Ravenstone (Book 1, The Ravenstone Chronicles)

by Louise Franklin

  “Would you return the cargo to me, if I told you?”

  She smiled sweetly. “You take me for easy prey, Mr. Gordon, but I must disappoint you.”

  “I see. What is it that you do want?”

  “Why, I thought that obvious. I want to be your partner in this wonderful financial enterprise. It is quite lucrative, I understand.”

  Again, he vaulted from the chair, his face angry, but this time he refrained from moving in her direction.

  “Are you mad?” he said, his voice raised.

  “Unfortunately, that does seem to be the consensus,” she said sadly.

  He paced the room, glaring at her when he passed, as he tried to find a way to escape the situation.

  “You are a crippled woman,” he said mockingly. “How do you propose to be my equal in a dangerous undertaking that could get you killed?”

  “You think it impossible then?” she asked.

  “Clearly,” he yelled.

  “And yet this crippled woman absconded with your contraband.”

  He stopped pacing and glared at her, thoroughly annoyed.

  “You think this a joke?” he breathed.

  “No, Mr. Gordon. I take you quite seriously, I truly do. For a man, you have managed to surprise me and that is hard to do, believe me.”

  He stared at her a moment completely at a loss, then his expression slowly transformed and he began to laugh. He laughed and sat back down in his chair for support, as he seemed suddenly unable to stop laughing.

  She was not sure what to make of this, but he was probably entitled to behave somewhat strangely, given the circumstances. He had only that morning realized all his contraband was missing. When his little spies had informed him that they had discovered it in her cellar, he had probably imagined many bad ends to his life. The stress may have affected not only his judgment but also his emotional balance. She waited for him to regain control. He finally sat still in his chair, slumped and drained of emotion.

  Rubbing his face with his hand, he sat up straighter and fixed his clothes, then reached for his teacup again. He took a few sips and studied her and she smiled at him kindly.

  “You are an unusual sort of woman, Lady Fairchild.”

  “You pay me a fine compliment,” she said.

  “What if I refuse?” he asked. “I could just take the loss and start again somewhere else.”

  “You could,” she allowed. “But it would take some time before you were able to find a new position as vicar elsewhere. Then you would have to spend more time deciding whom to trust again, where to find your buyers and who the men were that you would have to pay to turn a blind eye. My guess is this could all take two, maybe three, years to arrange. I have it on good authority the war will be over by then and French brandy will once again flow freely into our fine country.”

  He said nothing, but she could see by his tightly clenched jaw that she had hit her mark.

  “I, on the other hand, would have my first cargo already safe on land and ready to distribute to London. With the ruins and the tunnel, I will have an already well-used route and I’ll soon find who you deal with because whoever he is, he is like you, a businessman, and he will deal with me when he sees my money.”

  “You are a bitch,” he said, his eyes blazing.

  The word took her by surprise. No one had ever called her that before. She forced herself not to look away from his anger. If she was going to do this, she had to get used to much more than simple slander.

  “Mr. Gordon, just make sure you do not forget it, and we will get along just fine.”

  She seemed to win some small point with him, for he looked away, his mind working in another direction.

  “I won’t give you half,” he said finally.

  “Why not? That is what the word partner implies.”

  “Maybe so, yet I have set up this route and the buyers and my men will be doing the work. I pay off the excise men, and I am taking all the risk. The only thing you contribute is the use of the estate.”

  “The risk we share, for were the contraband to be found on my property, I would be the one arrested, not you. I will contribute men to help with the cargo and also to make sure you keep your side of our agreement. I will also keep your greatest threat, a Major Price, from discovering who you are for he seems most interested in you. As he poses a severe danger, I should really be receiving the lion’s share, but I am willing to overlook that.”

  This would be the dangerous part, she knew, and she would have to play it carefully.

  “I don’t need your protection.”

  “Do you not?”

  Mr. Gordon leaned forward and in an even tone said, “What makes you think I won’t just kill you?”

  He meant to only scare her, she hoped, but still she could feel the fear inside her begin to grow.

  “Despite your unusual way of spending your leisure time, I think you believe most of what you preach, Mr. Gordon, and you do not strike me as a man comfortable with the idea of spending eternity in hell for murder. I could be wrong, but that is the chance I take. Suffice it to say, were I to meet an unfortunate end, I will be sure to save you a seat in hell.”

  He smiled and she felt herself relax a little.

  “Now, as a sign of good faith, you will have to reveal Mr. Madden’s whereabouts.”

  “Why do you want him so badly?”

  “As you say, Exodus 20 versus 15. Thou shalt not steal. Mr. Madden has stolen from me in the most flagrant of terms.”

  He laughed and gave her the address, then she rang a small bell that stood on the table beside her, and Dixon arrived.

  “Would you please send for Peter,” she asked Dixon. She needed to get to Mr. Madden before the vicar had time to warn him, if indeed he had given her the correct address.

  He left to do his errand, and she turned to Mr. Gordon. “Your contraband will be returned tonight. Will you take some cake?”

  “Most generous of you,” he said and relaxed into his chair and she poured him another cup of tea to go with his cake.

  “Now that we have dealt with business, we can move on to more pleasant conversation,” she smiled.

  They spoke of the weather and the coming ball at Evansgate. He had not heard of any coming engagement.

  ***

  Georgiana looked at the wig in the mirror, trying to decide if blond had been the right choice for her. She turned her head one way, then the other. She had piled the long strands into a fashionable chignon and threaded it with pearls. It had taken her long hours to perfect, and frustrated at one point, she had thrown the wig across the room. Having retrieved the hairpiece, she had started again and finally achieved a semblance of the illustration she had found in a copy of Monde Elegant, which her mother had left in her room on her last visit. Harriet would have been able to achieve the same in twenty minutes but nobody must know that she would be attending the Evansgate ball.

  She opened a jar of Pearl’s white bloom foundation powder, and with a light brush applied it to her face. Her skin was tanned because she spent so much time riding around the estate, and she took no time to protect her complexion. The powder paled her complexion to a fashionable shade. Next, she used a pencil to apply a black paste to her eyelid, holding her breath and concentrating so as to stop her hand from shaking. At the end, she made a slight curve up, and sat back to look at the effect. Then she did the other side.

  Her eyelashes also received a dark color and her eyebrows she lightened with a white paste. Some Pearl’s rose pink blush for her cheeks and red lip rouge for her lips completed the picture. She sat studying her image, not recognizing herself at all, and smiled. It was perfect.

  She stood and quickly dressed in the elaborate silver and white creation she had had sent from London. The hem was slightly too short and the bodice was a little tight but she had not been able to ask anyone to help her pin the necessary changes. The result was that her bosom seemed bigger and slightly more exposed than she would have wished, but it wo
uld have to do. She slipped her feet into delicate white slippers and tied the ribbons around her ankles. Her black mask with white peacock feathers was last. She fitted it over her face and tied it carefully to make sure it could not be easily removed. She looked at herself in the mirror and was stunned by the beauty she saw.

  She used to enjoy dressing up for the balls she had attended when she first came out. In this, she was like every other woman. She loved beautiful clothes and jewelry and perfume. Perfume. She had almost forgotten.

  She returned to her dressing table and found the last box she had to open. She untied the rose ribbon and opened the lavender box. Inside was a small delicate bottle of fine glass. Carefully she removed it from its silk bed and pulled the glass stopper out. She inhaled the delicate scent of orange blossoms and jasmine. Heaven would smell like this, she decided, and then applied some to her wrists, the hollow of her neck and behind her ears.

  She found her black velvet cloak, and then listened carefully at the door. She blew out her candles and exited into the dark, silent hallway. She used the servant’s staircase and crept down the stairs and out the kitchen door.

  She hurried along the path toward the back gate. She found the carriage standing under the great oak, just off the road. Harry sat on top, holding the reins, while Peter quieted the four black horses. She slipped quietly from the shadows.

  “Hello, boys,” she smiled. “All ready?”

  Peter and Harry pulled their own masks on, and she adjusted Peter’s cravat. He looked smart in his black pantaloons and jacket. The mask gave him the look of a mysterious young gentleman, or maybe a highwayman. Harry looked equally sparkling and impressive. He tipped his hat at her, and flashed his usual cheeky grin as she passed to see the horses.

  “Was it difficult leaving the stables with all this?” she asked.

  “The bottle of rum worked,” Peter said.

  She inspected the horses, paying attention to their previous white markings. They were now concealed with a black paste. She had bought the black geldings specifically for the white markings on their legs and faces. Now they were all a uniform black.

  Peter opened the door for her and she got into the carriage, then Harry cracked the whip and they set off. She sat in the coach trying not to feel nervous but her mouth was dry and her stomach felt sour. She wondered if this was how soldiers felt before they went into battle. It was madness, she knew. Pure insanity. She had tried for days to talk herself out of her willfulness, but in the end, the compulsion had won out. Now here she sat on her way to a ball to which she was not invited.

  She was going because she wanted to go to a ball. She wanted to dance, drink champagne and flirt, all of which she had been denied because of her father. She wanted for one night to be without responsibility. She also wanted to attend because they had not invited her. Just one night to be someone else. The temptation was too great. Nobody would know. She would stay a while, then leave before the unveiling. She could not risk someone recognizing her without her mask. It was harmless fun, she told herself.

  Evansgate Hall was situated inland, miles from the sea. It was an imposing three-story Elizabethan building of white Portland stone, with a monumental portico decorating the entrance. Nestled in a valley of open fields with a wooded area to the north, the drive to the portico was lit up and coaches were pulling up and waiting for their turn. She forced herself to relax.

  All too soon, it was her turn to alight. Peter climbed down from his post and opened the door for her, letting down the steps. Then her white-gloved hand was in his, and he led her down and onto the gravel of the drive. She smiled as she passed him and he gave her a nod, then she walked the short distance to the stairs and up them, holding her dress. In the grand foyer that she remembered so well from her childhood, a servant took her coat and she was expected to follow those in front of her to the reception line. She asked the location of the ladies’ water closet, and a servant directed her toward the other end of the house.

  After the servant departed, she slipped out and made her own way back but took a different route through some family rooms and a library before she finally opened a door onto the grand ballroom, jubilant that she had so easily managed to avoid being introduced. She found herself on the second floor balcony looking down onto the dance floor below, remembering how she had learned to dance there alongside Nicholas’s sister. Her memories suddenly were flooded with images of her life at Evansgate, the only time in her life she could remember without pain.

  An orchestra played a piece she thought might be Bach. There were no dancers on the floor as the dancing had not yet been opened. The ballroom was crowded with guests who stood in groups, admiring each other’s finery and masks. The room had been beautifully decorated with flowers and the center chandelier sparkled.

  She studied those present trying to see if she recognized anyone. First, she saw Lydia, who looked lovely dressed in a formal yellow ball gown. She stood next to her mother, who was much shorter and rounder and seemed to be insisting on something as Lydia nodded and listened. Her brother Robert stood next to them, looking bored. Both Lydia and Robert wore masks but she had recognized them easily.

  It terrified her to think she could be recognized just as easily despite her best efforts. It took her longer to find Caroline and Dorothea and she only did so because she saw Lord Kingston. Like many of the older guests, he was not wearing a mask.

  She studied the man talking to Dorothea. His formal black tailcoat and white shirt were fashionable, and it wasn’t until he turned his head that she realized it was Mr. Gordon. She supposed that the shape of his mouth gave him away because she never would have credited the vicar with such fashionable clothes. He spoke and Dorothea listened intently.

  She had seen him only two nights ago as he and Peter led the rest of their crew down through the tunnel to the beach where they waited for three small dagger boats to arrive out of the darkness. On board were small tubs, two tied together, which allowed them to be carried over the shoulder up the tunnel. After many trips up and down, Georgiana had been exhausted but was able to find her way in the dark, having stumbled through every part of it.

  Mr. Gordon had paid the agent, who then returned to the cutter waiting a few miles off shore. Then the vicar had paid his crew five shillings each, while Peter paid his boys, including her. They would move the contraband out by packhorse soon. Every man working for Mr. Gordon also worked for her on the estate. She had kept her cap pulled down low and her mouth shut. It had been her second midnight excursion and no one had seen beyond her disguise. Having Peter take charge allowed her to melt into the background and go unnoticed.

  Now she hoped she could accomplish the same feat dressed in the height of fashion in a well-lit room. She gazed toward the entrance where the reception line had grown shorter as the last few guests arrived. Nicholas stood in the entrance to the ballroom, greeting his guests. He wore a dark blue tailcoat and white pantaloons, silk stockings and a fashionable high collar. His thick blond hair was perfectly arranged.

  He was a tall figure compared to his sister, Emily, who was acting the hostess for the evening. She was also dressed in blue, her light curls arranged atop her head and threaded with sparkling jewels. She had about her a haughty air, a disdain she seemed to have been born with. Even as a little girl, she had found it beneath her to run about outside.

  She turned from Emily back to Nicholas, and inhaled sharply when she found his eyes on her. Her first instinct was to move behind the pillar beside her, but she knew this would only arouse his curiosity more. Instead, she met his gaze for a moment, and then looked away, feigning boredom, and trying to imitate his sister who had perfected the attitude. She dared not glance at him again, but instead moved down the stairs and into the throng of guests, hoping to get lost amidst the crowd.

  She found her way to a table and lifted a glass of champagne to her lips, then turned toward the dance floor only to see in front of her a white shirt, blue tailcoat and a well-tied c
ravat. She lifted her eyes to his face, wondering if her game was up before it had even begun. She saw no shock or anger in the depths of his eyes behind the mask, and lowered the glass from her lips.

  “I don’t believe we have met, madam,” he said and smiled charmingly. “I would have remembered.”

  A part of her was angered by his interest in her, a woman he did not know to be her, and a part of her was amused and relieved that her disguise fooled even him. If Nicholas did not recognize her, no one would.

  “I thought the point of a masquerade ball was to be mysterious,” she said, keeping her voice unnaturally low, as she had practiced. It sounded strange to her ears but he didn’t seem to notice its unnatural timbre.

  He reached past her for a glass of champagne, his body far closer to her than good manners dictated. His arm brushed hers and she wanted to hit him, not because he was taking liberties but because he, Nicholas Markham, who had vowed undying love to her, was openly flirting with a complete stranger whose name he did not even know. How dare he!

  She felt sorry for Caroline if indeed they were to be engaged this night. He was a rogue. How quickly his undying love seemed to have vanished at the sight of another pretty face. Men were all the same, debauched and depraved numbskulls, incapable of a serious expression or thought that would last.

  “Then we are to remain strangers until midnight,” he said as she moved slightly away from him without drawing attention.

  She smiled and lowered her gaze coyly, not trusting herself to avoid glaring daggers at him.

  “What am I to call you until then?”

  “You can call me Madam M.”

  “I trust you will save a dance for me.”

  She nodded, her gaze still on the impressively clean floor pattern. She had no intention of dancing with the swine. Emily glided gracefully to his side.

  “Who could you be talking to?” she said, her as voice high-strung as her personality.

  “I would introduce you except I have no knowledge of this young lady’s identity. She is determined to remain incognito.”