Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

Once the men had left, taking the lamp along with them, Sophia fumbled her way into her berth. It was dark as a pocket, and even if she had some light by which to undress or unpack her trunks, the boat’s turbulent motions made it difficult just to remain upright.

She settled for removing her gloves, and then her cloak, reaching into the folds to retrieve her “letter of employment.” This she tucked beneath her bodice, where it curled around her purse. She groped with her feet until she located her trunks. Then, climbing atop them and clinging to the edge of the bunk for balance, she spread her cloak across the high, flat plank and—between groaning tilts of the ship—managed to scramble into bed. That letter—it was a stroke of good fortune that neither Captain nor Mr. Grayson had been inclined to examine it. Her handiwork could easily deceive someone unacquainted with either party, but Mr. Grayson possessed intimate knowledge of the Waltham family. He would be certain to notice something amiss.

It all had begun as a lark, a joke. While tucked away at a country house party, Sophia had amused her friend Lucy Waltham by drafting a nonsense letter to Lucy’s cousins in Tortola, whom she had never met. At the time, Sophia’s sole motive had been to needle Lucy about her suitor, Jeremy Trescott, the Earl of Kendall. But the romance of it all, the idea of her scribblings floating across the sea to a tropical clime, had gripped Sophia and refused to let go. She posted the letter on a whim, signing Lucy’s name but giving her own London address. Then Lucy had married Jeremy, and Sophia had become engaged, and Tortola had been forgotten. Until a week ago, when Sophia received a reply.

My dear cousin Lucy, the letter read.

Although your kind letter arrived addressed to Papa, he has bade me reply, since heassumes we are nearly of an age. I am Emily, his eldest, recently turned sixteen, and I happy to oblige his request. Compared to the hardships I am typically made to endure,such as minding my four incorrigible siblings, penning a letter is a true delight. At any rate, I extend to you our entire family’s felicitations on your marriage and ourfondest hopes for your happiness. Would that I could invite you and your new husband tovisit us here in the West Indies, but Papa threatens daily that we shall soon depart forAmerica, as soon as he finds a buyer for our land. How desolate I shall be, to bid farewellto our beloved home, Eleanora, where I have been born and bred and lived so manyhappy years.

Forgive me, I must end. I hear the telltale clanging that informs me young George andHarry have taken to fencing on the veranda again. Fondest regards from your cousin,

Miss Emily Waltham

On first reading, the letter was merely a welcome source of amusement, during a week that held levity in short supply. But that was before Sophia learned that her dowry was actually a trust, and only her twenty-first birthday stood between her and complete financial independence. Before she wandered into that gallery in Queen Anne Street and saw that magnificent painting of a ship braving a stormy sea, and dared to imagine that she, too, could brave the world. Before everything changed—or, more accurately, before Sophia realized she never would.

Then the letter became a plan. A new sheet affixed to the original envelope, some doctoring of the address, and Sophia Hathaway—or rather, Miss Jane Turner—had an offer of employment. An escape.

And she had to escape. She’d been escaping for years now, through clever lies and wicked fantasies. Surely Sophia was the only girl at school who kept a secret folio of naughty sketches buried beneath the obligatory watercolor landscapes. The only debutante at Almack’s who mentally undressed unsuspecting gentlemen between dainty sips of ratafia. Surely none of the other young ladies in the Champions of Charity Junior Auxiliary lay abed at night with their shifts hiked to their waists, dreaming of pirates and highwaymen with coarse manners and rough, skillful hands. She was a perfect fraud. And no one saw the truth. Least of all the dear, deluded man who had wished to marry her.

Now she’d done it. She’d run away, in the most scandalous fashion imaginable, ensuring she could never return. Thanks to her farewell notes, by now half of London would be under the impression she’d eloped with a French painting master named Gervais. Fabricated or no, her ruin was complete. No longer was Sophia the pretty ribbon adorning a twenty-thousand-pound dowry, a trinket to be bartered for connections and a title. At last, she’d be her own person, free to pursue her true passion, experience real life.

Well. If she’d wished to experience real life, she’d gotten her wish indeed. A very real storm howled around her, the thunder rumbling in rebuke, as if the world had conspired to put her bravery to the test. She huddled into her cloak and took deep, slow breaths, as if by calming her inner tempest of emotions, she might tame the storm without. It didn’t work, in either respect.