Chapter 1

The two women walking arm in arm down The Leas along the seafront in Folkestone drew admiring glances from those they passed. There was something striking about their physical differences, one tall and well formed, creamy skinned, dark haired, with large golden-brown eyes, the other small and slight, with the pale freckled complexion that so often went with red hair and lively green eyes.

Meg Barratt paused, slipping her arm out from her companion's, and turned to look across the waters of the Strait of Dover. She rested her folded arms on the wall and lifted her face to the salt spray. The breeze caught her hair, sending red curls flying around her triangular face. She laughed and put a hand to her fashionable straw bonnet.

"I can smell a storm brewing, Bella," she observed.

Her companion, who had stopped beside her, sniffed the wind. "It doesn't look like a storm. The sky's blue, the sea's blue, not a cloud in sight."

"Look over there." Meg pointed towards the horizon. A dark shadow of a bank of cloud was just visible.

The duchess of St. Jules shook her head with amusement. "You always did fancy yourself as a meteorological expert."

"It's my country breeding, lassie," Meg returned in a fair approximation of a broad Kentish accent. "And I can also tell when the tide's coming in."

"Even I can do that," her friend scoffed, peering down at the line of waves creeping up over the sand below the wall. "Besides, you have only to look at the harbor."

Meg glanced towards Folkestone harbor, where a flotilla of boats were at anchor. The air of urgency was clear even from this distance. Sailors and porters rushed hither and thither, leaping from ship to shore as the boats were readied for an on-tide departure. Some were private yachts, some small merchantmen, and out beyond the harbor bar sat two men-of-war, handsome frigates both of them.

Her eye was drawn to a sloop-of-war anchored just inside the harbor. The row of guns on her upper deck gleamed in the afternoon sun. Here too there was the impression of haste and preparation. A dinghy drew up alongside the sloop and a man stepped out of the boat and onto the rope ladder dangling down the ship's side. He went up with an agile speed and grace that Meg could only admire and swung himself over the deck rail in one movement. She watched as he climbed to the quarterdeck, a small figure in the distance but somehow, to Meg's imagination, a significant one.

She shrugged at the fancy and turned away from the wall, preparing to resume the walk. "Where's Jack this afternoon?"

"At dice with the Prince of Wales," her friend returned succinctly. "Prinny will lose his shirt, of course, but in a classic triumph of hope over experience he sits down at the tables with Jack absolutely convinced that this time his luck will change." She chuckled and linked arms with her friend as they continued their promenade. "I think I've had enough of Folkestone, what do you think, Meg?"

"I think it's time for me, at least, to return home for a while. My mother's letters begin to sound plaintive," Meg replied. "Poor soul, she tries so hard not to lament my lack of a husband, but she's really in despair. After all this time I've spent with you and Jack in London, and still not even a hint of a suitor." She shook her head in mock dismay. "I'm a lost cause, clearly."

Arabella shot her a sideways glance. "If you don't mind my saying so, Meg, it's not so much lack of a suitor, it's lack of the right kind," she declared. "You seem to be attracted only to the un-marrying kind."

Meg gave a heavy sigh, although her green eyes sparkled with mischief. "How right you are, my dear. For some reason I'm only drawn to bad men. They're the only ones who are any fun."

Arabella grinned. "I can't help but agree with you. Jack's not exactly the epitome of propriety and he wouldn't be so much fun if he were."

"The baby's had an effect on him, though," Meg observed thoughtfully. "Since little Charles was born he's become much more . . ." She sought for a word. "Not exactly respectable, he's too much of a gamester for that, but considered in his manner."

Arabella nodded, a slight smile on her lips at the thought of her husband and child. "Talking of Charles, I must get back. I asked the nursemaid to have him ready by four o'clock so that I could take him for an airing in the carriage."

Meg glanced again towards the horizon. The bank of cloud was closer and the sea beneath its shadow was dark gray and restless. "I don't think you'll go far with him this afternoon."

Arabella followed her gaze. "Perhaps you're right."

"You go on home. I want to go to the lending library. Mrs. Carson said she would put aside a copy of Mrs. Radcliff's The Italian for me, but she won't keep it for more than a day."

Copyright © 2005 by Jane Feather