Meg’s satchel. “Here. We’ll take charge of this. But be careful. There’s no telling what you may encounter.”
“I shall be within forty paces of you. What trouble could I possibly run into?” Meg laughed. But seeing their hesitation as they mulled over the possibilities, she quickly issued a jaunty salute and left before they could change their minds.
But after seeing the maids to the carriage and sending them on to the hotel, Meg realized that trouble came in many different guises.
Turning back to rejoin the aunts, she discovered that a wall of crates had been unloaded directly behind her. And there were more coming.
A veritable stream of burly sailors hefted an assortment of imported goods down a springboard gangplank. Without paying heed to any obstacle that dared stand in their path, they loaded baskets and barrels and trunks of all sizes onto waiting horse carts.
Skirting out of the way, lest she become bowled over and flattened like a crepe, she caught sight of the tall figure of a man out of the corner of her eye. He was walking slowly with his head bent, apparently unaware that he was in the direct path of the cargo being unloaded.
“Sir! Sir!” she called out, but he paid no attention.
It was then that she noticed a half dozen casks of either wine or ale perched on the very top of the gangplank. A dire sense of warning prickled up the back of her neck.
Then, suddenly, one of the casks broke free.
A sailor shouted, “Ho, there!”
But the man, with merely a glance, continued at his methodical pace.
Meg couldn’t watch. And yet, how could she look away and simply leave him to his fate? He was about to be crushed! She had to do something.
Picking up her skirts, she rushed forward, full charge. Then she shoved him out of the way. Or tried to. But it was like a kitten hurling itself at an ox.
The man merely staggered forward a single step, then instantly whipped around.
“What the devil do you—”
She didn’t give him time to finish, because now they were both in the path of danger.
So she launched herself at him again. Putting her shoulder into it, she slammed into his form. Hard.
A low grunt left the man’s lips. Meg heard something crunch. Then they stumbled together in a disorderly confusion of limbs, like marionettes abruptly cut from their strings.
Oof! Her teeth clacked together as her back collided with a wall of burlap grain sacks. An instant later, he landed against her front and drove the remaining wind from her lungs. And as she lay dying, she dimly heard the wayward cask whoosh by in a gravelly rumble.
Now that the immediate threat was over, she expected the man to remove himself. When he didn’t, she looked up, ready to scold this stranger. But her diatribe fell short as her gaze fixed on a pair of familiar, intensely dark eyes . . . sans spectacles.
“You!” she gasped, saw the same shock and dismay mirrored in his expression.
But the Duke of Merleton recovered quickly. A single brow inched toward his hairline as he said, “I should have known.”