“Wait here,” he ordered.
Gordon stepped out from the warren located on the east side of town. The streets were deserted—most sane people warm and abed at this hour. He crossed the cobbled road, weaving as if drunk, until he stood beneath the tavern’s weathered sign. If all was well, a green bottle would be placed in the eastern gable.
Touching the brim of his hat, Gordon signaled. The bottle was in its place.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Christiana ran across the street.
With its low ceiling, and waddle and pitch Tudor walls, The Eight Bells appeared much as it had during the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Once, its patrons had been respectable. Now, they were smugglers, highwayman, and other dangerous, unsavory people.
A hush fell over the crowded, noisy taproom when they entered. With a nod to Gordon, Christiana walked to a darkened, corner table at the far end of the room. She sat where she could watch both the door into the tavern and another door leading to a private dining room.
Gordon handed her a glass of brandy. “Ye best drink this.”
“Well, well, if’n it ain’t young Christian.”
Shoulders hunched in boyish manner, the glass poised at her lips, Christiana lowered her voice, adapting the persona of the adolescent lad the smugglers believed her to be.
“Go away, Snake.”
Snake Watkins wiped his bulbous, red nose with the back of his hand and cackled like an old woman. “Now, now, surprised to see ye here is all.” He leaned forward, the foul stench of whisky about his face, and sneered. “Ain’t it past yer bedtime, pup? Tryin’ to grow some whiskers, ere ye?”
“SNAKE.”
Blackjack’s resounding bellow startled Snake and made everyone else in the taproom take notice. The Ravens’ leader loomed in the doorway of the private room. His eyes narrowed into hard slits at Snake.
Christiana and Gordon watched Snake slink away, grumbling under his breath.
Murphy, a brawny fisherman and longtime member of the Ravens next approached their table. The deep lines on his face seemed etched with pity. “Blackjack wants to see ye, boy.”
Aware everyone in the taproom watched, Christiana rounded her shoulders and crossed the room to stand before Blackjack. He looked down the great distance between their respective heights, clearly livid at her presence.
“Get in there before I wipe the floor with ye.”
Christiana heard men snicker, a reminder rumors persisted that Christian was Blackjack’s bastard.
Upon entering the small room, she saw a table upon which a virtual feast had been set. In addition to her surprise visit, she’d interrupted Blackjack’s meal. Not a wise move on her part.
He slammed and bolted the door then came to her side.
“Are ye out of yer mind comin’ here on a night like this?” He slapped the three-cornered hat off her head. “A wicked storm is brewin’.”
She retrieved her hat from the floor. “A storm is always brewing in my life.”
Standing behind his chair, beefsteak hands bolstered upon his hips, Blackjack scowled. “Well, what’s so bloody important ye couldn’t wait ‘til our meetin’ at The Green Dragon.”
“The Duke of Pemberton sent a man to the abbey. And this one intends to stay.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Randolph. And he is the most horrid, disagreeable man alive. He is the new steward, and threatened to dismiss everyone less than ten minutes after he arrived.”
“Just how did ye get away from this tyrant?”
“I drugged his ale.”
Blackjack chuckled, a low rumbling sound reminiscent of distant thunder. “Ye drugged his ale?” He made a tsking sound with his tongue. “Where do ye pick up these bad habits?”
She smirked as Blackjack tried unsuccessfully to hide his amusement.
He sat down to resume eating a meal that could easily feed six men, and proceeded to tear a roasted chicken apart as if it were one of Bertie’s freshly baked ginger cakes.
“Tell me more ‘bout this steward,” he said between bites.
“Mr. Randolph has complete charge over the estate. He even has permission to sleep in the duke’s bedchamber. Something odd about that, I think.”
Blackjack shrugged. “Could be a sign Pemberton has no plans to come to Bellewyck. Then again, could be the duke has a fancy of a different sort for the steward.”
Christiana blinked wide-eyed. “Polly did find a pair of pink gloves when she searched his belongings. They were soft pink like a baby’s bottom.”
Blackjack rolled his eyes and downed a tankard of ale. “Lots of dandies in London-town wear pink gloves these days. ‘Tis a sign of fashion, I suspect.” Bestowing a stern, heed-me-well expression, he added, “Listen well. A steward we can handle. A duke is bloody difficult. Now, it matters not to me if this Randolph fancies emerald earbobs and diamond tiaras, don’t ye give him reason to suspect ye or anyone else.”
“You have not met the man, Blackjack. I think he already suspects us. Bertie told me he did nothing but complain at supper, especially about our not having proper china or silver.”
Blackjack wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand. “Most likely, he believed the estate would have such finery. We both know it did once.”
“Even so, why would a steward become so upset we had no wine?”
“P’rhaps he found the ale a trifle bitter tonight, eh?”
Hardly amused, Christiana shook her head. “You are missing the point. Bellewyck is an ale-making estate, and a poor one at that. Why would we have a wine cellar? ‘Tis all we can do to produce the ale.”
She sat, hoping to calm her rising temper. Finding it to no avail, she stood and paced the small room. “I trust my instincts. And this Mr. Randolph disturbs me.”
Blackjack scratched the ebony whiskers of his full beard, many of which were laced with silver. “Ye think Pemberton sent him to spy?”
“I know not what to think.” Realizing her female voice might be heard outside the room, Christiana lowered her tone. “He could be what he claims to be. But the idea of him living at the abbey…watching and questioning us all the time…is unbearable.”
“Has the man accused ye of anythin’?”
“No, but he arrived just this morning.”
Returning to the table, Christiana gripped the back of a chair. “What if Pemberton comes to the abbey? Bellewyck might have said something to that solicitor about the smuggling. We already know he said something about a ward.”
Blackjack ripped a loaf of brown bread apart then used a large chunk to dunk in a bowl of steaming soup. “If Pemberton suspected somethin’, he’d be here now. Not a steward. If ye ask me, Pemberton is bein’ responsible ‘bout his new property. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble.”
“I am not looking for trouble.” Frustration spiraled through her blood with the power of fiery poison. “What am I supposed to do with this man?”
“First off, stop druggin’ his ale. If he’s a drinkin’ man, he’ll start wonderin’ why a mug of ale knocks him flat on his arse.”
“But… if this man is a spy for the duke…if Pemberton finds out—”
“Stop lettin’ yer imagination run away from ye.”
Shivers of fear skittered down her spine, and her heart raced with rising panic that made each breath a challenge. “Let me quit the Ravens, Blackjack. Now, before it is too late.”
“ ‘Tis already too late. Ye know too much.” A sad smile softened the imposing severity of his face. “Do ye remember when ye found me in the grotto? Ye were no more than a babe, scared of comin’ face-to-face with a giant.”
“I was six years old, and you were the one alone—and wounded.”
Blackjack’s thick digits rubbed a brow, bronzed and lined from years of exposure to the elements. “I never should have let ye join the Ravens five years ago. But what’s done is done. I’m sorry, Christi, ye cannot walk away now. No one walks away and lives. We all face the same risks. We all reap the same
rewards. ‘Tis the way it must be, now and always.”
She noted the sincere, gentle regret in his eyes. His words denied her the one thing she wanted, but she nodded with understanding. Blackjack would never harm her, but she couldn’t say the same about the other Ravens. Smugglers had a code by which they lived…and died.
“At least ye have that damn strongbox.”
Christiana scoffed. “For all the good it does me. Pemberton is far too rich, and much too powerful.”
“Keep in mind, this steward could be what he claims to be and nothin’ more.”
“I hope so,” she whispered.
“Give the man the benefit of the doubt, for now.” He refilled his tankard from a pitcher of ale and took another long drink, wiping glistening whiskers with the back of his hand. “Damn good ale, if ye ask me.”
Christiana tried to smile, a feeble attempt at best. “Strange how the choices one makes to survive can become a prison. I have forged walls of iron with no hope for escape.”
A deep growl of a sound seemed to rise from the souls of Blackjack’s feet. “If it’ll make ye feel better, I’ll see what can be found out about this steward in London.”
She rounded the table and kissed his bearded cheek.
The smuggler gruffly cleared his throat. “Enough chatter. Get back to the abbey before ye’re missed.”
With a nod, Christiana went to the door, straightening her greatcoat and the brim of her hat as she walked. She felt like crying or sleeping for a week, unsure which appealed more at the moment. At least she’d found some help tonight. Blackjack would see what could be learned in London about the new steward, and if Mr. Randolph was indeed a spy.
“One more thing,” Blackjack called.
She turned, not knowing what to expect by his flinty expression.
“If I ever see ye in The Eight Bells again, I’ll take a strap to ye.”
The harsh tone of his voice gave her pause. She’d known it had been forbidden for her to come to The Eight Bells. Yet Blackjack had never raised a hand to her or so much as boxed her ears—despite promises to the contrary. He must have seen the question in her eyes for he shook his leonine head and smiled.
“Just promise ye won’t come here again. Ye fool the men as Christian on a midnight run, but ‘tis risky in a well-lit tavern.”
“I promise,” she replied. “You won’t forget to let me know the moment you learn anything about Mr. Randolph?”
Standing, Blackjack came to her side in three strides. His voice was low—almost a whisper—when he spoke. “I’ll keep my word, but watch yer bloody temper. At least make it look like ye’re willin’ to work with the steward. Remember, I’m lookin’ out for ye just as I always have.”
She offered a tremulous smile. “Little good that does me when ‘tis at the abbey where I feel the most danger now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“All men by nature desire to know.”
~ Aristotle
(384-322 BC)
“Where the devil is the woman?”
Standing at the base of the abbey’s staircase, Devlin glanced about the empty Great Hall. In sore need of a shave, his disposition wasn’t fit for civilized company. His neck was so stiff, he could barely move it. Far worse, his head felt as if it weighed a ton, and throbbed with an incessant rhythm.
Movement on the stairs caught his attention. The blonde maid descended carrying a basket. A white ruffled mobcap covered all but a few unruly curls, and made her look almost demure.
“You there,” he called. “Where is the housekeeper?”
“Um, she’s ‘bout some—”
“—where,” Devlin interrupted. “Yes, I have noticed how everyone says the same thing when asked the whereabouts of the housekeeper.”
The maid paused on the bottom step, not venturing a response. Noting the basket of linen resting against her hip, he frowned. “Why do you not use the servant stairs?”
She remained silent, but he caught the flicker of distraction in her eyes. Someone else had entered the hall, someone now approaching behind his back. Before he could react, a hauntingly familiar voice spoke.
“The servant stairs burned down six years ago, Mr. Randolph. Lord Bellewyck never saw fit to replace them and I doubt His Grace, the Duke of Pemberton, will either.”
Devlin clenched his jaw, ready to confront Mrs. Tatum regarding her whereabouts and thinly veiled sarcasm whenever she spoke about him—or rather the Duke of Pemberton. Unfortunately, the moment he turned, all such intentions took flight.
Gone was the filthy chimney sweep and in its place stood a young woman of unadorned beauty. Raven hair glistened, a vibrant blue-black hue set aglow by morning light streaming in from the great stained glass window of the hall. Her pale skin was flawless, the color of ivory or Devonshire cream.
His eyes greedily took in the delicate features comprising a truly unforgettable face. She had a petite and utterly feminine nose, tempting rosebud lips, and radiant, luminescent violet- blue eyes framed by dark lashes that curled in an exotic manner.
Unlike the maid, his housekeeper wore no mobcap. Her hair, neatly braided into a thick coronet on top of her head, exposed a graceful neck and delicate ears that needed no jewelry for adornment. Her black bombazine gown, although better suited for one in mourning, was quite serviceable for a housekeeper. She even wore a ridiculous white apron, crisply starched.
“I believed you much older, madam,” he said.
“Why is that?”
“Why?” He floundered to gather his wits. “Uh, that is to say, I believe Lord Bellewyck’s solicitor, Mr. Higginbotham, mentioned something to the effect—to the Duke of Pemberton.”
“Curious.” Her expression appeared rather baffled. “Then again, Mr. Higginbotham does wear spectacles.”
“Higginbotham is not blind, madam. Spectacles help one see better.”
The housekeeper eyed him suspiciously. “Yes, well, I daresay that is the theory but you cannot prove it by me.”
Distracted by what sounded like giggling, Devlin narrowed his gaze as Polly carried her basket of linens out of the hall. Was the impertinent maid laughing at him? By God, he was in no mood for humor. Indeed, he couldn’t remember feeling more out of sorts—or surly. The only explanation was that he’d caught some ague on his journey, or became foxed last night on Bellewyck’s damnable ale—perhaps both. Nevertheless, the first thing he intended to do was purchase some wine, even if he had to ride as far as Canterbury to do so.
“Mrs. Tatum,”—he rubbed the knot of tension between his eyes—“I have been trying to locate you for hours.”
“Yes, I know.”
Devlin lowered his hand and studied the woman. What the deuce did she mean by that? Had someone told her he’d been looking for her? Had she heard him calling her name and chosen to ignore him? He had the unnerving feeling it might be the latter.
“You were told to meet with me after supper yesterday.”
“Did you sleep in your clothes, Mr. Randolph?”
“What?” Devlin paused at the abrupt change in subject and noticed his wrinkled clothing. “I fell asleep in the Great Room—waiting for your arrival, I might add. Which reminds me, why was no candle left burning in the hall for me?”
“The abbey is quite frugal. As such, we do not waste candles.”
“Frugal, is it? Regardless, I had a devil of a time finding my room when I woke before dawn.”
“You woke before dawn?”
“What?” Peeved to find himself distracted again by her unexpected beauty, his temper bristled and his spine stiffened. “Madam, what difference does it make when I awoke? Henceforth, keep a candle with an appropriate shade burning at all times in the hall…and on the stairs. I am not accustomed to retiring with the sun. I care not about the expense. Besides which, I was under the impression this estate is self-sufficient.”
“Self-sufficient?” She blinked with a wide-eyed, innocent gaze. “Is that what Lord Bellewyck’s solicitor told the Duke of Pe
mberton?”
Determined to stop staring at her like some infatuated youth, Devlin tried to ease the taut muscles in his neck by looking up at the fan-vaulted ceiling. He grimaced when it didn’t help.
“Do you have trouble hearing, Mr. Randolph?”
“No, I do not have trouble hearing.”
“I meant no insult. ‘Tis simply my nature to be curious about a great many things. And, well, you do keep answering what to everything I say. My remark was merely an observation, nothing more.”
Irritated by the woman’s unwavering impertinence and patronizing tone, he approached the housekeeper until they stood toe-to-toe. “You would do well to let me make the observations henceforth, Mrs. Tatum.” He spoke in a deceptively calm voice. “Need I remind you I have the authority to dismiss anyone I consider inefficient or insubordinate?”
The light of rebellion wavered in her eyes. She said nothing, but her plump, pink lips pursed together as if fighting the urge to either kiss him or retaliate with some shrewish retort. She was far too willful, and far too alluring.
Damn the woman.
“Now then,”—he clasped his hands behind his back—“you will show me about the abbey today. After dinner, we will begin reviewing the estate’s accounts. You are responsible for the entries, I believe.”
She nodded without comment.
He was again taken aback with how young she was to hold such a position of responsibility and authority. And where was her husband? Not that it surprised him she was married. A woman as exquisite as his housekeeper would be wed. Then again, perhaps she’d been widowed? A wave of masculine interest swept over him at the notion.
“How old are you?”
A flash of fury sparked in her eyes. “Mr. Randolph, I hardly consider my age any of your business.”
“Ah, but it is.” He made a point to speak in a low, cajoling voice. “His Grace is quite meticulous when it comes to how he likes his properties managed. And since this particular estate is in such appalling disrepair, he may decide to close Bellewyck Abbey.”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 5