Page 1 of Lady Tempts a Rogue

Life is an unpredictable, mysterious journey, is it not?

After having spent several years traveling with Mrs. Westcott, I vowed I would remain in England thereafter. Convinced that I had seen and experienced all that any soul could desire, I was committed to putting down roots and settling into a comfortable, predictable life.

And yet, within a few short months in my most recent position as a companion to an elderly dame who was content to stay home except for attending church, I became so restless, bored, and malcontented that I leaped—yes, very nearly leaped about, clapping my hands, and giggling as if I was queer in the attic—when the opportunity presented itself to travel once again.

Tomorrow night, I set sail for the Mediterranean as a companion to Mrs. Eustacia Peagilly. I do not know when I shall return to England, but I promise to write as I have always done. Do remember me in your prayers, for Mrs. Peagilly, despite her advanced years, is a bold adventurer at heart, and I expect many exciting challenges in the months ahead.

~Miss Trinity Ablethorne, in a letter to her girlhood friend, Mrs. Purity Mayfield-Rutland

19 October 1818

Daunting Duchess’s foredeck

Ten minutes past nine P.M.

Here I go again, off to who knows where and for God only knows how long.

The tiniest pang of regret tightened Trinity’s throat and cinched her heart before she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and pressed her lips into a firm line. No regrets. This life of adventure, possible peril, and assured excitement was far better than the mundane, safe, and secure—boring as Hades—existence of the past few months.

Perhaps she would have been contented if she were married and had a family…

No.Stop.

Stomping a foot, she gave one sharp shake of her head to dispel that wayward thought. At nearly six and twenty, the quixotic but impractical girlhood dream of a husband, four children (two boys and two girls), and a cozy cottage at the shore had been shoved far back on a cupboard shelf. The door had been firmly shut and the key turned in the lock, then tucked away so that temptation would not lure her into peeking inside from time to time to see what might have been.

This was her life, and she had a straightforward choice: to accept her fate or bemoan it.

Practical, resilient, and intrepid, Trinity chose the former.

Come, she chided herself, always one to face self-pity and discouragement with logic and stoicism.

You have much for which to be grateful.

How many women of humble origins have traveled as extensively as you?

Have eaten the rich, tantalizing foods of many cultures?

Have laughed (and also gasped) half in awe and half in astonishment at foreign entertainment and unique customs?

A gull landed on a nearby piling. Head cocked, the gray and white creature observed the tumult aboard the ship and then turned its tiny, black button eyes on her. The wind ruffled the bird’s tail feathers, and it flapped its wings twice.

“Shouldn’t you be tucked snuggly in your nest?” she asked the inquisitive bird. “Or wherever birds of your kind sleep?”

The gull flapped its wings again and took flight, circling above her once before gliding toward the chimney stacks a few streets away.

Pulling the hood of her serviceable woolen cloak farther over her head to prevent the breeze nipping at her cheeks from making her ears ache, Trinity scanned her gaze over the scruffy crew bustling about the deck with practiced skill before shifting her regard to the much less active East India Docks below.

This time of night, the wharf was vacant except for a trio of loudly singing, obviously pished sailors, a pair of scantily attired ladies of the evening—both revealing a shocking display of bare legs and voluptuous bosoms—and a tired appearing fellow, knitted hat pulled low over his forehead as he hunched into his jacket and lumbered down the long expanse.

From somewhere nearby, bawdy laughter, the lively strains of a fiddle, and more slurred singing carried seaward on the tangy river breeze.

Cleaner and less malodorous than several of the other docks Trinity had visited over the years, the East India Docks’ pungent odors would, nevertheless, put off a less stalwart female.

Many a beau monde dandy too, she would wager.

The recipient of raw sewage and other equally noxious substances, the River Thames reeked to high heaven. Not enough to compel Trinity to cover her nose with her crochet-edged and lemon-water-scented handkerchief tucked into her inside cloak pocket but enough to prevent her from totally filling her lungs with the fetid air.

Realizing that she held each breath a second or two, Trinity released her current partial lungful in a small whoosh that created a miniature vapor cloud. Making a rueful face, she chuckled at her silliness. Sailing in October wasn’t ideal, but she’d spend the winter in warmer climes, and that was much preferable to England’s drizzly, bone-penetrating dampness.