Lady Anne 02 - Revenge of the Barbary Ghost, page 5
“That is a lot of happenstance,” Anne commented, acidly, pleased to hear her own voice without a waver or a crack.
He grinned. “Indeed. I delight in happenstance. You will be pleased to learn that a friend of yours, Osei Boatin, accompanies me—he has been held up a day or two—and looks forward to reanimating the acquaintance.”
“I shall be delighted to see Mr. Boatin again,” Anne said.
“But not me? I’m shocked.” He turned to Pam. “Lady Anne is my most severe critic, Miss St. James. She loves to find fault in me.”
“I love any simple pleasure, sir, as you know,” Anne said.
He chuckled and raised his expressive brow at her.
St. James approached just then, and with a broad grin said to his sister, “Look at my new acquisition, Pam, a jeweled snuff box. With my initials! Ain’t it perfection?”
“Marcus, lovely!” Pam said, eyeing the trinket with a frown. But she smoothed her worried scowl, and said, “Do say hello to a conquest of Anne’s, Lord Anthony Darkefell from … Yorkshire, isn’t it, my lord?”
“Pam, do stop fooling,” Anne said, her voice trembling. “He is no conquest of mine. How ridiculous.”
Marcus had gone still and eyed Darkefell with concern, while the other man stared him down.
Uneasy at the sudden crackle of tension in the air, Anne said, “We should collect Lolly before she makes the entire village population of children bilious. And I need a cup of tea.”
“Wonderful idea, Anne, darling!” Pamela said. “Come along! St. James, walk with Anne and darling Lolly while I monopolize the marquess. Lord Darkefell,” she said, taking his arm, “you must come back to Cliff House with us and have luncheon. Anne has told me so little about your adventure in Yorkshire, and I am positively perishing for more information. She told me some nonsense about a werewolf she unmasked! Do talk to me.”
***
The back terrace of Cliff House had a pretty view out to sea, but to Darkefell’s practical eye it was crumbling, in awful condition, the masonry undermined by the damp salt air. The whole house had that air of raffish disrepair, like an elderly roué, almost blind and crippled, but still flirting with every woman available. He half listened to Miss Pamela St. James prattle while he watched the fair-haired captain bend his head to Anne, intently listening. She, damned by Darkefell’s brother, his sister-in-law and his mother as worse than plain, was actually much prettier than the marquess remembered, or was that just the effect of her sparkling conversation with that twit, Marcus St. James? The smartly uniformed fellow was courtly toward Anne, dusting off the bench upon which she sat, but he was an army captain; were they not renowned for their chivalrous behavior to the fair sex? Perhaps the captain’s behavior meant nothing. Or perhaps it meant he was wooing Anne with pretty words and promises.
Darkefell decided he must know some things, and would before he left Cliff House that day. First, was Marcus St. James living at Cliff House, under the same roof as Anne? Second, did she blush when he spoke to her, as he remember her doing on occasion with him? And third and fourth and fifth … did she tremble when he touched her? Did she sigh when he kissed her? Was Marcus St. James wooing Anne? He kept a tight control on his jealousy, clamping down on it with gritted teeth and clenched fist.
He set himself to think of anything but his frustrated wooing of Lady Anne. Cliff House was a ramshackle three-floor stone dwelling, with overgrown gardens and an air of reckless charm, much like the mistress, Miss Pamela St. James. The sitting room was too dark on such a lovely day, she had airily proclaimed as they arrived, leading them around the house and down to the terrace by way of a stone path and steps, so they would sit and have a picnic luncheon. Darkefell suspected she was not too sure of the cleanliness and order of the interior.
“Miss St. James,” Darkefell said, strolling to the edge of the uneven flagstone terrace and gazing toward the sea, “you have a charming view here.” Cliff House overlooked the ocean, in a sense, though it was well back from the water. The terrace gave way to the garden, and the garden sloped down to some scrubby shrubs and a wind-warped apple tree hard against a stone fence. Beyond the wooden gate the property sloped upward again, opening onto a long, high bluff of rocky outcroppings and unkempt grass, beyond which the blue ocean sparkled and puffy clouds danced along the horizon.
“I am fortunate that the view is free, my lord, for I could not afford it if the landlord charged what that beauty is worth.”
He looked back at her, surprised by her refreshing honesty. She was beautiful, he admitted. A little older than Anne, perhaps, with dark hair and eyes, an intriguing dimple in her chin, and an excellent figure, if tending a little toward gaunt cheeks. He glanced over at Anne, who was engaged in a lively discussion on some topic with Captain St. James. She was feverish in her intensity, leaning toward the man, her hands working to describe as they did when she was quite unconscious about it. There was the difference between the two ladies: fire. Miss St. James was a lovely woman, but there was an absence in her that he could not quite describe to himself. She might well have a heart to rival Anne’s, but he had no desire to find out if it was so.
A slovenly serving woman in a dirty apron and gown, led by Anne’s enormous cat, Irusan, brought out a tray laden with a teapot, cups, and plates of cheese, ham, bread and cakes, and thumped it down on a wrought iron table, then turned and stumped away. The puss made its way immediately toward Anne, but stopped at St. James and rubbed against the officer’s leg. He bent down and picked the cat up as they continued talking.
Damned cat, Darkefell thought. All it ever did to him was growl.
“Mrs. Quintrell,” Pamela said, pleadingly, as the woman slumped back toward the door to the kitchen, “could you please bring out the decanter of port in the sitting room for the gentlemen? And some glasses?”
The woman glared at Miss St. James, and Darkefell tamped down an urge to bark an order, instead, mildly saying, “Quintrell? You aren’t any relation to Joseph Quintrell, are you?”
“Aye, me husband is his brother,” she said, grudgingly.
Pamela made a swift introduction, giving Darkefell his entire due, and the change in demeanor was instant. The cook bustled back in the house and soon came back out accompanied by her daughter, carrying a tray of crystal goblets and the decanter of port. Unfortunate, from Darkefell’s aspect, since he despised port, but Mrs. Quintrell’s improved attitude toward Miss St. James was worth drinking a glass of the awful stuff.
Once she was gone, Miss St. James laid one hand on his jacket sleeve and said, “You are quite the knight in shining armor.”
Anne glanced over just then, and so Darkefell put his free hand over hers and caressed her slender fingers. “I hope I was able to be of some small service in rendering Mrs. Quintrell’s attitude more amenable to direction. They are a stubborn family, by and large, and proud.”
But Anne simply returned to her conversation with the red-coated captain. So, jealousy was not to work, though she could not have designed a better way to agitate him than her intimate conversation with the blond-haired, slim-figured and elegant Captain St. James. He was a dandyish fellow, the kind beloved by ladies everywhere, and his uniform just added to his air of dash. The damned cat was now, at least, sitting on the stone bench between them, being petted by both Anne and her companion as they talked.
Miss Lolly Broomhall, who had been inside for a time, returned to the terrace to take luncheon with them, and conversation became more general. She managed to talk even while consuming an adequate tea, expounding on the children of St. Wyllow and relating the very interesting conversation she had with an old man who knew the town well. He had kept her entertained, apparently, with all manner of fascinating stories of bygone years.
They ate lunch, and drank tea and port. St. James gracefully attended every whim of Anne’s, supplying her with some of the leaden cake, taking her dirty plate away, refilling her teacup. It was obvious to Darkefell by then that he courted her, and a fiery pit of jealousy burned in his stomach, charring the heavy luncheon he had not really wanted.
Darkefell stood. “My dear Lady Anne,” he said, loudly, talking over some of the captain’s prattle, “would you walk with me toward that interesting cliff beyond the garden? I can bring you up to date with all of those at Ivy Lodge, since I’m sure you have not yet had the opportunity to receive news from Lydia and John.”
He was flattered, if surprised, by the alacrity with which she jumped up from the bench. Irusan followed, but Anne put out one staying hand when it appeared that the captain was about to follow them, too.
“No, St. James; there is nothing more tedious than a conversation about people with whom you are not acquainted. The marquess and I will be back in half an hour, and you may gaze longingly after me from the terrace, if you are so forlorn.”
Her joking tone took the sting out of her refusal of his company, Darkefell thought, but the captain looked put out anyway. Small victories, he thought, small victories. He had come to St. Wyllow solely to find out the state of her affections, and he would not leave until he was sure she returned his regard.
Four
Darkefell took her arm. Anne, garbed in a lilac gown and contrasting gray caraco, with a jaunty bonnet perched on her thick, intricately coiffed dark hair, kept glancing sideways at him as they walked down the garden and out the rickety wooden gate, followed closely by Irusan. She pointed out the best path, as she was well acquainted with the bluff, and they ascended. Finally, as they strolled across the scrubby grass toward the escarpment, she turned to him and said, “I was surprised to see you at the market, but I had a feeling you were not surprised to see me.”
“You’re correct. I knew you were here, Anne.” He crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet in a wide stance, watching her. “And I’m not sure you were really surprised. You must have known I would follow, for you clearly intended it.”
She glared at him. “I beg your pardon?” she said, her tone cold. She meant him to understand that she was displeased by such presumption.
The wind lifted the dark lock of hair that always trailed over his high, pale forehead. He swept it away and smiled, an undeniably attractive expression on one so handsome. “Oh, come, Anne, after what we’ve shared, you knew I would follow you. You intended it. Don’t be coy; it ill suits you.” He reached out, and with lingering fingers brushed back a stray, wind-tossed lock of her hair from her cheek as he leaned toward her.
Ignoring the jolt of pleasure his light touch sent through her, she stepped back, and gained a small measure of mean satisfaction that he lost his balance. Irusan sat staring up at him with ill-disguised hostility. Darkefell righted himself and frowned, appearing somewhat less sure of himself, which was all to the good in a man so supremely overconfident.
“How is Lydia?” she asked.
“She’s well. I have engaged a house in Bath for her and John beginning in the middle of July.”
“And how are my mother and grandmama?” she said, with a hard tone in her voice that she fully intended he understand. Words alone could not express her displeasure at him seeking them out. He meant her to think that he had simply come across her kin at a fete or party, but Grandmama never went out; people came to her. He must have visited with no invitation, a breach in courtesy that her mother and grandmother would overlook in someone of his elevated stature.
But he was not discomfited by her ire, chuckling as he said, “They seem very well, both of them; completely charming, I must say. Lady Everingham and Lady Harecross both send affectionate greetings.”
“Oh, they sent more than that,” she murmured, now understanding the timing of Lolly’s arrival. Her companion was to be a watchdog, but also, no doubt, she was to further the match between Anne and Darkefell at every opportunity. Anne knew her mother well. Could she blame her, really, when a marquess satisfied every requirement of a husband for the daughter of an earl?
But Anne was willing to set aside his presumption, as she had more interesting things to think about. “Word from Lydia and my family is not the reason I agreed to walk with you here.”
“Really?” he said, with an appreciative gleam in his dark eyes. He moved toward her and put his arm around her waist. “I knew there was more.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said, pulling out of his grasp, battling a desperate wish to throw herself back into his arms.
Irusan growled threateningly.
Darkefell must never know about her dreams, Anne resolved, and how she still remembered every kiss between them. She couldn’t think rationally when he caressed her as he did, and if she was to ever consider marriage with him, she would need every ounce of her rational thought, every bit of brain power, to figure him out, and decide if she could live with such a rogue for the rest of her life.
But she still could not quite believe that he was serious about courting her with an eye toward marriage, and felt sure he had some ulterior motive she could not yet fathom.
“You never did answer me, Anne. I asked you a question the last time I saw you, and you did not answer.”
He referred, or course, to his proposal, hurled at her as a command or challenge.
“I believe my leaving the next morning was all the answer that should be required of such an absurd question, if you can even call it that,” she said, and was surprised by a pained look that flitted across his face.
“Very well,” he said, grudgingly, “for now. But we will speak of it again.”
“As I said, I had another reason for walking with you here.” She strode to the cliff edge and he followed, grabbing her arm as if he was afraid she would go over. “Isn’t the view breathtaking?”
“Yes, but come away from the cliff edge, if you please.”
She was surprised by his tone, and when she looked at his face, the unease amply displayed in his expression. “What is it, Darkefell?”
“I don’t wish you to be quite so close to obliteration, that’s all.”
“Oh, pish tush!” she cried, and spun away from him, doing a turn on the cliff edge. “I won’t fall. I’m very surefooted, and have an excellent head for heights. If you remember, I climbed the tower folly at your estate and felt no unease. Or, well, a little shakiness in the ankles on those dreadful stairs, but nothing more.”
“Please, Anne, come away from the cliff edge.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, eyeing him, noting a tightness around his generous mouth. Did he really care for her so deeply, or was it just his own anxiety over the height? It occurred to her that the last time they had been together, she had almost tumbled off a cliff of similar height. Perhaps that explained his unease. “But there is a reason for being here,” she insisted. “Look out … what do you see?”
He relaxed as she stopped edging toward oblivion, and turned his gaze to sea. “Water. Sky. The sun. Clouds.”
“And?” she asked.
The bluff was high and had a grand view of the shoreline for miles. To the west the property sloped gradually, trailing downward for about a half mile toward a scythe-shaped slice of beach in the distance. Directly below the bluff upon which they stood was a sand beach that was broad at low tide, but that virtually disappeared at high tide. To the east was a jagged cut, a deep V that sloped up, with high-walled sides of rock and a floor of sand disrupted with rocky outcroppings, like broken black teeth jutting through the sandy slope.
The marquess held his hand up to shade his eyes and surveyed it all, then turned back toward Anne. “Am I missing something?” Darkefell asked. “What the devil else is there to see?”
“No, you’re absolutely correct,” she said, returning to stand in front of him. “There is nothing else to see. Except,” she said, coming closer to him, “I saw, night before last, a Mussulman pirate hovering just beyond the cliff edge in the middle of the air!”
He stared into her eyes, then burst into laughter. Sobering, he said, “Really, Anne, you had me believing you were serious for a moment.”
“But I did see it!” she insisted, feeling the irritation he always seemed to inspire within her. “I saw the famous local specter, the Barbary Ghost!”
“And this was in the middle of the night? What were you doing out here at that time? And alone? Anne,” he said, taking both her shoulders in his big hands, “promise me you won’t venture out in the night again. Promise me!” He shook her slightly.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Darkefell,” she said, twisting her shoulders out of his hands. Of course he had missed her point, or was ignoring it, which amounted to the same thing. “There’s more … listen!” She leaned into him, excited even at the memory of the spectacle. “Before I saw the Barbary Ghost, I saw smugglers gathering on the beach, welcoming a rowboat, and transferring smuggled goods to a dray on the beach!”
“This is too much!” he growled. “You’re no fool, or at least I didn’t judge you to be one. If there are smugglers involved, then this is even more dangerous than some tomfoolery with a ghost. You must never come out at night, Anne, for those who witness smuggling often pay with their lives. They’re a cutthroat tribe, and would not hesitate even though you’re a woman.”
“I’m no fool, Darkefell,” she said, coldly, disappointed in his prosaic reaction. She had thought him adventurous.
“Exactly what I said. But you have proven to be reckless in the past.”
She watched his eyes. He was genuinely concerned for her safety, and she understood that, but still, he could not expect to tell her what to do. “Darkefell, I don’t suppose you really understand a woman’s life.” She examined his face, and saw the quick frown of incomprehension, but she would get to her point soon enough. “I have been watched and guarded my whole life. While the young men I knew in my youth went to sea, traveled to Italy and beyond, studied at Oxford, and spent their years gambling, drinking, and roaming the world, I took dancing lessons, learned to play the pianoforte, and spent my hours netting purses, learning the fine art of directing a household of servants, and entertaining the vicar and his wife.”
