by Jane Feather
“Olivia, my dear…”
Olivia jumped as her father’s voice broke into her musing.
He smiled. “Did I startle you?”
“Oh, I was miles away,” she said, her eyes going to Cato’s companion.
“Allow me to present Godfrey, Lord Channing,” Cato said.
Godfrey bowed low over Olivia’s hand. “Lady Olivia, it is an honor.” He raised his eyes and smiled winningly.
Olivia felt the first deep shudder of revulsion. She pulled her hand loose even as she curtsied and murmured the correct responses. What was it about him? There was something… some echo… that filled her with terror. It was his eyes. So cold and green, even though he was smiling. Cold and calculating. She’d seen those eyes before, not the eyes but the expression. And his mouth, that thin flicker. It was a cruel mouth. And she knew it of old.
“I have been hoping to make your acquaintance all evening, Lady Olivia,” Godfrey was saying, still smiling. “I trust I may call upon you and Lady Granville one afternoon.”
“Yes… I mean, you should address that question to my stepmother.” Olivia gestured to Phoebe, who had turned from her poet at her husband’s appearance.
“Lord Channing, is it?” Phoebe said with her ready smile. She glanced at Olivia and was immediately concerned. Olivia was paler than ever. “We don’t lead a very social life at Chale,” Phoebe said a little hesitantly.
“Oh, I won’t expect entertainment, madam,” Godfrey assured her. “I should be happy just to sit with you.”
Phoebe looked in some surprise at her husband, who offered a half shrug. “Well, of course we should be delighted to welcome you, sir,” she said politely.
“Until later. Lady Olivia, Lady Granville, my lord…” Godfrey bowed to the company in general and strolled off well satisfied with his first steps.
Brian. He reminded her of Brian. The room seemed to spin and Olivia put a hand to her throat.
“Cato, we should leave,” Phoebe said swiftly. “Olivia’s been up too long today.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll summon the carriage.”
“What is it?” Phoebe asked as her husband disappeared. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
It was as if she had, Olivia thought. Brian Morse was dead, killed by Lord Granville’s sword. Phoebe had seen it happen. Godfrey Channing couldn’t help that slight similarity. But anyone with eyes and a mouth like that had an evil in him.
Olivia drew a deep, steadying breath. It was ridiculous, fanciful to think like that. She would not have made such an association before her night with Anthony had released the long-buried nightmare. She must put it back again, otherwise the poison would seep into everything. It had wreaked sufficient damage already.
“The carriage is ready.” Cato reappeared. “Are you feeling any better, Olivia?”
“Yes, much better. It was just a moment of weakness,” Olivia said, taking his free arm.
“Why was Lord Channing so anxious to make our acquaintance?” Phoebe asked from Cato’s other side. “He’s not a suitor for Olivia’s hand, is he?”
“He may have some such plan in mind,” Cato said as they reached the carriage in the courtyard.
“No!” Olivia cried in alarm. “I don’t want any such suitor.” She turned to look up at her father as he handed her into the carriage, her dark eyes intense in the torchlight.
“Then you must simply tell him so,” Cato said calmly. “You’re at the age now, my dear, when suitors are going to come thick and fast. You must decide for yourself how to deal with them.”
“I’ll help you,” Phoebe said, laying a hand on Olivia’s arm. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“No, indeed not,” Cato agreed, mounting his horse to ride beside the carriage. “It’s natural enough that you should have suitors, Olivia.”
Olivia slumped back against the leather squabs. She was being irrational; of course she could dismiss Lord Channing’s suit, if indeed it was what he had in mind. But it certainly added another skein to an already impossibly tangled knot.
Chapter Nine
Brian Morse leaned back against the wall in his customary place in the inglenook of the Anchor’s taproom. He rubbed his thigh and as he moved his arm the thick scar beneath his ribs seemed to stretch and throb. The pain was always with him. The pain and the knowledge of defeat. It was there in the deep lines of his face, in his limp, in the constant dragging pain. No one had expected him to survive after Cato’s sword had brought him down, and he hadn’t wanted to during those months of agony. But somehow he had done so. After many months his body had somehow healed, not straight, not clean, but healed nevertheless.
He raised his tankard to his lips, glancing towards the door. He was expecting Godfrey Channing with a progress report. Channing married to Olivia was a pleasing prospect. A man with a vast ambition and no morality whatsover. Thus a very dangerous man. A man clever enough to conceal his true colors to achieve his purpose. But he would show them eventually. When it was too late for the Granvilles to do anything about it. And then, oh, then, Olivia would pay the price and Cato Granville’s pride and arrogance would turn to dust. It was a wonderfully subtle revenge.
The door opened and Godfrey came in. He’d changed his earlier puce and scarlet finery for riding dress and had the air of a man well satisfied with himself. He spotted Brian immediately through the blue smoke of half a dozen clay pipes and strode across to him through the clotted sawdust on the floor.
Brian indicated the pitcher of ale on the table in front of him, and with a nod of thanks Godfrey raised the jug to his lips and drank deeply.
“The evening went according to plan?” Brian inquired over the rim of his tankard.
“I believe so.” Godfrey set down the pitcher and sat on a stool. “Granville was interested in what I had to say and wants me to spy on the king.”
Brian nodded. “I’ll give you bits and pieces of information about the progress of the Royalist uprisings and the Scots march that you can pass on to the king in some secret fashion. Then you simply tell Granville what the king knows. He’ll think he’s finding you very useful. And if you’re useful to Granville, he’ll welcome you into the bosom of his family with open arms.” His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. “And what of my little rabbit?”
“Little rabbit?” Godfrey looked puzzled.
“Olivia, my little sister. It was a pet name I had for her when she was a child. Such an endearing little rabbit she was. Particularly when she ran.” The smile flickered again.
“I think she’s rather appealing,” Godfrey said. “I won’t have to keep my eyes closed in bed.” He gave a coarse laugh and drank from the pitcher again.
“I haven’t seen her for several years,” Brian mused. “She must be all grown up now. Does she still stammer?”
“I didn’t notice. She didn’t say very much. But my interest in her mouth has little to do with what might come out of it.” He laughed again.
“You’d better not let her know that. I told you, she has a brain.”
“Oh, she’ll soon learn there are other things more important than books,” Godfrey said carelessly. “I’ll keep her far too busy to bother her head with such nonsense.” He drank from the pitcher again and glanced at the watch in the shape of a skull that hung from his belt. “Well, I’d best be on my way. I’ve an appointment at midnight.”
“Your customer?”
“Aye.” Godfrey looked a little startled. “What d’you know of him?”
Brian shook his head. “Nothing. I merely overheard your conversation about a potential customer for your culling with George here… just before you and I began our association. And an appointment at midnight…” He shrugged.
Godfrey remembered. “Aye, well, you’re right. And once we’ve struck this deal, I’ll be a lot plumper in the pocket.”
“Come to my lodgings in Ventnor in two days’ time. I’ll have some more information for you.” Brian leaned back against the wall again, ha
lf closing his eyes.
“I’ll be visiting the lady Olivia tomorrow,” Godfrey said over his shoulder as he turned to the door.
“Ah, yes, my learned little rabbit.” Brian smiled to himself. “You’d better do some scholarly reading first. Just so that you have something to talk about.”
Godfrey grimaced as he left, but he was willing to listen to a man who was so clearly intimate with the habits and predispositions of the Granvilles.
Precisely at midnight, Anthony descended the narrow cliff path to Puckaster Cove for his rendezvous with Godfrey Channing. Gone were the elegant bronze silk, the lace ruffles, the black pearl, the onyx signet ring. He was dressed once more in the fisherman’s garb, a limp mustache framing artistically blackened teeth, his face painted as before. The knit cap was pulled down low over his forehead. The sword at his hip was the pirate’s plain, serviceable blade.
He left two men behind him on the undercliff, assigned to watch his back. As the pirate’s footsteps faded on the sandy path, Sam muttered to his companion, “There’s times when I reckon the master’s off ‘is ’ead. What’s all this, then, about sendin‘ Mike to the lass’s ’ouse, tellin‘ ’im to make a plan of the ‘ouse?”
“Mike’s good at scoutin‘, though,” the other replied, sucking on a blade of grass. “Best man to send, I reckon.”
“Aye, but why’d he ‘ave to send any bloke, that’s what I want to know.” Sam peered down at the cove through the screen of scrub that concealed them. The master had reached the beach and was standing, hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking out to sea, his posture as casual as if he were taking a moonlight stroll.
“It’s not like the master to let a woman get under ‘is skin,” Sam’s companion observed. “Easy come, easy go, is ’is way.”
“Aye,” Sam agreed, then he inched forward. “Reckon this is the bloke now. Seems t‘ be alone. You take a look along the path, while I keep watch ’ere.”
The other man eased away down the path, and Sam took his cutlass from his belt and watched the beach.
Anthony didn’t turn as Godfrey approached across the sand. He continued to look out to sea, whistling softly between his teeth. Only those who knew him very well would recognize in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, that every muscle was taut, every inch of his tall frame ready for trouble.
Godfrey coughed loudly. Without turning, the fisherman observed easily, “Beautiful night, ain’t it, sir?”
“I care not,” Godfrey said. “Are you alone?”
A murdering popinjay who cared nothing for beauty. Anthony’s lip curled but he said only, “As alone as you.”
Godfrey glanced around. The beach under full moonlight was deserted. “We have to climb.”
“Then lead the way.” Anthony turned then and offered his black-toothed smile. “Let’s see what ye’ve got fer me.”
“You have the money? I’d see it before I show you anything.”
“Not very trustin‘, are ye, sir?” Anthony dug into the pocket of his filthy britches and drew out a leather pouch. “There’s five ’undred guineas in there. Ye’ll get the rest on delivery.”
Godfrey’s eyes gleamed as he hefted the pouch on his palm. He untied the leather drawstring and peered inside. Gold glittered. “You’ll have to move the goods yourself,” he said.
Anthony reached over and took back the pouch. “ ‘Tis understood. But let’s be seein’ what you ‘ave, fine sir.”
Godfrey turned back to the cliff path. Anthony followed. He could barely contain his contempt. After the evening at Carisbrooke he now knew whom he was dealing with. People were always willing to retail gossip, particularly if the gossip was malicious. He knew much more about Lord Channing’s affairs than that gentleman would ever wish to be revealed. He knew that the lordling’s greed was fueled by necessity. He was deeply in debt. A man who aspired to power and influence needed wealth to smooth the path, and the Channings, while noble, were poor, their estates laid to waste by generations of greed and stupidity.
The present Lord Channing had a certain cunning to aid the greed. He seemed to plan well and carefully. He employed men to take the biggest risks for him. But the cunning went hand in hand with a complete absence of respect for human life… unless, of course, it was his own. He took where he could and from whom he could.
Anthony lived his life beyond the law, but this man was vermin in his eyes.
Godfrey turned to the right when they reached the undercliff. The uneven path was rocky, more of a goat trail than a path. He picked his way carefully, while Anthony strolled along as if walking on greensward.
Sam and his fellow watcher kept their distance, moving like wraiths in the shadow of the cliff.
Godfrey stopped in the middle of the path and waited for Anthony to come up beside him. “Disarm yourself. I’m not such a fool as to show you the goods when you’re carrying a sword.”
Anthony shrugged and unbuckled his swordbelt, laying it on the ground.
“What else are you carrying?”
Anthony bent and drew a knife from his boot. This he laid beside the sword. Then he extended his hands with another shrug.
Godfrey nodded. “This way.” He turned to the cliff face and pushed through a cascade of weeds and vines. Anthony followed.
They entered a cave, black as pitch. Godfrey felt around at the entrance. Flint scraped on tinder and a small light glowed from a lantern. Godfrey held the lantern high to show the bales and crates piled up against the walls.
“Take a look.” He put his free hand to his sword hilt and drew the blade an inch or two from its sheath.
Anthony’s smile was not a pleasant one as he heard the sound, but his back was to Godfrey and the other man didn’t see his expression.
Anthony examined the wares. They were in good condition for the most part and would sell well at auction in Portsmouth. He loathed wreckers, but was too pragmatic to look a gift horse in the mouth. Later, when Godfrey Channing was no longer useful, the pirate would impress upon him the error of his ways. For the moment, he would use him. And the king’s cause would be the beneficiary.
He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and moved among the goods, marking his choices with a cross. “I’ll take these four chests, the figured silks, the two bales of velvet, the Brussels lace, the case of delftware and the other of Venetian crystal. The rest is dross.”
A crispness sharpened the fisherman’s drawl. Godfrey didn’t notice the slight change in the vowel sounds. He knew only that this was a man who would do business.
“A thousand guineas,” he said. “We agreed on a thousand guineas.”
“Only if I took the whole. I’ll pay eight hundred for what I’ve named. Not a penny more.”
Eight hundred was eight hundred. “Done.” Godfrey rubbed his hands together. “How will you take delivery?”
“Leave it to me, young sir.” Once again it was the fisherman who spoke. “They’ll be gone from ‘ere by mornin’.”
“And payment?”
For answer, Anthony tossed the pouch across to him. Godfrey, caught by surprise, grabbed for it and missed. It fell to the ground with a heavy clink. He bent and picked it up, unaware of the fisherman’s curled lip and contemptuous eye.
“The rest will be delivered to the Anchor at midday tomorrow. I reckon George’ll be wantin‘ his share. Seein’ as ‘ow your ship’s not come in.” The fisherman laughed and it was not a kind laugh.
Godfrey’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. There was nothing he would have liked better than to have spitted the man on his blade. He demanded angrily, “What time will you take delivery? I’ll be here.”
“Soon after dawn, I reckon,” the fisherman drawled. “No need for ye to be ‘ere, though. My men know what to do.”
It must now be around one o’clock, Godfrey calculated. Dawn was but four hours away. He’d get no sleep tonight. “I’ll be here,” he stated. Did the man think he was fool enough to let him take delivery unsupervised?
And he was gone, leaving Godfrey alone in the cave with his rage and his five hundred golden guineas.
Anthony retrieved his weapons and strode back along the trail. Sam and his fellow materialized from the shadows of the cliff some hundred feet from the cave.
“You can find it again?”
“Aye, sir.”
“At dawn, then. You’ll need ten men, probably three boats. The goods are marked with a chalk cross.”
“Should us expect trouble?”
“I don’t think so. The little man’s too greedy to risk this sale. But be on the watch anyway.”
“Aye, sir. You goin‘ back to the ship?”
Anthony smiled then and lightly clapped Sam on the shoulder. “No, not yet, my friend. And there’s no need to be anxious. I have my wits about me.”
“I ‘ope so,” Sam muttered. “Mike’ll be waitin’ at the top fer ye, I suppose.”
“I certainly hope so.” Anthony laughed and loped off down the oath.
Mike was waiting at the head of the path. Two ponies grazed placidly on the springy grass of the clifftop.
“Success, Mike?” Anthony unbuckled his swordbelt.
“Aye, sir. I’ve drawn ye a rough plan. Miss has ‘er chamber at the side of the ’ouse.” Mike unfurled a sheet of paper. “See ‘ere, sir.” The drawing of Lord Granville’s house in Chale was a competent piece of draftsmanship, every door and window clearly marked. “There’s this ’ere tree, see. Magnolia.” He pointed to the tree beside the window in question.
“How very convenient,” the pirate murmured, peeling off his mustache with a wince. “You’re positive that’s her chamber? I’d hate to barge in on my lord Granville and his lady.” He thrust the ratty mustache into the pocket of his britches and took out a handkerchief and a twist of paper that contained salt.