Anabelle Bryant - Return to the House of Sin

With a desperate tether to sensibility and an unwelcomed beat of panic, she approached the rail and eyed a freckled deckhand who gathered a heavy mooring line into a sturdy crate.

‘Pardon my enquiry, but to where is this ship bound?’ A nervous quiver made her words sound queer. A familiar ache of vulnerability settled in her stomach.

‘England.’ The mate narrowed his gaze as if to decipher how she could be aboard a ship without knowledge of its destination, but drawn back to the task at hand, dismissed her just as readily.

It had to be a mistake on his part. Had the crewman heard her enquiry correctly? Was he educated enough to understand? To her horror, an alternative conclusion formed on the heels of her mental confusion.

Good heavens, had she boarded the wrong ship?

No.

Breath seized in her lungs with the growing suspicion the worst was true. What could she do? She should seek out the captain. But would he disrupt the travels of every passenger aboard to deposit her back on Italian soil? She swung her head and viewed the diminishing coastline. How had they ventured so far in such a short time? She’d no money. No clothing. Or protection. A stampede of terror-stricken complications bombarded her brain. How would a woman, alone, survive on a three-week journey if she had none of the barest necessities?

Placing her hand over her heart, she forced herself to breathe and deny the prick of tears which stung her eyes. She was an intelligent woman of twenty-two years. This problem could be solved. She’d need a bit of ingenuity and creative thinking, but she wouldn’t perish. One step at a time. It was generally how she approached all matters in life whenever discombobulation threatened. She’d survived that afternoon when her pelisse snagged the carriage door latch and she was caught in an ungainly trot down Bond Street. She’d persevered the embarrassing incident last season at Gunter’s Ice Shop. Even society’s gossipmongers no longer regaled stories of that upset. And without too much damage to her reputation, she’d survived a laughable quadrille quandary at Almack’s.

The threat of a megrim, or worse, a bout of detestable weeping, forced her to withdraw from the railing and move towards the stairs. It would be wise to keep out of sight until she resolved a plan. A bit of clear thinking would remedy the situation. Thus, she needed to locate a room to sort out her options and decide the best way to approach the captain. Once he knew of her predicament and her father’s influence, he would undoubtedly overlook the fact she’d mistakenly become a stowaway, penniless, without wardrobe or companion. The captain would take pity, wouldn’t he? Otherwise, standing in a bright yellow gown on deck, she would draw notice and that was the very last thing she desired. Currently, the captain oversaw the negotiation of the ship as they embarked on their journey. Now was not the time to attempt an alarming discussion. She needed to think.

With adequate knowledge of ships, she found her way to the private quarters located in the bow. When she’d travelled with Father, Raelyn and Enid, they’d taken three rooms on the portside, and she hoped to find a similar situation. How she would determine whether or not the room was occupied remained unknown.

A frantic rhythm lived in her pulse as she tried the first two handles only to discover the doors locked. She continued down the polished wooden planks, as quietly as possible, but not overly concerned, as above deck remained a cacophony of noise. Loud thuds, hollow scraping and an occasional exchange floated through any available opening and confirmed her boot-heels wouldn’t be detected. With the next attempt, her palm slick with sweat, the cool brass lever twisted to the right. She opened the heavy door and ventured inside before she could contemplate the consequences.

The room stood empty and dark. She hurried to the small chestnut table nailed to the floor and lit the glass lantern to illuminate the space. Disappointment caused her nose to wrinkle. Three large trunks crowded the corner and a broad impression on the mattress, composed of rumpled sheets and an overturned blanket, announced the room as occupied. Aside from the bed, a wide table, stool and working desk with a wooden bowl of implements composed the sparse furnishing. A slender hat rack waited beside the door. There was a standing panel which jutted from the wall and a long oval mirror used for dressing. A narrow closet in the farthest corner stood ajar. She walked to it and measured her height against the doorframe and noted the compartment was empty.

Her heart lurched as two male voices penetrated the door and, in a squirrelly moment she would reflect on later as pure cowardice and poor decision, she wriggled into the closet space and pulled the panel closed, mortified when she discovered the wood swollen from humidity and unable to seal properly.

‘Just as I told you, little more than a bed, table and desk. Your quarters are the same as mine, Ferris.’

A clipped, cultured, decidedly English voice echoed within the silent room and she sighed in relief. At least she’d be able to converse with the passenger in a reasonable manner. Englishmen were civil, judicious gentlemen. Still, she attempted to pull the door closed further to prevent an unwanted confrontation.

‘Wait, did you hear something?’ the same voice asked his companion.

She waited, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

‘Nothing besides the mice and rats. Ships are notorious for their rodent population,’ a thicker, foreign voice replied.

She recognized the Italian accent immediately, but as the words registered, a high-pitched squeak escaped and she bit her bottom lip for the mistake.

‘Perhaps that was it.’

The men didn’t seem overly concerned and a sound akin to a trunk being dragged across the floor occupied the silence.

‘This is a step down. My grandfather’s yacht would have been more… what’s the word? Decadent. Next time, we’ll sail to Greece. Life is different there. I’ll show you.’

‘England is different as well, although I’m curious what you’ll make of London.’ The scrape of a chair came next. ‘We’ll continue this discussion later. I’m damnably exhausted. I’ll see you at dinner, Ferris. Try not to cause chaos in the meantime. No one needs the devil aboard.’

‘Me? I’m a saint. How is it you say?’

A pause followed and Amanda found herself angled forward with anticipation.

‘It takes a thief to catch a thief? Birds of a feather—’

‘That is the pot and kettle talking, eh?’

Baritone laughter filled the interior and then, with the click and subsequent clack of the door, the room fell silent.

Might both men have departed?

The answer came too quickly. She heard two thuds, a reminder of her father’s boots falling to the boards when he sat before the fireplace in his study. Good heavens, was the gentleman in the process of undressing? The closet door remained open the width of three fingers and, while she had no clear sight anywhere except to the opposite wall, her heart kicked into a panicked rhythm in concern she might see something she shouldn’t. Or miss something interesting instead.

What was she to do? She hadn’t eaten breakfast and if she didn’t melt from the cloying heat of being cramped in a narrow closet, the boisterous growls vibrating from her stomach would eventually reveal her hiding place.

The room fell eerily quiet. Not a rustle of a sheet or creak of a chair. The air thickened, each inhale an effort, and all because she waited, unsure what was to occur. Did the gentleman sleep? He’d stated he was exhausted. Could it be that easy? Were he to fall into a fitful slumber, she might silently slink past him and out, in search of another, more suitable room.