England smelled different. Everett Montgomery—Monty to his friends, Rhett to his family, that rogue Montgomery boy to the grand dames of the ton, and plain old sir to the people he’d met during his five years on the continent—noticed the scent immediately. There was a sourness to London docks other cities didn’t have. On the continent, a wharf was synonymous with the sharp smell of saltwater, a brisk breeze, and a sense of hope.
The Thames carried with it the scent of the refuse that floated scum-like on the surface of the river. There was no breeze; the air hung heavy, and Rhett had little sense of hope. He’d been summoned home by his brother, the Duke of Strafford, ostensibly to spend Christmas with the family, but Rhett knew better. He’d been summoned to account for his behavior.
To ensure that Rhett actually returned, the duke had cut off his finances. So here Rhett was, back in jolly, freezing old England.
“Bloody ’ell, Montgomery. Get out of the bleedin’ way.” The ship’s bosun stood with two of the crew, a ripped sail furled and balanced on their shoulders.
“If you’d won the last hand of piquet, I would help you with that.” Getting under the skin of Pat, the crew’s third in command, had been Rhett’s primary source of entertainment as they’d sailed across the North Sea.
The bosun frowned. “I thought the duke was waitin’ for you. Shouldn’t you get goin’?”
“The duke can wait.” Not for that long, though.
Rhett was willing to prod at his brother’s limits, but he was too reliant on his quarterly allowance to poke too hard. If he angered his brother, he might very well be forced into work. He shuddered. He was not cut out for the dull, dutiful existence of a clergyman, but a life in the military—its structure and rules and hierarchy—was not a life for him either.
No, he had to meet his brother displaying an appropriate amount of chagrin and with a good argument for why his adventures on the continent should continue. Maybe he could say he was writing a book or getting a hands-on foundation of geopolitical issues for a future, not-ever-really-going-to-happen-for-a-man-like-him career in politics.
“His lordship might wait,” Pat said, “but we won’t. Get movin’”
Rhett looked over his shoulder. Behind him the entire crew was waiting, arms full of cargo, for him to get off the bloody ship. Everyone but the bosun was rolling his eyes or sniggering at his reluctance to set foot on English soil.
“It was a pleasure, gentleman.” Kit saluted the men he’d eaten, gossiped, and gambled with for the past week. Then, when Pat’s frown deepened further, he grabbed the bosun’s face and planted a firm kiss on his cheek before skipping out of reach.
The crew cheered, and Pat’s cheeks turned bright red, but with a sail on his shoulder, he had no way of clipping Rhett behind the ears, an admonishment that had played out a dozen times in the past few days.
Rhett laughed, hoisted his pack on his shoulder, and walked the gangplank with a swagger that belied his nerves. However lighthearted he might try to appear, the upcoming confrontation with Peter weighed heavy. If he didn’t play it just right, his fun on the continent would be over.
Rhett scanned the dock for the ship’s captain so he could say his goodbyes and give his thanks. The grizzled older man was just at the edge of the gangplank, arguing with the most stunning woman in existence. Damn.
Rhett was an expert in fairer sex. He’d wooed women in France and Spain, Germany and Italy, even as far away as Russia. But never had he set eyes on a woman as beautiful as the one who was currently waving a finger in the ship captain’s face. Her red hair, locks of which had escaped her boring chignon, could be Scottish or Irish. Her delicate features could be French. Her bold stance and wild gestures reminded him of Mediterranean women.
He’d escaped England to see all the beauties Europe offered. How ironic that the most beautiful of them all had been waiting for him back home, looking completely out of place—a perfect bloom amid the mud and trash and dead fish for sale.
Instead of continuing down the jetty towards the wharf, he veered toward her instead, placing himself at the captain’s shoulder. Up close, she was even more magnificent. Her blue eyes flashed like the excess of jewels sewn into her dress, which caught the morning sun and refracted rainbows onto the dark and dirty docks. She had a smattering of freckles across her cheeks—an unusual sight in a highborn woman, but one that made his fingers itch to trace them. Long, deep red lashes framed her eyes.
“We can finance our passage at twice your usual fare,” she said. “We need only a few hours to have the blunt ready.”
The captain crossed his arms in the same bullish stance he used when Rhett, or any of his actual subordinates, got caught messing about. “I dunnae care for the blunt. I willnae have unmarried women aboard my ship.”
The vision was unmarried. Huh. Surprisingly, that made his day better. Married women, especially those who were shackled to old men, were more fun. Their affections were freer than those of young women on the marriage mart. But he was illogically pleased that no one had claimed this beauty as their own.
“Only unmarried women are forbidden?” she replied. The chit appeared to swell with anger, though when Rhett looked down, he could see she’d simply risen onto the balls of her feet and leaned forward. “You superstitious jackass. You cannot truly believe my sister and I would be bad luck.”
“Bad luck, bad juju, ill fortune. Whatever way ye wish to describe it, yer nae coming aboard. I willnae anger the seas.”
The woman huffed; a lock of hair got caught in her breath, flying upward. “But if we were men, you would allow us onboard?”
“Aye. If ye were men. Or if ye had husbands to accompany ye and ward off any tempting thoughts my men might have.”
She stood still for a moment, inhaling deeply as though she was preparing to breathe fire. “Damn you, you gullible prick.”
The captain turned white. Even Rhett was taken aback by such language coming from a young, well-bred woman. Taken aback, but bizarrely aroused.
She shifted, as though done with this conversation and ready to leave. Before she could, Rhett grasped her elbow, ignoring the frisson of energy that shot through his fingertips. “Can I be of service, my lady?” Any kind of service? There were a hundred ways he could think of to serve her.
The young woman pursed her lips. Her gaze arrested him entirely. “Do you have the authority to force Captain Jenkins to let me on his ship?”
Rhett looked back over his shoulder to where Jenkins was glowering. “I do not have that power, no.”
“Do you have a boat of your own that can take my sister and me to France?”
“I, uh…No I don’t, my lady. However…”
She raised a hand to cut him off. “Then you cannot be of service.”
Her dismissal should not have cut the way it did. People had been dismissing Rhett his entire life. He was the second son of whom no one expected anything, and that had created an armor of sorts.
But her words pierced through, drawing blood, as did the way she turned back to the captain as though Rhett wasn’t worth thinking about. “Are there any captains who don’t share your ridiculous superstitions?”
Jenkins brought a hand to his eyes and peered at the long line of ships that were tied to the wharf. “None that are sailing today.”
Rhett nudged the captain with an elbow. “My lady,” he murmured and then threw the woman his most charismatic smile, the one that never failed to make a woman snap open her fan, the one that was sure to win her over.
She didn’t flutter her lashes or go pink at the cheeks. Instead, she rolled her eyes, blew the loose strand of hair from her face, and looked to the heavens. “Lord save me from—” Her eyes widened, and she stepped forward, grabbing him by his lapels.
Well, all right. Unexpected, but I’ll take it. He reciprocated her embrace, catching her by her waist. As he did, there was a yell from above, and she threw all of her weight into spinning them away from the gangplank.
He was vaguely aware of the giant barrel that whooshed past his head and the splintering of wood exactly where he had been standing. He tried to right himself, but the turn was unexpected, and the press of her body against his had his balance off-kilter.
Together, they stumbled. He held onto her when he should have let go. He could see what was about to happen but had no way of preventing it.
They tumbled into the filth that was the Thames.
He should’ve closed his mouth. He should’ve worn a coat that was less heavy. He definitely should have expected her ear-piercing shriek.
“Why, you miserable cur.” She gagged and then spat. He prepared himself for a further, well deserved, tongue-lashing, but the outrage on her face turned to panic. Her head bobbed lower in the icy water. She moved her arms frantically, but it took a moment before he realized she could not free her legs from her voluminous skirts. She was kicking and kicking, but she was going down anyway.
It took four strokes to reach her. She latched onto him, trying to push herself up using his shoulders, but all that did was push him under. It took but a second for them both to go down.
He couldn’t see through the muck, but his hand collided with what was definitely a well-formed breast, and he wrapped an arm around her chest. His lungs and eyes burned. He used all his power to kick him, her, and her ridiculously heavy gown to the surface.
When they surfaced, she was spluttering and gagging. The men on the deck had thrown out a rope, and Rhett pushed her toward it.
She grabbed hold with desperate hands, and the men on the jetty towed her to shore. Once they’d hoisted her from the water, they stood back, offering handkerchiefs and wine from a distance, the latter of which she uncorked and drank directly from the bottle.
There was no rope thrown for Rhett. His legs were tiring from the additional weight of his sodden clothes and shoes. “I’ll just make it back on my own, then, shall I?”
