Sandra Heath

by The Haunting of Henrietta

  “Russell and I think the same. Distasteful as it is, we concede that someone in the neighborhood is either a French sympathizer or is simply prepared to help in return for payment.” Charlotte sighed. “It’s all so frustrating, because Uncle Joseph almost captured the Légère when he was in the Caribbean two years ago. Would that he had succeeded! I received a letter just before Christmas. He’s in the Mediterranean now, in command of a ship of the line.” Charlotte’s voice glowed with pride, for Rear Admiral Sir Joseph Harman was a brilliant naval officer.

  Suddenly Henrietta heard a faint rhythmic clunking, splashing sound from somewhere out on the water. For a moment she couldn’t think what it was, but then Charlotte heard too. “Do I hear oars?” she gasped.

  The two women glanced uneasily at each other, and then looked out at the bay again. Gradually they perceived a dark shape about a hundred yards off the harbor mouth. A two-masted sloop was being hauled in by two gigs, one behind the other, each crewed by about half a dozen men.

  Kit began to draw his sword in readiness. “Damn me, if I’m about to let Johnny Frog set foot on British soil!” he declared heroically.

  Jane put a hand on his sleeve. “I think you may put your sword away. If the Légère had to risk daylight because of the channel, she’s hardly likely to come in the dark!”

  Charlotte’s grip on Henrietta’s arm began to relax. “She’s much smaller than the Légère, and by her white masts I’d say she’s British.”

  Suddenly there was a burst of light as a rocket soared high into the sky. It was followed by another and another, brilliant flashes of red, orange, crimson, and blue that illuminated the hitherto inky night. Charlotte laughed incredulously. “Fireworks! We are being treated to a display of New Year fireworks!” More rockets flew skyward, and the ballroom emptied as the guests poured onto the terrace to see what was happening.

  The vessel was inched into the safety of the encircling sea walls, and all the time there were fireworks. Girandoles glittered, Chinese fire danced, tourbillions whirled, and pretty golden sparks cascaded like a molten cataract into the water. In the scintillating light, the sloop was revealed as an elegant craft with sumptuous gilding and highly polished brassware. Also visible was the proud Union Jack on her mainmast.

  There were exclamations of delight and much applause as everyone pushed forward to get the best view possible. Henrietta was forced against the balustrade, and her heart began to pound as she glanced over the black precipice. The lapping of the waves far below seemed suddenly louder, and her senses swam unpleasantly as she felt a strange urge to throw herself over the edge.

  If she had but known it, the urge was of Old Nick’s doing. Hell’s dark master was unable to resist the opportunity to destroy the ghosts’ plan, but as he concentrated still more, meaning to turn the urge into a compulsion, Henrietta found the strength to pull away from the balustrade. As she did so, someone gave her a harsh shove. She cried out as she lost her balance, and her fan fell into the yawning darkness below, but then two people caught her, Charlotte from the right, and a second or so later Amabel Renchester from the left. They ushered her, trembling and frightened, out of the crush toward a stone bench set against the wall of the abbey.

  Old Nick was livid. Henrietta had caught him off guard by resisting the urge he’d caused, and was in the act of stepping back from the edge at the very moment his agent acted. It was humiliating for hell’s master to know he had no one but himself to blame for the botch! Well, it was a salutary lesson; in future he wouldn’t intervene on impulse. His only consolation was that St. Peter’s back had been turned at the relevant moment. Dark with anger and embarrassment, he retreated to his vile abode.

  Sensing nothing of Old Nick’s brief intrusion, Jane and Kit emerged hesitantly onto the terrace. They hadn’t been able to see or hear what had happened because of the crowd of guests, but were aware that something terrible had almost befallen Henrietta. Jane was particularly concerned; after all, Henrietta was her blood relation, as well as her double. They kept out of sight but within earshot as Henrietta was coaxed to sit down on the bench.

  Charlotte joined her, a reassuring arm around her shoulder, and Amabel crouched in front. The widowed Mrs. Renchester was one of the few guests who’d taken the precaution of putting on a warm cloak before venturing out into the cold night, and her hood had been raised, but now it fell back to reveal her heart-shaped face. She was lovely, with rich brown hair and wide green eyes that were large with disquiet. “Oh, Henrietta, are you all right? I saw you suddenly lurch forward! Whatever happened?”

  From the moment she spoke, Jane became deeply uneasy about her. What had Charlotte said earlier? A whiff of sulfur? Yes, that was the perfect phrase for Amabel Renchester.

  Henrietta closed her eyes as her senses reeled again. “Someone pushed into me. It was such a jolt I almost thought it was deliberate. It couldn’t have been, of course, but for a moment I was very frightened indeed.”

  “I’m sure I would have been as well.” Amabel squeezed her left hand, and then looked down as she felt the heavy betrothal ring. “Poor Lord Sutherton would be most distressed if he knew how in the wars you’ve been today.”

  Charlotte didn’t approve of her words. “Amabel, Henrietta has almost fallen to her death twice today, on both occasions over high cliffs, so I hardly think in the wars is an appropriate phrase, do you?” she said coolly.

  Jane’s disquiet about Amabel had increased by the second. There was something about her that sent a cold shiver down the ghost’s spine. Maybe it was the veiled malice shimmering in the widow’s lovely eyes.

  Amabel released Henrietta’s hand. “I—I think I’ll go back inside, it’s rather too cold for me out here,” she said, straightening. Her cloak parted slightly so that the spangles on her jonquil satin gown glimmered as another cluster of rockets soared dazzlingly overhead. Her heavy peridot earrings flashed in the moving light as she gave a rather embarrassed smile, and then gathered up her cloak to hurry back through the cloisters.

  Henrietta’s accusing eyes swung to Charlotte. “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

  “She doesn’t make me feel nice.”

  “Even so—”

  “Henrietta, if you wish us to quarrel after all, then do pray continue in your role as defense counsel for Amabel Renchester.”

  Henrietta said no more, and after a moment got up to return to the balustrade. She chose a quiet spot close to one of Russell’s cannons, and Charlotte joined her. Lanterns and smoking torches now bobbed along the town quay, and shouts carried audibly on the still night air as the men of Mulborough lit beacon bonfires on the harbor walls. The sloop dropped anchor and was suddenly revealed more clearly by a particularly spectacular burst of fireworks.

  Charlotte bit her lip and glanced at Henrietta. “Oh dear, I’m afraid it’s the Avalon. You’re going to have to face Marcus Fitzpaine after all.”

  Dismayed, Henrietta gazed down at the beautiful sloop. Yes, it had to be Marcus. Sailing was very much the thing in the highest social circles, but few gentlemen possessed vessels of such size and luxury.

  Jane and Kit were now hiding behind the cannon, and Jane was suddenly alert. The new vessel belonged to the dastardly Marquess of Rothwell, who had pursued Henrietta in order to win a wager? The ghost’s lips pursed pensively. Henrietta had also described Kit as a perfect likeness of the marquess, and Jane was sure that anyone who resembled Kit could not possibly be bad! Sensible Charlotte believed Marcus Fitzpaine incapable of ignominy. What if she was right, and the absent Lord Sutherton had lied in order to win Henrietta—or rather, her fortune—for himself? Jane’s eyes began to gleam schemingly. “Kit, I do believe our bridegroom may be at hand.”

  Kit was startled. “The marquess! Oh, but surely—”

  “Come on, let us visit the harbor and see if he comes ashore. We’ll soon be able to make up our minds.” Without further ado, and keeping well out of sight of the two young women by the cannon, the ghosts hastened through t
he gathering of guests and then down the steps to the exposed, grassy cliff top toward the wooded valley, where the crumbling icehouse stood among the winter trees.

  Behind them on the terrace, Charlotte’s husband hurried to join her and Henrietta. He was a generation older than his wife, and of medium height, with a figure that had thickened only a little with the passage of years. His graying hair receded at the temples, and he had gentle brown eyes that never failed to soften with adoration whenever he gazed at his young wife. Like the other gentlemen present, he was dressed in a black evening coat and white breeches. “It’s Marcus!” he cried delightedly, before remembering his wife’s delicate condition. “My dearest, you shouldn’t be out in the cold—” he began.

  Charlotte interrupted. “Russell, I’m perfectly all right.”

  “Yes, but you’re only in your satin slippers!”

  “I promise to go in right away. Now, look to your duties. Shouldn’t you be going down to the quay to meet Marcus?”

  “Eh? Oh, yes, I suppose I should. I’ll ride and take a second mount with me. I do hope he intends to stay, for he is excellent company.”

  Chapter Five

  It was snowing heavily once more as the ghosts descended Mulborough’s steep, winding streets toward the quay, which had changed little since medieval times. They found almost the entire town at the waterside to watch the Avalon’s fireworks. The falling snow obscured some of the display, but enough could be seen for there to be cries of delight, especially from those children fortunate enough to be allowed to leave their beds. Eyes shone with excitement and breath stood out in frozen clouds as the townsfolk enjoyed the unexpected entertainment, but at last the final rocket burst colorfully overhead. Darkness descended, except for a few lanterns and torches, and the dimly visible beacon fires at the harbor mouth.

  Most of the crowd began to disperse to their warm homes, but some remained to see if anyone grand came ashore. From the glimpses of gilded paintwork, they did not doubt that the sloop was a very exclusive private vessel, and some even wondered if the Prince Regent himself had arrived in Mulborough in the middle of the night. There were sounds from the sloop, voices, and then once again the rhythmic rumble and splash of oars. Gradually the dim glow of a small lantern grew brighter, and as it drew near the ghosts saw it was fixed to the prow of one of the gigs that had hauled the Avalon into the harbor. Carrying torches, men from the town hastened down some stone steps set against the quay, and one of them challenged the occupants of the boat to identify themselves. “Who comes ashore?”

  A tall cloaked man in the stem of the gig rose to his feet. “I am the Marquess of Rothwell, and a loyal Englishman! Will Mulborough deny me hospitality?”

  “You are most welcome, my lord!”

  The oars were shipped as the gig came alongside, and Marcus Fitzpaine stepped lightly ashore. Snowflakes swirled around him, clinging to his hat and cloak, but his face remained in shadow in spite of the torches.

  For Jane, the closeness of the water was daunting, especially since the steps were the very ones down which she and Kit had hurried to board the Wessex, but she bravely pushed Rowley into Kit’s unwilling arms and descended to take a much closer look at the marquess. The first thing of which she approved was his height, for that was what had first drawn her attention to Kit. His breath was silver in the uncertain light as he turned to converse briefly with the pigtailed sailors in the gig, but then he removed his top hat to push his hair back from his face, and she stared in astonishment, for Henrietta was right, he was Kit to a T!

  Oh, and how deliciously attractive this twin was, the phantom thought as she inspected him from every angle. His features were strong, yet possessed that faint air of vulnerability that still affected her in Kit. His smiles could break hearts, she thought, and his memorable blue eyes were capable of the sort of subtle warmth that could caress a woman with a glance. He was half Viking, half romantic, and the ghost could see only too well why Henrietta Courtenay had been tempted from the straight and narrow. Marcus Fitzpaine exuded an exhilarating air of danger and forbidden excitement, but was he a heartless rogue? Jane wasn’t sure. Kit she could read chapter and verse, but there was part of this man that was closed to her, hidden pages in a totally absorbing volume.

  One of the Mulborough men handed him a torch, then they withdrew up the steps and dispersed to their homes. The rowing boat shoved off to return to the Avalon, and at the same moment there came the clatter of hoofbeats on the quay as Russell arrived. He tethered his horses to an iron hoop set into the wall of the custom house, then hastened to the steps. He grinned as he saw Marcus at the bottom with the torch. “How now, sir, is it not a little ostentatious to arrive in such a blaze of lights!”

  Marcus turned with a grin and the flicker of the flame leaped over his face. “One should always sing for one’s supper!”

  “And one should usually take the precaution of requesting a pilot. The channel has changed, you know.” Russell’s long greatcoat brushed the snowy steps as he came down to join him.

  “The channel can move wherever it pleases. At high tide the Avalon’s shallow draft will always see her safely into this particular harbor.”

  Russell removed his glove to shake Marcus warmly by the hand. “It’s good to see you, my friend, but why arrive at such an hour?”

  “Tides and French privateers allow no quarter.”

  For Jane his words conjured the groan of breaking timbers, then the thunderous roar of the incoming tide as it sped hungrily across sands that were gray in the fading light of dusk ...

  Russell looked intently at Marcus. “French privateer? The Légère, perchance?”

  “The amount of sail she carried would suggest so.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Near Hurdle Point an hour before dusk yesterday. She had the weather gauge, and might possibly have overhauled us if we hadn’t taken refuge in water too shallow for her.” Marcus searched Russell’s face in the uncertain light of the torch. “Surely you haven’t had dealings with the Légère? This must be one of the safest harbors on the entire east coast!”

  Russell related what had happened, and when he’d finished, Marcus nodded. “Her captain is audacious, I’ll grant him that. I was close enough to see his damned face when I crossed his path in the Caribbean about two years ago. He hoisted a red flag without a second thought, and if Charlotte’s uncle hadn’t happened along in the nick of time, well, I wouldn’t be here to speak of it. Anyway, at the moment the Légère is many miles away to the north, so the good people of Mulborough can certainly rest easy in their beds tonight.” Marcus’ eyes rested shrewdly upon the older man. “What haven’t you told me?” he asked.

  Russell briefly related the same facts that Charlotte had earlier told Henrietta, and finished. “I’ve ridden up to St. Tydfa’s several times since Christmas Eve, but have seen nothing, not even the Mulborough bogle.”

  Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Treasury gold, bogles, and French spies sending signals? I was expecting my sojourn at Mulborough Abbey to be quiet!” Suddenly he turned sharply toward Jane, as if he knew she was there, but to her relief he clearly saw nothing.

  “What is it?” Russell asked uneasily.

  “I’m not really sure, I just had the strangest feeling someone was behind me.”

  “Imagination, dear boy.” Russell gave a nervous laugh.

  “In abundance, it would seem.” Marcus looked at him again. “How is Charlotte taking all this?”

  “Stoically.”

  “I trust she’s blossoming well?”

  Russell nodded. “She’s never looked lovelier, and is becoming impatient for the great day to come. I was about to write to you, actually, for it would please me greatly if you would be a godparent.”

  Marcus returned the grin. “I’ll be honored.”

  “I trust I’ll one day soon be able to return the compliment. By the way, what exactly does bring you here? I was under the impression you were staying on with your Scottish relativ
es until March.”

  “I just felt like making my way home to Kent.”

  Jane could tell this wasn’t the truth, and wondered what his real reason could be.

  “Surely Bramnells is closed for the winter?” Russell replied, thinking of Marcus’ vast ancestral estate high on the cliffs near the town of Deal.

  “Closed, but not unaired.”

  “I trust that doesn’t mean your stay with us is only going to be an overnight affair?”

  “I thought a week or so, if that’s all right?”

  “You know it is.” Russell hesitated. “Actually, there’s one thing you should know. Henrietta Courtenay is here.”

  “Really?”

  To Jane’s disappointment, Marcus seemed unmoved. She wanted a reaction, any reaction, just to show he wasn’t indifferent.

  Russell cleared his throat. “You’re bound to see a great deal of her. Everyone else leaves in the morning, but she’s staying on until sometime in February, when she has to be in London for her cousin’s wedding.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Yes, but will she?”

  “That is a question only the future Lady Sutherton can answer, but I doubt my presence will impinge greatly upon her, er, sensitivity.”

  Russell was curious. “May I be inquisitive?”

  “Would it make any difference if I said no?”

  “Not really,” Russell admitted disarmingly. “It’s just that I can’t help wondering what happened between you two. I mean, I know this damned foolish family feud has been going for centuries, but even so—”

  “Only one century,” Marcus corrected him.

  “Very well, one century.”

  “There’s nothing between Henrietta Courtenay and me; indeed I hardly know her.”

  Jane’s hopes were dashed. Had Marcus affected to stifle a yawn, he could not have been more lukewarm.

  Russell persisted. “All I know is that Henrietta’s opinion of you is apparently most detrimental, not that she has ever elaborated on anything, of course.”