by Jane Feather
“He tried to kiss me.” She shuddered again, scrubbing her hand across her mouth. “I’m so frightened of him. He must know Brian. He must. How else would he know to call me that? Brian must have told him what he did to me; they must have talked about me. And now he’ll tell everyone that he saw us together.” Her voice was rising alarmingly and Anthony hushed her gently.
“I’ll take care of it,” he repeated.
“How?” She looked helplessly at him.
“Just trust me.” He paused, then said deliberately, “In this at least you can trust me to do something without the promise of financial reward.” Both eyes and voice challenged her for an explanation.
The warmth of a minute earlier vanished, leaving Olivia cold and empty again.
She answered the challenge with one of her own. “Why did you c-come here? Won’t you draw attention to yourself? If my father was home, he’d ask questions. I thought you needed to avoid that.”
“I happen to know he’s not here.”
“Yes, I suppose you would know that. You must have spies.”
“Yes, I do.” He looked at her in frustration, controlling his anger at her arid tone. It seemed he’d solved one puzzle, only to be faced with another. “Is that part of what makes me so wrong for you, Olivia?”
“You said yourself you’re no gentleman. You don’t act by the rules of honor,” Olivia said slowly.
“Is that what this is about?” he demanded. “It never seemed to trouble you before.”
“In the dream, such a thing as acting honorably didn’t seem to matter,” she said. “But now I’m awake I find that it does.”
Honor! His father had dishonored his mother. Their child had been born in dishonor. His father’s family under the shield and buckler of honor had rejected the dishonored infant, abandoned him without a qualm to survive or not.
Anthony said bitterly, “Honor is a luxury not everyone can afford, my dear Olivia. And when I see how much dishonor is perpetrated in the name of honor, I’m glad it’s beyond my reach.”
“My father is honorable,” she said in a low voice. “He would not do a dishonorable act.”
Anthony looked at her bleakly. There seemed nothing to say to this unspoken comparison.
“I will leave you here,” he said, his voice without expression. “I will take care of Channing and see what I can discover about this Brian character. Spies have their uses,” he added with an ironic smile. He turned and mounted his horse, riding off down the driveway without a backward glance.
Olivia went slowly back to the house. She had accused Anthony of dishonor. But what other word was there for a wrecker? The most despicable, cowardly act of thievery. Piracy and smuggling-they were swashbuckling, daring. Piracy certainly was thievery; smuggling was not considered such. Smugglers merely deprived the loathed revenuers of their equally loathed taxes. Even her father took delivery of smuggled cognac.
She thought of the taking of the Dona Elena. That had been stealing, no question. But he had stolen from barbarians. He had freed the slaves, given them the ship. It had seemed at the time like a fair fight, a legitimate cause.
She sat on the window seat, looking out through the open window at the sea. She felt emptied of all emotion; even her fear of Brian had faded somehow. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. The day was sunlit and yet it seemed gray. The sea sparkled and yet it seemed dull. Everything was lifeless and pointless.
Chapter Fifteen
Brian Morse set down his wine cup as someone banged on the door of his chamber in the Gull at Ventnor. “Who is it?”
“Channing.”
“Come in, dear boy, come in.” He didn’t rise from his chair as Godfrey entered. An eyebrow lifted as he took in his visitor’s appearance. Lord Channing looked less than immaculate for once. Dust coated his boots and coat; his stock was twisted; the plume on his hat was seriously windswept. He had blood on his cheek.
“You look as if you’re in something of a hurry,” Brian observed, leaning forward to pour wine for his visitor.
Godfrey drained the cup and then refilled it before saying, “I rode hell for leather. Something’s happened.”
“Oh?” Brian’s eyes sharpened. “Your pursuit of the fair Olivia has met a snag?”
“She’s a whore,” Godfrey spat out.
“Oh, no, dear boy. You must be mistaken. Pure as the driven snow, I’d swear it.”
“Then you’d be forsworn! She has a lover.”
“You begin to interest me,” Brian said. “Tell me all.”
He listened, meditatively rubbing his aching thigh, as Godfrey poured out his tale, repeating when he’d finished, “She ran from me. Ran straight into the bastard’s arms.”
“Why did she run from you? Did you frighten her? I told you to tread carefully with her.”
“You also told me she was a virgin!”
“Mmm. I’m surprised, I must confess. She was always such a timid creature.”
“She said your name,” Godfrey remembered. “Just before she ran, she said your name.”
Brian’s expression lost its air of mild amusement. “Why would she do that? What did you say to her? Did you tell her I was here?”
“No, of course not. I’m no fool.” Godfrey shook his head. “I was trying to soften her up, tease her a little. You told me she had a pet name as a child. I called her ‘little rabbit’ to make her feel at ease.”
“You did what? ” Brian got to his feet, wincing as his leg took his weight. His face was suffused with rage. “You idiot! I didn’t tell you to say that. Did I?”
Godfrey had a temper of his own and it was running high already, but instinctively he backed away from Brian Morse, who had his stick in his hand and looked as if he was about to use it. “What harm could it do?” he muttered sullenly.
“What harm? It was a private name. One only I used,” Brian said furiously.
“She could have forgotten. It was a long time ago.”
“She wouldn’t have forgotten that,” Brian said with grim conviction. “You’ve ruined everything with your blabbing tongue.”
He sat down again, staring into the empty fireplace, trying to work out if he could salvage anything of his master plan. “If we get rid of Caxton-”
“That’s easily done,” Godfrey said eagerly. “I came to you first but as soon as I return to Carisbrooke I’ll have Caxton arrested.”
Brian turned skeptical eyes upon him. “How so?”
“Because he’s not what he seems. He’s the man who bought my culling. And Granville is going to be very interested to know that Edward Caxton is playing a part,” Godfrey said. “He’s the man they’re after, the one who’s plotting to rescue the king. He has to be. When I tell them what I know of him, they’ll throw him into Winchester jail. They’ll break him, force the truth from him, and then, if there’s anything left to hang, they’ll hang him.”
“I can see that might appeal,” Brian observed. “But don’t forget that Caxton knows a few things about you that won’t bear the light of day.” He raised an ironic eyebrow.
Godfrey shook his head. “I’ll spin a tale that explains how I know about him. I’m trusted, well respected-”
“Thanks to me,” Brian interjected gently.
Godfrey ignored this. “They won’t take Caxton’s word over mine. He can scream ‘wrecker’ till he’s blue, they won’t believe him, I’ll make certain of it.”
Brian nodded. “So we get rid of the rival, but you still have to win the lady.”
“I don’t know that I want a whore,” Godfrey said savagely.
“So she’s secondhand. Why should that worry you? She’s still wealthy and she’s still tasty. A little bit of experience can be an advantage in a man’s bed.”
Godfrey said nothing. To take another man’s leavings would hurt his pride, but then, it would be an even greater revenge on Caxton.
“If Cato could somehow learn that his daughter is damaged goods, seduced by a traitor, then he might be quite e
ager to accept an impeccable offer for her,” Brian mused. “You find a way to tell him, then you present yourself as the rescuer of his daughter’s reputation. You love her, have loved her from afar. You’ll take her as she is.”
He picked up his cup again and drank. “It might work. But you’ll have to tread carefully. Cato won’t easily accept tales against his daughter. Maybe you can get that truth forced out of Caxton, so that Cato hears it from his own lips.”
“During the interrogation.” Godfrey’s eyes gleamed. “I could spring it on him during the interrogation. Granville will attend. He’ll have to.”
Brian gazed moodily into the grate. If Olivia suspected he was alive, then he had his own problems. Cato hadn’t made sure he was dead after the duel in Rotterdam; he’d certainly be most interested to know that he was still alive.
He looked across at Godfrey with savage contempt. “You are a babbling dolt.”
Godfrey flushed, his hands curled into fists. “I’ll have no more of your insults.”
Brian gave a harsh crack of laughter. “You’ll take what I dish out, my friend. You forget that I too know a few things about you that would see you at the end of the hangman’s rope.”
Godfrey whitened. He advanced on Brian and then found himself staring into the muzzle of a pistol.
“Be very careful,” Brian said softly.
Godfrey stood for a minute, then turned on his heel and banged from the chamber.
Brian laid the pistol on the table. He limped to the window and watched Godfrey Channing ride off on his lathered horse. The man was proving an unreliable tool, but he was all Brian had.
Godfrey rode back to the castle still seething with anger at Brian’s insults. But the man had found a way to salvage his hopes. He needed Olivia’s dowry and Cato would pay handsomely to dispose of his unvirgin daughter. And secondhand though she was, she would still be a pleasure in his bed. And if he chose to make her pay for the way she’d insulted him, then he could think of many most satisfying ways to do so.
He rode under the gatehouse, calling to the guards, “Is Lord Granville in the castle? Or Lord Rothbury?”
“Aye, sir. Both of ‘em. They been ’ere all day. Closeted wi‘ Colonel Hammond, I’d guess.”
Godfrey left his horse and strode into the castle. The guard looked at the animal’s heaving flanks, foaming mouth, and sweating hide, gouged by spurs. “Right vicious bastard, ‘e is,” the guard muttered. “Wouldn’t want to meet ’im on a dark night.” He took the bridle and led the exhausted animal away.
“I don’t know what else we can do,” Cato was saying wearily in Colonel Hammond’s privy chamber. “It’s impossible to police every tiny cove and chine on the island. We’re watching the harbors at Yarmouth and Newport. We have guards at every sizable cove around the island. If he’s to leave by ship-and how can he do otherwise?- then he’ll have to be rowed out from a beach somewhere. A good-sized ship will have to stand out from shore.”
“Someone has to know something,” Rufus stated, turning from the window where he’d been looking down at the courtyard.
“Of course. But the islanders are as closemouthed as clams. They’re staunch Royalists to a man, and if the mastermind we’re looking for is indeed some kind of folk hero to them, then such a combination will ensure the silence of the grave. Giles can’t pry a thing loose, not with bribes, not with menaces. All his usual sources are dry as an old well.”
“I’ve doubled the guard on the king’s chamber,” Hammond said. “He never walks alone in the castle. The only time he’s alone is at night. And I can’t bring myself to post a guard within his chamber. He’s no criminal.”
“That depends on your perspective,” Rufus said grimly. “There are some who say the king has sacrificed the peace of his kingdom, has spilled the blood of his subjects for his own ends. There are those who call him traitor.”
Hammond sighed. “I’ve heard the arguments, Rothbury…” He turned at the knock on the door. “Enter. Oh, it’s you, Channing.”
“Yes, Governor.” Godfrey bowed and came straight to the point. “Lord Granville, Lord Rothbury. I believe I have found the man behind the plan to contrive the king’s escape,” he declared solemnly.
There was a moment of astounded silence.
“Go on,” Cato prompted.
“I’ve suspected the man for some time,” Godfrey continued. “There was something amiss with him, but it took me until today to realize what it was.”
“Get to the point, man,” the governor demanded. “We need a name.”
“Edward Caxton.” Godfrey looked at them in open triumph. “I have suspected him these many days,” he reiterated in case the message got lost. He and he alone had succeeded, had followed his hunches and uncovered the plot.
“Caxton?” The governor frowned. “But he’s a nobody.”
“Or likes to appear so,” Cato said slowly. “You had better begin at the beginning, Channing.”
“He’s a smuggler and, I believe, a wrecker,” Godfrey said, noticing how as one they grimaced at the latter accusation. “I believe he was responsible for the wreck off St. Catherine’s Point the other week.” How sweet this was.
“I wished to take a delivery of cognac for my personal use.” He shrugged boyishly at this admission. It was not a peccadillo anyone would hold against him.
“I knew of a contact in the Anchor in Niton. The innkeeper there. A villain called George. He put me in touch with a fisherman. Or that’s what he said he was. But that fisherman is Edward Caxton.”
“How do you know they are one and the same?” Cato asked, watching him closely. There was something not quite right about Godfrey Channing. An odd brittle wildness.
Godfrey’s voice quavered with exultation as he wove his story. It was coming to him as he spoke, all the details, utterly convincing.
“I recognized him. Last night, at the king’s table. I was watching him and I knew. It was a look he had. I knew it immediately. I went to the Anchor this afternoon to see if I could learn anything. He was in the back room with George. I heard his voice as clearly as I hear yours. It was Caxton’s voice, not the island accents he put on when he was playing the smuggler.”
“As I recall, you said your men had checked Caxton’s background.” Rufus looked at Cato.
“Aye. He and everyone else who hangs around the king. As I said, they could find nothing amiss. He lodges in Newport when he’s on the island.”
“Perhaps he merits further investigation,” Rufus suggested aridly.
Cato nodded. “I’ll put Giles himself onto it. He’ll run the truth to earth if anyone can. The Newport landlady is probably as much a conspirator as the rest of the island.”
“But what of Caxton?” Godfrey leaned forward in his chair. “You’ll arrest him now?”
“Not yet,” Cato answered. “Let’s find out some more about him before we jump.”
Godfrey didn’t like the sound of that, but he was obliged to be satisfied. “Is there anything further I can do, my lords?”
“Just keep your eyes and ears open as you have been doing,” Cato said, giving him a nod of approval.
Godfrey bowed and withdrew.
Olivia listened to the sounds of the children returning from their ride with Portia. It was the usual Decatur babble. They all seemed to talk at once and yet they all seemed to understand each other perfectly. She leaned her head against the chair back and tried to summon the energy to go downstairs, to be her usual self. It seemed impossible.
Would Godfrey Channing have reported what he’d seen on the driveway? Would her father have questions about Anthony? She couldn’t say anything about Brian without revealing what she could not bear to reveal, although if he was on the island her father would want to know it. It was so complicated, all such a muddle. What had started with a dream of entrancement had become a web of half-truths, outright lies, and a swamp of impossible feelings.
If only she had never slipped from the cliff. Never met the pirate
. And yet Olivia knew that she could never wish for that.
Wearily she got to her feet. It was close to six and suppertime, and she could hear her father’s voice in the hall, talking with Rufus. She couldn’t cower in her chamber all evening even if she wanted to. She needed to discover if Godfrey had said anything to her father.
Olivia left her chamber. She heard the voices in the hall more clearly now and reflected on another sign of changing times. Rufus Decatur would eat at Cato Granville’s table. He would not lay his head beneath his roof, although he was happy for his family to do so, but he would break bread with him. Seven years ago he would have killed Granville as readily as Cato would have served him the same. They had made common cause in this war, and their wives had forced them to acknowledge the good in each other. They were not friends exactly, but they respected each other.
Giles Crampton and Portia were in the hall with Cato and Rufus when Olivia came slowly downstairs.
“I would start with the Newport landlady, Giles,” Cato was saying. “See if you can frighten something from her. She must know something. The entire goddamned island knows something that we don’t. Let’s try for a roundup of conspirators. Get as many into the net as you can, and don’t worry too much how good your evidence is. If our man sees his friends threatened, he might make a premature move. Then we can-” He broke off when he saw Olivia on the stairs.
“Ah, there you are. Do you know where Phoebe is?”
Olivia took a second to answer. There was nothing significant in her father’s greeting, but there was an air of grim satisfaction about the three men, a sense of purpose that she knew had eluded them during the last weeks. Unease prickled her spine.
“Do you know where Phoebe is?” Cato repeated. “Portia doesn’t.”
“She went to the village. Isn’t she returned yet?”
“Not according to Bisset.” He frowned. It was growing late and he didn’t want Phoebe roaming the lanes at dusk.
“Giles, before you go to Newport, go into the village and escort Lady Granville home.”