Chapter 2
Involving a Discussion on Manners; the Lack of Bones, Sausages, Digestive Biscuits, and Extra Arms (Either Human or Octopoid) Is Lamented; Medicine Is Taken and a Stern Rebuke Is Administered; Followed by an Offer of Cake.
Wh-what the feck?
Mina gaped back at the hulk of a man, in pure horror.
Aside from his extraordinary size and breath-stealing physique (his shoulders were seriously, impossibly wide) she couldn’t help but notice he had a slightly crooked nose and one of his thick dark eyebrows was bisected by a scar.
Apart from the fact he was very well dressed—his coat, waistcoat, and form-fitting breeches were superbly tailored—he was quite handsome in a rugged sort of way.
How could a man appear to be both a gentleman and a ruffian at the same time?
She opened her mouth to speak—to at least utter a greeting (according to the Academy handbook, manners never go astray, especially when trying to smooth over an awkward situation)—but the pug let out another short bark, cutting her off.
“Now, now, B-Brutus,” admonished the stranger in that graveled but softly accented voice of his that brought to mind appealing, masculine things like whisky and leather and shaving soap, “that is n-no way to greet … to greet a young lady and her-her child.” His wide mouth quirked with the hint of a smile.
“Even though they appear to be stow-stowaways.”
Stowaways?
Her child?
Heat flooded Mina’s cheeks. “Oh no. He’s not—” she began, then bit her lip, swallowing her words.
This man clearly didn’t recognize Lord Fitzwilliam, so they mustn’t be on the Valiant.
Not only that, but the Valiant would still be navigating the River Avon, whereas it was evident that this vessel was riding a rough sea.
But what was she to tell this man, who was looking at her and Lord Fitzwilliam with such keen interest?
Or was it suspicion? While he hadn’t growled or barked at them like his irascible pug, surely he must be put out at least a little.
After all, he’d found two strangers—apparent stowaways—lurking in his wardrobe, hiding amongst his personal things.
Gathering her scattered thoughts, Mina decided that a half-truth was better than an outright lie. “I sincerely apologize for … for trespassing in your quarters, sir. We never intended to. And we’re not really stowaways. We-we just got on the wrong boat.”
The pug growled. A likely story, he thought tetchily, and Mina couldn’t suppress a frown.
Certain Parasol Academy students, when exposed to Fae magic, became “animal whisperers” and could communicate with particular creatures via thought alone.
Mina, as well as her best friend, Emmeline, had developed this ability.
Most of the time, it was a useful skill to have.
Of course, on the odd occasion, one heard things that were not intended for one’s ears.
Before Mina could respond to Brutus’s skeptical remark, his master said, “You-you got on the wrong b-b-boat?” He cocked an eyebrow in query.
Mina blinked. It only just occurred to her that this man had a stammer.
Goodness. She didn’t know a great deal about the condition, but she imagined it would be frustrating—to know exactly what you wanted to say, but then your mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
And to have people look askance at you when you hesitated or stumbled or got stuck altogether would be horrid too.
Praying she wasn’t looking askance at the man now, she summoned her most amiable smile. “Kind sir,” she said. “Would it be all right with you if we conduct this conversation … outside of your wardrobe?”
“O’ c-c-course.” The man immediately stepped back, allowing Mina and Lord Fitzwilliam space to emerge.
Now that the stranger had moved aside—his large frame had really quite obliterated the view—Mina could see they were in a spacious cabin.
One might even say it was sumptuous. The rugs and fabrics—silks and satins and brocades—were rich in luster and hue; a mixture of deep greens and blues and antique gold.
The wood was polished and the brass finishings gleamed.
And then there was the large bed dominating the center of the room.
Mina quickly averted her gaze from that particular piece of furniture.
Hoping her face wasn’t as red as a boiled lobster, she ventured, “Perhaps we could begin again with some introductions. We’ve met Brutus.” She nodded at the pug, who continued to eye her suspiciously. “And you are …?”
The man stroked the pug’s head with a large hand. “Ph-Ph-Phineas O’Connell.”
Brutus yipped and then Mina heard the dog mentally grumble, Jaysus Christ, say the rest.
Perhaps heeding the pug’s nudging bark, Phineas O’Connell added, “The Mar-Mar-Mar-quess o’ K-K-Kinsale.”
The Marquess of Kinsale? If Mina’s face had been red before, she was certain it was now as white as the snowy linen sheets on the nobleman’s bed.
“My lord,” she murmured, dipping into a curtsy—which was no mean feat considering she was still juggling Lord Fitzwilliam’s valise and her Academy umbrella, and the darn floor was constantly moving. “I had no idea.”
He shrugged nonchalantly, seemingly unbothered. “How w-w-were you to know, lass?” He paused and his gaze drifted over her uniform. “And if you d-don’t mind me askin’, you are …?”
Oh, heavens, she really ought to have worked out her story before she’d blithely suggested that they all share their names. “Mina. I mean, Hermina Davenport,” she said. “And this is …” She glanced down at Lord Fitzwilliam and placed a hand on his shoulder. “This is … Christopher.”
If she were game enough to attempt another teleportation to Rose Cottage, she’d probably never see Lord Kinsale ever again.
So what did it matter if he learned her name?
Supplying Lord Fitzwilliam’s Christian name, as they’d agreed, would hardly connect the young viscount to his title.
After all, there must be thousands upon thousands of boys, from all walks of life, named Christopher throughout the British Isles.
Lord Kinsale inclined his head. “I’m pleased to m-m-make your acquaintance then, Mrs. Hermina Dav-Dav-Davenport.” He smiled at Lord Fitzwilliam. “Christopher Dav—”
Lord Fitzwilliam began to speak, “Oh, I’m not Christopher Daven—” but Mina interrupted him.
“Master Christopher will do nicely, my lord,” she said to the marquess as she bobbed another small curtsy. When she could manage it, she would have another quiet word to the young viscount about the crucial need for subterfuge for now.
It was also evident that the Irish nobleman had assumed she was married.
Which was only natural if he believed that Lord Fitzwilliam was her son.
She didn’t see any point in correcting the marquess either.
Because that would be far too awkward for words and perhaps even call into question her virtue if she stated she was actually a “miss.” Neither could she openly admit that Christopher wasn’t her son and that he was actually Viscount Fitzwilliam.
What she really needed to do was get off this ship.
If she could just manage to get away from Lord Kinsale for a few minutes, she could attempt another teleportation.
She could always use her umbrella’s Point-of-Confusion again, or even employ a befuddling potion on the marquess, but then she’d also have to deal with the feisty Brutus.
Perhaps her uniform pocket might yield a nice juicy bone to distract the animal.
“As I mentioned before, my lord, we’ve obviously boarded the wrong vessel,” Mina began as she put down Lord Fitzwilliam’s valise, then reached into her pocket, all the while simultaneously adjusting her hold on her umbrella so the metal tip was facing forward for a strategic jab.
(Sometimes, she really wished she could utter a spell—something like “Armus Octopi”—which would supply her with a few more arms.) “An honest mistake—”
“With all d-due respect, Mrs. Dav-Davenport,” said the marquess, his dark brows sliding into a frown, “I-I don’t see how.
This is a privately owned vessel. M-m-my clipper, the Kinsale Cloud.
Not many ships set out from K-Kinsale Harbor yesterday evenin’.
And you cannot be tellin’ me that you and your lad here have been hidin’ in me war-war-wardrobe, all this time. ”
Brutus yapped in agreement. Only a feckin’ fool would buy such a load o’ bollocks.
Mina sent the impudent pug a quelling look—heavens, such language!
—and felt around in her pocket again, but nothing—not a bone, nor a sausage, not even a digestive biscuit—had materialized.
Drat it. She was going to have to talk her way out of this situation.
“Well, no, my lord. We haven’t,” she agreed.
“Honestly, we do not wish to be a bother. If you could just direct us to somewhere quiet and out of the way, I dare say we’ll be out of your hair in no time at all. ”
Lord Kinsale put down Brutus, who’d begun to wriggle, then rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
“Well, if you’ve hop-hopped on the wrong boat, lass, it f-f-follows that you might very well end up in the wrong p-place.
” He gave her a searching look. “The Kinsale Cloud is headed for Bris-Bristol and accordin’ to me ship’s captain, we’ll be there in a c-c-couple of hours.
Three at most. Is Bristol where you really w-w-wanted to go? ”
Mina considered Lord Kinsale’s question.
There could be worse destinations than simply ending up where one started.
Sir Bedivere had already departed the port, so it wasn’t likely that she’d bump into him again.
If the marquess—who seemed like a reasonable man, all things considered—permitted her and Lord Fitzwilliam to stay on board the Kinsale Cloud, she wouldn’t have to worry about messing up another teleportation attempt while at sea.