Lady Anne 02 - Revenge of the Barbary Ghost, page 15
But finally she moved away from him. “I have to go back to Pam, Darkefell. She’s alone in the study.”
He gazed down at her shadowed face, cradling her cheek in his palm, passing one thumb over her full lips. “How are you, Anne? I would give anything in the world for you not to have seen St. James dead like that. Are you all right?”
“He was a friend, and I cared for him. This is awful … simply terrible!” Her voice was clogged with unshed tears. She shook her head, shrugging off the emotion. She stared up into his eyes, her gaze searching. “Why won’t you tell me what he said that made you attack him? It doesn’t matter now; he’s dead!”
“It matters even more, now, sweet Anne,” he said, gently, pushing back some stray hairs and tucking them behind her ear. “I would never taint your memory of the fellow, and he is not here to explain himself.”
The door on the landing to the study moved. Darkefell swiftly bent his head and kissed her full on the lips, then released her, as Pamela St. James came out of the study, wiping her eyes, and descended the three steps to the hall.
“Miss St. James,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I am so sorry for your sadness. Though I didn’t know him well enough to judge, I’m sure St. James was a good and loving brother. The day dwindles. I must go now, but may I call on you ladies tomorrow?”
Anne cast a swift glance at Pamela, and said, “We will be out for part of the day.”
“We’ll stop in St. Wyllow on our way back here from our … our destination,” Pamela said, her cheeks reddening. “Marcus’s regimental funeral will be the day after tomorrow.” She caught her breath and stifled a sob, making an odd sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “I cannot attend. I just can’t!” she cried, a hysterical edge to her voice.
Anne soothed her with a hushed word and the touch of her hand on her arm, then turned to him. “Darkefell, we cannot attend the funeral. Pamela is just not strong enough, and there will be so many people! Will you go and tell us about it afterward?” Anne said, with a swift glance at her friend, who had ducked her head to hide her emotion. “I know you and St. James didn’t … didn’t …” She trailed off, not sure how to broach the subject.
He touched her shoulder and said, with meaning in his eyes, “I will go to the funeral. My connection with Colonel Withington will give me ample reason, and I’ll come to you after and tell you all about it.” He bowed. “I must leave, ladies, but will be in St. Wyllow tomorrow afternoon. If you do not find me there, I’m staying at the Barbary Ghost Inn. The innkeeper was equerry to my father many years ago, and I count Quintrell as my friend.”
“Until tomorrow,” Anne said, her heart thudding.
“Until tomorrow,” he agreed, and strode through the sitting room and out.
Anne stood stock-still, trying to understand her feelings. Darkefell took her by surprise every single time he kissed her, and even in the midst of such sorrow, his kiss had buoyed her, lifting her spirit, setting her heart to pounding, filling her with hope. But, hope of what? That was a question for quiet reflection, not this tumultuous longing to be back in his arms, but quiet reflection did not seem to be in her immediate future, not with so much sorrow and suspicion and uncertainty all around them.
“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens,” Anne muttered.
“A time to weep, and a time to laugh,” answered Pamela. “I don’t think I shall laugh for many a day, Anne.”
***
Darkefell and Osei returned to the inn, and the marquess, determined to get to the bottom of the night before’s debacle, sternly told Johnny Quintrell to meet him out on the back terrace of the inn, which was close enough to overlook the inlet and cut below Cliff House. He paced the flagstone terrace, squinting across the distance toward the house where Anne resided, comforting her distraught friend.
He was used to getting what he wanted by the simple expedient of going after it. Houses, horses, women, political influence … they were all generally a simple matter of making the right moves, talking to the right people, using bribery, flattery, a push here, a carefully worded request there. When any other method failed, a command would bring him whatever he wished. But Anne baffled him. He could not just make her marry him. A command was out of the question in this case.
He stared across the cut, the vista of open sky and wild gray sea seeming forbidding and lonely. Was that all it was to him, baffled fury at being repulsed? But no, he was no child, to want what was denied him simply because it was denied to him.
Women had always seemed, to him, simple creatures. If you gave them what they wanted in the way of security or financial reward, then they acquiesced to a man’s wishes. Men were trickier to bargain with because there was often something deeper that drove them: pride, anger, honor.
But from the beginning it had been apparent to him that Anne was different. Though he did not consider himself to be conceited, he knew most other women would have been ordering a trousseau given half the attention he had lavished on Anne. He had evaded the marriage snares laid for him in the past; many matchmaking mothers and simpering maidens in their first or second or third Season had gone to great lengths to secure him as a most eligible husband.
So why did Anne not want him? She feared marriage as a rabbit feared a trap, as the end of any kind of life. He was beginning to worry that what she truly wanted—it seemed to be some intangible freedom that was not even possible for a lady—he could not promise. And yet, the more he saw her, the more he wanted her. How could he win her if he had nothing to offer that she wanted? He stared out to sea, the gray sky heavy, the ocean churning, white froth on wave tops giving no indication of the muck and filth underneath, dragged up from the seabed. It was a mystery that must be solved if he was to win Anne and find peace.
A subtle noise behind him alerted him to Johnny Quintrell’s presence and he turned, examining the fellow. He was stout and fleshy, like his father, a younger version of the man, in fact. Darkefell set aside his uneasy reflections about Anne, and concentrated instead on what he could do that moment, which was solve the problems troubling Joseph Quintrell and perhaps even Pamela St. James’s torment, the question of who killed her brother.
“Johnny, I need some information,” Darkefell said, eyeing the fellow.
The young man stayed sullenly silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
“Last night went very badly for the smugglers. And yet, from what I observed, a great deal of goods were being landed. Someone must have felt secure that they would be unobserved last night. Is that a fair surmise?”
Johnny nodded.
“And yet the excise agents were there in full force, which means that either they were given information that a secret landing had been arranged or …” He thought for a moment. “Or whomever was in charge thought they had secured the excise officer’s agreement to turn a blind eye, and they were betrayed. Is that how it was?”
Johnny Quintrell looked confused for a moment, and then shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, milord.”
The boy was just another body to carry barrels and crates up the beach, and so merely did as he was told. “But you must know who is behind the smuggling, who directs things, for someone must tell you when a landing is planned.”
“Aye, milord.” He hesitated, then, fear in his eyes, said, “If I tell you, will he know?”
“The one who directs the operation? Will he know you have informed against him? Certainly not. Nothing will point to you, Johnny, I’ll lay my life on that.”
He appeared relieved and slumped down on a wooden bench, passing one hand over his grubby face, fair beard stubble adorning his jutting chin. He scruffed the bristle. “I’ve told you Captain Micklethwaite is one of ’em, sir, but there’s another, one who only shows up the night of the landing and directs everything. Must be th’ captain’s partner. We calls him Lord Brag, for ’is manner, you know. He always says he’ll make us rich as lords.”
“But you only ever see him the nights of the landings?”
“Aye. And no one knows who he is, ’cause he wears a mask. Lads think ’e’s some high muckety-muck.”
Immediately Darkefell’s mind went to suspicions that it had been St. James. Was he Lord Brag, then? And were he and Micklethwaite partners in the smuggling business?
“When will you hear next?”
“I ’spect t’will be today, milord.”
“What have you heard of those who were killed? Did you hear anything about Captain St. James, the man whose body was found on the beach below Cliff House this morning?”
Johnny appeared frightened and shook his head, but then reluctantly said, “That new colonel was in here just a half hour ago, blazing mad and ballyraggin’ at Mr. Puddicombe; he said as how the Puddicombe had not done his job from the start, or Captain St. James wouldn’t be dead now.”
“But you don’t know how it happened?”
“Last I saw anything down there was when you dragged me away from t’trouble, milord. And thankful I am,” he said, his expression gloomy, “for me best mate was kilt last night. T’would’ve been me, too, if it hadn’t bin for you.”
“I’m sorry for your friend, Johnny, but I’m glad you’re alive,” he said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “For your father’s sake. And now you see why you must get out of this business. It’s dangerous.”
“Aye, but I was just tryin’ to make a bit extra. I’ve got a sweetheart, see, and we wants to marry, but her pa won’t let ’er. I’m hopin’ fer enough to take her away an’ get married. She’s able to wed without her pa’s permission in a week.”
“But you won’t be able to marry at all if you’re dead, Johnny. Have you told your father this, about having a young lady?”
Johnny shook his head. “Didn’t want to worry ’im. He’s been that cut up since Ma died. No time fer my nonsense.”
Darkefell paced the terrace, then said, “Let’s extricate you from this mess, find out who killed Captain St. James, and then we’ll figure something out for you and your young lady. Now, were others killed, besides your friend?”
“Two more. The excise men took ’em away. Me poor mate’s mum won’t even have his body to bury, ’cause the prevention men say he’s a thief and no-good smuggler, and he’s to be made a lesson of.” The fellow’s face was white, but his mouth was set in an angry line. “Can’t even let a poor widow have her son’s body to bury when she’s torn up and bedoled. Ain’t right. That Puddicombe is a proper arse.”
Darkefell thought for a moment. If that was true, then St. James’s body would have been taken away, if he had died with the other smugglers. He must have been killed after the melee, then, but how? And by whom? He would find out for Miss St. James’s sake. The tiny voice of conscience whispered that he was set on uncovering the murderer because he still felt a twinge of guilt. He had overreacted, perhaps in bashing St. James so brutally, for there was an ample measure of jealousy in his fury over the man’s words. But what was worse, he still couldn’t regret his actions, nor would he take them back, given the chance. He’d pound St. James again in an instant, for saying what he did about Anne.
He clapped Johnny on the shoulder. “We’ll figure it out, lad, I promise.”
Twelve
The evening and night were long and grim, and Anne slept but little. Every time she drifted into slumber, a nightmare of poor Marcus’s dead face rose in her bewildered mind, and she awoke crying out. Several times she crept down the hall to huddle in the dark outside of Pamela’s door, and heard her friend weeping within. She would then tiptoe down the hall to Marcus’s room, where local women, expert in such things, had prepared his body and sat with him. Though Anne did not believe he was there with his corporeal remains—she felt that his soul was long gone to wherever souls went—still, she was relieved he was not alone. She had already guaranteed the local undertaker that she would pay for everything concerning St. James’s funeral.
She lingered outside his room for a moment, then tried to return to her own bed, only to be beset by horrors and trembling. Though never overly religious, she even spent part of the night praying. Out of sheer desperation she finally wound the blankets tightly around her, imagining them as Darkefell’s arms, and drifted into an uneasy asleep.
Strength returned to her the next morning, but her imaginary night in the marquess’s arms left her bemused, for what did it say about her, that she had resorted to such feminine weakness as to imagine his embrace as an aid to sleep? She blushed whenever she thought of it, and it left her faintly disturbed and oddly yearning for him: his voice, his touch, his kiss.
However, that was the subject for another day’s reflection. She spent part of the morning doing such tasks as needed to be done, as much as could be taken from Pamela to allow her some serenity, then spent an hour at Marcus’s side, thinking and praying. She would liberally reward the women who had looked after him, because he now looked serene and sleeping, a miracle after what his poor body had been through. He had been a good, if imperfect, man, and would be sorely missed, especially by Pamela.
But it was finally time to prepare for the mysterious journey Pamela was set on, and Anne sat patiently petting Irusan, while Mary styled her stubborn hair. Her dark tresses, though silken in texture most of the time, only required the addition of briny breezes to transform into a sea creature of mythological proportions. Mary entered a pitched battle armed with comb and pins, and with ferocious determination, she inevitably emerged triumphant, having subdued the beast.
Anne’s hair resembled mortal locks once more. “What slaves we ladies are to fashion,” she said, turning her head and gazing at herself in the mirror, “when even a plain woman will take so much trouble over her appearance. I’ll never be a handsome woman, but you make me tolerable.”
“Handsome is that handsome does,” Mary said, finally able to speak now that she was freed of the pins she held in her mouth while styling her mistress’s hair. She pushed the last one into place and stood back, giving a nod of satisfaction. She retrieved a refurbished hat, adorned now with dark mourning ribbon to match Anne’s dark gown.
“You’ve been reading The Vicar of Wakefield,” Anne replied, smiling into the mirror at her maid.
Mary admitted it, her expression dour. “Aye. I’ve had too much time here to do as I will. I’m enjoying novels more than I ought. It’s a shame, when the Good Book has been my meat for so many years, to admit I enjoy made-up tales.”
Gently, Anne took her maid’s hand and squeezed. “I know you must be dull with such an excess of free time.”
“If I could have my way, I’d not be bored, for I’d clean this wretched house from top to bottom, but I canna put a finger on aught without that miserable Mrs. Quintrell takin’ offense.”
“My mother and grandmother would be horrified if they saw the squalor of Cliff House,” Anne said, glancing around her room. She pushed her cat from her lap and he hopped up to her bed. “But you keep this room spotless, and I thank you for it.” She turned in her chair and stared at her maid.
“I’ll tell you something, Mary, that will keep your mind turning,” she continued, and related her exploration of the basement the day before, and her discovery of Marcus St. James’s workshop. She thought back to the local magistrate, Mr. Twynam’s comment about Mr. Puddicombe’s accusations, or questions, as he had amended. He had said it was nothing to concern herself with, but that he would need to clear things up with Miss St. James. Though to her knowledge, he had done no such thing.
Perhaps Puddicombe had accused Pamela or Marcus of smuggling. Would he do so, though, unless he had proof? She shared all of that with Mary, but then it was time for her to go, for Sanderson, driving Anne’s carriage, was waiting at the door. Before leaving, Anne had to convince Lolly that she and Pamela would be sufficient chaperonage for each other, and that there was very little chance of their meeting Lord Darkefell or any other man that day. She was merely taking Pamela for a ride into the countryside, she told her companion. As far as she knew, that was the truth, because Pamela, looking like a wraith, would say no more than that she had a visit she had to make.
She and Pamela got into the carriage and Sanderson, at a sedate pace, set off toward their mysterious destination. Was this, then, where Pamela had disappeared to, almost every other day of Anne’s residence at Cliff House? She hadn’t wanted to pry, and curiosity had warred with courtesy for weeks. Her speculation had become wilder and more outrageous, from a secret lover to anonymous good works, but today she would learn the truth.
As they trundled along country roads, away from the seaside, Anne wondered what, or whom, were they headed toward? Was there, in Pamela’s family, an ancient parent, or a mad aunt tucked away in keeping? If so, she would not be the first to shoulder the burden of a seldom-seen family member who was not fit for society. Anne gazed out the window as she considered her own complex family situation.
Though she rarely spoke of him, she did have a sibling, a brother, poor Jamey, who lived with a family in the country not far from Harecross Hall. He had first been sent away many years before because Anne’s mother couldn’t bear to look at him, feeling he was a reproach to her, a constant reminder of her failure to provide a proper heir to the earldom. Also, he was sometimes unruly, and her father’s indulgence did nothing but make him harder to handle, the bigger he got.
But now, after so many years, he had calmed and lived a serene life. He had his hobbies and his activities, his daily routine, his collections and his animals. His serving staff was well paid and kept him healthy and happy. He was capable of little more.
