Page 36 of The Rogue’s Embrace

Aboard the Maria Cecilie, departing for Southampton, from il Porto di Venezia

Estela Bongorge cast an appraising eye over the young steward placing her baggage within the cabin and reached up to remove her hat pins—all the better to emphasize her well-leveraged bosom.

"Such an exertion!"

With one hand resting above the curve of her hip, Estela laughed breathily. She fanned herself with the large blue disc of a hat, topped effusively with feathers. "All those steps!"

Her Italian was far from perfect, and her accent liable to drift, but she was familiar enough to make herself understood. In any case, the message she wished to convey did not require great facilitation with the language.

In any case, the steward answered in faltering English. "The signora wishes for tea? Darjeeling, oolong or lapsang souchong? I carry to you straight away, with the torte alla crema. Deliziose. All very fresh."

He looked exceedingly pleased to have made the speech, and to be offering his service, which was just as Estela intended.

"A tempting offer. There is nothing like Italian cream, and I confess I can be quite greedy."

A dip of the chin enabled her to look up through her lashes. "But there's no need for tea; champagne, I think."

"Only the best. I go now and fetch for you."

He set off swiftly, allowing Estela a brief view of his tight rear through the starched white of his uniform.

With the click of the closing door, she cast aside the hat and flopped full-length onto the bed. He would do, she supposed, although he'd likely have scant idea of how to conduct himself. Only in maturity did men garner the skills to truly satisfy a woman. She would make the best of it. In her current mood, a tumbling was the only thing that would take the edge off her irritation.

With any luck, the champagne would arrive chilled to the correct temperature. Her young steward could manage that, if not much else, she had to hope.

Testing the mattress with a gentle bounce, she was pleased to find it firm, and without too much creaking of the springs. The room itself was decorated quite pleasingly—the wallpaper a delicate oyster silk with matching swagged curtains. Light voiles ensured a degree of privacy, since the window was of the regular sort, offering a wide view onto the upper promenading deck.

The furniture—a dressing table and stool, a small dining arrangement, a good-sized wardrobe, and a plush velvet chaise—was a little over-gilded. Nevertheless, it was of a better standard than she'd been expecting.

She'd been fortunate in acquiring passage, given the short notice and her insistence on having one of the more superior cabins. The extra expense was justified. If she was going to spend more than a week at sea, with uncertain weather, narrow company, and even more limited entertainment, she intended to be comfortable.

Not that she'd ever suffered with mal de mer. She'd twice crossed the Atlantic and had been a guest on various private yachts visiting the ports of the Mediterranean.

Arguably, it would have been quicker to travel by rail to Calais, before crossing the Channel. She was procrastinating—putting off the time when she'd have to admit to Mathilde that she'd failed.

Sitting up, Estela worked free the buttons of her travelling jacket and, reaching behind, tugged the sleeves down her arms. Next, she pulled at the laces on her kid boots. Pushing them off, she gave her toes a rub.

It had been a long day, securing first her ticket and then transport to the harbor in time for embarkation. Her maid had packed most of her belongings, but the close hour of their departure had necessitated Estela's help.

She ought to shake out something to wear, she supposed. Naturally, Antoinette usually did such things, but Estela had been only too relieved to send her away for a while. If it weren't for her great talent in arranging hair, Estela would have let her go well before, but it was so tiresome training up anyone new. These trips abroad always made her maid sour faced.

Estela sympathized.

Antoinette wasn't the only one feeling her age.

Not that Estela looked her thirty-six years. Her hair remained a lustrous ebony, and she'd taken care to remain out of the sun, despite her travels to exotic locales. Her vices were numerous, but she avoided excessive indulgence. As far as lovers were concerned, she'd always ensured she was well-protected—from the complication of pregnancy, in addition to anything else unsavory.

She glanced at the dainty silver watch about her wrist. There was another hour or so before Antoinette came to dress her to dine. Plenty of time to consume the champagne, and to see what her eager steward could provide in the way of an amuse-bouche.

From the largest trunk, Estela lifted out a crepe silk gown in dark green overlaid with black lace. Her mother had believed the color unlucky, but Estela hadn't found it to be so. Men told her the shade brought out the green in her eyes.

Though perhaps her mother had been right. She'd worn it upon the night of the masquerade, and much luck it had brought her. Still, there was no sense in berating herself. The letters she'd been searching for were in another's hands and, despite her best efforts, she'd been unable to track down the devil who'd managed to take them from under her nose.

The fellow had been clever. She could only conclude he'd cast off his first costume—hump and all—and had some other beneath, the better to divert anyone who might have seen him climb the stairs.

It wasn't the first time Estela had been asked to recover a love token, or something else of a private nature. Gaining an invitation to wherever she needed to go was easy enough. Otherwise, she might slip in unnoticed to a larger event.

Genteel Society, the company of which Estela generally avoided where she could, no doubt viewed her as immoral (though they could be aware of but a fraction of her misdemeanors). Invitations were extended on account of her wealth; though it didn't hurt that she was an amusing conversationalist. She made sure to always provide some tidbit of gossip, for which hostesses were grateful. No doubt other women were privately united in their censure, but Estela considered this a service of sorts. For didn't everyone need someone of whom they heartily disapproved?

It was often necessary to play a part, but that added to the thrill, in most cases.

There had been an instance, almost two years ago, when she'd felt a strong repugnance, but it hadn't prevented her from retrieving the item she'd been sent to procure. She'd wasted no pity on Baron Billingsworth, who she'd gained access to without the least trouble, having ascertained that his tastes were of a particular sort. Learning that her target was attending a Christmas houseparty at Studborne Abbey, she'd swiftly maneuvered herself an invitation.

The duchess had been lining up suitable brides for her brother. Estela was too long in the tooth for that honor herself, and still married to her last husband at the time. She'd managed to put forward Esther as a potential candidate, though her sister was far too much of a mouse for a man like Burnell.

The handsome archaeologist was a notch Estela would have happily carved into her bedpost but, to her irritation, her flirtation hadn't borne fruit. Nonetheless, she'd located the artefact she'd been sent for and returned it to its rightful place.

Setting aside the green gown, Estela lifted out the next. Heavily beaded through the bodice, it was somewhat out of fashion. Fortunately, the width of the square neckline made up for that. The russet shade provided an immensely flattering contrast to the paleness of her skin, especially by candlelight.

Where is that steward?

She was gasping for the champagne, and the release she very much hoped he was going to provide her with. If he didn't return soon, she was going to have to see to herself, which she never found as satisfying.

Damn Mathilde!

It was understandable that she couldn't ask her own parents for assistance, but the hoyden should never have gotten in such a ridiculous situation, nor have expected Estela to put things right.

They weren't even related by blood—only indirectly through Estela's second marriage. Certainly, she wouldn't have gone out of her way to help, but for the fact that Mathilde was the favorite of her many nieces—accumulated through two decades and four marriages.

Mathilde was also second cousin to the King, and the consequences of her dalliance were far more serious than the girl realized. Estela's conscience was rarely pricked but it was she, after all, who'd invited Mathilde to stay with her at the villa on Lake Como the previous summer.

The beguiling Conte Sforza had been among Estela's most steadfast admirers—or so she'd thought. Her own vanity had blinded her to the possibility that those visits endured due to the presence of Mathilde.

Estela had also underestimated the chit, who'd exercised a great deal of cunning in arranging her clandestine meetings.

To Estela's annoyance, she'd had to curtail her sojourn to accompany Mathilde back to England.

Thankfully, the girl was sensible enough to accept Estela's entreaty that the Conte was entirely unsuitable as a long-term prospect (besides the fact of his being imminently intent on walking down the aisle with someone else entirely).

Before the summer was out, Mathilde had set aside any lingering heartbreak, and duly fallen in love with the match her parents had spent months cultivating.

Since there was no pregnancy to give evidence to the breaching of Mathilde's maidenly state, Estela had thought nothing more of the matter.

She hadn't reckoned on the little imbecile having trapped herself in the guise of ten lengthy letters of devotion to the Conte, embellished with a surprising level of titillation.

Apparently, it had taken well over a year for the new Contessa to come across the lavender-scented missives—by which time she'd delivered the Conte an heir and had another on the way. In light of that, she might have overlooked the indiscretion, had not Mathilde naively signed and dated the blasted things. Discovering that Mathilde had been warming her husband's bed mere days before she was about to climb into it herself had ruffled the Contessa's feathers too briskly for her to turn the other cheek.

The upshot was that she'd threatened to expose Mathilde not just to her own family but to that of the man she was now about to marry. As this happened to be the Crown Prince of Montegiana, a heap of trouble was about to land upon Mathilde's head.

Even if her prince were willing to forgive his beloved's scandalous behavior, Estela doubted the King and Queen of Montegiana would be so understanding.

Their kingdom was a tiny principality but, holding a strategic position within the Balkans, the marriage had been engineered to ensure Britain a friendly foothold within the region. Estela had no doubt that Mathilde had been chosen from among King Edward's many female relatives for her seemingly spotless reputation. Moreover, in likelihood, the national coffers had been called upon to endow Mathilde with a persuasive dowry.

The love letters were irrefutable proof that the affair had taken place and, as such, their recovery was paramount. Estela had promised Mathilde she'd succeed; and she'd been so very close!

She could only hope that whoever now possessed them had no ill-intention.

Perhaps, having no wish to be dragged into an international scandal, the Conte had himself arranged to have them purloined from his wife's apartments.

If so, she hoped he had the sense to destroy them, not least because Estela had little hope of persuading anyone that she'd been entirely ignorant of the affair.

One way or another, she was returning to a scenario in which several sorts of steaming manure would have to be dealt with.

A sudden knock startled her into releasing the gown, which she'd been crushing in her fists.

At last!

With alacrity, she allowed the steward entry, trundling a trolley before him. Proudly, he indicated the selection of pastries, beginning some ramble of their names and the regions of Italy from which each variety hailed.

Estela wasted no time in taking up the champagne from the ice bucket and popping the cork. Without bothering to fill a glass, she tipped back the cool liquid, drinking her fill directly from the bottle.

"Signora, please!"

The steward looked perturbed. His hands fluttered. "You are overcome by the sun. It happens to the older ladies. You must sit and I pour in the proper way. See the beautiful torte. You taste, then take the nap and all will be fine."

His cheeks were quite flushed with shock.

Estela gave the heaviest of sighs. Much as she desired male company, she was in no mood to cajole, nor to seek charity.

"Leave the trolley. I shall see to the rest myself."

Hurrying him out, she closed the door.