“My stars,” she purrs. The triple loop of pearls in her auburn chignon bounce like a butterfly wing. A dress in the popular but boring color of taupe drapes her form, topped by a fox stole with its still-attached legs hanging as limp as four tiny gloves. I’m not sure why anyone would want to carry around a dead fox like that, except maybe to scare away birds or small children. She angles herself for a look under my coat.
Captain Smith presses his hands to his thighs. “Mrs. Sloane, I presume?”
“Yes. How do you do, Captain Smith?” I say in the stately voice Mrs. Sloane used to greet men of her same station.
Captain Smith snaps his heels together. “Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon and Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon, may I present to you Mrs. Amberly Sloane?”
The woman doles out a smile as thin as a Communion wafer. “Please call me Lucy.”
I suck in a breath. This is the famous dressmaker of the Lucile brand. I glance at April sitting thirty feet away, and she pulls her fists across her chest, miming taking off a coat. She even shimmies her shoulders. No doubt she already knows who this couple is.
Lucy extends a hand as limp as a leg of her fox stole, and I press it with my own.
Her husband lifts his wineglass and bends as if to get a closer look at me, but I shrink back. “Pleasure to meet you.” His longhorn mustache flaps when he speaks, and a Scottish accent rounds his words.
“The pleasure is all mine.” As casually as possible, I slide off my coat and roll back my shoulders. My kimono comes alive. Its tiny beads catch the light from the bowl chandeliers, spinning shadows onto the ombre silk. I shift my weight, and the fabric ripples like water during low tide.
Lucy clutches at her husband, nearly spilling his wine, her eyes taking huge bites of my dress. I hope April is enjoying this.
The captain’s white eyebrows bend toward each other, like two hands praying. “Madam, I wanted to apologize personally for the mix-up with your room. I assure you, someone will answer for this grave, er”—the captain’s skin blooms—“I mean, serious error.”
My stomach does a backflip, knowing that someone might very well be me.
He gestures with broad sweeps of his arms, used to conducting crew and passengers alike. “If there’s anything we can do to help put this oversight behind us, please let us know.”
Here’s my chance. It isn’t going to get better than this. I remove a handkerchief from my coat pocket and sniff daintily into it. “I thank you for your kindness, Captain Smith, but I only require time and space to heal.”
“Understandable. Lucy was just telling us about her latest—”
“Of course, Percival and I had hoped to enjoy our cruise together, much like”—I cast my mournful eyes toward Sir Duff-Gordon—“you and your lovely wife.”
Sir Duff-Gordon pats his wife’s hand, which is tucked into his arm, and she bats her lashes at him.
Captain Smith clears his throat. “Why, of course you did.”
“We’d hoped to enjoy all the wonderful amenities the ship has to offer—the dining, the dancing, the Turkish baths, the squash courts . . .”
The captain opens his magnanimous hands. “If you’d like, we can arrange for you—”
“I would never dream of doing any of those things without him,” I snap. “It would be an insult to his memory.”
The captain’s face deepens in color, and his smile disappears. He’s a man unused to being interrupted, but I must have a bite if I’m to leave a mark.
Sir Duff-Gordon nods at me. Probably he’s the sort who expects his wife to refrain from enjoyment when he goes off to his reward. Lucy frowns, she likely the sort who will continue doing whatever the bloody hell she likes.
The captain runs a finger around the inside of his collar. “Of course.”
“If only there were some . . . spectacle that might comfort me.”
“Er, spectacle?”
“Percy loved the shows. Horse racing, opera, theater. My life has been so colorless without him. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to have horse races or opera here.”
“I love opera.” Lucy presses a gloved hand to her heart. “The Royal Opera House used some of my designs for their latest performance of Don Giovanni.”
“That docking bridge seems made for a stage,” I throw in. May as well go big. I’ll have to revise the routine for the narrow strip, but the docking bridge offers the most dramatic and eye-catching stage on the ship. “But alas! Perhaps no such diversion exists for a poor widow like me.”
There. That should widen the hoop through which Mr. Stewart can toss his ball.
“Well, that’s a shame.” Lucy’s head shakes lightly atop its alabaster pedestal. She crooks a satin-covered finger at the captain. “You really should have brought an act aboard. You said yourself the ship is built for pleasure. What could be more pleasant than being entertained?” My unexpected ally lifts her face to her husband’s as if for confirmation, and he gives her an indulgent smile.
“I will certainly suggest it to my employers,” says Captain Smith.
“I suppose I will retire now,” I say listlessly.
“If there’s anything else at all we can do, please do not hesitate to ask.” The captain gives me a dutiful bow, and Sir Duff-Gordon also inclines his head. My eyes catch on the single rosebud in Sir Duff-Gordon’s lapel, the same deep scarlet as the one worn by the cheeky headwaiter with the door-knocker beard who gave us the bread heels.
As usual, my mouth runs ahead of my head. “Actually, there is one very small thing. While I was boarding, a thief tried to snatch my purse. If it were not for the brave actions of a few Chinese sailors, who defended me and returned my purse, I’m not sure I would’ve made it aboard. I’m afraid I was too frazzled at the time to remember a tip. Could you arrange to send them some of those lovely candied fruits as a thank-you?”
Mum would be clucking her tongue. She swatted our hands with a wooden spoon each time she found us stealing, though she never “caught” us when we were really hungry. Ba would’ve requested a round of spiced rum in addition to the candied fruits.
Captain Smith scratches his temple. “Chinese sailors. Are you sure they weren’t in on the theft?”
The air beneath my veil grows hotter. I remind myself that I am Mrs. Sloane, a woman who doesn’t give a flying fruitcake about a slight to the Chinese. She would care about a slight to herself, however. “Are you implying that I don’t know when I am being defrauded?”
“Of course not, madam.” Captain Smith claws at his beard. “I’ll see what I can do.”