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Maeve Irvine stood on the deck of the ship, her heartbeating fast while the crewmen completed the mooring. Impatient to start exploring England, she took in what little she could see from the ship—a view of the London wharf. Wisps of late-morning fog swirled around the brick warehouses and cobblestone street, lending a mystical quality to an otherwise drab scene. The dinginess of the buildings didn't lessen her excitement. She was used to docks, having accompanied her late father many times in Boston while he oversaw his shipping interests.
She turned to her companion, Miss Grey, a woman who had once been her nurse and currently served as an abigail. "So far London doesn't look much different from home, does it, Grey?"
The older woman squinted at their surroundings and wrinkled her longish nose. "Home was never this smelly."
Maeve laughed. "Obviously, you didn't spend much time at the docks."
"No, I can't say I did." Miss Grey met her gaze and broke into a smile. "One thing I will say, Miss—'tis good to see you looking happy again."
"Who wouldn't be happy at the prospect of setting foot on land after a month at sea?" Glancing back at the dock, she saw the crew extending planks to the pier below. She drew in a breath and added, "Not to mention the prospect of a whole new life."
"Certainly the worst is behind us." The abigail set a hand on her shoulder. "You should be proud of how you've conducted yourself over the past year, Miss. With no help except for the solicitor's, you settled your father's estate and liquidated all of his assets. You even escaped the hands of all the fortune hunters who hounded you after Mr. Irvine's death."
"One of those escapes was rather narrow, though." A lump formed in Maeve's throat, and her smile faltered—but only for an instant. "Still, none of that matters now. No fortune hunters will haunt me here. My aunt has agreed to keep quiet about my financial situation. With any luck, everyone will assume I'm coming to live with her out of necessity. I've even let on to a few people aboard ship that I hope to make a living painting portraits."
Miss Grey frowned. "Are you sure you don't want it known that you at least have a dowry? Otherwise, you may have no suitors at all. You can let it slip that you're not destitute without disclosing the full extent of your fortune."
She shook her head. "I'm not looking for suitors. At three-and-twenty, I've accepted that I'm on the shelf. My fulfillment in life will have to come from my artwork. Aunt Blaine has promised to introduce me to some of my late uncle's painter colleagues. I hope to learn much from them."
"But, Miss, you're not on the shelf at all—"
"Ah, I see they're allowing passengers to disembark," Maeve interrupted. The fact of her spinsterhood hadn't been easy to swallow, but she had managed. Now she had nothing more to say on the subject. "Let's go."
Miss Grey hesitated. "As you wish, Miss."
Maeve glided down the planks with the abigail mincing behind her. As she set foot on British soil for the first time, she looked back to see if the crew had begun unloading cargo. Instead she spotted a friend she'd made during the voyage. Viscount Faraday emerged above deck, adjusting the shoulder pads on his well-tailored but dull gray jacket.
She waved both arms and called, "Lord Faraday! Down here."
He pinpointed her and nodded, then started down the ramp with as unsure a foot as Miss Grey.
Maeve stifled a giggle. She didn't mean to laugh at this man, who had been kind to her during their voyage, but today her spirits were fairly brimming over.
His lordship progressed at a snail's pace, a sliver of sunlight cutting through the fog and reflecting off his sparsely haired head. At last, he joined them on terra firma. "Good morning, Miss Irvine, Miss Grey. How fortunate to see you one last time before we part. I was sorry to miss the pleasure of breaking fast with you this morning."
"We missed you, too," Maeve said. "Were you unwell again?"
"I'm afraid so—and doubly distressed to lose my final chance to dine with you." His narrow shoulders sagged. "I shall miss the cozy shipboard meals we've shared."
Another giggle bubbled up inside of her. "A gallant comment, to be sure, my lord. On many evenings those 'cozy' meals slid all about the table—or got tossed around in our stomachs after we'd eaten. Besides, you can still dine with us here in London, and the setting will be far more pleasant."
He shook his head. "I fear you'll have little time for me once you settle in and all the young bucks begin to court you."
"Oh, la." Maeve waved off his comment. Why did everyone insist she would have suitors? "You know I'm here to seek a career in art, not a husband."
"We shall see how you feel in a few weeks."
Under other circumstances his persistence might have vexed her, but now she was too excited to pay him heed. She gave him a wry look. "I daresay I'm not as susceptible to the opposite sex as you seem to believe."
At that moment a peal of hearty laughter rang out in the street a few yards away. She turned to see a pair of handsome young men passing by. The first wore the smart regimentals of the English army, his red coat set off by his straw-colored hair. His companion, however, was the one who made her breath catch. Dressed in a crisp navy-blue jacket filled well by his broad shoulders, he had a shock of dark-brown hair and a strong but straight nose. His slate-gray breeches delineated the ample muscles of his thighs, and his black Hessian boots gleamed from a recent polishing.
Still grinning at whatever joke he and his friend had shared, he fixed his twinkling dark eyes on her.
As he held her gaze, her lips curved instinctively.
He widened his smile and nodded to her.
The familiar treatment made her realize how inappropriate her expression must be. Goodness, he must think me forward! She snapped her attention back to Lord Faraday.
The viscount gave her a soft smile. "You belong with a fine young fellow."
Embarrassed by her lapse, she looked down at her feet. "As I've told you, I plan to live my life independently...supporting myself through portrait painting."
"Well, I wish you the best in that and more, my dear." He looked over his shoulder at the ship. "Forgive me, but I shall have to leave you ladies for a short time to oversee the transfer of my luggage from ship to coach. While I'm at it, I'll locate your trunks, too, and secure a respectable hackney to carry you to your aunt's."
"You needn't go to so much trouble for us, my lord," Maeve said. "I handled such matters on the other side of the ocean. There's no reason I can't do the same here."
"No trouble at all, Miss Irvine." He bowed. "Should you need anything in my absence, please apply to Captain Singer."
She smiled. "Thank you for your kindness—all of it."
"My pleasure." He excused himself and hurried away.
Maeve turned to watch the activity on the ship, trying to see if she could spot her trunks being unloaded. Some of the crew rolled barrels out of the hull, while others took down sails and reeled fat ropes into coils. A third group of men tackled the boards of the deck with mops, scrub brushes and buckets of soapy water.
"Looks as though we can expect a good long wait," she said to Miss Grey.
After a few minutes of standing about, she and the abigail fashioned seats for themselves among some large crates on the pier. Squeezed in amidst the cargo, they could survey the scene without being readily observed themselves.
A quarter-hour passed, and Maeve began to regret that she'd packed away her sketchbook, but the unwieldy item would have been awkward to carry. Then she remembered that she had another source of diversion on hand. Looking in her reticule, she pulled out a slim volume of Shakespeare.
"Perhaps Troilus and Cressida can help us pass the time," she said to Miss Grey, opening to a marked page. "Do you recall the play I started reading to you the other night during the storm?"
The woman slid her a sideways glance. "Yes, Miss, but you know I'm not a great admirer of Shakespeare. I have trouble understanding the people in those plays. They all talk so strange-like."
Maeve nodded in sympathy. "Shakespeare is difficult until one grows accustomed to the language. Would you rather not hear any more?"
Her forehead furrowed. "Perhaps you could simply tell me the story in your own words. That might help me understand why you fancy the play so much."
"Gladly." Maeve closed the volume and leaned back against a barrel, her gaze drifting up to the clearing sky. "I must admit the plot is somewhat peculiar, but what intrigues me is all of the passion in the play. Each character has someone he or she desires so much, and when a love is finally requited, it is done with such intensity. One can feel the profound degrees of desire and, in turn, contentment. I've never before read anything of the like."
Miss Grey's eyes rounded. "Truly, Miss, from what you're telling me, I reckon your father wouldn't have let you read anything like it."
"Whether Papa would have approved or not is impossible to say, but surely at my age I'm mature enough to read Shakespeare." Maeve stretched out her legs, crossing them at the ankles. "Anyway, the play takes place during the Trojan War. As you know, the conflict started when a Trojan man named Paris abducted the Spartan queen, Helen, and refused to return her to King Menelaus."
Miss Grey leaned closer, propping her elbow on an adjacent barrel and putting her chin in her hand. "I was wondering why they kept mentioning Paris and Greece together. Isn't Paris in France?"
"Indeed it is. This Paris, however, is a man—a big, brave soldier whose love for Helen was so strong that he fought a war to keep her."
The abigail smiled. "And was she just as sweet on him?"
"Oh, yes, in the play she certainly is." Maeve tilted her head to one side. "Helen has this wonderful, lazy, satisfied air about her. Unlike some of the other characters, she shows no desperate longing—only pure, knowing contentment, even as a horrific war rages on around her. A thousand ships, thousands of lives, bloodshed...all of it merely so she and Paris can be together."
"A love that stirred up all of that fuss must have been something indeed."
"Yes. I daresay she had no trouble adjusting to life in a new country. Neither would I, if I had a handsome abductor to take care of me." Maeve let her head drop back on the barrel behind her. Facing the sky, she closed her eyes. Unbidden, a face popped into her mind—that of the unknown man in the street who had smiled at her a short while ago.
She sighed. He was such a handsome devil—likely just the sort to break a woman's heart. Good looks could hide a lot of inner ugliness, she'd learned. Luckily for her, she wasn't apt to run into this fellow again.
At that moment some sixth sense made her blink her eyes open. To her shock, the man in question was towering over her from behind the barrel that supported her head.
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