The Countess' Lucky Charm by A. M. Westerling

before he posed the question that had plagued him for the past few weeks.
    “Have ye seen Mona?”
    The barkeep stopped and, with a surprised look, glanced around the room as if he could spot the missing girl there. “No,” he replied. “No, I ain’t . Now that ye mention it, I ain’t seen her for at least a month.”
    “Nobody’s seen her, it’s like she’s dropped from the face of the earth.” Gentry Ted’s voice was puzzled.
    The barkeep shrugged. “Like as not she’s found greener pastures. She’ll come around.”
    “I ain’t so sure,” muttered Ted before lifting the foaming mug to his lips. Mona, that one, what a peach, had her hands in and out of a pocket in a twinkling, so smooth that the bloody nobs she picked had no idea.
    He well remembered the day he had dropped her off at Mrs Dougherty’s workhouse. Somehow, those blue eyes had stuck with him and he had made it a habit to check in on her regularly, sometimes even throwing a coin or two Mrs Dougherty’s way to help out. It had given him great pleasure to see her success on the streets, particularly after being told she was not suitable for that kind of work.
    He drained his mug, slapped down a coin, and stood to leave. He turned to scan the room as if Mona had somehow miraculously appeared in the past few moments but of course she had not.
    Adjusting his cravat, he made his way to the door and out into the street. He shook his head as he walked. Maybe Mona were just lying low because the constables were after her.  
     
     
     

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    Temple and Simone did not talk of their kiss and after a while, it seemed as if it had never happened. The days sailed by as smoothly as the Annabelle sliced through the Atlantic Ocean. Two weeks flew by, then three, then four.
    The at times tedious morning sewing lessons had produced another dress, this one a sprigged muslin, as well as several shifts and a nightgown. Simone thanked Mrs Featherstone repeatedly and the kindly woman would always give an airy wave of her hand. “I say do unto others as you would have them do unto you. There’s nothing to thank me for. You making something of yourself and making your lord proud is all the thanks I need.”
    Her afternoons with Temple, however, were golden. She concentrated on every word and every phrase, wanting to do her best for then he would reward her with a smile or a curt “Well done.” She memorized endlessly, practicing the pronunciation over and over until Temple was satisfied she got it right. Then they would move on to the next.
    Nay, her afternoons were never boring, they were exhilarating.
    Bit by bit, she began to believe, she, Simone Dougherty could become a lady of quality and have a better life for herself.
    And bit by bit, she found herself falling in love with the darkly handsome Lord Temple Wellington, a man above her in station.
    A man who could never be hers.
     
    * * *
     
    “No!”
    Simone threw off the bedclothes and sat bolt upright. Perspiration drenched her nightgown and clotted her hair. Panting hard, she held her wet face in shaking hands. “No, please no.”
    Again.
    It had happened again.
    The nightmare where she was drowning, sinking into the murk of unfathomable depths. It had visited her with unfailing regularity when she was younger, less as she grew older, perhaps once every year or so. But now the familiar nightmare had returned and it still held a horror she couldn’t shake.
    “Temple? Did I wake you?”
    She pulled back the sail curtain to look over at his empty bed, the bedclothes still rumpled. She listened for a moment. Silence. There were no footsteps or shouts from without.
    She scrambled out of her bed and dressed quickly and, stumbling down the hallway, rammed the last few pins into her hair. It may not be tidy, but it would have to do.
    By the time she made her way above deck, she found Temple, flanked on one side by Dr Taylor and on the other by Gordon Dixon, leaning against