Red Sky at Night, Lovers' Delight

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “To meet Lord Hawth. I’m almost sure he’s another government man. They don’t tell us about each other, but he’s turned up mighty pat when there’s been anything doing. Even if not, he’s a magistrate, the obvious man to turn to.” And then, as if sensing her hesitation: “No need for him to know about you. When did he last see you as Kit Warrender?”

  “Ages ago. And only twice. Chris!” She began to see it all. “You arranged that. Set it up. Set me up. Persuaded me to wear your clothes, go with you to the Bell, establish your alias for you. You had it all planned!” And all the risk it involved for her. She had to face that.

  A light dawn wind brushed the side of her face. Above them, in the trees, the birds were beginning to stir. “There’s no more time, Kate.” He avoided the issue. “You’ve got to help me get in touch with Lord Hawth, Tell him you’ve had a message. That I must see him. Alone, in secret, in his study, first thing in the morning. When it’s safe, he must open the door in the panel. I’ll spend the rest of the night in the tunnel.”

  “Suppose Jewkes comes back?”

  “I’ll have to chance it. Besides, he’d have done so by now, if he was going to. It’s almost morning. Kate, I must go.”

  “May I tell mamma?”

  “No. Not unless you want me dead indeed. Tell no one. Not Lord Hawth. Not who I really am. Just say that Kit Warrender wants to see him.” He reached to pull her down and kiss her. “Can you manage, from here?”

  “I’ll have to. But, Chris, when will I see you?”

  “When it’s all over. ‘Not long now,’” he quoted. “And if we all survive. Kate! One more thing. It’s here they mean to land. The French. Here in the bay.” He lifted her down from his horse. “What will you say about Boney?”

  “God knows. But I’ll think of something.”

  “I’m sure you will. And, Kate, be careful. We have to assume they know who you are. Jewkes knows. I’ll do my best to convince him you’re no danger to him, but, meanwhile, be careful.”

  “Trust me, I will! And you too, Chris. If we should lose you again …”

  “I take a lot of drowning.” He swung into the saddle and rode swiftly and silently away through the trees.

  Left, alone, Kate made herself think only of what was most urgent. Boney. Aching in every limb, she dragged herself to the stable and opened the main door and that of his box. The grooms could make what they would of it in the morning.

  It was almost morning now. Streaks of light, to the east, beyond the park, where Glinde lay, spoke of day beginning to break. It would only be a few hours before Betty knocked on her door with her hot water. Safe in her room at last, she made herself write a quick note to Lord Hawth, dropped her clothes anyhow into the chest, fell into bed and was asleep.

  Lord Hawth had sat up late over a bottle of burgundy and the estate records, which Knowles had left in chaos. His temper had not been improved by a timid visit from his daughter Susan, who had tried, for some extraordinary reason, to persuade him to pay a late call on Mrs. Warrender. Some nonsense about Miss Warrender having gone home unhappy that afternoon … about suggesting that she should join the children on their afternoon rides. Of all the absurdities. Did the child seriously think that she could make him her messenger? And to Miss Warrender of all people. He had refused, ungraciously, he thought afterwards, and had thought, too, afterwards, that Susan had perhaps been trying to make him behave like a father.

  He had gone to bed in a very bad temper, slept little in consequence and been justifiably furious when he was waked at what seemed like crack of dawn by a terrified servant.

  “What in the devil’s name?” He sat up angrily in bed.

  “It’s a message, my lord. Urgent. From Miss Warrender.”

  Urgent? From Miss Warrender? Hell’s teeth, had she changed her mind and chosen this extraordinary means of telling him so? If she had, she should learn her mistake, and fast. Marry her indeed! Had he ever really wanted to? He opened the note as the frightened servant drew the curtains and let in a stream of morning sunshine. It was short and to the point. “My lord. I have had a message from Kit Warrender. He asks to see you urgently and in secret, on a matter of life and death. He is awaiting you now, in the secret passage. When you are alone in your study, and the doors locked, summon him, and he will explain.” It was signed, without periphrasis, “Kate Warrender.”

  Urgent! Secret! Secret passage, even! A message from melodrama. He crumpled it angrily in his hand, then thought again. “You!” The servant had been hovering nervously.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Hot water at once. Breakfast in ten minutes. In the study. For two.”

  “Yes, my lord.” And then, greatly daring, “My lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Spinton is not up yet.”

  “To hell with Spinton. Do you think I can’t dress myself, idiot?”

  Fifteen minutes later he entered his study at the unprecedented hour of nine o’clock and waited impatiently while a couple of footmen produced a lavish meal that did credit to Mrs. Warrender’s training of the chef. Dismissing the servants, he locked the study door and moved over to open the panel. “Good morning, Mr. Warrender. You are an early caller.”

  “My apologies,” Warrender looked exhausted and, perhaps because of this, Hawth thought, a good deal older than when they had last met. He stepped down from the tunnel entrance and Hawth saw that he was stiff with fatigue and cold.

  “Here, man, come to the fire. You’re frozen!” He half filled a cup with coffee, added a generous dram of brandy and passed it to his guest. “I trust you don’t dislike brandy as much as you do claret.”

  “Claret? Oh, no,” said Warrender vaguely. “Forgive me. I’ve had a night of it.”

  “And are starving, no doubt. I always seem to be giving you meals at odd hours, but I can offer you a decent piece of steak this time.” He was investigating covered dishes. “Or some ham and eggs?”

  “Both, thanks,” said Warrender. “You’re right. I’ll make better sense when I’ve had something to eat. I came back from France last night, sick as a dog all the way always am. You’re saving my life.” He had finished the first cup of fortified coffee and handed it mutely over for replenishment. “Perhaps the brandy separately this time?” This was a man, not the boy Hawth remembered.

  “France?” he said. If, as young Warrender’s words suggested, he had been dangerously to and fro from there all winter, it was no wonder it had aged him. “What news from France?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” He paused to deal with a large piece, of steak and spoke inelegantly round it. “D’you know Mr. Smith?”

  “Mr. Smith?” Hawth had been pouring brandy into a glass, now paused and looked thoughtfully at his guest. “Which Mr. Smith, pray?”

  “Mr. Smith at the Home Office. Oh, he might call himself something else when he talks to you. He’s a man of many names, and, I suspect, several faces. He employed me. The face I know is sallow, with an old fashioned tie wig, but I saw him once at the opera looking ten years younger, with his own hair, cut in a crop.”

  “You are observant, Mr. Warrender.”

  “A man needs to be in my line of business.”

  “And that is?”

  “Spying.” Defiantly. “As, I would think, you must have guessed.”

  “It did seem likely. And, yes, I asked some questions, after I had the pleasure of meeting you last year, and was told to mind my own business.”

  “Good.” Food and brandy between them were bringing colour back to young Warrender’s cheeks. “You knew where to ask. So you are the man I need.”

  “Let us assume so.” Lord Hawth helped himself to a modest portion of ham and eggs. “And proceed without delay to the discussion of just why you need me. The news from France, of course?”

  “Yes. I speak French.”

  “I congratulate you.”

  “You don’t understand!” Colouring angrily, he looked more like the boy Hawth remembered. “I went
as one of their emissaries.”

  “Their?”

  “The revolutionaries. I heard more than I was meant to. It’s not just revolution, my lord, as they think. Even General Ludd’s been fooled there. Bonaparte plans to invade while the country’s in chaos.”

  “Indeed,” said Lord Hawth. “You interest me vastly. Tell me more, my friend, and have some more to eat.”

  “Thank you.” Still wolfing his food, Warrender detailed the revealing phrases he had overheard and understood.

  His host watched, and listened, and said at last, “So, first revolution, then invasion. And the landing here, in the bay.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve told your friends, the revolutionaries?”

  “No!” He had been careful to say nothing to suggest that he had ever thought of throwing in his lot with theirs, and this question shook him. “I came straight to you.”

  “I am flattered. But, in fact, by way of Miss Warrender. What does she know of all this?”

  “My cousin? Why, nothing, of course. A woman …” He had said nothing to betray his real identity, or suggest the existence of two Kit Warrenders.

  “A devoted woman,” said Hawth dryly. “You got back from France last night, you say? And I was roused at what I still consider a barbarous hour by her note? A romantic rendezvous, Mr. Warrender? What a melodramatic life you lead, to be sure. You will think me quite Gothic, I have no doubt, but I cannot say I quite like to think of my children’s governess keeping midnight assignations, even with the most romantic of cousins. I think I must have a word with Miss Warrender.”

  “Oh, no.” Now the young man looked very young indeed. “It’s not like that at all, my lord. Forgive me, I can’t explain. Not my secret.”

  “Then, of course, I must not ask about it. Besides,” said Hawth to his guest’s heartfelt relief, “we have more urgent matters to consider, have we not? Miss Warrender can wait. I will take your news to London today. I think I can find your Mr. Smith, or someone else who will do as well. But, tell me, what is the signal?”

  “That’s what nobody knows. No one but the General.”

  “And you are to see him tonight or tomorrow. Do you think he will tell you?”

  “I doubt it,” said Warrender. “He keeps his own counsel.”

  “Wise man. Can I give you a little more steak? No? Then I think we should put an end to this agreeable occasion. But first, how will I get in touch if I should need you?”

  “I could come back.” He gestured towards the tunnel entrance.

  “Do you know, I would much rather not. You will think me odd, no doubt, but I have it in mind to have that panel nailed up. But there must be someone with whom I can leave a message. Miss Warrender, perhaps?”

  “No! I tell you, she must be kept out of this.”

  “I incline to agree with you. Well, then?”

  The young man threw out his hands in a helpless gesture. “I have played a lone hand, my lord.”

  “Wise. But at this point, inconvenient. I have it! George Warren. He has said several times since you saved his life last autumn that he would like to meet you again. You are kin, I suppose, after a fashion. I leave it to you to think of a pretext for getting in touch with him that will satsify your revolutionary friends. Call there tomorrow, or better still, today, renew his acquaintance for his servants’ benefit, and arrange to keep in touch.”

  “He can be trusted?”

  “Yes. I’ll see him this morning, on my way to London. Warn him to expect you. And now—” he rose courteously to his feet—“I dislike hurrying you, but I think …”

  “Yes.” He picked up his hat and greatcoat. “My lord?”

  “Yes?”

  “You do not wish me to come back here?”

  “No.” But was that what the young man had first meant to say? Watching the panel close behind him, Lord Hawth stood thinking for a few minutes, then unlocked the door, rang the bell and proceeded to give a volley of orders.

  * * *

  Arriving late because Kate had overslept, the Warrender ladies met him in the hall. “Thank you for your message.” He did not sound grateful as he glared down at Kate. “I am leaving at once for London. But before I go, I should perhaps warn you that I have given orders for the panel in the study to be nailed up. You will keep no more assignations with that cousin of yours there.”

  “Assignations? I?”

  “Nor anywhere else, if you wish to remain in my employment. Ma’am—” his tone softened as he turned to Mrs. Warrender—“may I have your word that you will not admit Kit Warrender to your house?”

  “Admit Kit Warrender? But, my lord—”

  “No time for argument. I trust you ma’am.” And with that and a curt bow he turned on his heel and left them.

  “What in the world?” Mrs. Warrender turned to Kate, who was still gazing furiously at the closed front door.

  “He must be mad.” Kate made her escape to the nursery wing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Miss Warrender’s horse? In my stables?” George Warren, too, had been roused early by an agitated servant.

  “Loose in the yard. Barnes swears he locked up as usual last night, but the gate’s ajar this morning.” Chilver was sweating with anxiety, and, incredibly, his waistcoat was buttoned awry. “I’ve made bold to send a message to the Dower House, sir.”

  “Quite right. They will be anxious. Thank God, I paid a late call on Mrs. Warrender yesterday. Miss Warrender was there, so at least we know she is safe.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Chilver woodenly. “The horse has a man’s saddle.”

  “Borrowed by the smugglers! Of course. Oh, well, it’s not the first time, and I suppose it won’t be the last.”

  “It was moonlight, sir.”

  “Yes, that’s odd.” George Warren had learned a great deal about the smugglers’ habits during the winter. “But can you think of any other explanation, Chilver? Why are you looking so anxious, man?”

  “I’ll be glad when the boy comes back,” said the butler.

  “You didn’t send back the horse?”

  “He’s dead lame. Thrown out a splint, Barnes thinks.”

  “Oh, poor Miss Warrender. Tell Barnes to look out something we can lend her.”

  “Yes, sir.” But Chilver’s expression did not lighten.

  “What’s the matter with you, man? I’ve told you Miss Warrender was at home last night! And you go on looking as if we were about to attend her funeral.” But however incomprehensible, the man’s obvious anxiety was catching. He threw off the bedclothes. “Send me my man, and order breakfast in ten minutes. I’ll ride over myself.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It was what Chilver had wanted.

  But George Warren found he could not eat his kidneys and bacon. Chilver loved the Warrenders. Chilver had been anxious beyond concealment. Something was very wrong indeed. But what? He made himself drink coffee, without tasting it. Miss. Warrender had been out of sorts yesterday, had almost quarrelled with him, and had then withdrawn to leave him alone with her mother. Which, surely, was what he had wanted?

  Was it? He drank more coffee and found with disgust that he had put cream, in it. What was the matter with him today? Absurd to have let Chilver infect him with his own ridiculous fancies. Miss Warrender’s horse had been borrowed and lamed by the smugglers. That was all there was to it. He gave up the pretence of eating breakfast and strode out to the stables to look at Boney himself.

  “Not so much a splint,” Barnes had decided. “More it looks as if someone had took and fetched him a blow on purpose.”

  “But why in the world do that?”

  “To spite Miss Kate, mebbe?” His face showed that he regretted the words as he spoke them.

  “Who in the world would wish to do that? But at least the hock should mend?”

  “Oh, yes. Poultices for a day or two, and old Boney will be good as ever.” He ran an affectionate hand down the horse’s spine. “Good to have the old warhorse ba
ck in the yard.”

  “Warhorse?”

  “He was Mr. Christopher’s, sir, first of all. He rode him with the Volunteers. Miss Kate, she only took to riding him after poor Mr. Chris was drowned.”

  “I didn’t know. Fetch out my hack, Barnes. I’m riding over to the Dower House to tell Miss Kate not to worry, and offer to mount her in the meantime. What have we she could ride?”

  “Miss Kate, she can ride most anything, sir,” said Barnes.

  Warren met Lord Hawth’s curricle where the lane forked for Glinde. After the inevitable exchange of surprised greetings, since both of them were up impossibly early for anything but a day with the Glinde harriers, Warren put the question that plagued him. “Is all well at the Dower House?”

  “Since they heard you had Miss Warrender’s horse? Yes.”

  “Damn that boy.” Warren’s exclamation concealed a surge of relief. Fool to have let Chilver infect him with his absurd fears. “He was supposed to come straight back!”

  “He’s Parsons’ nephew,” said Hawth, as if that explained everything. “I was coming to see you. Can you spare me a moment? If you are on your way to the Dower House, I should tell you that the Warrender ladies are already at the hall.”

  “Stupid of me,” said George Warren. “Naturally, they would be. But where are you off to?”

  “London. A word with you first? Walk the horses, Bob.” He handed the reins to his man and jumped lightly down from the high perch of the curricle. “In private.”

  “Yes?” Warren dismounted, looped the reins over his arm and walked beside Hawth, a little way back down the lane towards his own house. “You’re sure all’s well at the Dower House?” he asked, when they were out of earshot of the boy.

  “God knows,” said Hawth. “Something’s afoot, and no mistake. Miss Warrender’s keeping assignations with that cousin of hers, Kit Warrender.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Warren’s hand reached for a weapon that was not there. “You’ll withdraw that, my lord!”

  “I wish I could. I don’t much like it myself. My children’s governess.”

  “My cousin!”

  “Devil take your cousinship.” And then, recognising that Warren’s rage matched his: “I’m sorry. You’re right. I apologise. No right to speak of a young lady, member of your family, like that. But I’m plagued beyond permission! I need your help, George.”