The Ring and the Crown (The Ring and the Crown 1)

But Ronan had been too excited to keep her face behind the dark curtains. She wanted to soak everything in, to breathe the sea air, to revel in her newfound freedom. They arrived at the port, which was busier and smellier than she had expected, and she held a tidy handkerchief to her nose and a parasol over her head as they made their way to the ticket office. It was almost April, the first hint of spring was in the air, and Ronan felt as if she were bursting at her velvet seams—she couldn’t contain her excitement. After months of penury, this trip was a godsend. She was on her way to make her fortune and her name—to make a life for herself in the world. She could forget, for a moment, the seriousness of her mission, and the parents who had invested everything they had in her success.

But the moment was short-lived; Vera returned from the ticket office looking more anxious than ever. Apparently there was a problem with their rooms. Her father had booked them first-class staterooms, but her governess told her that the ship’s officer insisted they were listed for two second-class fares instead.

Ronan was aghast. “We cannot possibly travel in such cramped accommodations. Our luggage alone will take up the entire room. Let me talk to him. Perhaps it is just a mix-up and easily remedied.” Her heart pounded in her chest, even as her spirits sank, because a part of her knew there was no mistake. Her father had most likely booked the more expensive passage a year earlier, but as financial troubles accumulated, quietly exchanged the tickets without telling her mother. Ronan thought she might still be able to talk her way into her proper berth; she had seen her mother do the same at restaurants and shops when their credit was called into question. She pushed her way to the front and, in the haughtiest voice she could muster, asked the ship’s officer to check again.

The man consulted the list once more with a weary air. The port was busy, with travelers bidding friends and family farewell, great ladies and their servants disembarking from shiny carriages, and tradesmen waving their paper tickets and disappearing into steerage. “Sorry, miss,” the officer sighed. “Right here. Astor. Second class.”

“See, I told you,” Vera chided. Her governess looked almost smug, and Ronan felt an instant of hatred for the older lady, who depended on her family for her well-being. After all, her father had continued to pay Vera’s salary, regardless of their financial insolvency.

An impatient crowd had gathered behind them as they held up the line. Even if the air was cool, the s

un was hot, and she could feel the sweat forming a thin layer between her skin and her clothing. She had felt every inch a grand lady that morning in her fine coat and new hat, along with her mother’s most elegant parasol, but her confidence was shrinking, along with her chances of first-class accommodations. Even Vera had abandoned her, returning to stand by the impatient porter and their embarrassingly large collection of steamer trunks.

Ronan wanted to curse, scream, and cry at the humiliation, but she could not allow herself to make a scene. Second-class cabins! She would die of seasickness! She would rather stay at home. What if someone saw…? But what did it matter where she stayed on the stupid boat, as long as she arrived in London in time for the party? She would sleep on her trunks, if necessary.

“Miss?” the officer asked again, irritated now.

She was about to snatch the tickets from the officer’s hand when she caught sight of Whitney Van Owen and her mother walking sedately along the docks toward the gangplank. The Van Owens were one of the wealthiest families in the Americas, but their riche was so nouveau that their social ascent was still a bit of a shock to established hostesses like Ronan’s mother. It was well known that Colonel Van Owen’s father was nothing more than an indentured servant. Their money was tainted, not quite perfectly respectable, in that it was not inherited but earned—hand over fist, blood over dollars, until it had accumulated and multiplied to ridiculous proportions.

“Why, it’s Ronan!” Whitney trilled. “Off to London for the season as well, of course!”

“Of course,” Ronan smiled, pressing her hot cheek next to Whitney’s fair one.

Whitney looked every inch an heiress, cutting a striking figure in a lavish, fur-trimmed coat with ornately jeweled buttons that caught and spun the light into a thousand rainbows. Her elaborate hat was three times larger than Ronan’s, with a full crown of ostrich feathers and a dazzling lace overlay. Ronan felt drab as a sparrow next to her, and swallowed a pang of jealousy at the shimmering moonstones nestled in the brooch on her friend’s throat.

“Mage-made,” Whitney said, showing them off with a wave of her hand. “Pretty, aren’t they? You should see my dress for the royal ball! It practically glows in the dark!”

“Gorgeous,” Ronan agreed, feeling even more deprived than before.

“Well—see you inside. Shall we meet for breakfast? I heard the chef is amazing. Ta!”

Ronan hadn’t the heart to tell her she would be dining in the common area, and not the lavish dining room. The ship was the size of an island; perhaps when they arrived in London, she could say she’d caught the flu and couldn’t leave her room during the entire journey.

“Miss? You want these tickets or not?” the officer asked, rapping on the glass to catch her attention.

“Yes—I mean—no—I mean…” Ronan shook her head, rattled, trying to figure out her options. She could go back home and yell at her parents, or get herself to England as planned. There was no time to waste; the sooner she arrived in London and accepted a proposal, the sooner she could pay off the debts against the house and estate. Vera had hinted more than once that her own impoverished status was due to a family fortune brought low—that she, too, had been raised in splendor, only to find herself in ashes.

No. No. No. She would find a match, and a title, and the magic to go with it. She had to, she had to, she had to.…She wrung her gloves in her hands until they were soiled. Another expense she could not afford. She wiped her palms on her skirts and tried to compose herself.

“Is something the matter?” asked a young man behind her, who must have heard every word. He regarded her with an amused smile, as if he found her situation to be very entertaining.

She turned to him and did not smile back, as he looked a bit…battered. He had a black eye and a bruised cheek, dark messy hair, a strong chin; he could be handsome, although it was hard to tell underneath the battle wounds.

“Miss?” the ticket officer asked again.

Vera bustled over. “The porter wants his tip. What shall I tell him?”

“Just please—please—give me a moment,” she pleaded with everyone. “Let me think.” Whitney and her mother were on the gangplank. If she took the second-class tickets now, they would know how far she had sunk. Perhaps they would spread the word in London; everyone would know the truth about the Astor situation, and Ronan would not be invited to the best parties, which would dash all her hopes even before she had set sail. But she could not stall any longer. It was second class or stay in New York. “Fine, give them to me.” She took the tickets, stuck them in her purse and walked toward the dock.

“All right, miss?” She looked up to see that the roguish young man with the swollen eye had followed her. “You look as if you need some help,” he said.

What business was it of his? “I’m quite all right, thank you,” she said coldly. She did not speak to strange young men who loitered around docks. He looked almost terrifying with those bruises on his face. She looked around for Vera. What use was a chaperone if they did not chaperone?

“You don’t have to run away,” he said. “I don’t bite. Unless I want to.”

Her blush deepened. He truly was a sight to look at, but even with the broken nose and face, there was something compelling about him—his dark hair, piercing blue eyes, that dangerously crooked smile.

“I’m afraid no one can help me.”