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  “They took all your money?” Barbara parroted. “How could you be so careless, Honoria? Jason works very hard for his money. It’s not as though we have an unlimited supply. I can’t believe how careless you are.”

  “I wasn’t careless, Barbara.” Honoria protested feebly. “I didn’t want to be killed.”

  Chelsea smiled coquettishly at Jason Munsey, then gave Barbara Munsey an innocent, “sweet young thing” look. It was clear now that she was going to have to negotiate Honoria’s passage because the woman had no intention of asking for herself. “I think, Mr. Munsey, that Honoria needs more money to buy her passage ticket. She seems to have difficulty speaking. She did receive a blow to her throat. I’m sure that’s the reason she’s being so quiet. It’s painful to speak, isn’t it, dear?” Obligingly, Honoria nodded.

  Barbara Munsey’s hand strayed to her hair, fingering the dry crisp curls that were like straw. Suddenly she was aware of her plainness and her dull-looking appearance compared to Chelsea’s beauty and elegant dress. She was aware also of her husband’s strange behavior. Under normal conditions he would have given Honoria a sharp tongue-lashing and sent her packing. Now he was listening, showing concern, toadying up to Miss Myles. She bit down on her thin lower lip when she saw her husband smile at the pretty young woman.

  Honoria left her chair to stand by her sister. “Why is Jason looking at Miss Myles like that?” she whispered.

  “He’s being civil to your friend,” Barbara whispered back, her blue eyes as angry and narrowed as her pursed lips. “This is unforgivable, just unforgivable, Honoria. I had no idea you were so irresponsible.”

  Honoria’s back stiffened. “I didn’t try to be accosted, nor did I willingly give up my purse. I had to think of my life. What would you have done, Barbara?”

  On the defensive, Barbara drew herself up stiffly. ‘I would have fought like the very devil,” she hissed. She didn’t add that anything was better than having to endure Jason’s wrath. Bruises and cuts would be the only things her husband would notice—and even then he’d probably say she hadn’t fought hard enough. She tried to feel some sympathy for her sister but failed. All she could think about was how sarcastic Jason would be from now on, reminding her daily how much Honoria had cost the Munsey household.

  Once she’d gotten a slight rise out of her sister, Honoria pressed her advantage. Brazenly inching closer, she whispered, “It looks to me like he’s flirting with Miss Myles. He’s smiling. Jason never smiles.”

  “Be still! You don’t know what you’re talking about, Honoria. Jason would never flirt right under my gaze. Besides, women flirt, men leer.”

  “Call it whatever you like, but he’s doing something. Men never leered at me. They never leered at you, either, did they, Barbara?”

  Barbara recognized the truth in Honoria’s words. Jason was the only man who’d ever looked at her, and only then because his father had prodded him in her direction. But he didn’t look at her anymore. Never full face, anyway. He never spoke directly to her, either. When had Honoria become so observant? If the truth were known, she’d been envying her sister of late, knowing she was going off to Australia. A new land, a new husband. It was like an adventure.

  Her eyes narrowed as she continued to watch her husband and Chelsea. Jason was smiling. Miss Myles was flirting—obviously so. Good Lord, what if Jason took it in his head to have a mistress? She’d be a laughingstock among her friends.

  In two long strides Barbara was next to her husband. There was authority and a tone of command in her voice as she ordered her husband to go upstairs and get the money for her sister. “Miss Myles will excuse you, won’t you, my dear?”

  Honoria had never seen her brother-in-law flustered before, and she rather enjoyed the feeling. She almost fainted when he turned to his wife and asked her how much he should get.

  Chelsea smiled brightly. “Why, Mr. Munsey, exactly what the thieves took,” she replied. “Four hundred pounds. And may I say you are both very generous. Very generous. I’m more than pleased to meet people like you, who are so concerned for their relatives. It’s so … so refreshing.”

  Honoria closed her eyes in a silent prayer of thanksgiving. She’d heard Barbara groan at the mentioned amount, but what did it matter? As long as she got it, she didn’t really care. And in that moment, she was honest with herself. Without Chelsea’s help she’d have been sent packing. Somehow she would have to make it up to the young actress. Though Honoria was certain that Chelsea was not what she appeared to be, it was wonderful to have a friend.

  Once outside in the fresh air, Chelsea let her breath out with a loud swoosh. Her eyes widened when Honoria laughed, a frail, reedy sound. “We’re some pair, aren’t we? You really intimidated and shamed my brother-in-law.” She bent closer to Chelsea and whispered, “I told Barbara that Jason was flirting with you. I think that’s why she was so agreeable to giving me the money—she wanted us out of the house, and fast. I do thank you for your help, Miss Myles. All I want to do now is go home and rest. It’s been a trying night and day.”

  “What about your ticket? Have we agreed to sail together?”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll take care of it in the morning. Stop by tomorrow and we’ll talk again. I’ll be glad to book your passage, if that’s agreeable.”

  “Of course.”

  When they reached Honoria’s house on Duke’s Place, the older woman tripped out of the hackney as though she hadn’t a care in the world and blithely bode Chelsea good night—leaving her to pay the fare. Wisely, Chelsea kept quiet. A lady never quibbled over a few coins.

  The following day, shortly after the noon hour, Chelsea dressed as carefully as she had the day before for her third meeting with Honoria Harris. The sun shone cheerfully, brightening her mood as she set out on foot for Honoria’s lodgings. At last she was going to get away, to make a new life for herself. She felt wonderful.

  Honoria welcomed Chelsea with a smile. She fixed tea and set out small cakes she’d purchased that morning.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of paying for your passage when I bought mine. I didn’t want to carry the money one minute longer then necessary. Of course, if you change your mind about sailing, the ticket agent assured me he would refund the money. He would, wouldn’t he?” she asked anxiously. “Refund the money, I mean?”

  “Certainly,” Chelsea assured the older woman. “However, a refund won’t be necessary; I have every intention of sailing with you.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. I’ll just get your receipt, and you can pay me back.”

  Chelsea’s quick mind leapt to unflattering conclusions. It was not unheard-of for a person, once duped, to do a little duping himself; and Mrs. Honoria Harris, despite her seeming respectability, was after all a stranger. “I’m afraid I don’t carry that amount of money on me,” she said slowly. “As I had no way of knowing you would go ahead and purchase my passage, I didn’t bring it.” She watched Honoria’s face fall in disappointment.

  “Oh, yes, I suppose it was foolish of me.”

  Something was glittering in those bird-black eyes that alerted Chelsea, who’d lived by her wits for too long. Was she just being suspicious, or was Honoria up to a few tricks of her own? “As you say, you’ve nothing to worry about. Your money will be refunded if I choose not to sail, and then it can be applied to your fare for a single cabin. But I do intend to sail, and I will pay you when I meet you aboard ship.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, of course.” There was a note of doubt in Honoria’s voice.

  “How much, exactly, is passage for a shared cabin?” Chelsea asked. “You said last night it was slightly under two hundred pounds.”

  Honoria seemed taken off guard and when she replied, her voice sounded unnecessarily strong. “My passage was exactly one hundred and seventy-five pounds. For sharing a cabin, of course.”

  Something was amiss, but Chelsea couldn’t put her finger on it. Honoria had the look Cosmo always wore when one of his schemes
went awry.

  “It’s settled, then. Where shall I meet you, Mrs. Harris?”

  “Dockside, tomorrow evening at seven. We sail on the tide at ten o’clock. And as long as we’re going to be cabin-mates for the next three months, won’t you call me Honoria? I—I’m sure we’re going to become good friends, Chelsea—I may call you Chelsea, mayn’t I?” She smiled nervously and chattered on without waiting for Chelsea to reply. “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you again, Chelsea, for being so helpful yesterday. It’s fortunate that we met.”

  “Yes, it is. You look so pale, Mrs.—Honoria. Are you feeling ill?”

  “No, not really. I—I suppose it’s all the excitement,” Honoria said wanly, waving an immaculate white handkerchief near her face.

  Chelsea’s suspicions were once again aroused. Honoria was visibly upset and seemed to find the need to grope for explanations and ingratiate herself, as if to cover up some wrongdoing. But what could it possibly be? No money had changed hands. What then was her problem?

  In New Queen Street’s Gentleman’s Club, a fanciful name for a pub, Quaid Tanner sat near the window and stretched his long legs out before him. A fragrant cigar, one of the few he allowed himself, was clenched between his teeth, and a glass of ruby claret rested near his elbow. As he gazed with unseeing eyes out onto the thoroughfare at the scurrying shoppers gripping their purchases, he reflected upon his actions earlier that day when he’d waited his turn in line to pay his passage home. His raven’s-wing black eyes had scrutinized his prospective fellow passengers for the voyage on the Southern Cross and finally come to rest on a wan, frail-looking woman who’d been speaking with the ticket agent.

  “And your servant’s name, Mrs. Harris?” the ticket agent had asked.

  “Miss Chelsea Myles!” the woman had pronounced with authority.

  Quaid had inched forward when he’d heard Chelsea’s name mentioned. He’d immediately recognized “Mrs. Harris” as the woman whose purse had been stolen two days before. How, then, had she come to acquaint herself with Chelsea Myles? A slow smile had softened his features as he’d recalled the scene between Chelsea and her uncle when she’d wrested the woman’s purse from the folds of his garments. It was obvious this woman had not the slightest idea Chelsea had taken possession of the purloined purse; otherwise Miss Myles would be in the bowels of Newgate Prison instead of sailing as maid to her victim.

  But before he’d had a chance to muse over the possibilities, it had been his turn at the window. Prior to leaving, Mrs. Harris had stepped aside and placed the tickets in her reticule. Soft brown eyes tinged with anxiety had locked for an instant with his inquiring gaze. She’d smiled briefly, then tucked her reticule under her arm and left.

  Quaid had paid for his first-class passage, sticking the ticket in the breast pocket of his Chesterfield, intending to follow Mrs. Harris. Was it possible that the engaging actress was going along on the voyage as a maid, a common servant? The idea was suddenly so ridiculous that he had stopped in his tracks. Was he so eager to know the answer that he would track Mrs. Harris like a dog on the scent of a bitch in her first season? That was when he’d found his way into the Gentleman’s Club.

  The grimace on Quaid’s face was almost comical as he sipped his wine. He shuddered and pushed the glass across the small table. It was a sin to serve such brew and worse yet to have to pay for it. In its worst year his vineyard had produced a finer vintage.

  Clonmerra. Even the name was music to his ears. Clonmerra. If he hadn’t had to come to England to search out new markets for Clonmerra’s wines, he never could have made himself leave. Named for the Tanner ancestral estate in Ireland, it was his home and his fortune. Since leaving it, the weather conditions in his fertile valley had been his prime concern. How were his vines faring? His hands itched for a knife to trim back the runners. His mouth watered for the luscious fruit, rich with nature’s sugar, which would ferment the crushed grapes into claret and port and sweet sauterne.

  Soon it would all be his again. He would walk among his vines sampling, tasting, hovering, picking at the leaves, and watching over them as though they were his children. But his voyage to England had proved less than successful. Few wine merchants seemed interested in importing wines from Australian vineyards, those upstart enterprises that, however fine their product, sought to intrude on an established European market. Quaid was already anticipating another trip within the next three years. Perhaps the greedy American market would be more amenable to the risks of importing from “down under.” Until then, he would hoard his vintage in aged wooden casks, improving the flavor, aging the wine, and hoping for the best.

  His less-than-successful trip was more than discouraging since Clonmerra needed capital to continue operation. Only a handful of merchants had signed contracts with him; hardly enough to meet his needs, especially since England had discontinued the practice of sending the surplus of her convicts to New South Wales. Convict labor was cheap and provided much of the necessary manpower.

  Quaid’s eyes dropped to the ring he wore on the little finger of his left hand. The black opal was magnificent, he knew, flashed and shot through with color—the blues of the Australian sky, the greens of her lands during the wet season, the golds of the sunsets, the crimsons of the dawn upon the red earth. It was a perfect stone, flawless, and he had mined beneath the hard brown earth of Coober Pedy to find it himself. He had received many offers for it, outrageous offers of money, yet he could not part with it. To him it represented Australia itself, the land to which he was born, the land he loved.

  Perhaps it was time to return again to that godforsaken mine to try his luck again. Some instinct told him that this particular stone had a mate somewhere. Together they could command a princely sum, enough to put Clonmerra back on its feet again.

  It was a matter of principle, and of integrity, not to draw on the inheritance his father had left him. He had accepted the vineyards and title to the opal mine; if he wasn’t man enough to make a success of them by sweat alone, then he wasn’t entitled to the rest. More often than not he believed he was acting foolishly. Technically the inheritance was his, to do with as he pleased. Yet he was determined to prove—to himself, if not to the world—that he was a man, capable of designing his own future without depending upon money made by the sweat of another man’s brow. It was a strength his father had admired in him, and it was something he intended to live by all the rest of his life.

  The Clonmerra account in the Sydney bank was precariously low, but Quaid now had enough to replenish it from the sale of three white opals. He could last another two years, tending to his greedy, insatiable Clonmerra, at which time he would either find himself a success or destitute.

  He was shaken from his sobering thoughts when he noticed a flurry of commotion across the street. Miss Chelsea Myles was exiting a shop, her arms laden with parcels. Two young men were competing for her attention, both offering to relieve her of her burdens. A smile tugged at the corner of Quaid’s mouth. He wouldn’t have recognized her dressed in such a modish fashion, had it not been for the proud carriage of her head and the haughty set of her shoulders, which threw her softly rounded breasts into prominence above her narrow waist. Was Miss Myles completing some last-minute shopping in preparation for her sea voyage? The urge to laugh aloud was so overwhelming he clapped his hand to his mouth and pretended an oncoming sneeze. He’d almost be tempted to wager the opal on his little finger that Miss Chelsea Myles had no idea she was going aboard the Southern Cross as a hiring woman to Mrs. Harris.

  As Chelsea tripped along ahead of the two young men carrying her parcels, her trilling laughter grated on Quaid’s nerves. Not that he wanted to be one of the fools waiting upon the lady. In fact, he wasn’t certain exactly what it was that irritated him; he had enough problems without adding a thieving actress to his list. She passed quite close to the window, and he could see clearly the smooth fair brow, the gleaming chestnut hair, the tawny eyes that flashed with merriment or outrage. Beautifu
l. His eyes followed her out of sight; he was mesmerized by the easy grace with which she walked, the peculiar tilt of her head when she turned to speak to one of her young swains. She looked for all the world like a lady, and if he hadn’t already known what she really was, he’d have been fooled. But a maid?

  Quaid laughed all the way back to his lodgings, thinking of Chelsea Myles as a servant to one of her former marks. And the laugh erupted again when he entered his room and saw her tattered yellow feathered fan, now mounted in the frame of his mirror. He’d have to take that with him back to Clonmerra. Miss Chelsea Myles’s rendition of Portia had left much to be desired, but when pleading her uncle’s innocence to the police or strolling down the street as haughty as Queen Victoria herself, she was magnificent.

  Yes, he would definitely take the fan with him. And he hoped he wasn’t mistaken about her sailing aboard the Southern Cross. A satisfied and eager smile worked the corners of his mouth. All birds had more than one feather to pluck.

  Chelsea steeled herself for her farewell scene with Cosmo. She’d been rehearsing her lines all night long in her sleep and all day long as she packed her trunk, a new one purchased on Threadneedle Street. Now it was just after five in the afternoon, two hours away from meeting Honoria Harris at the Baynard’s Castle wharf. Cosmo had hired a dray to convey his small troupe and their props to a theater on Fish Street, a notoriously disreputable part of the city.

  While the others were loading the dray, she drew her uncle aside, determined to break the news to him in private. “Chelsea, just because you fancy yourself the star performer of this production company,” he said with great authority, whilst leaning on his cane, “is no reason for you not to pitch in and help load with the rest of us. We must all do our share—”

  “I’d like to talk to you, Uncle Cosmo,” Chelsea interrupted softly. “Come with me to my room so we can enjoy some privacy.”