people going near: menservants in snowy-white jackets, plus the duke’s other guests, a stylish crowd in cool linens and crisp straw hats poking about with walking sticks and parasols. They passed the other vessels moored at the village docks—the smelly rust-streaked trawlers, the battered rowboats, a handful of sailboats—as if they did not exist.
Armand and the duke stood by the plank that angled up to the yacht and watched as the motorcar they’d sent for me pulled in close. The chauffeur came around and opened my door and I scooted out, slammed at once by the wind.
I was beginning to realize that the wind was a constant here. In London we had days—weeks—of heavy, choking smog that ate up the streets and sky, trapped in place by all the buildings. But this part of the country was so wide and clean and open, the people so glossy and well fed.
Jesse was right. It was a land in a bubble.
I clapped a hand to my own straw hat, my same plain one from the donation bin. The brim flapped up and backward along an old fold, a line in the weave that was already cracked.
It was Armand who greeted me, stepping forward while his father only fidgeted in place.
“How good to see you, Miss Jones.”
That debonair tone, the friendly press of his hand upon mine. It was such a contrast to our final moments in the cottage that I couldn’t help but smirk.
“Thank you for having me,” I replied, loudly enough for the duke to hear.
“But I haven’t,” said Armand under his breath. “So far.”
I tugged back my hand. “Ever the gentleman, aren’t you?”
“I try. Come aboard, waif. Come and experience a gentleman’s world.”
First I curtsied to the duke. He wore no hat, so his hair blew stringy and long and the sun lit the jaundice yellow beneath his skin to a sickly sheen. He gave me a nod, his gaze twitching only briefly to mine.
“Have you been out to sea before?” Armand asked me in his public voice, escorting me up the plank.
“Once. But I don’t remember it.”
“I think you’ll like it. Most people seem to find it relaxing, but I’ve always thought it was more invigorating than not. Once we get going, I’ll take you to my favorite spot at the bow. With enough wind in your ears, it feels rather like you’re flying.”
We exchanged glances.
“Or so I’ve always imagined,” he said guilelessly.
Inside the boat—the yacht—twenty or so of the linen people had gathered in what resembled a formal salon, drinking and talking in clipped, nasal accents. The white-jackets meandered through them, bearing trays of tea and champagne and something darker, like sherry. The air was laden with gossip and jewel songs.
Armand snared a flute from the nearest tray. “Champagne?”
“Water,” I said, which earned me an arched brow.
“Really?”
I shrugged a shoulder. The champagne sparkled palest amber in its glass, scented enticingly of grapes and yeast. But I remembered how it went with Armand and the whiskey. I wanted to keep my wits.
“Well, then. I’m sure we’ve a pitcher around here somewhere.”
He murmured a few words to the waiter with the tray, who bowed and vanished into the crowd.
We were clearly the youngest people aboard. There didn’t seem to be anyone else even near our age, and there was no question that we were being noticed. Eyes ogled. Hands were raised to mouths to hide the whispers. A few of the older men looked me up and down with a bold combination of interest and speculation, but most of the stares were merely curious.
The duke’s son and the pauper girl. I suppose as a couple we were the most interesting thing in view.
I took the champagne glass from Armand and finished what he hadn’t. As Sophia had said, it wasn’t swill.
So much for my manners.
“Why am I here?” I asked curtly, handing back the empty flute.
“Because I invited you.”
I dropped my voice. “Did you find out anything about Rue?”
“Is that why you came?”
“No, I came because I simply can’t get enough of people looking down their noses at me. The girls at school are getting frightfully lax about it.”
“Are they? How remiss of them. We’re taught from the cradle how to look down our noses, you know, we rich sons of bitches. Perhaps Westcliffe’s curriculum is a tad too liberal these days.”
“Why, yes, my lord,” I said very audibly, “I would enjoy seeing the rest of the boat.”
“The yacht.”
“That, yes.”
He grabbed two more flutes of champagne and my arm, and