Page 6
“Now see here—” The captain began, but stopping himself, he let out an exasperated huff and snapped his fingers at a waiting seaman, who hurried down the gangplank to retrieve the crate.
Ormond covered his mouth, stifling a laugh.
Nash pressed his lips together, holding in his own laughter, thankful Robbie chose that moment to emerge from the aft hatch to approach their small group.
The countess glanced from Robbie to Nash. “Another?”
“Twins,” said Nash, managing a small bow. “Nash Etienne Powell, at your service, my lady.” He gestured to Robbie. “This is Robert Pierre Powell, older than I by a mere five minutes yet he will not let me forget it.”
The countess perused them. “Humph. I believe I may know one of your older brothers. Sir Martin. Yes, that’s the one.”
Nash had always been amazed at the power of his brother’s charm over the ladies, but when Robbie bestowed his most brilliant smile upon the elegant countess and bowed over her hand, Lady Claremont had a very different reaction than Nash had expected.
She picked up a quizzing glass, dangling from a gold chain around her neck, and carefully examined Robbie through the lens. Dropping the glass, she said, “You must keep hearts in the ton all aflutter, Mr. Powell. I shall have to keep an eye on you.” Then she turned to Nash. “You, too, I daresay. How confusing it will be if you have a smile like your brother’s.”
Nash thought to show her just how alike he and Robbie could appear but, just then, the captain pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, gave it an anxious glance and frowned. Narrowing his gaze at the Thames, in a tone that brooked no dissent, he said, “I would ask you and your servant to go below, Lady Claremont. We are about to sail.”
Dinner in the captain’s cabin that evening turned into an interesting one for Robbie, as he suspected it did for Nash.
A table from the crew’s mess had been added to the captain’s table and they all squeezed in for a meal of chicken, fried in the way of the Scots, roasted potatoes and a dark green vegetable the captain called “kale”. Robbie thought it a sad cousin to cabbage. When sampled, it tasted sour, like he imagined old newspapers would taste if he ever had a mind to eat them.
The chicken and potatoes were quite good, however, and were soon consumed. Everyone, save the captain, pushed the kale around their plates as if too distracted by the engaging conversation to partake.
Robbie was not fooled. Neither was Nash, judging by the look they exchanged. But the company made up for the strange vegetable.
Joining the men was Ormond’s wife, the former Lady Mary Campbell, a young aristocrat with pale blonde hair and eyes the color of green jade, whose features were as delicate as Dresden porcelain.
Next to the Ormonds sat Nick’s wife, the former Tara McConnell of Baltimore, a darker blonde than Mary and with blue-green eyes Nick said were the color of a tropical lagoon. Tara was a beguiling creature who knew ships and sailing as well as Nick.
On the other side of the table sat Martin’s wife, the redheaded Lady Katherine Powell, or “Kit” as she liked to be called. Her blue eyes, lighter than those of her husband’s, always seemed to take in much. Robbie wondered if she had brought her sketchbook because she was rarely without it.
Martin was the only one of Robbie’s brothers who had the blue eyes of their mother. He had met his wife Kit, the daughter of an earl, in an exclusive brothel, a meeting they claimed stemmed from a misunderstanding. Martin refused to discuss the affair, but Robbie had been in enough brothels to wonder what a lady like Kit would be doing there.
Since they were all close, unless in public, they addressed each other by their Christian names, except for Hugh, Lord Ormond, who had always been addressed by his courtesy title, or so Robbie had been told. Like the Powell men, Ormond had accepted special assignments from the Crown. And, if the tales were true, his wife, the rebellious Lady Mary Campbell had done a bit of spying herself in France.
Joining the young wives in their twenties was the Countess of Claremont, sitting to the captain’s right, her feathers floating above her head like exotic plumage on a rare bird, so tall they threatened to brush the cabin’s overhead beams. The flickering light from the lanterns only added to the illusion. Robbie had to admit she struck an elegant figure with her long strands of pearls over her silver brocade gown adorned with much lace.
The sobriquet The Grand Countess came instantly to mind.
Lady Claremont dropped her gaze briefly to the uneaten kale on her plate, a flicker of distaste crossing her face, then raised her eyes to the captain. “How is my dear friend Emily, Captain? I miss her greatly. It’s been half a year since that husband of hers brought her to London for a visit.”
“You will have to ask her, my lady,” replied the captain. “But from all appearances, she is thriving. They are expecting their first child in the spring.”
“Oh my! That is good news,” said the countess. “I shall have to scold her for failing to tell me.”
“Something to celebrate,” chimed in Ormond, raising his glass of claret in toast. “I expect my friend Stephen has several bottles of champagne chilling in the snow even now.”
The steward entered the cabin just then followed by two other men. At the captain’s nod, they began gathering up the plates and used tableware. From the relieved expressions on the faces of his fellow passengers, Robbie was not the only one glad to see the kale disappear.
A short while later, the steward returned carrying a large steamed pudding. The sweet scent of oranges wafted through the air amid exclamations of delight.
Robbie’s mouth watered.
Kit, accepted a slice of pudding. “That smells wonderful.”
“I love orange pudding,” said Tara, taking a bite and groaning with pleasure.
“The fruit comes from Lady Emily’s orangery in Arbroath,” stated the captain. Looking around the table, his face set in a stony expression, he added, “As did the kale.”
