“Mrs. Haycock said you needed to see me. I’m Ceressa Quarles.”
“Aye, that I do, mistress. I ’av some distressin’ news to impart. Master Herrington has gotten word that yer folks ’av met with an accident. Lord Cason is out o’ the country, so the message was got to Master Herrington. It’s important that ye come with me now. Master Herrington be waitin’ for ye. Ye can ’av yer carriage follow me. Master Herrington was tendin’ to business near the waterfront when the news reached ’im so he’s waitin’ there for ye instead o’ goin’ back to his home. Are ye comin’, yer ladyship?”
Ceressa detected a hint of sarcasm in the way he uttered “yer ladyship.” Perhaps she should delay action until she could speak with Sir Geoffrey. Sensing her indecision, the man spoke again. “Master Herrington said ye were to come quick like. I hate to rush ye, but time’s growin’ short. I hate to think what’s happenin’ to the bodies o’ yer folks lyin’ on them rocks in Cornwall.”
A gasp nearly strangled Ceressa, and terror overrode all else. His words forced her into action. Perhaps her parents were merely injured, and the sooner she met Herrington, the sooner she’d learn the truth. The man before her was undoubtedly simple-minded. He could have easily gotten the tale turned about. Yes, she’d take her chances and meet with Charles Herrington, although thoughts of facing the short, weasel-like man made her stomach clench.
Mrs. Haycock rushed into the kitchen, bearing her fur-lined cloak, out of breath and still crying as she handed it to Ceressa. “I can’t find Sir Geoffrey or Lady Reva. I was afraid to waste any time. I could pull some of the servants away to look for them.”
“No, don’t do that, Mrs. Haycock. Thank you for trying, but I should leave now. When you find Sir Geoffrey, please tell him what’s happened and that I’ve gone to meet Attorney Herrington at the waterfront. Where exactly are we going?” she asked the messenger, who looked uneasy.
“It be the Sword and Crown where Master Herrington’s waitin’.”
Ceressa was familiar with the establishment, frequented by those in her father’s circle of bookish acquaintances and of a genteel reputation. What a relief.
“The Sword and Crown, Mrs. Haycock. Tell Sir Geoffrey.” Throwing her cloak about her shoulders, she departed the safety and warmth of the kitchen.
****
It was odd that London no longer held the fascination for Latimer Kirkleigh that it had seven years earlier. As he carefully lit his pipe, shielding the flame from the fractious wind that was mounting, he allowed the brief pleasure of remembering the man he had been—just into his twenties with dreams of success and adventure and possessed of an eagerness to complete his divinity studies at Exeter. Now, the thought of entering the ministry gave him cause to laugh—one of bitter irony. God certainly must be thanking His lucky stars Latimer Kirkleigh had decided not to preach the gospel. What a debacle that would have been.
Forcing that from his mind, he thought about the lovely young woman who refused to give him her name. Puffing the pipe, he recalled their odd conversation in his uncle’s—father’s—study, he impatiently corrected. From the moment his gaze had met hers, the night had become one of surprises and unexpected twists. He regretted the wind and tide that would be carrying him away in just a short while, for he would have liked to have gotten to know her. Something about her tugged at his memory—memories of better times…
When had things become so complicated? He remembered his early years at Kirkleigh Hall. He’d grown up with Constance. She’d been a titian-haired tomboy who loved to climb trees, race her mare, and detested the restrictions of skirts and petticoats. In Virginia, she had found freedom, coming to prefer her husband, Kitchi’s, native attire. She’d been a blithe spirit, and Latimer could only take comfort in the knowledge that she and her beloved were with the Lord.
Latimer’s mind drifted along, memories not as pleasant as he recalled the days that had led up to his expulsion. It was then he’d realized the man he’d thought was his uncle would never be satisfied, no matter how hard Latimer tried. When he’d left Exeter, it was as though Geoffrey Kirkleigh washed his hands of him, disgraced by Latimer’s “supposed” misconduct and unwilling to believe that Latimer was innocent of the charges.
But what did it matter now? As a result of the Exeter debacle, Latimer had decided to claim Cameron’s Virginia lands, and Constance, eager to shed the constraints of proper womanhood, had accompanied him. And even though he’d lost his sister, he still had her child. Now, April and his plantation, Tidelands, were his life. He was free of the chains of expectation.
Yet, another shackle had been fastened to replace those he’d shed in Virginia, this one attributable to Geoffrey Kirkleigh and his confession to having fathered him. Sadly, Geoffrey’s revelation had answered many questions but opened new wounds that Latimer doubted would heal. He couldn’t wait to get home even though he never knew what to expect from one breath to the succeeding breath. Life was unpredictable and thrilling and, at times, terrifying.
Drawing in the tobacco smoke, he closed his eyes and listened to the desultory conversations of the drivers who’d delivered Geoffrey’s guests, passing the time and trying to stay warm. As he stood there, he suddenly realized he should have taken his nameless beauty up on her offer. She possessed a strength of character that attracted him.
But Latimer was still furious with Geoffrey—it was nearly impossible for him to refer to the man as father—for bribing Heloise, a distant Kirkleigh cousin, who’d consented to marry him and return to Virginia to help him raise Constance’s daughter. Heloise was a pleasant young woman, not a beauty, but statuesque and demure in manner, undemanding and skilled in the social graces of a properly-bred woman. April would need such tutelage as she grew. Now, Heloise was betrothed to the aged Baron Shillingham, thanks to Geoffrey who’d decided Latimer should not marry her.
Moving away from his hiding place, the wind ruffling his unbound hair, Latimer’s thoughts turned to that lady who had been so ready to marry him. Latimer hadn’t planned to attend Geoffrey’s affair until receiving the note from Heloise earlier announcing she’d accepted another’s marriage proposal. Certain Geoffrey was behind Heloise’s defection, Latimer had decided to tell the man what he thought of the underhanded trick before he sailed. Perhaps it was fortunate that he had come; otherwise, he would never have met her. Why had she refused to give her name?
There was something incredibly innocent, yet underneath the innocence exuded a warmth and spontaneity he’d never encountered in another woman. When she’d returned his kiss, he’d come close to losing control, relieved she’d pushed him away. He didn’t believe he’d have had sense enough to let go.
Her eyes were mesmerizing - a rare violet-brown shade that he’d seen only once before. Her lips were neither red nor pink—they were raspberry, like the plump ones that grew wild in the forest surrounding Tidelands. Her nose tilted in a way that made him want to kiss the tip, and her chin was incredibly determined for a woman so soft and beautiful. And her hair—a fountain of curls like that of the whispering wheat before it fully matured.
Latimer’s thoughts were leading him down a dangerous path, so he retreated into the shadows to continue smoking. But the kiss haunted him. Aye, her kiss—he truly believed her words that she’d never before sampled a man’s lips. That discounted his theory that she was entangled in a romantic liaison with Geoffrey. Nor could she be a courtier, though her élan and beauty would have made her perfect for court. She was too guileless; completely lacking duplicity. Therefore, reason assured, she couldn’t have been exposed to the immorality and cruel machinations employed by those who attended the king and his consort.
What had prompted her to return his kiss? He’d been in such a foul humor, and so angry with Geoffrey, that he must have been frightening and as ill-mannered as a rampaging bull. She’d assured him he didn’t frighten her, yet in the next breath she’d called him a fire-breathing dragon.
Latimer’s lips tightened from the knowledg
e that she had aptly described him. He’d long ago decided he didn’t give a whit what Geoffrey thought, the hurt inflicted during that difficult period at Exeter still rankling. Perhaps it was true he and his newly-discovered father were falsely content hiding behind animosity, preferring that to the failure of reconciliation. He didn’t want to reconcile with Geoffrey.
Movement caught his eye and the light from the carriage house lanterns revealed a woman in a cloak hurrying toward one. A man followed—diseased dock vermin, Latimer silently identified. The woman addressed a driver, then turned to speak to the thin, rat-like man. As she did, she pulled back the hood. There could be no mistaking the owner of such shimmering pale curls. What was his nameless lady about and why was she conversing with a man even a tavern wench would avoid? Unless he was wrong. Had he once again misjudged the character and integrity of a woman?
The disgusting lout handed her up into the carriage, and Latimer could see her cringe. The lantern light revealed her unsettled expression. Something was amiss. Glancing toward the carriage house, he saw that his uncle’s—father’s—coach stood in readiness, most likely to transport Aunt Reva to another social affair. But he needed it more at that very minute. As he approached the driver, who should whisk out of a doorway but a fur ensconced Reva Kirkleigh. Latimer hastened toward her.
“Aunt Reva, I know you’re leaving, but I need to borrow the coach. It’s a matter of urgency.”
“Why, Latimer whatever is wrong?” his aunt asked with genuine concern. This sometimes unpredictable, generous relative had always expressed her fondness for him, and he thought a great deal of her.
“That woman,” he pointed at the now departing carriage, “just left with a questionable individual, and she seemed upset. I want to make sure things are well.”
“Why, of course you would,” Reva agreed, as though it was the most logical thing in the world to follow a strange woman. “I tried to find her to tell her goodbye and had no luck. I wondered what had become of her. She seemed to just disappear.”
“So you know who is in that carriage?”
“Of course I do, and so do you, so cease your silliness. Go after her.” Reva gave him a little push in the direction of the Kirkleigh coach. “I’ll let Geoffrey know at once that something is wrong. Now, what could cherie be involved in? I hope the viscount hasn’t kidnapped her.” Reva paused as though thinking, then roused herself. “Go, Latimer. Make sure our little girl is safe.”
Latimer needed no further urging, although he was puzzled by his aunt’s words. After issuing instructions, he quickly climbed within and was on his way. As he leaned against the velvet covered squabs, he wondered what madness had taken hold. Looking out the window at the lady’s racing carriage, some inner sense, developed over the course of numerous disappointments, told him she was not what she’d led him to believe.
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Ceressa trembled violently. Dazed and unable to think, she mouthed the most familiar of divine petitions, which the Lord had instructed all to pray, while she pitched and swayed with the motion of the carriage. It careened down London lanes sparsely populated, which Ceressa found fortunate. If someone had been on the street they would surely have been run down by the galloping horses. She had to get to Charles Herrington as soon as possible so he could tell her this was all a mistake. To think upon the implications of this frenzied journey would remind her of a loss so horrible she would be consumed by grief. She knew she’d never forgive herself for allowing her parents to make the trip to Cornwall without her.
The tears flowed as her teeth chattered. Her parents should have been at Aunt Lydia’s estate. Why would they have been driving along the cliffs? Where had they been heading? “Oh, dear God,” she spoke aloud, her voice breaking at the mental picture conjured. And with Lord Cason away, she was at a loss as to how to verify any story.
She wished the carriage would go faster, but she knew Colin was already pushing the horses to keep up with Herrington’s messenger on horseback. The carriage bounced over the uneven cobblestones, tipping precariously as Colin kept pace even as the streets narrowed near the waterfront. Had her parents experienced the same heart-stopping sensation before the accident? Had they known this feeling, as if the world was spinning out of control? What had been their final thoughts—their final words? Had they known they were to plunge to their deaths on the unyielding rocks? But Ikeson, Colin’s father, had been the Quarles’s coachman before her birth and was the most experienced in handling a four-in-hand. How could he have made such a mistake?
Ceressa stared numbly out the window at the dark cottages shrouded in night’s gloom. It had rained earlier and puddles were numerous and brimming. Water spattered on glass leaving a murky trail of droplets. Her life was like that—unclear and muddied with confusion. If only she’d gone with them—if only she hadn’t allowed her parents insist she stay behind.
Ceressa’s heart ached unbearably, as did her mind and soul. Lord, please get me there soon, she silently beseeched as she placed a hand on her throbbing head.
As if in answer to prayer, the carriage made a sharp turn. The scent of water and the creak of wood and flap of furled sails told Ceressa they were a stone’s throw from the docks. She recalled the messenger’s reason as to why she was to meet Herrington at the Sword and Crown, but it didn’t make sense. It would have been no farther to travel to the man’s home than to come to the waterfront. Disquiet settled alongside horror as a tiny warning sounded in her head. Yet, the miasma of overwhelming loss shoved all else aside.
The carriage halted, and raucous bellows and crude laughter of drunks assaulted her ears. Before Colin could reach her, she leaned out, her gaze resting upon the establishment while shock swept her. As the mist-laden wind slapped at her face, she saw the tavern was not the Sword and Crown, which was located in a more reputable section. She’d been so upset, she hadn’t taken notice of the direction, and she’d simply told Colin to follow the man on horseback. Her heart lodged in her throat, and she was about to instruct Colin to turn around when Herrington’s man came up. Ceressa looked at the tavern, light spilling through the doors and windows. Apparently, the rum and ale-laced blood of the patrons required a source of cooling. Ceressa shuddered, pulling her cloak closer about as the chill pierced.
“This is not the Sword and Crown.” There was no controlling the tremble of her lips.
“Did I say the Sword and Crown? Blimey, what was I thinkin’? I meant the Red Rose Inn. I get things terribly confused since I took a hard knock on me noggin’ a few months back. I ’aven’t been right since. But I know this be the place where Mr. Herrington wanted me to bring ye.”
“You lied to me.”
“No, yer ladyship. I jes’ made a mistake. Now, Master Herrington is waitin’ for ye.” Ceressa stared at the man as he held out his hand to help her down, a sense of entrapment seeping into her bones. Could she risk delaying the meeting with Herrington? If the man was truthful, each moment wasted could cost her mother and father their lives.
“Shall I come along with you?” Colin asked, now standing beside the man.
“That shouldn’t be necessary. Stay with the carriage. I hope not to be long.” Ceressa noticed the man who’d led her to the Red Rose Inn suddenly covered his mouth. Was he masking a chuckle? Uneasiness returned, but she’d set upon a course. Father had always told her to stay with a decision once made, for only those without the Lord’s guidance changed their minds. She wasn’t sure if the Lord was guiding her to the Red Rose Inn, but she wouldn’t change her mind—too much was at stake.
Following the man to the dilapidated inn, the establishment’s sign bearing a faded red rose, Ceressa wondered if she should turn around. As the loosened sign struck the weathered wooden planks, she started, heart racing while a lump of terror lodged in her throat. She wavered momentarily then forced herself to move forward. But there was no controlling the trembling, and the only reason she wasn’t weeping was because she was too terrif
ied.
When her escort mounted a sagging stairway, Ceressa hesitated. She feared the rotting wood wouldn’t support her heavy skirt and petticoats, and she had a bad feeling about meeting anyone in a room above a tavern filled with bawdy, drunken men. Drawing a deep breath, she repeated the Lord’s Prayer as she mounted the steps. Trepidation slowed her progress, and the man was already at the top of the steps with the door open, waiting impatiently. He moved inside, and when Ceressa reached the door, she peered within, dismayed to see a dark hall; a single candle on a table provided little illumination. The man made his way down the hall stopping before one of the doors. After knocking, it opened, Charles Herrington stepping out of the chamber. Relief failed to materialize as Ceressa was consumed by uncontrollable revulsion.
She’d never liked this man, and she liked him less now. She’d last seen him a few months ago at a Christmas affair hosted by Lord Cason. He looked like a weasel adorned with a flowing red peruke that accentuated his pallor, his ferret-like features, and his advancing years. Hairless brows framed tiny gray eyes, and in her feverish attempt to make the moment rational, she wondered if he plucked them. The light of the candle leant his gaze malevolence and defined the gaunt hollows of his face. He was dressed elegantly, the sleeves of his coat elaborately braided with rows of lace falling below cuffs. As she raised her gaze, she knew she was in danger. This was a bizarre trick—a twisted plot hatched by Herrington, and she now faced the certainty she’d been lured for some foul reason. Perhaps Herrington needed money—could he have kidnapped her parents intending to demand ransom? Or did he plan to kidnap her? She had to escape.
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