Dexter sat up, rousing her from the drowsiness that had already started to weigh down her eyes. “Move over.”
She slid out of his way once more, but he didn’t vacate the bed this time, only leaned over her to push the curtain fully open on its track.
“Thank you,” Charlotte whispered as Dexter flopped back down to the bunk and covered himself again.
“You’re welcome.”
After a few minutes of silence, time enough for Charlotte to grow drowsy again, Dexter murmured, “Please tell me Lord and Lady Darmont didn’t lock you in a cupboard when you were naughty, or anything like that.”
She snickered. “No, and neither did my nanny or governess. I’ve just always hated tight spaces. It improved for a time. For years I was able to talk myself out of it, but then . . .”
After a few moments of waiting, he prompted her. “Then?”
The sleepy humor was gone from her voice. “It all came back one day.”
“I see.” After another few moments, he added, “When I was a boy, I was afraid of dogs. Terrified, actually.”
“Really? But you have dogs now, don’t you? You’ve mentioned hunting with them.”
“Oh yes,” he confirmed, “I even have a few house dogs. I get along famously with them now. Big, small, doesn’t matter. They seem to like me too.”
“Hmm. What changed?”
He moved a bit, maneuvering onto his back and flexing his shoulders before lacing his fingers behind his neck. Charlotte could barely make out his profile in the gloom. Drowsiness was overtaking her again, and her eyes drooped despite her efforts to keep them open. She liked the sound of Dexter’s friendly baritone in the darkened room. Charlotte wondered why it made a difference whether the curtain was open or closed when she could barely see her hand in front of her own face, but the air in the berth seemed clearer somehow with the drapes out of the way. She imagined she could feel a faint breeze across her face.
“When I was seven or eight, my mother brought home a dog one day. A half-grown homeless pup she’d found on her way back from visiting one of the villagers who was ill. The dog was a little terrier bitch, no higher than my knee. Fluffy little thing, once she was bathed and the knots combed out of her coat.”
“Did this dog have a name?”
“Daisy,” Dexter said. “Mother had already started calling her that on the ride home. The thing was, nobody could have ever been afraid of Daisy, she was too sweet and good-natured. A gentle spirit. I think she showed me what a dog could be, and after that I knew what to look for. Or maybe I just came to associate having a nice dog about with happy times at home.”
“Mmm. I wish I could find a closet that had the same effect on me.”
Dexter chuckled. “An anticlaustrophobia closet. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“If we find one,” Charlotte pointed out, failing to stifle a yawn, “we could make a fortune. Excuse me.” She was unclear on the etiquette of sharing a bed with a handsome but platonic colleague, but it seemed impolite to yawn quite so hugely in the middle of a conversation.
“Quite understandable. Time for us both to get some sleep. We have another long day of pretending to be blissful newlyweds ahead of us. Good night, Charlotte.”
She thought she wished him good night back, but couldn’t be sure the words made it out of her mouth before sleep exerted its will over her eyelids and dragged her down at last.
“LORD JOHNSON’S TARGET! Lord Johnson’s target!”
“Pull!”
The trap launched off the deck above, striking a lazy parabola that peaked somewhere over the ship’s wake in time for the bullet to intersect it.
“Mark!”
Its twin, shot from the opposite side of the broad stern, seemed to come directly over Charlotte’s head at a steep angle. She forced a little squeak and giggle out of herself as the fowling piece discharged, jerking Lord Johnson’s shoulder back.
He had missed his shot, which she would have thought impossible given the lazy trajectory of the clay and the very fine make of the elaborate fowling harness Johnson was wearing.
The young Lord pushed the weapon, one adapted for the shorter-range clays, down along its track and off his arm. Then he made a great show of cursing and adjusting the trigger grip and stabilizing grip, all the while making pointed little remarks about the quality of Hardison’s goods.
“Oh I know, isn’t it lovely, Lord Johnson?” she twittered, batting her eyes and twirling her hat ribbons around her finger. “And so shiny!”
Dexter shot her a look and then stepped forward, clearing his throat.
“Johnson, if I may?”
With a few deft motions over the other man’s harness, Dexter had reseated the shoulder pad and fastened the middle strap of the chest piece, which had apparently never been buckled. Perhaps because the abundance of decorative and very shiny rivets made it difficult to locate the actual buckles amid such a profusion of brass.
Not waiting for Johnson to reseat the weapon, Dexter nodded to the steward, who returned his nod and called out to the company, “Lord Hardison’s target! Lord Hardison’s target!”
“Pull.”
A hit.
“Mark.”
Another hit.
“Pull.”
Hit.
“Mark.”
Hit.
And so on, for the complete round, Dexter’s voice as firm and controlled as his aim, Charlotte clapping like a giddy schoolgirl every few shots.
And aside from those holding the straps in place, Dexter’s fowling harness was ostentatiously free from rivets. Charlotte knew he would have preferred simply using a gun. As would she, were she the one shooting, whether at clay or live targets. But they were masquerading as a fashionable young couple, and harnesses were the fashion.
These traps were filled with feathers that exploded in gay little puffs of color when they were hit. Charlotte looked for the feathers on the wind, but most of them were churned almost instantly into the wake of the huge cruise ship.
“Mr. Tanaka’s target! Mr. Tanaka’s target!”
That gentleman began his turn, faring somewhat better than Johnson, as Dexter shrugged out of his harness with a resigned expression. “He’ll want to yammer about it for the next hour, mark my words.”
“Darling,” Charlotte said a bit too loudly, warning Dexter with a nod that Johnson was headed their way, “You were brilliant, simply brilliant! You are going to teach me to use one of your splendid harnesses, aren’t you? Remember, you promised. And when we get back home I want a robin’s-egg blue one, with pretty gemstone rivets, exactly like my very dear friend Meggie’s. But not paste! And one for riding to the hounds, as well. But in scarlet kid, to look well with my new riding habit.” She giggled again, forcing the sound to the pitch and frequency that had seemed most distasteful to Lord Johnson on previous occasions. “Only that one wouldn’t be for a fowling piece of course!” She tapped her folded fan smartly against Dexter’s broad shoulder.
“Of course, my darling. Anything you like. I shall send a message to Pence to have him begin the work right away.” He was almost as effusive as she, and sounded disgustingly besotted, but to no avail.
“Sorry, it didn’t work,” she whispered, and pretended tremendous interest in Mr. Tanaka’s skill as the odious Lord Johnson ahem-hem-hemmed at Dexter’s side.
“Johnson.”
“The Hardison Harness not quite performing as expected this morning.”
Dexter allowed a tiny, polite smile to bend his lips for the slightest second. “I have never referred to the style or the product as the ‘Hardison Harness,’ sir. But I’m sure if you try it again with the shoulder seated correctly and all the buckles, ah, buckled—”