Page 18 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
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With the sky darkening, Lance was beginning to question the wisdom of Mr. Lopez gathering them on the outer deck.
God only knew how some passengers could lounge about in those folding chairs. No amount of sunshine—or warm blankets—would convince Lance to sit like that for pleasure. The sooner they reached the equator, the better, as far as he was concerned. Having been raised on the great plains of Texas, he’d swear his balls were turning blue.
The chief engineer addressed the small party gathered. ‘Bom Dia, senhoras e senhores. My English is not the best, but I will speak as good as I can.’ He gave a self-conscious smile. ‘The tour will not be long, as there is some bad weather ahead. Soon, we will be asking passengers to stay in their cabins—but, for now, we go.’
He proceeded with a number of facts on the proportions of the great red funnels rising above, and Ambassador Barbosa reeled off a string of questions.
The ladies threw each other a sideways look. He’d a pretty good idea they were also feeling the chill, despite being wrapped up well.
Lance took Miss di Cavour’s hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm, and offered his other to Lady McCaulay.
She’d been jumpy as a bronco since the night before. Admittedly, he’d felt mighty peculiar himself, despite the seating arrangements having been reordered. Each time he’d looked to his right, he’d expected to see the senhora there. Instead, he’d had those sweet old biddies keeping him company, one either side.
He’d been hoping the earl might’ve placed his sister a little closer, seeing as he was trusting Lance with her safekeeping from here on in—but it seemed young Lady McCaulay had other ideas.
From the way she wouldn’t meet his eye, she was either a whole heap of coy, or madder than a wet hen over something he’d done.
What that might be, he’d no notion.
If he were honest, she was an enigma. They’d gotten on just fine, all those months back, on the train to Paris—and he’d thought she was pleased to see him, that day he’d agreed to take the room full of frills and fancies to please the Italian miss.
Now, she was a different girl altogether. It was hard to put his finger on it, but she’d turned standoffish and prickly.
Even now, with something as simple as taking his arm, he could see her hesitation.
It took a gust of sharp sea wind across the deck to settle her mind upon accepting.
‘Thank you, Mr. Robinson.’ Briefly, those blue eyes of hers met his before turning downward, her gaze coming to rest where her fingers touched his sleeve.
On his other side, Miss di Cavour wriggled against him. ‘Oh, this breeze! It is stiff, and so penetrating!’ Her hand crept up to squeeze his bicep. ‘Thank goodness we are having you to take care of us, Mr. Robinson.’
Lance allowed himself a wry smile.
He was used to women being a little forward, but Miss di Cavour was in a league of her own. It wouldn’t take much, he guessed, to become acquainted with more than her hand.
There was a time when he’d have taken up the proposition and prided himself on supplying a mutually satisfying outcome—but after half a year of travelling, getting to know every sort of woman Europe had to offer, the appeal had begun to pall.
If it hadn’t, he might have accepted Senhora Fonseca’s overture two nights back.
And if you had accepted? Would she be alive right now?
Not that it made sense to think like that. After he’d turned her down, it seemed she’d wasted no time in finding someone else. He’d never been one to judge another man’s choices and, by that token, he’d no right to judge a woman either.
But, perhaps the captain had a point. Inviting a stranger into your bed was a dangerous game.
One the senhora had paid for with her life.
* * *
If Mr. Robinson was a murderer, he was either without remorse, or doing a good job of concealing his guilty conscience. As far as Cecile could tell, he was at ease—which was no mean feat considering how cold it was.
Of course, it would have been downright rude to refuse his arm. Now, the proximity was proving distracting—not only his warmth but the solidity of his chest.
What was it that he smelt of? Freshly laundered linen, and citrus soap? There was an underlying hint of something else. She wasn’t sure what it was called, but it was inherently male.
‘TheLeviathanis the largest and most luxurious ship of all the liners currently in operation.’ Mr. Lopez spoke proudly. ‘The ladies will be admiring the comforts of the dining salon and the residential suites, but it is the engineering of the ship that is most astounding, as I am sure the gentlemen will appreciate.’
