The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy (Montague Siblings #2)(24)

“Of course I do. It’s far more sensible to stay in London.”

“Yes!” He slaps a hand upon his knee. “Exactly, yes. Remember this day, Felicity: the day you agreed I am the more sensible out of the pair of us.”

“I’ll mark it in my diary,” I say dryly, then stand up to refill my mug. Hopefully the movement will disrupt the conversation enough that he’ll truly think me a changed woman and we can move forward to something else.

I shall not get Monty’s permission to go to Stuttgart. Luckily, I don’t need it.

I continue the charade of planning to stay in London for the next two days before Sim and I are to depart. I let Percy suggest neighborhoods in which I might look for a flat and Monty make ludicrous propositions about how I shall break into the field of medicine, all the while gathering my meager possessions in my knapsack under the pretense of tidying up the flat. It is a traditionally feminine enough activity that neither Monty nor Percy seems suspicious.

Then, in the wee hours of the last day of the week, I get up after a sleepless night, dress silently in the dark, and let myself out of the flat, my knapsack knocking against the backs of my knees.

It will be two weeks of travel to Stuttgart, then the wedding festivities provided we manage to weasel our way into the household. If the position with Dr. Platt comes to fruition, I don’t intend to return to Moorfields, particularly not as a dependent houseguest. Neither do I intend to return to Edinburgh. On my way to the harbor, I drop a three-line missive at the post office to Callum, saying that I will be staying in London longer than planned, as my brother’s syphilis/boredom is more serious than anticipated, leaving out any mention of the fact that I am going to the Continent with a stranger to make a future for myself that will not include him.

I have challenged fate to chess and am now attempting to keep all my confidence from puddling in my boots. What if I’m the only one betting on myself because everyone but me can see I am not suited to play at all?

You are Felicity Montague, I say to myself, and touch the paper in my pocket listing my arguments, which, if all goes according to this impossible plan, will now be made in some variation before Alexander Platt. Dr. Cheselden’s card is nestled in its folds. You have stowed aboard a ship and traveled forty-eight days with a single outfit. You are not a fool, you’re a fighter, and you deserve to be here. You deserve to take up space in this world.

The harbors are perhaps the vilest part of a vile city. The ground is slick with a foul combination of fish intestines, yellow spittle, gull droppings, vomit, and other fluids I’d rather not give too much thought to. Even at this early hour, the narrow docks are packed, every person certain their business is most important and therefore that snapping at others to get out of their way is justified. The wind off the water picks up a spray from the fetid Thames and spews it in my face as I search the crowd for Sim. I find her lingering near the end of the queue of passengers waiting to board the packet, and when she sees me coming, she steps into the line in earnest. She’s swapped her sailing duds for a muslin dress and unembroidered shawl tucked into the stomacher, topped with a heavy wool cloak.

When I join her, she forgoes a greeting and instead says, “You look upset.”

“And your scarf has a hole in it,” I snap. “Oh, look, we’re all making observations.” She doesn’t reply, and perhaps I imagine her shifting her weight so she’s facing away from me, but I press my hands to my face and give my head a good shake to clear it. “I’m sorry. I’m anxious, that’s all.”

“About leaving?”

“No, more about the fact that . . .” It seems unwise to tell her that no one knows where I am, so instead I say, “My brother’s an ass. That’s all.”

“So are mine.”

“Your what?”

“My brothers. They’re all asses.”

“Brothers plural?” Had I been forced to grow up in a household of multiple Montys, I would have got myself to a nunnery just for some quiet. “How many have you got?”

“Four.”

“Four?” I nearly swoon. “Older or younger?”

“All younger.” She grimaces. “All very loud.”

“Are they sailors too?”

She nods, adjusting her grip on her bag. “Or they will be. The littlest one is only eight, but he’ll be at sea soon. All my family are sailors.”

“What sort of sailors?” I ask.

But Sim is already turned away from me, instead peering ahead to the front of the queue, where boarding cards are being checked before we’re allowed on the deck, and though I know she’s heard me, she doesn’t answer.

“That’s fine,” I say. I’m more annoyed at her silence than I likely should be, but in my defense, it has been an exceedingly stressful few weeks and all my emotions seem to be operating at a higher level than usual. “We needn’t exchange any personal information—we’ll only be together constantly for the next several weeks; I’d rather remain strangers in proximity.” I push myself up on my toes, trying to see over the heads of the other passengers. “This is taking too long.”

“Maybe you’re impatient,” Sim says, still aggravatingly calm.

“I am not impatient. I just know how long things should take.”

She blows into her hands. “Then maybe you’re opinionated.”