‘Aye, ten bloody years. But remember, the Terror grew slowly at first. The wholesale slaughter only really started when Louis was beheaded, four years after they revolted. For many, especially those of the lesser nobility such as this family, it seemed possible to keep their heads down—if you’ll forgive the gallows humour—and survive the killing. Monsieur Renaud, whom you will meet tonight, God willing, is not himself of high rank, but his wife was the younger daughter of a duke. The blue blood was hers. And so, in the end, it was she who sealed the fate of the whole family. ’Tis certain they would not have been spared had they been found.’
‘But is it not safe enough now in France under the Directorate? Are they not more tolerant? Surely it’s becoming possible to start again in their own country, rather than to take such a drastic step as these people make tonight?’
‘For some, yes, perhaps you’re right. But for others, those who have lived the life of privilege, to accustom themselves to the new regime seems unnecessary, when in England they can bear their titles proudly once more.’
‘With no money, how can that mean so much? Money is by far more important than a title, as I should know, Lord Rasenby.’
‘And what, Clarissa, do you know of such things?’
She shrugged. ‘My own father was titled, my widowed mother still bears his name. It means naught, for he was cast off and poverty-stricken just the same. At times, I would happily swap my birth right for the wealth of a merchant family—at least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding the coal seller at quarter time.’ An embarrassed laugh concluded this admission. She had not meant to say anything so revealing, being merely caught up in the need to understand more of the situation in France. But looking into those piercing eyes above her, Clarissa realised Kit had missed none of what she had said.
‘So you claim to be of noble birth? And may I be allowed to ask what this family name is, for I know—have known all along, of course—that the name you gave me is false.’
‘No, there’s nothing to be gained for either of us in that. Rest assured, my real name is Clarissa. That should suffice, for the duration of our brief acquaintance.’ Smiling nervously, for she had no wish to continue this turn in the conversation, Clarissa resolutely faced away from that all too penetrating look, back towards the approaching land. ‘You were telling me about Monsieur Renaud. If he has no title and his poor wife is dead, I still don’t understand the need for him to leave France.’
Thrusting aside the urge to probe into Clarissa’s background—for like as not it would only lead to more lies—Kit focused instead on the Normandy coastline, anxious to catch the first glimpse of their destination, a tiny fishing village, where a beacon to guide them would be lit if all was safe. ‘The likes of Renaud leave because the future is still so uncertain. True, he has no title, but he has a daughter to protect. And he has the sense, as anyone who has studied the situation can see, to realise that this regime is every bit as volatile as the last. There will be war soon, do not doubt it. In England he’ll be sleeping with the enemy, but at least there is less chance there of invasion, more chance of a respite from bloodshed. France has not come to the end of its sufferings, mark my words. For all these reasons, and others, too, these trips on the Sea Wolf are, however, coming to an end. I must find some other occupation to sate my appetite for danger.’
The bleakness in his voice betrayed his true feelings. Giving up this life was hard for him. Having tasted the thrill of it for herself, Clarissa was not surprised. Laying a hand on his arm in an attempt to convey her empathy, her words were yet hesitant. ‘I can see that you’ll miss this life. But you must take comfort in the good you have done, the lives you have saved. All these émigrés, they must be so grateful. I expect, when you meet them in London, as you must often do afterwards, you are something of a hero to them.’
‘You are much mistaken, Clarissa, to set me up for a hero.’ The habitual cynical drawl had returned. ‘I don’t rescue these people for any more noble motives than a desire for adventure spiced with danger. I care naught for their fate. I take no sides in their politics. Their country can gnaw at its own entrails until it has consumed itself in the process for all I care. Do not attribute to me any heroic virtues, for you will find yourself far from the truth. These people are just cargo, like the silks and brandies we will carry tonight alongside Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud. And as to recognition from those I rescue? Never. They are under strict instructions not to acknowledge me once they leave the Sea Wolf. I am not, nor never will be, a hero.’
‘You may choose to deny it. Indeed, to do so is in your character for you are overly fond of your raking, care-naught reputation, Lord Rasenby, as I have pointed out to you several times now.’ His determined cynicism was having a rousing effect on Clarrie. She would not allow him to be so harsh on himself. He was not a complete villain, no matter how much he played the part.
‘I notice that I become Lord Rasenby and not Kit when you are lecturing me, madam. I do not take to it kindly either, for you have not the right to lecture. No one has that right but myself. And believe me, no one could be harder on me than myself either. But to no avail. I am destined for the devil. You would learn, if you chose to spend more time in my company, that I can neither be reformed, nor am in wont of it.’
‘No, you’re not in need of reform, because you’re not anything like as black as you paint yourself. You are not stupid, you told me so yourself. Well, neither am I! You would not have continued with these trips, which put John as much as yourself in danger, had you not felt they were worthwhile—and I don’t mean for the brandy. These rescues mean something to you, would you but admit it, if only to your own heart. To these people at least, you are a hero, I doubt it not. The only need you have of reform is to think as well of yourself as you are entitled.’
‘You persist in this belief at your peril, foolish Clarissa, but be warned. Such determinedly positive appraisals of my character will not change it one jot. Nor will you, by applying such soft soap, beguile me into releasing you from your promise. Now let us have an end to this conversation, for we have important work to attend to. Look straight ahead and slightly to starboard—there is our beacon. We are expected. You may watch, but you must keep silent and take care not to get in the way.’
With that he was gone, joining John at the wheel and leaving Clarissa to her reflections. Anger at his abrupt dismissal and pity for the contempt in which he held himself were foremost in her mind. But there was, too, a growing desire to be the one to bring him to a sense of his own worth. Not to reform him, that phrase he so despised, but to raise his sadly low esteem. She believed in him, and she could prove it to him, too, if only the situation was different.
But to wish things were different was to wish their whole adventure away. Increasingly all Clarissa wanted was for their time together to go on—and on. The thought of an ending to it was a thought she thrust firmly from her mind. A future without Kit Rasenby was not a future she wished to contemplate just yet.
John dropped the sails, and the ship glided smoothly into calmer, shallower waters, navigating by a beacon lit at the end of the harbour wall. Watching Kit’s face as he guided the yacht through the treacherous rocks that guarded the bay, Clarissa realised how truly handsome he was when his countenance was not marred by his habitual cynical frown. Kit’s eyes sparkled with anticipation as he steered the difficult course confidently. The gleam of excitement was contagious, stirring her own heart with a longing to be at his side, to face the danger with him. Here was a Kit released from the constraints of his London life. Here was the real Kit, the bold rescuer, not the dissolute rake. Like a shooting star brightening the cold, crisp night sky, Clarissa saw the truth. Here was her Kit. The Kit she had begun to love.
Breathless with the realisation, she clutched the rails, trying not to allow the elation that the admission brought reflect in her face. For just a moment, the thrill of finding herself truly in love was all-encompassing. She was soaring u
pwards towards the stars, the brilliance of the flame inside her outshining even the brightest of lights in the night sky.
But her spirits plummeted back down to earth all too quickly. That man standing so proudly at the helm of his yacht felt more for the ship shifting beneath them than he could ever feel for any woman, especially not the deceiver he believed Clarissa to be. He wanted her body, nothing more, a wish that would no doubt prove both fleeting and quickly sated.
Even Clarissa’s dauntless spirit was downtrodden by such a thought. For a moment she stared blankly ahead at the approaching shore. But long experience of coping in the face of adversity stood her now in good stead, and, ever the optimist, she resolved to enjoy the present, and to let the future take care of itself. It was enough for now to be here with Kit, sharing this experience. Enough to know that he desired her body, at least. With resolution renewed, Clarissa turned to the scene before her, determined to extract the last ounce of enjoyment from it. Enough to last her a lifetime.
They had reached the bay and were dropping anchor, the tide being too low for the yacht to pull alongside the jetty. The night was still, the wind almost gone, the only sound the gentle splashing of the oars from the small boat that was making its way towards them, two passengers huddled together in the bow. John was lowering a rope ladder over the side, and as the small dinghy neared, called a greeting in rough French to the oarsman, obviously a familiar face.
Responding to Kit’s nod, Clarissa moved to stand alongside him at the wheel, which he held steady with one hand, his other outstretched towards her. ‘Well? Are you enjoying yourself, fair Clarissa?’
‘Oh, yes, how can you think otherwise? It’s perfect.’
All enmity was gone from him, caught up as he was in the thrill of the rescue, the constant awareness of danger, the unaccustomed warmth of sharing the experience with this feisty, self-assured female at his side. One minute passionate wanton, next as curious as a child, and next again launching into a defence of his character like a lioness guarding her cubs. Nary a trace of fear at their situation, never a hint of a tear, not a single recrimination had he heard from her, only staunch fortitude and sparkling enjoyment. It was a potent mixture.
Clarissa was watching the small boat and its precious cargo tie up alongside. She was right, of course, these people were precious. Transporting émigrés to the safety of England’s shores was of deeper import to him than he cared to admit even to himself. Her hand remained tucked in his own as she watched, and she nestled close, the length of her body safe against him.
‘They look so frightened huddled down there,’ she said softly. ‘How much they must have been through to get here. It’s a humbling thought, but they must know they are safe, now you are here.’
She looked up at him with such trust that he could not restrain himself. Bending down, Kit kissed her softly on her lips. A gentle kiss without the heat of passion, a kiss one would give to a child, designed to—what? He wanted to keep her safe, not to betray the trust he saw writ in her eyes. She persisted in seeing him as a saviour. Fleetingly, he wished it could be so.
He was bewitched. She needed to be saved from nothing except her own wiles, and whatever this scheme was she had embroiled him in. Hardening his heart, Kit stepped briskly away. ‘Wait here. They’ll need help coming aboard, and John will need help with the rest of the cargo too.’
Left alone to watch, Clarissa could only admire the sleek process of loading from the tiny dinghy tied loosely to the Sea Wolf’s side. The men worked in silence, broken only by hushed instructions from Kit to John and the French oarsman, as Monsieur Renaud and his daughter were guided with care up the ladder and on to the deck. Several casks of brandy, boxes of tea, and bales of fabric—silk, she assumed—followed, handled by Kit and John effortlessly and with a practice born of familiarity. The cargo was stowed in a small compartment reached via a trap door on deck, which was hidden beneath some fishing nets. The émigrés were ushered to the cabin below. The dinghy cast off back to shore, the oarsman having received a generous douceur for his troubles. John and Kit were preparing to up anchor and away.
Clarissa watched all of this with fascination, taking in every detail while at the same time trying to reconcile Kit’s strange behaviour. He believed her to be a fraud, and did not trust her, that much was obvious. Nor did he believe her story—and who could blame him, for it was indeed flimsy. Yet he had gone along with her proposition, none the less, for reasons she could not fathom. He was bored, true. And he found her amusing, that was also true. And tempting. That, too, Clarissa knew to be true, although she found it harder to believe, so many real beauties had he had, and no doubt would continue to have. Yet he told her she was beautiful, and she believed him, for he did not lie.
Well, the novelty would no doubt wear off, but it was flattering all the same. Still, none of this explained why he went along with her scheme. He wanted her, but he trusted her not. He seemed, as when he kissed her just now, to be fighting against more tender feelings, but each time he pulled her close he pushed her away all the harder. He believed her to be false, and she had herself conspired to ensure that he would do so.
There was nothing to be done. The situation was of her own creation and she would have to accept the consequences. It had been no part of her plan to fall in love, but she could not regret it, even if Kit would never know how she felt.
The rocking beneath her feet told her they had turned back out to sea. Sure enough, the sails were set and the land was falling away behind them. Monsieur and his daughter were below decks. Clarissa decided the best way to assist was to provide what comfort she could to the French family on the long journey ahead. They would be chilled, and no doubt hungry. She could do something about that. She slipped away from the rail and was below decks before Kit had even noticed she had gone.
Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renaud were huddled together on one of the narrow bunks, fatigue etched on their wan faces. Mademoiselle was young, fifteen or sixteen, and bid fair to being a beauty, but at the moment all Clarissa saw was a girl at the end of her tether and in need of comfort. Pinning a bright smile to her face, and summoning up her schoolroom French, she set about providing it.
Warm blankets were retrieved from a locker beneath the bunk, and the supply box Kit had tucked into a corner was opened, revealing a ham, cheese, bread and wine. The émigrés fell on the food with obvious relish, and were considerably cheered by the time they had made a good repast. The sea was smoother for the return journey, and fortunately neither of the new passengers was subject to sickness. Clarissa poured herself a glass of burgundy and settled down to conversation with the father and daughter, keen to find out their story for herself. Keen also to discover their opinion of their rescuer without Kit himself being privy to it.
It was as sad, sordid and harrowing a tale as she had ever heard. Yet Monsieur emerged from it with a quiet dignity, a respect for life and a trust in humankind despite all his experience. He had no wish to dwell on the details of the past, the worst of times, when his wife was held in captivity, the only certainty that of her death by the blade. He focused instead on the goodness of the people who kept his daughter safe in the country while he pleaded in vain with the authorities in Paris. Of their kindness in providing him with a roof over his head, food, even some work tutoring the village children. And the generosity of the people who offered him a new home in England.
Monsieur spoke perfect English. ‘Over the years before the revolution, my studies led to friendship with some eminent professors at Oxford university. It is these very good friends who offered sanctuary to myself and Lisette, my daughter, as soon as we got word out that we were alive.’
‘So, you’ve been planning your escape for some time then, monsieur?’
‘Yes, for more than a year now. My wife, Lisette’s maman, was killed by the guillotine three years ago. Until she died, we had hoped to survive in France, to simply wait until this madness, this terreur, was ended. But when my dear wife was execut
ed—murdered…’
‘Papa, we must think of the future now, it is what maman would want.’ Lisette’s gentle voice, full of compassion, roused her papa from his maudlin thoughts.
‘You are right, ma petite.’ Monsieur Renaud heaved a sigh, and, fortified with another draught of wine, resumed his story. ‘We heard of the English monsieur and his rescues through another of my countrymen, but it proved difficult and time-consuming to make contact and the necessary arrangements. Easy to understand, given the need for secrecy and the danger to all concerned. But now, thank God, we are finally here.’
‘The expense must have been a big problem for you?’
‘Oh, no, mais non, madame, there was no cost. Monsieur never takes a fee for his rescues, nor even a gift—and he has been offered many. Not once, in many, many attempts, has he been caught. Not one passenger has he failed, even when he had to wait in France, at great danger to himself. He is a hero.’
Clarissa smiled, wishing just for a moment that Kit was present to hear himself being described in the very terms he had denied so vehemently only hours before. She had been right about him, but it was reassuring to have it confirmed.
‘Yes, I believe he is a hero, monsieur, would he but admit it.’
‘We are not even permitted to know his name, madame.’ Lisette joined in the conversation now, her pretty face animated, the only traces of the frightened little girl who had boarded the yacht showing in the lines of exhaustion. ‘He is known as the Loup de Mer, the name of this yacht, and I think it suits him, non? He is just like a wolf, is he not, so dangerous, and so brave. But you, madame, you must know him well to be here on the boat with us. Tell me, is he of noble birth, as they say he is?’
Clarissa blushed, for Lisette was obviously curious as to her relationship with Kit, even if she was too polite to ask. ‘I think, mademoiselle, that if he wished his name to be known he would tell you. It is not for me to give away his secrets.’
The Wicked Lord Rasenby Page 11