Part 28 (2/2)

d.a.m.n him anyway.

Because . . . it was glorious.

He'd remembered. He must have remembered. All of the things she'd said she'd wanted. To see the ocean. To sail on a s.h.i.+p.

She closed her eyes against a violent surge of emotion. Something soaring and brilliant was burning through her shock and fury and fatigue. A bit like a beautiful, half-remembered song heard through castle walls.

”Good morning, Miss Eversea.”

Her eyes snapped open.

Mademoiselle Lilette was leaning companionably against the rail of the s.h.i.+p.

”Oh, good morning, whoever the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l you might actually be,” Olivia drawled.

”Oh, that does sting a bit,” Digby said with infuriating cheeriness. ”Something tells me that's the first time you've strung 'b.l.o.o.d.y' and 'h.e.l.l' together, Miss Eversea, and it suits you right down to the ground. I'm actually Digby.” She curtsied. ”Mrs. Delphinia Digby-Thorne.”

Digby's accent was now English. But then again, perhaps she excelled at accents. She might be a native Portuguese, for all Olivia knew.

Olivia turned and eyed her balefully. ”Where did you learn to speak French, you fraud?”

”Fraud?” Digby clapped a hand over her heart. ”I'm wounded. I'm more in the way of a skillful actress, and no one accuses actresses of fraud when they practice their craft. And I learned to speak French rather like you did, I suppose. They do want young English ladies to learn such things, don't they? That, and sewing, and the like. I suppose you can say that's where our similarities diverge.”

This Digby was insufferably at ease and regarding Olivia as if she were an achievement of which she was particularly proud. And Olivia's cheeks felt warm again at the thought of how much she'd confided in Digby.

”You are also a spy.”

”Well, yes,” Digby said, sounding mildly surprised at hearing the obvious pointed out.

”A good one.”

”Yes,” Digby agreed, modestly.

”Did you even ever lose a great love?”

”I've had plenty of loves, but none of them great until the man I married. I am recently wed to the captain's first mate. Mr. Magnus Thorne. And I intend to keep him forever.”

Olivia snorted.

”How did you . . . How did he . . .” Olivia made a frustrated gesture in the direction of London, no longer visible.

”He learned Madame Marceau had the making of your trousseau, and he bribed her a.s.sistant to disappear and I serendipitously appeared when Madame Marceau's need was most urgent. The previous girl was settling into enjoying her retirement in the country and can afford to marry well or not at all, whatever pleases her. And the captain coaxed her back again with another payment when she was needed. The captain can do that sort of thing, because he's rich. Very, very rich,” she said with relish and awe. ”I simply followed his directions and my own instincts, which ultimately made it possible to intercept you. It's generally the right thing to do, following his instructions, that is.”

Olivia stared at the woman, who was small and dark and round and lush in a way that would appeal to nearly any man. She had merry and too-knowing dark eyes. As Mademoiselle Lilette, she had clearly powdered her skin, for now a few golden freckles were apparent, and her hair had been clearly sc.r.a.ped and flattened into submission in order to play the role of modiste, as it was apparent now that it was riotously curly.

”'Intercept,'” Olivia quoted sardonically. ”Is that how one refers to kidnapping and deception these days?”

”Nevertheless, it's an accurate word, one must admit.”

”And how did you come to know . . . the captain . . . Digby?”

So strange to refer to him that way. The captain. Her brothers had returned from the war wearing new mantles of calm and authority, an air of abstraction that sometimes settled over them when they were silent. They had seen things, and done things, of which they would never speak, and it was this that separated them from their sisters, and somehow bound them closer to each other. It was the lot of men, it seemed, to see and do a lot of things of which they could never speak.

And yet Lyon's air of authority was something else altogether.

As if he made his own laws.

She wondered if anything could hurt him now.

”Well, his reputation rather preceded him,” Digby said, ”and I greatly admired it. I needed a job. I convinced him I would be a useful employee. And so I have been,” she said with great relish. ”For he wanted you here, and here you are.”

Olivia stared at the woman, a thousand competing questions clamoring to be asked. ”What do you mean, 'his reputation' . . . ?”

”As s.h.i.+p captain, exceptionally successful and wealthy merchant . . . and revolutionary, of a sort. Though the last bit isn't as commonly known.”

Merchant?

Revolutionary?

Lyon Redmond?

Was she dreaming?

”You left out possibly a madman, Miss Digby,” she said shortly.

Digby tipped her head. ”Have a care, Miss Eversea. I suppose he's many things, but mad isn't one of them. There is method in all he does. I won't hear a disparaging word. I would do anything for him.”

Olivia fixed the other woman with a stare. ”And have you?” she said softly.

Digby blinked in shock.

And then gratifyingly, the insufferably confident woman flushed.

”Firstly, Miss Eversea do you really want to know what I think you're insinuating? And secondly, do you believe you have the right to the answer?”

Digby's self-possession was both enraging and amusing, in large part because it was like looking in a mirror. And as much as Olivia would have loved to engage in a good fight right now, her sense of justice was muscular.

”Excellent points, Digby. No, and no.”

Digby's eyes flared briefly in surprise. Then she, too, nodded shortly. ”If you need any a.s.sistance, I'm at your disposal, Miss Eversea. I'll show you back to your quarters, if you'll follow me.”

”Wait . . . where is this s.h.i.+p going?”

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