by Jane Feather
“You met someone?” she asked, resigned now to hearing this story in a roundabout fashion. “Someone who attracted you… someone who…? Oh, Olivia, for pity’s sake, what are we talking about here? Just get to the point.”
“I’m trying,” Olivia said. For some reason she was finding it difficult to talk directly about Anthony. She had the feeling that anything she said would come out wrong, would either not do him justice or would make her seem like a passion-crazed loon. She wasn’t at all sure why she needed to do him justice, but… but it seemed that she did.
“I don’t know his surname. He wouldn’t give it to me.”
“Why not?” Phoebe asked sharply.
“Because he… well, he doesn’t live within the law,” Olivia replied. Then she shook her head dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”
“It most certainly does matter!” Phoebe exclaimed. “You haven’t told me anything that makes sense yet.”
Of the three of them-herself, Portia, and Olivia-Olivia had always seemed the one least likely to succumb to the sensual temptations of the human condition. Those temptations had felled Olivia’s two friends while Olivia herself had found all she sought in scholarship.
Until now, it would seem, Phoebe thought-always assuming she was somehow grasping the right end of the stick.
Olivia kicked off her sandals and flexed her bare feet. She couldn’t blame Phoebe for being irritable. She wasn’t making much sense to herself. The reason why she would never see Anthony again had nothing whatsoever to do with his illegal activities. But maybe that was the issue she could focus on to explain things to Phoebe.
“Rufus was an outlaw when he and Portia first met,” Phoebe pointed out. “That didn’t stop either of them.”
It was true that Rufus Decatur, Earl of Rothbury, hadn’t always been a pillar of respectability.
“Portia wasn’t my father’s daughter,” Olivia said quietly. Portia and her wastrel father had always lived outside the rigid confines of society. It wasn’t until his death that she had come under Lord Granville’s protection.
Phoebe took Olivia’s point but she brushed it aside, demanding, “Tell me the whole, now!”
Olivia told her everything, except what Brian had done to her… of what she had allowed him to do to her. That was a private shame, one never to be revealed.
“And so, after he’d finished his piracy, he sailed the ship back to its anchorage and had me brought home,” she ended with a little shrug.
Phoebe listened in frowning astonishment. Olivia had always been so vociferous, so certain that she would never yield to the wiles of man. And yet she’d fallen into this passion seemingly without a murmur of protest.
“Maybe the drugs affected you,” Phoebe suggested. “It can happen with some of the more powerful simples. Do you know what he gave you?”
Olivia shook her head. She found that she didn’t care for Phoebe’s explanation for her entrancement. It negated so much of what she had actually felt, and perversely she didn’t want that to happen. Even while she was trying to forget it, while she shrank in revulsion from what it had thrown in her face, she seemed still to want to keep some of the golden aura of that adventure.
There was a knock at the door, and Mistress Bisset entered with the posset. She set it on the table and regarded Olivia gravely. “Should we send for the physician, Lady Granville? Lady Olivia looks right peaky.”
“No, she had a bad bump on the head, but I can take care of it myself, thank you,” Phoebe replied.
The housekeeper hesitated, but Lady Granville’s skills as a herbalist were well known. Her ladyship might not be adept at the running of a household, but no one denied her other talents.
“Very well, m’lady.”
“That will be all, then, Mistress Bisset,” Phoebe prompted when the lady still remained, her curiosity evident.
“Yes, madam.” The housekeeper curtsied and left.
Olivia couldn’t help a half smile. “A year ago you could never have routed Mistress Bisset like that. She never took any notice of you.”
“No,” Phoebe agreed, momentarily distracted from Olivia’s situation. “And she calls me Lady Granville now instead of just Lady Phoebe. I think I’ve acquired a deal of gravitas since the boys were born.”
That made Olivia laugh, for a moment banishing her melancholy.
But it was a short moment. Then she said seriously, “My father mustn’t know anything of this, Phoebe.”
“Good God, no!” Phoebe exclaimed. “It wouldn’t do him any good at all!” She eyed Olivia seriously. “Do you want to see this man again?”
“No!” Olivia shook her head vigorously. “It was… it was almost a fantasy, a dream. It’s over, Phoebe, and I don’t want to think about it anymore. The most important thing now is to manage to keep it from my father.”
Phoebe hesitated. Something about the denial didn’t quite ring true. But Olivia was exhausted and mustn’t be pressed further. Phoebe handed her the sack posset. “You need to sleep, Olivia. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Yes.” Olivia returned Phoebe’s hug with sudden urgency. She wanted everything to be the way it used to be, and for a moment as they embraced she could almost imagine that it could be.
Phoebe went out and Olivia sat on the bed, sipping the sack posset. It was nursery comfort. She set the empty cup down and stood up to undress herself. As she took off the ruined dress she felt the bulge in the pocket. She took out the pirate’s kerchief and almost without thinking pushed it beneath her pillow, then she fell into bed and sought oblivion.
Godfrey, Lord Channing, entered the taproom of the Anchor in the little village of Niton, just above Puckaster Cove. He peered through the blue wreaths of pipe smoke at the taproom’s inhabitants and could see only locals nursing tankards, puffing pipes, for the most part in a silence that could have been morose, except that the island folk were not in general gregarious and spoke only when they had something they considered worth saying. This Friday evening it appeared that no one had anything of moment to impart.
Godfrey approached the bar counter. He leaned back against it on his elbows with the appearance of a man taking his ease and surveyed the room again. Was one of these taciturn villagers the man who would buy his culling? They all looked unlikely, not a man among them with the wherewithal to be a customer for Godfrey’s ill-gotten gains.
“Yes, sir?” The landlord spoke behind him and Godfrey jumped. He turned to front the bar counter.
George regarded him with a malicious eye. “What can I get ye, sir?”
“Who’s the man I’ve come to see?”
“Don’t know as yet,” the landlord said. “What can I get ye?”
“Porter.” Seemingly he had no choice but to play the man’s game.
The landlord reached for the leather flagon and filled a tankard. “Threepence.”
“Since when?” Godfrey demanded. “It’s always a penny three farthings.”
“Price ‘as gone up, sir. Supplies is short,” the landlord said meaningfully.
“You don’t order porter from me,” Godfrey snapped.
The landlord shrugged indifferently. “Supplies is powerful short when it comes to cognac.”
With difficulty Godfrey controlled a surge of rage. The man’s insolence was intolerable and yet Godfrey knew he had no suitable comeback. “I’m waiting for the ship,” he said, burying his nose in his tankard.
“A bit overdue, is it, then?”
“You know damn well it is!” His knuckles whitened around the tankard. The man knew he was desperate, knew he could needle him all he wanted. But Godfrey could see a way out now, a permanent solution to his financial needs. And then, oh, and then the landlord of the Anchor and his ilk would watch their manners.
“Then per’aps I should be lookin‘ to place me orders elsewhere, sir,” the landlord said. “But I’d need me earnest money back, o’ course.”
Godfrey ignored this. Deliberatel
y he turned away again and resumed his examination of the taproom’s inhabitants. He was damned if he was going to ask for George’s help again.
“The one ye wants is sittin‘ in the corner, by the inglenook.”
George finally spoke into the studied silence. “Been waitin‘ fer ye close on an hour, I’d say.”
Godfrey shrugged with apparent indifference. He knew he’d have to pay for the information; George would have his price. But if tonight’s business went well, the price would be easy to find. He looked closely at the man George had indicated and was immediately disappointed. A villainous-looking customer in the rough garb of a fisherman with a lank, greasy mustache and a raddled countenance.
“Over there?” he demanded incredulously, finally stung into a response. The man didn’t look as if he had the price of his drink.
“Aye.”
“What’s his name? I’ll pay for his name.”
“ ‘Tis not one he gives to all who asks,” the landlord replied.
Godfrey pushed himself away from the counter, took up his tankard, and approached his would-be customer.
“Can I buy you another?” he offered.
The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and he grinned, revealing foully blackened teeth. “Lord bless ye, sir. That’s kind o‘ you. I’ll ’ave a drop o‘ brandy. Jest tell George to make sure it’s from the special cask. None of that thin piss he passes off to those what don’t know any better. You an’ me does, o‘ course.” He leered and offered a conspiratorial wink.
Godfrey shuddered but held his tongue. He could only guess what George would charge him for a drop of the best. However, with every appearance of good cheer, he called over to the counter, “Two cognacs, George. The best.”
“Well, sit ye down, sir.” The man gestured to a stool. “Can’t do business on yer feet.”
Godfrey hooked the stool over with his foot and sat down. The sawdust on the floor at his feet was clotted with spilled ale and other things that Godfrey didn’t want to consider. A mangy hound chewed a marrow bone and growled at him, hackles raised, when he inched his stool away from something particularly noxious-looking and came a little too close to the bone for the beast’s liking.
The landlord gave the animal a kick as he put the two pewter cups of cognac on the table between the two men. The hound sloped off, the bone gripped in his jaws.
“That’ll be a shillin‘ apiece, sir.”
“That’s daylight robbery!” Godfrey couldn’t contain himself.
“ ‘Tis in short supply, sir.” The landlord sung his tune again.
“Here, George.” Godfrey’s companion dug in his pocket and tossed a pair of silver coins on the table. “But we’ll ‘ave a free fill-up fer that.”
The landlord scooped up the coins and grinned. It was a genial grin, not an expression Godfrey had ever seen on his face.
“Right y’are, my friend.”
The other man nodded and tasted the cognac. It met with his approval and he gave another nod. The landlord returned to his counter.
“Now, young sir, to business. What d’ye ‘ave?”
Godfrey took a gulp of cognac, trying to think what it was about this unsavory character that was so unsettling. There was the most unlikely air of authority about him, and even though he sat slumped in his torn and grimy jerkin, he gave the impression of being completely in charge of the proceedings.
“Silks… some of them painted,” he said, tapping a finger on the stained table. “Velvets and lace from the Low Countries.”
“Silk and salt water don’t mix. As I understand it, they came from a wreck.” Something flickered in the deep-set gray eyes. Something cold and unpleasant.
“They were in chests,” Godfrey said, despising the defensive note and yet unable to prevent it. “Protected.”
The other man nodded. “An‘ pulled out in double quick time, I daresay.” Again there was that flicker in his eye and a note in his voice that sounded almost sardonic.
Once again Godfrey controlled his rage. For the moment, he was powerless, obliged to take what insults this disgusting, low-bred creature tossed at him. But that would change. “It’s the business,” he said coldly. “One you know yourself, I imagine.”
His companion made no reply. He drank again from his cognac and glanced towards the bar counter, raising a hand at George, who nodded and came over with the brandy bottle to refill the cups.
When he’d departed, Godfrey’s companion asked coolly, “So, what else beside stuff? D’ye have tea? Silver? Glassware? China? She was a merchantman, wasn’t she?”
“Aye.” Godfrey’s eyes sharpened. “Very rich. We had great good fortune.”
“That ye did,” the other man murmured. “Pity ‘tis that what’s good fortune for some should be the devil’s own luck fer others.”
It was almost too much. Godfrey half rose from his stool at this taunt. Then he sat back and shrugged. “I’m willing to share my good fortune, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
“True enough, true enough, young sir,” the man said, his tone suddenly placatory, almost wheedling, so that Godfrey began to feel confused and as if he stood on shifting sands.
“So, I’d best take a look at the spoils,” the man continued. “I don’t buy sight unseen.”
“How much are you interested in buying?” Godfrey forgot confusion. His heart beat faster as he saw salvation.
The other man shrugged. “Depends what I see. I buys what I likes. If ye’ve goods that please me, then I might take the lot. As I say, it depends.”
“The full consignment…” Godfrey fought to conceal his jubilation. He said decisively, “For the full consignment I’ll be asking a thousand.”
The other man merely raised an eyebrow. “If ‘tis worth it, then I’ll pay it.”
Godfrey considered. Now he was unsure. How could this miserable-looking man have the means? Fear prickled his spine. Was it a trap?
“Don’t worry, my young lordling, ye’ll not be betrayed by me.” The voice was soft, indolent, and the eyes were suddenly clear and to Godfrey’s astonishment youthful.
And once again came the sense that all was not as it seemed.
“When do you wish to look at the consignment?” he asked, forcing himself to speak firmly and steadily.
“Tomorrow, at midnight. Meet me in Puckaster Cove.” The man stood up, pushing aside his stool. He stood for a minute, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his patched britches, looking down on Godfrey. “I’ll wait no more than a quarter hour. Come alone. Ye’ll find me alone.”
“How can I trust you?” Godfrey demanded.
The man shrugged. “Same way as I can trust you, I reckon.” Then he turned and strode from the inn.
Godfrey watched him go. He seemed to stoop but it did little to disguise his height and nothing to conceal the lithe, supple strength in his slender frame. Who was he? What was he? Not what he seemed, that was for sure.
Godfrey’s expression darkened. He hated mysteries and this one was a dangerous puzzle. If he didn’t know with whom he was dealing, if he underestimated him, it could bring utter ruin. He must control his impatience and tread carefully. He looked up and caught the landlord’s eye. Mine host was regarding Godfrey with an unholy gleam, as if he was reading his thoughts.
Deliberately Godfrey spat his indifference to the landlord’s challenge into the hearth before stalking from the inn. His horse was stabled at the rear. He retrieved it and rode back to Carisbrooke Castle, his mind in a ferment. That little glimpse at the man behind the unpromising exterior had convinced him that whoever his unpleasant and insolent customer was, he would be able to come up with the required funds. That was really all that mattered.
The guards at the gatehouse challenged him as he rode up the ramp to the arched entrance to the castle. They opened the gates and let him in and he went straight to his quarters in the governor’s mansion. His room lay beyond the guarded chamber in the north curtain wall that now housed the king.
Godfrey, Lord Channing, was one of the governor’s equerries. A post that, while it brought little in the way of financial recompense, was prestigious, provided comfortable room and board for himself, and maintenance for his horses-a great drain on any nobleman’s purse.
Such considerations for the impoverished scion of a proud, ancient, but penniless family were not to be derided. They were not, however, sufficient for a young man of Godfrey’s personal ambitions. He was heavily in debt. The lifestyle he believed was due his family name and position was a hugely expensive one. Clothes alone cost him a small fortune, and while smuggling and wrecking offered some remedy for his financial ills, the trade and his own desperation put him at the mercy of men like the landlord of the Anchor and potential customers like the villain he’d had to placate this evening.
When he entered his chamber, he was still seething over the insolence he’d had to endure.
“You look as if you lost a sixpence and found a groat,” Brian Morse observed. He was sitting at the table in front of the fireplace, a sheet of parchment in front of him. He moved the candle so that it illuminated Godfrey’s face. “Did your business not prosper?”
Godfrey shrugged and filled a pewter goblet with wine from the leather flagon on the table. He noticed sourly that in his absence the flagon had become very light. Brian Morse had obviously had a thirst on him. “The man’s a villain,” he observed.
Brian chuckled softly. “Aren’t we all, my friend? Aren’t we all?” He drank from his own goblet. “I’ve been composing a letter for your potential father-in-law.” He indicated the parchment on the table. “You need the right words to get his attention. And when you meet my little sister, you’ll need to have something to offer her. A knowledge of the Greek poets might help… a talent for chess… a delight in Pythagorus’s theorems.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.