The Honourable Earl

by Mary Nichols

  Rockets fizzed and flared into the sky and burst into myriad dancing lights in red, yellow and green before falling to earth leaving a pall of smoke and an acrid smell. The display ended with a set piece, a mock-up of a castle with imitation guns sticking out from every embrasure, which were detonated in a single flash, and the guns popped and sent cascades of starry brilliance upwards, illuminating the castle in an eerie glow.

  The spectators let out a combined sigh as the lights died and everywhere was once again in darkness. And then they applauded and shouted huzzah as footmen went round with mulled wine and cakes. It was almost an anticlimax after that as everyone went back indoors, cloaks and hats were found and carriages called to the door.

  ‘Where is Annabelle?’ Anne asked Lydia, as Ralph stood at the door to bid each of his guests goodnight.

  ‘I don’t know. She was standing beside me in the garden, but then she disappeared.’

  They turned to search her out among the departing guests. Lord and Lady Baverstock were approaching and beside them a red-faced, scowling Peregrine. They passed Lydia and her mother without speaking, said goodnight to the Earl and went out to their carriage.

  Two minutes later, Annabelle appeared. She had little to say as they stood and waited for the remainder of the guests to depart. Lydia wanted to be gone but she knew she would have to go through the ritual of saying goodnight to their host and she did not know how she was going to go through with it. He spoke to her mother, lavished her with praise for her part in making the evening the success it had been, teased Annabelle a little and nodded curtly to Sir Arthur, who was smiling broadly, almost triumphantly.

  ‘We shall expect you for the nuptials in two weeks’ time, my lord,’ Sir Arthur said.

  ‘Wild horses wouldn’t keep me away.’ He turned to Lydia, took her hand in his and put it to his lips. ‘Miss Fostyn, goodnight.’ That was all. Nothing more.

  She almost choked as she hurried down the steps and clambered unaided into the carriage. By the time the others had joined her, she had composed herself. As they bowled away down the drive she risked a look behind her through the rear window. Ralph Latimer was standing outlined by the light behind him, watching them go.

  Chapter Seven

  Lydia dreamed of the duel that night. It was a strange and disturbing dream because not only was she present, but so was her mother and the old Earl and Sir Arthur clothed in gold. Everyone was arguing and shouting, waving their arms about. Duels were supposed to be silent affairs, weren’t they? They should be sombre, as befitted an occasion when one person was intent on killing another, not a noisy debate. The real protagonists stood slightly apart, watching those they loved arguing the rights and wrongs of it, as if it had been taken out of their hands.

  She wanted to join in, but found she had no voice; she was simply an onlooker forced to watch by the man at her side, the man in gold who held her wrist in a grip so tight that she could not move. Her brother looked old, almost as old as her father, when she knew perfectly well he was only seventeen, and Ralph, whom she had, until this dreadful night, always thought of as a friend, was a giant, towering over everyone else, his face so dark that she could see nothing of it but the eyes, glowing like twin fires. The arguing suddenly stopped, the two young men paced out the ground and turned and raised their pistols.

  In her dream Lydia watched as Ralph slowly lifted the hand that held the gun and pointed it at Freddie, who did nothing, made no move to raise his own weapon. Then that hateful man slowly turned away from her brother towards her father. She tried to shout ‘No!’ but no words came. Then he turned again, facing her, pointing the gun at her. She could not breathe, could not free herself from the man who held her. Mesmerised by the gun, she could not take her eyes off it. Ralph laughed; he was going to shoot her dead. There was a loud bang and at the same instant she felt Sir Arthur’s grip on her slacken as he crumpled to the ground.

  The shock of it woke her and she sat up in bed, shaking uncontrollably. It had been so real, like a scene from a macabre play. She dare not lie down again and, wrapping herself in a robe, went to the window to gaze out on the cloudy night. What had it meant? Why was Sir Arthur there, dressed in gold when everyone else was in black? Why was her mother there? And the old Earl? Why had Ralph Latimer shot Sir Arthur? By doing so, he had released her.

  It was wishful thinking, she told herself firmly, because only the death of one or the other of them would free her from Sir Arthur now. And because there had been so much talk about the duel recently, coupled with the return of Ralph and the rumours about her mother, her sleeping brain had conjured up the dream, allowed her father to live and made Ralph Latimer her saviour, a situation which could not possibly come to pass.

  Something else had happened last night. She had heard men plotting, whispering in the dark, whispering of boats and searching the shore. Or had that been part of her nightmare too? But she had not dreamed that coat and the bundle in its pocket, a bundle the man she had overheard was determined to find. Who was he?

  How long had she slept? She did not know. The nightmare had woken her so thoroughly there was no question of going back to sleep. She rose and went to the window, drew back the curtains and stood looking out on the quiet countryside. There were a few ragged clouds scudding across the sky, hiding the moon, which every now and then peeped out and bathed the garden in its silvery light. To her left were the dark woods, while in front and to the right, the marshes gave way to the shore. She could not see the beach which was down below the dunes, but she could just glimpse the sea on the horizon. She smiled to herself, remembering Freddie’s talk of lights at night, Freddie her beloved brother who had crept out of the house to see what was going on.

  Without stopping to consider what she was doing or its consequences, she rose and lit a candle, then went to her bedroom door, opening it a chink and listening. There was no sound; nothing and nobody stirred. She crept along to the room which her mother always kept ready for her son’s return. In the closet she found breeches and a shirt and coat in a warm brown fustian which Freddie had worn when out on the marshes shooting ducks. She took them back to her own room and put them on.

  She was a little smaller than her brother had been, but that was a good thing; the looseness of the coat concealed her curves. The breeches she pulled on over her own stockings and tightened a belt about her waist, pushed her feet into her walking boots and went to the mirror to comb her hair back from her face as tightly as she could, before cramming it under her brother’s old tricorne hat. She had no idea if she looked like a boy or not, but the clothes would certainly help her to move about more easily.

  In the kitchen she picked up a knife and put it in her belt before letting herself quietly out of the door. It made her feel more masculine and in command of events, which was silly considering she would never have the courage to use it. She slipped out of the outer kitchen door, closing it softly behind her, and in a matter of minutes was skirting the Earl of Blackwater’s woods. They were dark and eerie, silent as the grave except for the soughing of the wind in the tops of the trees and her own ragged breathing. She had not consciously been heading for the hovel, but she found herself approaching it furtively. It was in complete darkness.

  She shivered and turned away. Leaving the woods to the ghosts who inhabited it, she made for the shore, but the familiar paths were not visible in the dark and several times she found herself up to her knees in water. She must be mad, she told herself. What was she doing here? What was she hoping to achieve? How could wandering about in the dark cure her ills? She could drown, her body could disappear without trace and her mother would have one more sorrow to bear. She should go home.

  She had been looking at the ground, carefully picking her way, but now she lifted her head to return and it was then she saw the light out to sea. There was one flash, followed after an interval by two more and though she waited, there was no answering signal from the shore, though it might have been hidden round the headland.
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  She felt a prickling sensation in the back of her neck as if she were being watched. Her feet were squelching in her shoes and her heart was thumping so loudly she thought the men on that vessel out to sea must be able to hear it. She was torn between an inclination to run and find safety at home and curiosity about who the smugglers were and what it was they were smuggling. Curiosity won and she moved forward, trying to be as silent as possible for surely there were others on the shore waiting, as she waited.

  Having safely negotiated the marshes, she made for the nearest dune which would provide cover. The next minute she was thrown to the ground and someone big and heavy was sitting on her, holding her arms down each side of her head. A shriek of surprise and fear was forced from her as she struggled to free herself. Her hat fell off and her hair spread itself over her shoulders in a dark cloud.

  ‘Who the devil are you?’ her attacker demanded, removing the knife from her belt.

  ‘There’s no law says you can’t take a walk on the beach, is there?’ she retorted breathlessly, relieved to have recognised the voice; it belonged to Robert Dent. ‘But there is a law against smuggling.’

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘Some young jackanapes thinking to join in?’

  ‘If you like. Now let me get up.’

  ‘And have you give the game away? Oh, no, my lad. You’ll stay where I can keep an eye on you…’ The moon came out from a cloud and he saw her clearly for the first time. ‘Lydia Fostyn, by all that’s holy!’ He scrambled off her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m out for a walk.’ She sat up and tried to brush the sand from her clothes.

  ‘In the middle of the night? And why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘I needed to clear my head, too much champagne, you know, and I am not used to it. You, on the other hand, are accustomed to drink deep, so you have no such excuse for wandering abroad at dead of night.’

  He did not see fit to explain his presence, but stood up and reached out his hand to help her to her feet. ‘I believe you are still a little disguised,’ he said and she laughed at his unintentional pun which only served to confirm his diagnosis. He reached down and picked up her hat, knocking it against his leg to remove some of the sand before handing it to her, together with the kitchen knife. ‘You know, you could hurt someone with that.’

  ‘It was only for self-defence.’

  ‘Then I am mightily glad I took you by surprise.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t think I could have used it.’

  ‘Not in cold blood, perhaps, but in a struggle to save your life I think you might. Go home, Miss Fostyn, stay out of harm’s way.’

  ‘So there is danger.’

  ‘The only danger on this beach is you,’ he said, with a low chuckle. ‘Now, let me take you home.’

  ‘Don’t you have to answer that signal?’

  ‘What signal?’

  ‘I am not a fool, Mr Dent. I have seen the light out to sea and the hovel in the woods…’ She decided not to mention the packet she had found.

  ‘Miss Fostyn, I strongly advise you not to meddle.’

  ‘And miss the fun?’

  ‘There is no fun and you could be hurt. These are desperate men.’

  ‘Oh, surely not? They are only a handful of villagers bringing in a little contraband. Where’s the harm in that?’

  ‘None, so long as that is all they are doing. Now, be off home with you. And take care to stay on the path.’

  They were standing close together, almost touching, silhouetted against the lighter sky above the horizon. Ralph saw them quite plainly from his position on the track above the dunes, though he could not identify them. He saw the smaller of the two bid the other goodbye and walk towards him. He ducked out of sight behind a windblown bush and watched.

  The figure passed within two feet of his hiding place and he almost gasped aloud.

  She was dressed as a boy, but there was no mistaking the russet tresses and rounded curves of Miss Lydia Fostyn. In spite of her protestations she really was in league with the smugglers. He was tempted to confront her, to demand that she tell him what she knew. Did she, for instance, know there was more to what was going on than a few cases of wine and brandy? But she appeared to be leaving the scene, sent home by the man she had met. Did that mean she was a courier, a taker of messages?

  He half wished he had not come out, but he had been unable to sleep for the thoughts that whirled round in his head. The ball had probably been a success if all he meant to do was put an end to the rumours and establish himself where he belonged in the community, but as for the feud between the Latimers and the Fostyns, he was not so sure.

  Mrs Fostyn had never blamed him, he knew that now, and she had been grateful when he had given her back those letters, admitting to her he had read some of them and wished he had not. They were too private and he had felt like an intruder in sorrows which had happened so long ago. But Lydia was different. He had been no nearer reaching an understanding with her at the end of the evening than at the beginning. Why was he even trying? She still loathed him.

  He had turned back indoors after seeing everyone off the premises and gone back to the ballroom. There were empty glasses everywhere, fading flowers and drooping greenery. There was even mud on the floor, walked into the room on the shoes of those returning from the garden. Servants had been extinguishing the lights and piling up the debris. ‘Leave it until tomorrow,’ he said and they had scuttled thankfully away.

  He had stood in the darkened room for a moment, looking out on the drive. Sir Arthur’s carriage had long since disappeared. He could not see the dower house because it was screened by trees, but he could imagine Lydia at home there, saying goodnight to her mother and sister and preparing for bed, taking off that lovely gown, having her beautiful hair brushed, climbing between the sheets and he wished he were there with her, part of her life. Would she sleep well? Would he? He sighed and left the room shutting the door behind him.

  Reluctant to go to bed himself, he stood on the half-landing, looking out on the marshes, home of seabirds, eels, oysters and crabs, a grand place for scavenging schoolboys. And smugglers. Almost as if he had conjured them up, he spotted the light out to sea. It had winked once, then twice, and then gone out.

  He had run to his room, stripped off his black suit and dressed in the nondescript clothes he had worn on another such occasion and set out for the hovel in the woods, intending to wait until the smugglers arrived with their booty and he could catch them on his land. There had been no sign of them, but he had seen the boy making his way furtively along the path towards the shore and he had followed.

  Only it was not a boy, but the girl who was constantly in his thoughts. He had believed her assertion that she knew nothing about the smugglers because he had wanted to believe it, but how could he deny the evidence of his own eyes? He let her pass, waiting for bigger fish. But the man she had been talking to had disappeared among the dunes and though he watched another hour, becoming increasingly colder, there were no more signals.

  He supposed she had warned them off and there would be no landing tonight. But he was not beaten; the smugglers would not give up, they still had to deliver their cargo if they wanted their money and he would be ready for them.

  He stirred his cramped limbs and went home, furious with Lydia for frustrating him. Lydia Fostyn, young, beautiful, contrary, defiant, a thorn in his flesh, so deeply embedded he did not know how to rid himself of it. Having her arrested with all the others might serve. He knew, even as the thought entered his head, he could not do it. Somehow he must make sure she was safe before he made a move.

  Lydia did not wake until noon and then she did not feel as though she had slept at all, though Janet assured her she had been so deeply slumberous she had been unable to rouse her at her usual hour and Mrs Fostyn had said to leave her be. Watching Janet busying herself about the room, tidying scattered clothing, Lydia hoped all the evidence of her night’s excursion had been safe
ly stowed away in Freddie’s room.

  ‘My, Miss Lydia, how did your boots come to be so wet and muddy?’ the maid exclaimed, picking them up from the corner where Lydia had kicked them off.

  ‘I went walking yesterday afternoon,’ Lydia said quickly.

  ‘Did you? And why didn’t you leave the boots in the kitchen to be cleaned as you usually do?’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘Seems to me you haven’t got your mind on anything these days, Miss Lydia. Excitement, I suppose, for that is what your mama told Sir Arthur when he arrived not half an hour since.’

  Lydia sat up with a jerk. ‘Sir Arthur is here?’

  ‘No, he left when your mama said she would not disturb you.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sank back on the pillows. ‘I think I will go back to sleep.’

  ‘Mr Dent has called too. I heard him tell the mistress he was afraid you were unwell last night and he came to see how you did. I think he is waiting for you to appear for he has settled himself in the best armchair and is drinking all the claret. I think your mama needs rescuing from him. And the Earl of Blackwater left his card and said he would come back later.’

  ‘The Earl! What does he want?’

  ‘I am sure I do not know,’ Janet said huffily. She was usually privy to everything that went on in the Fostyn household and the huffiness was due to the fact that this time she had been kept in the dark.

  ‘I had better dress and put in an appearance,’ Lydia said, swinging her legs out of bed. ‘Fetch me the yellow stripe, will you? And see what you can do with my hair.’

  ‘It looks as though a bird has been nesting in it,’ Janet said bluntly as she took the brush to the girl’s dark tresses. ‘You must have tossed and turned all night. No wonder you look so pale.’

  ‘Do I? Then I shall put a little of Mama’s rouge on my cheeks.’

  Twenty minutes later she was dropping a curtsy to Robert Dent, resplendent in a red coat with an enormous collar and huge pocket flaps, who had risen to greet her.