White powder exploded all around them, covering Ravenhurst's face. Cursing viciously, he jerked away, brushing at his eyes.
"You ... little ... bitch!" he rasped. "I should have known better than —"
But he never finished his sentence.
For just then Tess drove her knee upward with all her strength, straight into his groin.
Chapter Six
His features stiff with pain, Ravenhurst staggered backward and then doubled over, like a puppet whose strings had been severed.
It was almost funny really, Tess thought wildly, near hysteria. She could feel waves of laughter threatening to burst from her dry throat. Then that emotion faded, leaving only hollow fury.
"S-stay away from me!" she screamed, her voice high-pitched and ragged. "I'm no more the innocent girl I was five years ago, do you understand? I can fight now — in ways I never even dreamed existed then. So you'll get nothing more from me, your bloody lordship, nothing but more of the same!"
Before her, Ravenhurst swayed drunkenly and fell to his knees. The pain was unbearable, but he dug his fingers into his thighs and bit back a hoarse, choking groan. Then, still swaying, he forced his head up fractionally and sought her gaze.
A spark leapt from his eyes, and the murderous fury of his face made Tess shiver. But she did not stay to hear his brutal promises of vengeance. Only a fool would stay after such a hard-won escape.
With his harsh curses ringing in her ears, she flew to the door and freed the bolt, then fled blindly down the corridor.
"Only a bloody fool would — aahhh — trust a cunning little bitch like you," Ravenhurst muttered hoarsely as he watched his quarry escape. "But it's not a mistake I'll ever make again, by God!"
* * * * *
From her vantage point in the stillroom, Letty watched Tess fly out of the kitchen in a wild swirl of skirts. Neither the haunted look in Tess's eyes nor the strain on her face was lost on Letty, who watched in amazement as a grim-faced Lord Ravenhurst walked stiffly through the door a minute later.
Letty frowned and shook her head, wondering why the viscount's hair and shoulders were thickly dusted with flour.
Wondering even more why his dark eyes snapped with such murderous rage.
"I don't know what that girl's gone and done now," she muttered worriedly. "But I've a feeling she's going to regret it, and soon."
* * * * *
Several hours later, to the east of Rye, a little skiff bobbed gently, its prow loosing silver eddies as it made a slow progress along the Royal Military Canal. In the bow a young, wiry lieutenant bent to the oars.
Behind him, seated in the stern, sat Lord Ravenhurst, his lapis eyes trained on the landscape of the canal, crisply outlined beneath the molten sun that hung golden just above the treetops.
Not a speck of flour remained on his dark hair. Only the hard light in his eyes remained, mute testament to the fury that fueled his search for the traitor who haunted these marshes.
"Tell me something about this smuggler whose name is on everyone's lips. The Romney Fox, I believe he's called." Even as he spoke, Ravenhurst scanned the banks, searching for points of vulnerability. "Have you any idea of the fellow's identity?"
"No, sir. That is — my lord," the young officer quickly corrected himself, unnerved in the presence of one of his idols. "No one does. He's as hard to trace as the lights that dance upon the marsh. People here say the fellow's part marsh phantom himself, but then, they're a superstitious lot. Whatever he is, he knows these coves and marshes like the back of his own hand. All these people do."
Ravenhurst frowned. He did not actually believe the southern coast would come under attack. Not now, with England's great sea battles relegated to the past, nearly forgotten. No, the war with Boney now raged on land, for the Corsican had learned a bitter lesson at Trafalgar. It was not, Dane was certain, a mistake the man would make ever again.
Napoleon was a brilliant strategist, however. If England lay unguarded, he would not hesitate to plunge his sharp talons directly into her heart.
And if he did, this canal would be of scant use, Dane thought grimly. Not with long stretches of it little wider than a ditch.
Two hundred and thirty-four thousand pounds spent on a damned ditch, for God's sake!
Ravenhurst cursed beneath his breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the lieutenant dart him a worried glance, fearful that he had somehow given offense. Uncomfortable with the adulation in those young eyes, the viscount cleared his throat sharply and looked away. "I was told the canal widens up ahead."
"So it does, my lord. Just beyond those trees." The silence broken, the young officer in the crisp blue uniform steeled himself to bring up the thing he'd been yearning to say all afternoon. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but I just wanted to say how pleased we were to hear the news."
"News?" Dane's brow furrowed. Had a message come from the Admiralty already?
"That we would be serving under your command, my lord. Seeing as how you're the new commissioner of the canal, I mean."
"Thank you, Mr. Taft," Ravenhurst said flatly, his frown deepening into a scowl.
But the eager lieutenant, full in the grip of hero worship, was slow to take a hint. "A great bit of luck for us that you were assigned here to Rye. We all know what — what you did at Trafalgar, aboard the Bellerophon. I'm only sorry I wasn't there to see action myself," the young man added bitterly.
"You are, are you?" Ravenhurst growled. "Then let me tell you something, Lieutenant. You ought to thank the good lord you weren't at Trafalgar, for a more hellish engagement has never been fought. Even under Nelson's management it was bloody, full-scale carnage fought by lumbering, dismasted ships locked gunport to gunport, bowsprit to bowsprit, entangled in each other's rigging. The idea of a frontal attack was revolutionary, of course, but it was also sheer madness. And Nelson knew that better than anyone."
The lieutenant's face paled at such heresy. An odd, choking sound came from his throat.
Ravenhurst's expression hardened as memories of that day swept over him. "There was no romance in what happened at Trafalgar, Mr. Taft, and even the heroism of that day has been greatly exaggerated. We can only hope the outcome prevented such things from ever happening again. And as for wars," he added grimly, "there are many kinds, fought in different ways. Remember that, Lieutenant."
"Yes, my lord," the young man replied, totally adrift.
"Good. Now, we'll need to bring in more elms for cover along that bank." Ravenhurst pointed up the north side of the canal, where the bare slope rose steeply, a dark scar upon the surrounding green plain. "Hawthorn hedges, too, I believe. They'll provide cover and give our men a better chance to return fire in case of attack."
"Do you really believe the French would dare such a thing?"
"It is not my business to speculate, Lieutenant," Ravenhurst said curtly. "My job is to insure the security of this area in the event Napoleon does invade. Now, how many feet does the canal measure at its widest?"
"Thirty, my lord. Give or take a few inches," came the tense rejoinder.
So the fellow was irritated, was he? Dane's lips twitched at the young officer's attempt to be precise. "And at its narrowest?"
"Not ten, my lord."
Ravenhurst's eyebrows rose. "Ten feet?" This did not agree with the information the Admiralty had given him.
"More or less. My lord," the officer added stiffly.
Dane waited.
"Except for the bit running west from Rye to Pett Level, that is," Taft corrected himself a moment later. "Built at the very last and little more than a ditch, that stretch is."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Ravenhurst said dryly, his mind engaged in rapid calculations.
His first concern was ground cover. He would suggest that elm trees be planted every ten feet, and hawthorn hedges beyond that as a second layer of defense. The western stretch of the canal along Pett Level ought to be wider, of course, but that could hardly be helped now. Then there was the
problem of the supply road north of the canal, which already required maintenance.
"Stop staring at me, Lieutenant," Dane snapped, without turning his head. "You're making me bloody nervous."
"Yes, my lord," came the muffled reply.
"So he has the good will of the local people, this Romney Fox?"
"Indeed he does. Always careful to drop off food, tea, or guineas for the destitute. He's a cool one, is the Romney Fox. One can't help almost —" The young officer flushed and bit off the words he'd been about to say.
"Almost what, Lieutenant?"
"Sir?" the man at the oars repeated uncomfortably.
"Finish your sentence, man," came the taut order.
"Well, admire the fellow. He's never harmed an officer or civilian, and his runs are a marvel of planning. Takes Hawkins by surprise every time — almost as if he were toying with him."
Ravenhurst's face hardened. "The man is a criminal, Lieutenant, as well as being in league with our enemies. Don't ever forget that. And there's nothing even faintly admirable about treason. So see you don't express such sentiments in my hearing again."
"Aye, my lord," came the stiff answer.
So the lad didn't like that order, did he? Well, he'd better learn to like it, Dane thought grimly, because there was still a war to be fought and an enemy to rout, and the Admiralty had every reason to believe this Fox fellow was deeply involved.
In short, they wanted their traitor run to ground, and Dane was bloody well going to do just that.
"What about the smugglers' haunts? Any clues as to where they might congregate to plan their runs? There must be some way these scoundrels communicate."
"They've a time-worn system of signals here along the coast, my lord. Things like lights in a window, horses tethered out front. Some say a fiddler plays a certain tune at the inns and public houses. They can muster two hundred men in an hour's time, I've heard."
"Inns, you say?" Dane's tone sharpened. "Like the Angel, perhaps?"
"I once heard it said — but not now. Miss Leighton's not the sort to hold with such comings and goings. No, there's been no sign of the wind in that quarter. But there's another spot — a low sort of place on the edge of the marsh, near Snargate. It's called the Merry Maids."
Dane's eyes narrowed. They were nearing the outskirts of Appledore now. Across the open fields a little church of weathered stone glowed crimson in the last rays of the setting sun. "Any other suspicious people I ought to know about, Lieutenant?"
"No one in particular, sir. Everyone hereabouts has a hand in 'the trade,' as they call it. And there's that brash Frenchman who's been patrolling the coasts from Fairlight to Folkestone. Brazen, he is. Just last week he was spotted lying at anchor near Winchelsea. Aye, in broad daylight."
"What sort of craft does he command?"
"The Liberte, my lord, a two-masted brig. She's square-rigged and as fine a seagoing vessel as you could ever hope to see. A crew to match, too, for they've slipped past every Revenue cutter that's gone after them."
"That hardly speaks well of the King's navy," Lord Ravenhurst said acidly.
"No, my lord."
"What about this new customs inspector, Amos Hawkins? What's his place in all this?"
"Rough lot, my lord. Enjoys his power a shade too much, if you know what I mean."
"I do not know, Lieutenant. If I did, I would not have asked."
Stinging from this rebuke, the young officer bent to the oars, averting his face to conceal his red cheeks. "The man likes to use his office to wrest goods from the townspeople — food, clothing, things of that sort. And there have been rumors about his beating some of the villagers who wouldn't comply ..." His voice trailed off.
"Go on, Lieutenant. It sounds as if there's more."
"Well, the man's been making free with the local women, my lord. Treats them damned rough too. Only last month a village girl from Appledore came home covered with bruises. An honest girl, not one of the local trollops. Afraid to speak, she was — didn't want to give the name of the villain who'd done it. But her brothers finally got the name out of her. Amos Hawkins, it was." The lieutenant's voice hardened. "When they went after him, he had them shot in the back, all three of them, and had their bodies dumped in the canal. Said there'd be more of the same to anyone that opposed him."
"And the magistrate?"
"Didn't deem it proper to interfere, my lord. Oh, he made a hasty appearance, but pronounced it a falling out between the brothers, who'd drunk too much and then shot each other."
"I suppose after shooting each other they managed to throw their own bodies into the canal," Ravenhurst said coldly. "There were no witnesses?"
"None who dared come forward. I reckon Hawkins made his point well enough."
The viscount's face set in hard, chiseled lines. Were they fighting a war with France so that bullies like Hawkins could stay home and terrorize the countryside?
Not if he could bloody well help it, Ravenhurst vowed silently.
On they floated, grim-faced, neither speaking. Above them the sky darkened, azure slipping to lavender as the sun sank over the spires of Rye.
Dane tensed, his fingers knifing deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. If Tess was indeed involved, a ruthless voice asked, would he turn her coldly over to such a man as Hawkins, knowing what he would do to her?
Ravenhurst smothered a curse beneath his breath. Somehow life had seemed a great deal simpler at sea.
"Begging your pardon, your lordship," Lieutenant Taft began tentatively. "For all the man's a criminal, I wouldn't like to see Hawkins get a hold of him."
Or her, Dane thought.
"You see, where the Fox is concerned, Hawkins has become — well, unhinged. The fellow's thrown sand in his eyes once too often, and catching the smuggler has become Hawkins's own private war."
"In that case, we'd bloody well better run our fox to ground before Amos Hawkins finds him, don't you think, Lieutenant?"
* * * * *
Several hours later, when the shadows lengthened and bled together into twilight, four roses reached their destination in four different cottages on the edge of the marsh.
And four men tensed when they saw the furled black petals, the Fox's secret sign. What was the bastard doing, rousing them again so soon? they wondered, to a man. Only six hours to gather carts, horses, and forty men between them.
But their irritation soon ebbed.
More runs meant more gold guineas jangling in their pockets. So who were they to complain if their Fox was an industrious sort?
Aye, when darkness fell upon the marsh they would all be waiting.
Chapter Seven
The sky was leaden, streaked with dark clouds. The air hung heavy with the threat of rain.
Night on the marsh.
Ghosts might well walk in such brooding stillness.
A lantern flashed once in the darkness, and then its light was quickly muzzled. High on the dunes the figure gripping the lantern eased leeward, turning to sweep sharp eyes across the waves of sand, which stretched north to the spires of Rye and east into the great black void of Romney Marsh.
Nothing moving there, Tess told herself sharply. So why this nagging sense of urgency?
From far out in the Channel there came an answering burst of light, just as quickly extinguished.
Suddenly the landscape exploded into life. A line of dark figures broke from the dunes and forty smugglers with blackened faces clambered over the shifting sand toward the beach. As if in perfect response, the trim square-rigged sails of a brig flashed into view, no more than a pale glow in the faint moonlight.
The lonely cry of a kestrel echoed over the marsh, nearly drowned out by the creaking of a score of wagons inching over the eastern rim of the dunes.
Without warning a horse and rider, masked all in black from cloak to tricorn, swept out of the night. In the moonlight the face beneath the hat was clearly visible — an odd face, with black whiskers bristling beside a sharp little
nose. Only the merest trace of the rider's eyes could be seen through tiny slits. Though they glittered with wild exhilaration, no one could have told their color.
"Once again I give you my compliments on a bonny night's work, my gentlemen," the rider shouted, his voice shrill and distorted by his mask. None would recognize his real tones, but the laugh that punctuated his words was clear and hearty.
The Fox. The name was passed breathlessly down the queue, spoken in pride, gratitude, and fear, as two score faces slanted up at the rider.
"Ever known the Fox to be late, my stout lads?" the man hissed in that strange, unnatural voice. "Aye, Hawkins's yapping dogs have yet to run me to ground!" Then the humor vanished, replaced by the cold precision of command. "Raise the galleys, Mr. Jones!"
Immediately the five front men broke free of the line and scrambled to brush sand from the craft concealed near the beach. Moments later, as if by magic, four sleek galleys were revealed, their long oars swathed in canvas to muffle their strokes.
"Soon as you've taken on your cargo, steer for Hythe, Mr. White," the Fox ordered crisply. "And it's Winchelsea Beach for you this night, Mr. Smith! The rest of you bring your goods back here for loading."
By unspoken agreement real names were never used on the marsh. No, names like Smith and Jones were all anyone needed here, and for the same reason final instructions were never given in advance of a landing. It was safer this way, and all knew it, the Fox most of all, for men were weak creatures whose tongues were far too prone to slip with drink or the flush of passion.
The brig was in clear view now, her sails slack while she rode the current. In the moonlight the lettering on her stern shone clearly: Liberte.
None of the figures engaged in the midnight run seemed to notice any irony in that word, nor discomfort in trading with citizens of a hostile nation.
This was business, after all, a business which had kept the coastal families from starvation for four hundred years. Wars would be won and lost, nations rise and fall, but the smuggling would always remain.
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