by Jayne Davis
Taking Phoebe into what was clearly her bedroom, she pulled out a gown and laid it on the bed. Phoebe changed, using a sash to pull the gown in at the waist and grimacing at the way her legs stuck out at the bottom.
When she returned to the parlour, her mouth watered at the savoury aroma of stewed mutton. Mrs Robins had left a tray for her, and Phoebe ate eagerly, mopping up the gravy with a thick slice of bread, then tucking into a solid slab of fruit cake. Georges, too, made short work of his meal. He seemed to have recovered from the experience—temporarily, at least.
What to do now? She should see if someone could drive them back to Oakley Place—Bella would be worried. But she was warm here, and increasingly drowsy. Mrs Robins could send a message, and then find them a bed for the night.
She shook her head—Alex was probably still on his way to Pett, riding into danger while she was wondering if she could go to sleep.
A raised voice—a man’s voice—in the passageway outside roused her from a doze. A lower murmur must be Mrs Robins answering, then the parlour door opened.
“There’s a Lord—”
Mrs Robins broke off as Lord Harlford pushed past her. What was he doing in Sussex?
His gaze flicked around the room and settled on Phoebe. “Miss Deane!”
“My lord,” she acknowledged.
“You are well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Where’s Westbrook?”
She couldn’t tell if his tone was concern or irritation. “He went on to—”
“He left you here alone?”
Why was he so concerned? He was not responsible for her in any way, and was presuming too much.
“You should not jump to conclusions, my lord,” she said. He was a marquess—if he’d shown any confidence in her back in London that would have gone some way to counter the scandal, and they wouldn’t have needed to come to Sussex in the first place. “I can make my own decisions,” she added.
Mrs Robins spoke. “My lord, I have a—”
“Not now!” His brows drew together. “I need a carriage putting to, right away. I must get Miss Deane back to Oakley Place.”
She had no say in the matter, of course.
“This inn don’t own a carriage for hire,” Mrs Robins said.
“What? What about the one that brought Miss Deane here?”
“If you want to take the Frenchie’s carriage, that’s none of my business. But I haven’t got anyone to drive it for you.”
“There must be someone!”
“You calling me a liar, my lord?” Mrs Robins had her hands on her hips now.
Phoebe suppressed a smile—it was clearly some time since anyone had said no to Harlford.
“My groom—he’s in the taproom. Go and…”
His voice tailed off at Mrs Robins’ belligerent glare. With a final glance at Phoebe, he muttered a curse and left the room.
“He means well, Mrs Robins,” Phoebe said, in spite of her irritation at his manner.
“Hmph. You sure you want to go off with him?”
“Yes, it would be best to get back.” She had been thinking that herself, after all. “I can’t thank you enough for your assistance.”
“Think nothing of it, miss.” Mrs Robins glanced at Georges. “You’d best take some blankets with you. Keep warm.” She gave a brisk nod. “I’ll make sure Ben’s putting the horses to again.”
Twenty minutes later Harlford handed Phoebe into the carriage, a sleepy Georges climbing in after her. Once again she suppressed a smile as the marquess muttered about damned grooms who didn’t know how to drive, and climbed onto the box. Glad not to have to talk to him on the journey, she settled herself in one corner of the coach. Georges huddled up next to her with a blanket tucked around him.
* * *
Sam reined his horse in and peered at a fingerpost, the fitful moonlight just bright enough to show the lettering.
“Have we taken the wrong road?” Alex asked. If they didn’t catch up with Brevare and the other man, his abandonment of Phoebe would have been in vain. He should trust her judgement, he knew, but it still felt wrong.
“No, sir. Just checking.”
They rode on, Alex finally smelling salt in the air as they came to a row of cottages beside the road. Light spilled from a building ahead. A few men entered as he watched, then he made out a sign swinging above the door. The King’s Head.
“Reckon this is Pett, sir,” Sam said. “The inn we want’ll be further on, between here and Winchelsea. Their driver was complaining about how they might get bogged down in the marshes.”
“D’you know where that inn is?”
“No, but I reckon we could ask in here.”
If Bella’s note had reached Deane and Nick, this inn was the most likely place they’d be, too. He put out a hand to stop Sam moving on. This was a smugglers’ coast; the people here would not be forthcoming with information.
“You’ll have more luck asking than me, Sam.” He felt in a pocket and handed over all the coins he had. “Use what you need—but we must be as quick as we can.”
“Right, sir.”
Inside, the smoke-filled air made Alex’s eyes water. Blinking, he spied Nick sitting by the fire, a mug of ale on the table before him. He sprang to his feet as Alex approached.
“There’s been no sign of a coach here,” he said, keeping his voice low. “I think the locals would have said—”
“She’s safe,” Alex said, hoping it was true.
“Thank God.” Nick rubbed a hand across his face.
“She’s on her way back to Oakley Place,” Alex went on. “But the men responsible don’t know that. We need to catch them, if possible—Phoebe is still in danger if they remain at large. They were aiming for an inn down on the levels.”
“Right, yes. Deane persuaded an excise man in Winchelsea to tell us where smugglers might rendezvous—could be the inn you’re talking about. Deane and two of the grooms are watching the road out of Winchelsea in case the kidnappers arrive that way.” He stood and drained his mug of ale.
“Well, they won’t be arriving now,” Alex said. “But Deane could be useful there if anyone tries to escape in that direction.”
Another man stood as they walked towards the door; Alex recognised Charlie from the stables at Oakley Place. Sam joined them as Nick and the groom tightened the girths on their horses and mounted up.
“Did you find where the inn is?” Alex asked Sam.
“Yes, sir. Down this lane for a mile or so, then look for a track off to the left. It’s about a mile on into the marshes.”
“That sounds like the place Deane’s excise man described,” Nick added, as they all spurred their horses into motion.
The smell of salt became stronger as they rode, and eventually Alex thought he could hear the roar of waves breaking on shingle. They slowed before they reached the shore, turning onto a muddy track with pools of water gleaming faintly on either side.
The going was slower here, but Alex finally made out a building, a solid shadow against the marshy land. As he looked, a brief gleam of light showed, as if a door had been opened and then closed again.
“We might have been spotted,” he said, urging his horse onwards. As they neared the inn, a sharp sound made him rein in, and he glanced at Nick.
“A shot.” Nick confirmed Alex’s conclusion.
Two more reports sounded, and Alex spurred his horse on. There was no point in stealth now. As they approached the building, a horse and rider galloped away, soon becoming lost in the darkness.
“Sam, Nick! Catch him!” Alex shouted, and they set off in pursuit. Only one horseman had left—there should still be two of the men he wanted inside. He checked that Charlie had a gun, and sent him to the back of the building. After giving him time to get in position, Alex kicked the door open and stepped inside, pistols at the ready.
A terrified serving girl cowered in one corner. A man lay on the floor, face up—the dark pool spreading beneath him
and his open, staring eyes told their own story. Brevare sat against a wall, hunched over, one hand holding his side where blood was spreading through his coat.
“Westbrook,” he said faintly. Banging noises beyond the room drew Alex’s attention, then Charlie entered, pushing a man before him, one arm twisted up behind his back.
“No-one else,” Charlie stated. “This one says he owns the place and he doesn’t know anything.”
“Is that true?” Alex asked Brevare, receiving only a nod in reply. “Who rode off?”
“Milord,” Brevare gasped. “His fault, he ordered…” His words faded and he closed his eyes.
Alex swore, and put a hand to the side of Brevare’s neck. His pulse was strong—he had probably just swooned. Trying to revive him now would waste too much time.
“You, girl, stop this man’s bleeding.” He indicated Brevare, then turned to the man Charlie was still holding and pointed in the general direction the rider had taken. “Where does that track go?”
“Winchelsea.”
“Anywhere else?”
The man shook his head.
“There’ll be a reward if you and the girl are still here when I get back, and if he’s still alive,” Alex said, pointing to Brevare. “This is nothing to do with the excise men. Understand?” The man nodded. Alex stooped to search Brevare’s pockets and found another pistol, still loaded.
“All right Charlie, you can let go of him. Take this pistol as well, and keep these three here until I get back.” He wasn’t sure the mere promise of a reward would stop the man running off.
Alex rode as fast as he dared—an injured horse would be no use to him. The track was indistinct in the fitful moonlight: glittering reflections could be puddles across the track or deeper pools. There was no sign of anyone ahead of him—the sound of the sea obliterated any hoofbeats, and riders would be merely black shapes against shadowed land.
Ten minutes later, a flurry of shots sounded somewhere in front of him. Alex resisted the impulse to speed up, praying that Deane and Nick weren’t injured. It was another frustrating five minutes before a shout sounded ahead and he pulled up.
“Who’s there?” the voice called again.
“Westbrook.”
“Come on, sir.”
As he made his way further, the outlines of riderless horses and the glimmer of a lantern became visible, then he was close enough to recognise the voices.
“Alex? Over here.”
Nick was kneeling on the ground next to a prostrate body. “I hope this is who you’re after,” he said, “because I’ve just killed a peer of the realm.”
Alex slid off his horse and knelt next to him. “Who is he? Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Afraid so. He’s the Earl of Hilvern. I didn’t know he had anything to do with the Foreign Office.”
“Neither did I.” Damn—with the man dead, it would be difficult for Marstone to find out who else was involved. “Better dead than at large,” he muttered.
“What now?” Nick asked.
“Back to Oakley Place—Marstone’s been summoned there, and he needs to know this as soon as possible.” He stood up, thinking what needed to be done. Get Hilvern’s body taken back, swear the grooms to silence, see if Brevare was still alive, and question him if possible.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 52
Phoebe stared at the ceiling, which was lit only by the dying fire. When they’d arrived back here, Bella had ordered hot baths, fires in bedrooms, and hot bricks in beds for both her and Georges. She turned over, trying to empty her mind of worry, but although her head ached and her body was tired, her mind was turning over too many possibilities to allow her to go back to sleep.
Alex—was he still out in the cold night? Had he found Brevare and the others?
Those men were ruthless. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill—
No!
She pulled on a robe and crossed to the fireplace. The clock on the mantel said three o’clock. A hot drink might help her to fall asleep again, or at least occupy her until the men returned.
Andrews was dozing in a porter’s chair by the front door. Phoebe hesitated, reluctant to wake him, but he must have sensed her presence.
“Miss?”
“Is no-one else back yet?”
“No, miss. But I don’t reckon they’re late yet, if you know what I mean.”
She worked out how long it would have taken Alex to get to the coast, and then to return here. With that, and the time he’d need to look for Brevare and the other man, he couldn’t have been back much before now even if everything had gone well. She shouldn’t worry yet, but that was easier said than done.
“I was going to get a hot drink, Andrews.”
He heaved himself up out of the chair. “I’ll come and make sure the range is still alight, miss.”
Phoebe made tea, and sat at the kitchen table cupping the warm mug in her hands. At her nod, the butler sat nearby with his own drink. She didn’t want to wait alone.
She was pouring herself another cup of tea when she noticed Andrews’ head tilt to one side. Then she heard hooves and voices.
“I reckon they’ll be going straight round to the back, miss,” Andrews said, getting to his feet. Phoebe pulled her robe about her more tightly and followed him out of the back of the house.
The stable yard was a milling mass of horses and men, lit only by a few lanterns, but she gradually made some sense out of the confusion. That was Lord Carterton giving orders; those grooms were unloading two long packages that had been draped across the back of a horse. They looked like…
Phoebe’s head swam and she gripped the door post against a sudden dizziness. They were dead bodies. Alex? Joe?
Across the yard, someone called an order, and her knees almost gave way in relief as she recognised Alex’s voice. What about Joe?
The bodies were heaved unceremoniously into the stables. Not Joe, then—they would have treated him with more respect.
Grooms started removing saddles and leading horses away as Phoebe crossed the yard, stepping warily in the dark. The first person to recognise her was Lord Carterton.
“Miss Deane! Westbrook said you were safe—are you unharmed?”
“Yes, thank you. Where is my brother?” She was still anxious.
“He’s well. He stayed behind with Brevare, but should be back tomorrow—later today, I should say.”
Phoebe felt the last knot of worry disappear.
Half an hour later Phoebe was finally alone with Alex, sitting in the kitchen and watching him eat. There’d been no opportunity to speak to him alone until now. Just the sight of him brought back the memory—and the feelings—of that kiss in the dark. She inspected him as he ate, able to detect nothing wrong beyond tiredness; the eagerness with which he addressed the food before him was reassuring.
Alex polished off a slice of cold pie quickly, and drank from his mug of ale, before meeting Phoebe’s gaze.
“My apologies, I was rather hungry!”
Phoebe grinned. “Really?”
At that, his face relaxed and he almost laughed. “Yes, really!” He kept his gaze on her face for what seemed like a long time. The look in his eyes sent a familiar warmth spreading down Phoebe’s body, but then he looked back down at his plate with a shake of his head. He was right—this was not the time.
Unfortunately.
“Who were the… bodies? And what happened to Brevare?”
“Brevare was wounded, but not critically, I think. Deane will bring him back here in the morning. One of the bodies is the man you saw with Brevare. The other one is, according to Nick, the Earl of Hilvern.”
“Hilvern?” The fat earl was a spy?
“You know him?” Alex’s attention had sharpened.
“I met him at Lord Marstone’s dinner. I was… not rude, exactly. I suppose you could say I outwitted him in conversation, and in front of Lord Marstone’s other guests. But that cannot be why he kidnapped me.�
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“No. I’ll go through it in detail tomorrow when Marstone gets here, but from what I managed to get out of Brevare before we left him in Pett with your brother, Hilvern was the man who’d been blackmailing him, although today was the first time he’d seen him in person and Brevare didn’t know his name. And Brevare had never mentioned your name to Hilvern’s man until he returned to London recently and discovered that you were Calvac’s niece.”
“That still doesn’t explain why he would kidnap me.”
“We’ll never know for sure, but I suspect that once he found out that the dim maidservant Brevare had described was actually you—not only astute and observant but in a position to be listened to if you had obtained any information from Brevare—he must have wondered if Brevare had let anything drop that might give him away. The replacement for my decoy note said I had information about the traitor, and Brevare will have told him that you and I spent a lot of time together, so Hilvern may have thought that you already knew about him. So I imagine he wanted to find out how likely he was to be exposed, and to remove one possible source of information. Your… encounter… with him probably only made him more ruthless in attempting to find out.”
“You can tell me the rest in the morning,” Phoebe said, seeing him eyeing his plate again. “Eat. Can I get you something hot? Coffee?”
“Tea, if you can manage it. Thank you.” Alex took another mouthful of pie while Phoebe put the kettle on the range. He finished his meal while the tea was brewing and leaned back in his chair.
“You obviously got back all right,” he said. “You didn’t have any trouble?”
“I took it slowly. Harlford arrived at the inn not long after we did, and drove us back here.”
“He decided it was too late to come after us then?”
Her puzzlement must have showed on her face.
“I left a note in case anyone arrived later,” Alex said.