Had there been something about the body that had aroused their suspicions? Had Fane or Williams disobeyed his orders and tied the girl’s hands before they drowned her? Well, if they had, they’d paid with their lives.
One thing was certain—that had been his cousin’s body lying there on the sand, half in and half out of the water. He had recognized her dress. There was no doubt in his mind that she had drowned.
Which meant that the most crucial part of his plan had succeeded. And now that she was dead, he stood to inherit one third of her grandfather’s fortune. There remained only the minor problem of identifying her body, which he could no longer do in person.
He pondered his options while the coach lurched along, taking him farther and farther away from the scene of the crime and from his pursuers, if indeed there were any.
By the time the coach reached the Tamar, he realized that rumors might very well do the trick. Gossip, whispered in the right ears and then carefully nurtured, would eventually force Lady Clovyle to admit that his poor cousin Bethia was missing.
After which an anonymous letter could be sent to the Gazette, informing the world that Miss Bethia Pepperell had drowned herself in a fit of despondency. Once that was made public, the proper authorities would be dispatched to Cornwall, where they would soon identify the missing girl.
Having thought of such a clever way to come about and salvage his perfect scheme, which had unaccountably suffered a few unfortunate setbacks, Mr. Harcourt settled down to sleep away the tedious hours it would take for him to reach London.
The coach lurched sideways into a deep rut, and for a moment Bethia thought they were stuck again. Twice today she had climbed out of the carriage and waited on the verge while the three men put their shoulders to the wheels, but this time with Big Davey cracking his whip and Little Davey calling out encouragement, the horses managed to pull the coach free.
“We will be stopping for the night soon,” Mr. Rendel said once they were again moving at a less than brisk pace down the lane.
Pulling her cloak more tightly around her, Bethia leaned her head against his shoulder, too tired to offer comment. It was not merely their journey that had exhausted her. The previous night—her second in the little cottage—had not been a repeat of the first.
Every time she had dozed off, the nightmares had come—weird, distorted dreams of boats and bodies, of foul-tasting wine filling her mouth and choking her, of dark water closing over her head.
Shortly before dawn she had awakened from a particularly horrible nightmare to hear men’s voices from the other room, and she had been thankful that the long night was over. Dressing herself as quickly as possible, she had lost no time in joining the others, who were already half through with their breakfast.
Big Davey had borrowed a coach and hired a team, Mr. Rendel informed her, and Little Davey had decided to go with them also. No one explained Little Davey’s reason for coming along, but from the guns he had brought with him, it was obvious he was to serve as their guard.
Despite their early start, they did not, however, proceed to London with all possible speed. With the sun now beginning to set behind them, Bethia asked, “Are you sure we have not just been going around in circles? I vow, we have been down this selfsame lane at least three times already today.”
“And I have been down this road a dozen times before,” Mr. Rendel said, “and I can assure you that we are making better progress than I had thought we would. In fact, we are less than a mile from where we will spend the night.”
Ten minutes later the coach slowed its already snail-like pace, then turned sharply to the left and stopped.
Peering out the window of the coach at the hedgerow tavern, Bethia could not keep the horror out of her voice. “Surely you cannot mean for us to spend the night here?” Perhaps in the bright light of midday the inn might not look so villainous, but in the dusk the Spotted Boar definitely had a malevolent air about it. Damp sheets would be the least of her worries if she were forced to spend the night in such a place.
“There’s less chance of your being recognized here than if we stayed at a fancy inn on one of the main post roads,” Mr. Rendel said, reaching past her to open the door.
“And more chance of us being murdered in our sleep for the few shillings we might have on our persons,” she retorted, shrinking back in her seat. “Given the choice, I prefer to risk my reputation and save my skin.”
Ignoring her objections, Mr. Rendel climbed out of the coach, then held out his hand to assist her.
Frantically, Bethia sought for some argument, some means of persuading him that this was all a very bad mistake.
“I am well known here,” he said quietly, “and no one will harm you so long as you are with me.”
Still she could not bring herself to quit the coach in which they had been riding all day. As tired of being jounced around as she had become—and the coach was not at all well-sprung—at this moment its worn velvet squabs represented all the security she had.
“I am sure I could not sleep a wink in such a place. Why, they are bound to have ... to have damp sheets!”
“And more than likely bedbugs,” Mr. Rendel said quite cavalierly, as if such matters were of no particular importance. “But the choice is yours, and if you prefer, I shall have your dinner carried out here.” Then to her horror, he turned away from her and began walking toward the Spotted Boar.
In an instant she was out of the coach and after him. Safety, she discovered, had nothing to do with coaches. Security meant staying as close as possible to Mr. Rendel.
“Changed your mind?” he asked when she caught hold of his arm.
“That was a thoroughly unscrupulous, unprincipled, dastardly way to win an argument,” she said, “and I want you to know I absolutely loathe and detest being coerced into doing something I do not wish to do.”
Pulling the hood of her cloak up so that it concealed her face, he said with a smile in his voice, “If I had intended to coerce you, I would have pulled you bodily out of the coach. As it was, I feel I acted with great tolerance by allowing you to choose where you would spend the night.”
Bethia tipped her head back far enough that she could see his face. He was smiling, blast him! But by the light spilling out the window—the grime-covered window—of the tavern, she could see that his eyes were dead serious.
“When you are with me, you will always be free to choose,” he said simply. “I only advise, I do not command.”
Leading two of the unharnessed horses past her, Little Davey said, “But you’ll find things go better if you do what Mr. Rendel ‘suggests.’ He’s dragged us out of many a tight spot with our skin intact.”
“And was he also perhaps the one who led you into those selfsame tight spots?” Bethia snapped back, still feeling a bit aggravated by Mr. Rendel’s smug air of superiority.
“In the general course of things, I’d have to say that was the case,” Big Davey said, leading the second pair of horses past them. “But we try not to hold it against him, for he does keep life from becoming too tame,” he added with a deep chuckle.
“Come now,” Mr. Rendel said putting his arm around her shoulders. “With three such stalwart protectors, do you really think anyone in this place will attempt to molest you?” Although she was loathe to admit it, Bethia rather thought that it would take at least a half dozen men to go up against Mr. Rendel, even if he were alone.
Placing his hands on her neck and using his thumbs to tilt her chin up, Mr. Rendel smiled down at her and said, “Do you really think I am such a fool that I would deliberately lead you into danger?”
Bethia looked deep into his eyes and admitted to herself that she would follow this man wherever he led her. But the last remnants of her pride did not allow her to tell him that. “I shall endeavor in the future to follow your advice,” was all she said.
He held her gaze, and for a long moment she thought he was going to kiss her, but then he removed his hands, readjusted he
r hood, and taking her by the arm, escorted her into the Spotted Boar.
The air inside was redolent of gin, and the pipe smoke made Bethia’s eyes water. The coarse voices around her gradually stilled as the clientele of this wicked place became aware of her presence.
She did not need any advice from Mr. Rendel about keeping her face covered; no power on earth could have forced her to lift her eyes from the straw-strewn plank floor to stare back at the men she knew must now be staring at her.
“Ah, Mr. Rendel, we have not had the pleasure of your company in over a year now,” the landlord said. “And what can we do for you this fine evening?”
“I require stabling for my horses, two rooms for me and my men, and supper for four,” Mr. Rendel said, his hand on her back pushing her toward the stairs she could see a few feet in front of them.
“And who’s with you tonight?” the host inquired in a genial way, which nevertheless rang false to Bethia’s ears.
“Big Davey and Little Davey,” Mr. Rendel replied, his tone of voice cutting off any further questioning.
“You can have both rooms on the left,” the landlord called after them when they were already halfway up the stairs.
Behind them the sound of men’s voices rose again, louder even than before, only now it was interspersed with raucous laughter. Bethia had no doubt that she was the main topic of conversation.
The first room on the left already contained someone else’s portmanteau, but Mr. Rendel simply pitched it out into the hallway, then shut and bolted the door behind them.
To Bethia’s surprise the room appeared to be remarkably clean, and a comforting fire was crackling in the fireplace. Sinking down onto the bed, she found it soft and inviting. The bedbugs had apparently been her companion’s idea of a joke.
“I shall have to spend the night in this room with you,” Mr. Rendel said, taking off his jacket and hanging it on a hook by the door. At the sight of him in his shirtsleeves, Bethia again felt every muscle in her body tense up.
“It is not what I would wish,” he continued, “but I fear in this case I must protect my own reputation.”
Sitting down in a chair by the fire, he began to pull off one of his boots. Wide-eyed, she stared at him, too astonished to speak.
“If I sleep in your room tonight, everyone below will assume you are my doxy, and therefore no one will question your presence here.” He pulled off the second boot and set it beside the first. “But if you sleep alone, there will be talk from here to the coast, with everyone speculating as to who you might be and why you are traveling with me.”
In his stockinged feet he came toward her as silently as a cat. Pulling her unresisting to her feet, he untied her cloak and lifted its heavy weight off her shoulders.
When he hung it on a second hook by the door, she found herself watching with delight the way his muscles rippled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
So this is seduction, she thought. This is what poets write about—this feeling of fires igniting in every vein when he looks at me—this desperate longing to have him touch me—this aching need to feel his arms around me.
But Mr. Rendel showed no sign of wanting to hold her. “I shall, of course, sleep in the chair,” he said, moving past her to resume his place by the fire.
He did not meet her eyes—deliberately?—and she could not tell if he felt any of the pain she was now feeling. Seduction and abandonment—she had experienced both in the space of a few minutes. It had all the makings of a farce and would doubtless be a great hit on the London stage.
Unfortunately, she did not feel like laughing, and when the landlord fetched them their supper, she managed to choke down very little of it.
“This is the world I come from,” Mr. Rendel said when she shoved her plate away. “You would do well to think a second time before you decide to marry me.”
“So this has all been a test?” she asked, her nerves too much on edge for her to control her temper. “You deliberately brought me to this thieves’ den in order to dissuade me from marrying you?”
“Lower your voice,” he said curtly, and in direct contradiction to his earlier denial, it sounded very much like a command.
Embarrassed by her emotional outburst, she bit her lip and turned to stare mutely into the fire.
“Despite what you have obviously been imagining, the men below are nothing but honest farm laborers, relaxing after a day of toil in the fields.”
Bethia blinked rapidly, trying desperately to hold back the tears that were filling her eyes.
“And it is likewise only in your imagination that I am a gentleman,” he added. “No matter how you try to pretend otherwise, I do not belong in your world.”
Bethia’s jaw quivered despite her best efforts to control it, and she said, “My world contains someone who is trying his best to kill me. How long do you think I shall stay alive in my world if you refuse to join me there?”
Chapter Six
Digory looked at the resolutely squared shoulders and stiff back that were turned to him, and he cursed himself for being a fool. “I apologize, my dear,” he said.
“For what?” Miss Pepperell asked with a watery sniffle. Giving her his handkerchief, he said, “For every one of my numerous and assorted shortcomings.”
She managed to wipe away all trace of tears before she turned back to face him. “I do not think that you belong in this world of simple fishermen who turn out to be smugglers and of thieves who turn out to be honest farm hands any more than I do.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, surprised that she had seen the truth after such a brief acquaintance.
“The other smugglers call one another by their given names,” she said, “but you they call Mr. Rendel.”
“Such is the fate of most gently born bastards,” he said, pushing back his chair and striding over to the window. Peering out into the darkness, he explained, “We discover quite early in life that we are neither fish nor fowl. We are too well born to be part of the peasantry, yet the stigma of our birth keeps us from entering the world of our fathers.”
“Who is your father?” she asked, coming up behind him and leaning against him as if needing the comfort he could not give her. “Or is it a secret?” she asked when he did not immediately reply.
“In London, perhaps, but not in Cornwall. I bear too marked a resemblance to my father, the Earl of Blackstone.” He turned to face her, and she backed a few steps away.
“But I have seen him in London,” she said. “Surely he is much too young to be your father.”
“My father, the fifth earl, died eight years ago, so it is unlikely that you ever met him. The man you saw was doubtless my half-brother, Geoffrey, who was the second son but the first legitimate child born to my father, and who therefore became the sixth earl.”
“My aunt warned me about Lord Blackstone. In fact, she ordered me to have nothing to do with him. The one time I saw him, though, he did not look particularly depraved, and I made sure my aunt was only being her usual snobbish self.”
“So much innocence is dangerous,” Digory said, feeling much older than his years. “My brother’s nickname was Lord Blackheart. Did you never hear him called that?”
Eyeing him warily, Miss Pepperell admitted that she had. “But they call David Lord Helston ‘Devil Helston,’ and he is not at all wicked,” she added.
“Be that as it may, Lord Blackstone’s heart was indeed blackened by sin,” Digory said. “You must take my word for it that no matter how appalling the stories were that you may have heard, he was in truth much more wicked, more evil, than even your aunt would have believed it possible for a man to be.”
“Why do you keep saying he was! Is he also deceased?”
How had they gotten on this subject? Digory wondered. And how could he answer the question she had asked in all innocence? What could he say?
He could hardly tell her the truth—that he had paid men to abduct his own half-brother. Nor could he admit that on th
e way to Morocco, where the ship’s captain had orders to sell the wicked earl into slavery, My Lord Blackheart had escaped his captors by jumping overboard.
“They say my brother fled to the Continent to avoid his debtors,” Digory said finally. “In truth, I have no idea whether he lives or not.”
It was amazing how one could, without actually lying, bend the truth so that it became unrecognizable. The gossips in London did in fact say that the earl had fled to the Continent. And without seeing the body, Digory could not absolutely swear that his half-brother was dead. But there was no doubt in Digory’s mind that the sixth Earl of Blackstone had drowned when he chose to take his chances with the sea.
Moving closer, Miss Pepperell laid her hands on his chest. “Does no one then call you by your given name?”
Digory looked down into brown eyes that were soft with concern. “My aunt did before she died, and my half-sister, Lady Cassie, does, but she is married now and lives on an estate near Wimbledon.”
“Speaking of marriage,” Miss Pepperell said, a faint blush creeping up her cheeks, “since you and I are going to be married, might I not have leave to use your Christian name?”
He had to clear his throat before he could answer her. “I was baptized Digory.”
“Digory,” she said, and his name had never sounded so sweet to his ears. “An uncommon name for an uncommon man.”
“Actually it is quite common in Cornwall, and not altogether uncommon in Devon.”
“Digory,” she repeated, reaching up to run her fingers lightly along his jaw. “I rather like it.”
And he rather liked what she was doing to him. He had spent many an evening with accomplished courtesans, but none of his companions of the night had been as seductive as this inexperienced young lady.
He knew full well that it was up to him to control the explosive situation they were in. Miss Pepperell was too innocent to know what she was doing—to have any idea how her touch was affecting him. It was clearly his responsibility to end this dangerous game she was playing all unawares, and he resolved to do just that quite soon ... in another minute or two...
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