Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2)

by Pearl Darling

  Harriet stared out across the parkland. “I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. What had Kean said? …words are powerful, but ultimately they mean nothing unless accompanied by actions.

  She had the consummate actor next to her. What had he said to her since he had been back—what if it was true that I had killed a man, many men…of course you can call me James, that’s who I am…I don’t feel much like a Lord anyway…I am attracted to you, god knows why…Harriet you don’t know me, you don’t know what I need.

  He’d played her like a marionette. Made her feel sorry for him, allowed her into his privileged world, let her call him James, fluffed up her ego by admitting that he was attracted to her, cut her down to size by letting her know she wasn’t what he needed which only made her want him more. Harriet choked. Yes, it had been in the back of her mind all the time she had been in London. How she would make the grand entrance back into Brambridge, how she would say look, here I am, I am everything you need.

  But how could she compete with a house? Harriet grasped the balustrade. Her stomach lurched.

  Gazing down at the floor, Harriet ran into the house and to her room.

  Harriet spent the rest of the afternoon in her room. She only emerged when it was time for the other guests to arrive. In fact, she was not quite sure how she managed to get through the evening’s entertainments. She was lucky that James stayed away. Or at the very least, stayed out of her near radius. Lady Colchester had invited a very interesting group of people. People who didn’t seem to make Lord Anglethorpe very happy.

  Harriet wrapped her gown around her more carefully and poked at the banked fire in the kitchen. The cooks were long gone for the evening. Lord Anglethorpe had given them the night off; an unusual move on a night of a house party. She toyed with a slice of bread she had found in the larder. It tasted stale. Propping it against the fire, she hoped it would toast gently. It was a just punishment for not eating lunch.

  Freddie limped down the steps into the kitchen and, picking up the piece of bread, bit at it. “Nice of them to leave us something to eat,” he said cheerfully. “Could have done with some jam and butter.”

  “The answer is no, Lord Lassiter,” Harriet said. She was tired of the diplomacy, the shilly shallying. She had no time now for higher sensibilities and bloody romance in the soul. That was part of her past.

  “No what?” Freddie asked, surprised. He sat down at the table and took another bite out of the bread. “No I can’t eat the bread?”

  “No.” Harriet thumped the table in frustration. Freddie put the bread down on the table carefully. Harriet shook her head. “Not that. No I won’t marry you.”

  “Oh! Thank God.” Freddie picked the bread up and bit into it. “Not thank God that I can have the piece of bread,” he said hurriedly between chews. It didn’t make Harriet feel any better. “But thank God you won’t marry me. Was beginning to think you were going soft on me.”

  Harriet frowned. “But you have escorted me everywhere.”

  Freddie dropped the last piece of bread on the table with a grimace. “Hmm. Yes look, you see. You are a very good-looking woman.”

  Harriet tried to feel better. After all she had never wanted Freddie anyway. But she had the distinct impression that if she hadn’t put her oar in first then Freddie would have done it for her.

  “And you have been very useful to have around, especially as it is matchmaking season.”

  “You mean to protect you from all those other women?”

  Freddie nodded vigorously and, licking a finger, swept up the crumbs from the table. “It’s Mama, you see. She won’t let up, always harping on about finding a good woman. What do I need with one of those at this time of my life? I’m too busy having fun.”

  “The Pink Canary Club,” Harriet said slowly, raising her eyebrows.

  Freddie looked away at the fire. “They do a jolly good show,” he mumbled. He took a deep breath and looked back at her. “Besides, when I saw how much you enjoyed theatre I wanted to run a mile. I don’t need an emotional baggage cluttering up my life. God knows, Willson takes up too much room anyway.”

  Harriet gave a choke of laughter. She had only met Willson the once. It was an ever lasting impression.

  Freddie inhaled deeply and smiled. “I do, however, know someone that definitely needs some emotion in his life.”

  “Lord Anglethorpe you mean?” Harriet shook her head. “I do hope he and my aunt see eye to eye at some point.”

  “Hmm. I rather think they have a few more problems than just pure attraction,” Freddie said slowly. “No. I was referring to James.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. Have you seen the way he looks at you intently when you are in the room, the way he can’t focus on anything else?”

  No. She hadn’t. Her last impression of him was of the hard piercing quality of his green eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter about that. He doesn’t want me. He just wants that bloody house.”

  Freddie tapped a slim finger against the table and cocked his head slightly. “He did.”

  “He’s a fool,” Harriet snapped.

  Freddie looked back into the fire. “Did you know his father?”

  Harriet shook her head. “Not well. I always ran away when he was around. He was a… formidable man.” He’d also given Harriet the shivers.

  “Have you asked James about his father?”

  “No, of course not. Why should I?”

  Freddie remained silent. Suddenly he stood, scraping his chair back. He held up a hand. “Hsst. Someone’s coming.”

  Harriet froze.

  The backdoor to the kitchen opened cautiously. The orange glow of the fire lit up a slim figure with absurdly large boots. Lifting up their feet, they attempted to tip toe into the room, but their boot landed with a thump on the stone tiles.

  “Fiddlesticks.”

  Harriet frowned. “Agatha?” she asked tentatively.

  The figure came closer to reveal the shape of her aunt. “Oh hello, Harriet, Lord Lassiter.”

  Freddie grunted. Agatha stood in front of the fire. Steam rose from her clothes. What on earth had she been doing?

  “What have you been doing?” Freddie asked, echoing Harriet’s thoughts.

  Agatha waved an arm airily. “Oh just a bit of stargazing.”

  Harriet stared at Agatha as she shuffled her boots. Was that a small smile on her aunt’s face? “Oh, stargazing,” she said flatly.

  God help her, she was jealous.

  CHAPTER 30

  She hadn’t kicked him in the shins. He’d been waiting for it. But instead Harriet had run past James as if the hounds of hell were after her.

  At least if she’d kicked him he’d have known that he might have some chance of saving himself. Of getting her to listen. But this time it was very bad indeed.

  James shifted in the long grass. He’d spent the early evening nestled in the bracken, watching the activities along the coastline. But it really felt like he had spent most of it with his telescope pinned on Harriet’s room. He could see her just, her feet at the end of the bed. Occasionally she got up and paced backwards and forth, but then she would lie down again.

  It was as if she had lost all of her spirit, that joie de vivre that made his own self feel alive.

  He’d done that to her. He had to get her to understand that he loved her. One thing James knew for sure as he lay in the cold, wet grass, was that he would not be able to live without her.

  What had she used to say when they were younger as he hauled her kicking and screaming from yet another scrape?

  James, you have no romance in your soul.

  “I’ve found it,” James murmured into the grass. “And it’s you, Harriet.”

  Taking the telescope away from his face, he rested his head on his hands. “For God’s sake.” He still hadn’t managed to deal with Melissa. She didn’t know that she wasn’t Maria. Perhaps she did by now. He’d done the honorable thing though. He’d gone straight t
o Brambridge House when he arrived.

  But she wouldn’t see him.

  Mrs. Sumner had cornered him in the hallway. She had shouted something about breach of promise. What did he care? He wasn’t going to marry the girl. Especially now he knew that she wasn’t Marie Mompesson. It had only been on her mother’s say so that he had thought she was—

  “How long have you been in grass, lad?”

  James rolled to the side and scissored his legs with a kick. The man standing behind him fell like a sack of potatoes. Pulling out his dagger, he kneeled in one quick movement and held his dagger to the neck of man that had surprised him.

  “I see they trained you well.” The man turned his head, uncaring of the knife close to his throat. In the moonlight, his prominent nose stood out against the grass. He looked just like a hawk.

  Bloody hell. Lord Anglethorpe.

  Slowly James drew his knife away from Lord Anglethorpe’s neck. “You,” he said slowly. Sheathing his knife, he shook his head and stared again at the birdlike profile of Lord Anglethorpe’s shadowy figure. “The Hawk. I should have known. Bill and Renard said that they had seen you. They were all too familiar with you. And yet I had never met you.” James took a crouching step backwards and hunkered down into the long grass again. For a long moment the two men stared at each other.

  “We had to meet sometime.” Lord Anglethorpe brushed at his clothes, and pulled a dark hat down more fully over his blond hair. “I just didn’t think that you would be the one to have me under surveillance.” He nodded to the telescope in James’ hand.

  “Not you,” James said dully. “Harriet.”

  “Oh.” Lord Anglethorpe looked back at Berale Manor. “I understand,” he said with a sigh.

  James sat up straighter. “Escape to France you said.” He glared at Lord Anglethorpe. “Renard. You planned everything from the beginning.”

  Lord Anglethorpe nodded. “Lord Granwich had had word of you and your captainship of the Rocket. He asked me to keep an eye on you. We never thought that you would become one of the most valued scouts on the Peninsular, nor one of the most fearless.”

  James pulled at his dagger again, half unsheathing it. “That customs man… you didn’t—”

  “—kill him just to draw you in? Of course not.” Lord Anglethorpe frowned. “It was unfortunate. Fortunate for us, of course.”

  “Ha. Not so much for me.”

  “No. But it got you away from your father.”

  James pushed down on the hilt of his dagger and sighed. “Easy to see the positives since it was two years ago.”

  Lord Anglethorpe put a hand beneath him and pushed himself into a crouch. “I must go. I’m meeting someone.” He turned to look James in the eye. “Have you found out who has been killing the men? Drawing attention to our activities?”

  James shook his head. “I’ve been out here every night.”

  Lord Anglethorpe made a fist with his hand. “It’s got to stop. We must find who it is. The situation on the continent is like a powder keg. The only place I can reliably bring in information is through Brambridge. If you don’t find out soon, I’m going to have to set up somewhere else.”

  “This is the last time, Hawk.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This is the last time I do anything for you. You, my dead father, anyone. You’ve all had a hold on me for a lifetime. It has to stop.”

  Lord Anglethorpe smiled. “Finally,” he said, straightening at the knees. “I had almost given up on you.” He took a step towards the beach path then stopped and turned. “Finish this last job and then stop everything.” Glancing back to Berale Manor, he frowned. “Attend to your foremost needs first. The invitation is there, to continue in my employ for as long as you wish, and of your own free will.” Lord Anglethorpe blinked three times in quick succession and then started to walk away. “I know what it is to have one’s priorities change almost overnight,” he threw over his shoulder.

  James stared after the retreating figure. Why had he too looked so forlornly at the house? He rolled onto his front and pulled out his telescope again. The light in Harriet’s room had gone out. It was time for him to go to bed himself.

  As he pulled the telescope away from his eye, a gleam of light appeared in the bushes of the formal gardens beyond the terrace of Berale House. Cursing under his breath, James put the telescope back to his eye. The light had gone out. Had he imagined it? Gently rotating the tubes of the telescope, he focused intently on the bushes. A light wind ruffled the leaves. Swinging the telescope a half inch to the left, James focused on the ground around the bushes. The moonlight projected the patchy shadows of the undergrowth. He smiled. Whoever was hiding there had thought that the bushes would hide him, but he had thought without the light of the moon. His tall figure was projected in an elongated solid shadow across the ground, a sharp contrast to the dappled shadows of the leaves.

  Moving the telescope carefully back to the bushes, James squinted slightly, crouched, and refocused the lenses again. A patch of the undergrowth gleamed in the moonlight. He shook his head. Didn’t the fool know that even with dark auburn hair, the mere traces of oil would reflect the light? James rocked back on his heels. What on earth was the man doing on Lord Anglethorpe’s property? This was not the first time he’d seen him through his telescope—it was at least the second. James frowned. And there had been a third time when he had been watching someone else. And a fourth time when a thistle had been put under Scorpius’ saddle. Gods, he’d even been there when the first customs man had died. It was even on a night like this he’d seen him meeting with Mrs. Sumner, the woman who had professed to be related to Marie Mompesson.

  James hunched his shoulders. He could start planning now. He had a good idea who was behind it all. It wasn’t about the spy network. It was about him, James.

  He just didn’t have any idea of why Edgar was doing it.

  CHAPTER 31

  He wouldn’t see her. Why wouldn’t he see her? Didn’t he want his house? Harriet stood at the edge of the Royal Academy gallery and bunched her dress in her hands with tight fingers. She’d waited for James. For a week after the house party in Brambridge. She’d delayed their departure, telling her aunt it was so that she could see her friends, start the rehearsals for the Romeo and Juliet again. After all, Granger and his friends wouldn’t dare touch her whilst she was enclosed by numerous lords and ladies, and besides, since it was said that Lord Stanton had been found knocked out in the stone mine, no one important believed that he had been seen on the beach.

  Her heart wasn’t in the play though. And still he did not call.

  Harriet studied the painting nearest her, a long perspective view of Brambridge Manor. It had been reframed, ready for that day’s opening exhibition, one of the original ones that had hung in the Royal Academy. It was not one she liked to look at. It was the only one of the series that apart from the portrait of Harriet herself, held any figures in it. And the only one that was terrifying. Two tiny human forms stood on the lawn of the manor. One lay on the ground, the other held a whip in its hand. She looked away from the picture. Lord Stanton had ever been a violent man.

  Gazing across the crowds of people, she swallowed and teased open her fingers. All of her friends were there—Lady Colchester, her aunt, Freddie, Anthony, Lord Anglethorpe, Janey, Bill and Tommy. She’d even invited Edgar. Harriet listened to her heart rate start to slow. They were all there to support her. Nearly all the paintings were sold. They hadn’t really needed the exhibition in the end, word had got out. Mr. Hassock didn’t seem put out. He said that the exhibition would bring in even more people now that they knew that this was the last chance to see the paintings before they disappeared into private hands.

  Harriet held her breath. And let it out slowly as a new couple entered the room. She wasn’t waiting for a couple, she was waiting for James. Harriet let her breath out and then stopped.

  Bloody hell. Not again. Was she really such a fool as Kean said? James h
ad come, just as she’d invited him. But he’d brought the woman he professed to have broken it off with. He and Melissa looked very much like a couple indeed. She let out the rest of her breath in a short huff as James brought Melissa’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

  Not again. Bending almost double, Harriet felt for a chair—they’d set them out around the room for guests to rest in. Her questing fingers couldn’t find one. Turning, she found one, set just a few inches away from her hand, under the inscription to the painting she had been looking at. At her bent height her eyes were almost on a level with it.

  Lord and his Son, she read. She’d not noticed it before, nay she’d never looked for it before because all the others were untitled. Hassock had said that only two of the paintings had titles, Marie Mompesson and… of course.

  This one. A shiver coursed down her spine. Straightening her back, she put out a shaking finger and traced the supine figure on the painting.

  Have you asked James about his father, Freddie had said. Of course she hadn’t. After all, she’d been around when his father was alive.

  Harriet sank into the chair and put her hand to her mouth. That wasn’t what this picture meant literally, did it? That the figure with the whip was Lord Stanton and the supine figure crying out in agony was James. Harriet crammed her fingers into her mouth. Those scars on James’ body, the ones that she had seen in the cave and thought were war wounds. Some of them probably were, but many were faint lines, long faint white lines of old scars, the distinctive marks of many whippings.

  Twisting in the chair, she put out her free hand and traced the figure again, the pain in the body almost transferring itself from the painting to her hand. Then, as if she had been burned, she drew her finger away. The figure on the floor didn’t have dark black hair. It was dark still, but the painter had drawn in auburn highlights.

  With dawning horror, she stood sharply and looked back across the crowd. Three faces turned to hers, two with black hair, one with auburn.