The Captain Claims His Lady

by Annie Burrows

  Her face cleared. ‘She must have rallied, for a moment or two.’

  His heart sank. It was as if Lizzie had turned her back on him. But then people always wanted to trust a man of the cloth. Cottam had laughingly spoken of this advantage he had, in a meeting with Lady Rawcliffe. Never mind being a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was a villain in clerical robes.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lizzie, suddenly stiffening. He followed the direction of her gaze, to see the baker pulling down the blind on his window. In the shop next door, the greengrocer was taking all his wares inside.

  ‘Is it early closing day?’

  ‘Um, yes, it must be.’

  He glanced at her troubled face. ‘The shops did not close early last time I walked you home from Lady Buntingford’s.’

  ‘It...er...wasn’t a full moon last week.’

  Was she implying there was going to be a run?

  ‘Captain Bretherton, I can tell that you understand what that means.’

  ‘Indeed.’ If he’d been a huntsman, he would have lifted a horn to his lips and blown it. This could be the chance he’d been hoping for. Because if he could catch Cottam taking part, then he’d have him. If not for the other crimes, then for this one. And surely, if he could get him on one charge, the other ones would be more likely to stick.

  She sighed. ‘I also know that as a navy man, your natural instinct would be to...lay information. Or even try to catch some of them in the act.’

  ‘You know me well.’

  She sighed again. Her steps slowed. Finally, she stopped walking altogether and turned a beseeching face up to him.

  ‘Please, Captain, please don’t try to do anything.’

  He flinched. ‘What are you saying? Do your sympathies lie with those men?’

  ‘Not at all. But you don’t understand how...vicious they are. I expect you must have heard how much less trouble there is in these parts since Reverend Cottam got involved with Bolsover’s gang. But obviously even he cannot stop them from landing contraband altogether, not when it is such a lucrative business. And they...if you tried to interfere...they would...’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘And I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you. I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘Lizzie, I mean, Miss Hutton...’

  ‘Please. If I mean anything to you, anything at all, promise me that you will stay within doors tonight. That you won’t go after those men.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Lizzie...’ He watched her gulp in an effort to check the tears that were forming in her eyes. Because she was worried about him.

  Because she cared.

  It struck him with the force of an Atlantic gale that if he died, she would miss him. For the first time in his life, he actually mattered to someone.

  Or at least, since he’d been too young to remember. He was certain that if he’d mattered to his father, he wouldn’t have played fast and loose with his inheritance. Wouldn’t have left him at the mercy of an uncle notorious for being mean-spirited and cruel. It had only been because his mother’s family insisted he get a good education that he’d been able to escape the brute. Even then, Uncle Edgar hadn’t let up. He’d somehow eventually managed to persuade everyone concerned that it made more sense to get Harry into the navy where he might carve out a career for himself. Solely in order to dispose of him permanently.

  He’d battled his way up through the ranks, alone. Then endured captivity at the hands of the French, alone. He might have kept in touch with Zeus and Ulysses, and Archie by letters, but they’d all treated him with a sort of lingering hero-worship for the way he’d stood up to the school bullies. Which he’d only done because he knew how it had felt to be alone and helpless, and at the mercy of someone bigger and more powerful, and utterly without mercy, and couldn’t stand seeing anyone else suffer what he’d gone through at the hands of Uncle Edgar.

  They didn’t really know the man he was now. Not like Lizzie did.

  ‘Lizzie...’ He took hold of her upper arms, his mind spinning. If he did as she asked, he’d be wasting a golden opportunity to catch Cottam red-handed.

  And yet this was the first thing she’d ever asked of him. And she was only asking him to be careful, that was all. She had no idea that if he did as she asked, he would be throwing away the first chance he’d had, since coming down here, of apprehending the villain.

  Or would he?

  Did he really stand much chance against who knew how many smugglers might be involved in tonight’s run? He’d be alone, apart from Dawkins. Facing what was, by all accounts, a gang of ruthless men. All of whom knew the terrain far better, having lived here all their lives.

  And who was to say Cottam would actually be taking part in this run? Wasn’t it more his style to sit at home, organising crimes which he sent others out to commit, so that they would run all the risks?

  Might it even be a trap? Everyone in the area seemed to be aware there was going to be a run tonight. Cottam must know that he’d get wind of it. And be almost unable to resist the urge to lay information, at the very least.

  Whichever way he looked at it, the chances of catching Cottam doing anything at all tonight were pretty slim.

  His conscience writhing like an eel, he drew Lizzie fully into his arms. So that she couldn’t see his face as he gave her his answer.

  ‘I will do as you ask, Lizzie. I won’t go after those men. I won’t even lay any information against them.’ Because if he did that, Cottam would know he was on to him. ‘I will stay in my room. Playing whist with Dawkins, if you like, so that you cannot even accuse me of bending my vow by sending him out to do the job.’

  She slid her arms round his waist. ‘Thank you. Oh, thank you!’

  He put her from him guiltily. ‘We mustn’t. Lizzie, I know the street is not as busy as usual, but people mustn’t see us embracing in broad daylight.’

  She cocked her head as she looked up at him. ‘Does that mean you have nothing against embracing at night?’

  ‘You...’ She surprised a bark of laughter from him. ‘What am I to do with you?’

  She blushed. Lowered her head. Shot him a coy look from under her eyelashes. And he knew what she was thinking. She hoped he would marry her.

  It was like being hit in the face by a bucket of cold water. Would she still want to marry him if she was privy to his train of thought, just now? She clearly thought he’d made the promise because he cared about her. And, to be honest, that had been part of it.

  But not all. Not by a long way.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and setting them both in motion again. ‘I had best get you home. Before you put any other outrageous ideas in my head.’

  * * *

  She’d given him the perfect opening to propose. She’d even been in his arms. And still he’d drawn back.

  What was the matter with him?

  Or was it that there was something the matter with her? Was he changing his mind about courting her?

  No, no, that couldn’t be it. If he was really having second thoughts, then he could simply pack up and leave. He wouldn’t even have to stay to give her an explanation. The fact that he’d gone would tell her everything.

  Except, he hadn’t gone. He was walking her home. Deep in thought. Probably fuming that she’d extracted a promise not to go after Bolsover’s men tonight.

  Though he needn’t have promised her anything. If he didn’t care, he could have simply said that his duty took precedence, or something like that.

  Only he hadn’t.

  He’d given her the assurance she’d sought. Even if he didn’t look at all happy about it.

  Perhaps he thought that if he went ahead and married her, she would always be trying to stop him acting according to his conscience. Perhaps...

  Oh, bother all these perhapses! She was sic
k of not knowing what he was thinking. Of what was going to happen to them.

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ His voice was gruff.

  ‘You are not stopping to dine with us? Grandfather said...’

  ‘No. Not tonight. I...’ He shuffled his feet, looking away over his shoulder. ‘I don’t think I would be very good company. Not knowing, or at least suspecting, that there is a run going on, under my very nose as it were, and me not doing anything to prevent it. Nor could I...at least, I think I would struggle to be affable with your grandfather. Because it strikes me that he makes a habit of looking the other way, rather than rousing himself to root out the nest of brigands he knows live right on his doorstep.’

  ‘It isn’t that simple,’ she retorted. ‘There has been little work for common folk round here since the quarries shut down. And the Gentlemen, as the locals call the smugglers, bring in a lot of money. Surely, running the odd keg of brandy, or bolt of lace, to avoid paying revenue isn’t all that dreadful, is it?’

  ‘If only that were all,’ he growled, thinking of the jewel thefts taking place in London, the death of, to his knowledge, at least Jenny and Archie. ‘You have told me that the local men are vicious. That people dare not cross them. Which is dreadful, is it not?’

  ‘Well, yes, but there are other factors you know nothing of.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, even if Grandfather wanted to arrest them all, it would take a small army. The place where they live, Peeving Cove, is tucked deep into an inlet in the cliffs, which nobody can sail into, except at high tide, because the entrance to the inlet is so rocky below the waterline. You can’t get into the village at all from the landward side. Not...’ She shook her head. ‘Well, there are tunnels that lead from the old marble quarries. But it is such a maze, and the tunnels are so narrow, that they are easily defended, too.’

  ‘They don’t stay in that stronghold the entire time, though, do they?’

  ‘No, but you cannot just arrest a man without evidence. And naturally they don’t walk about Lesser Peeving with barrels of brandy tucked under their arms.’

  ‘Except during nights like tonight.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I would wager that a barrel of brandy will appear under your grandfather’s window, tonight. Or at the gatepost.’ He waved his hand in that direction.

  ‘Yes, I suppose Grandfather could arrest whoever left...’

  ‘His bribe?’

  She sucked in a short, shocked breath. ‘Grandfather does not take bribes.’

  ‘What do you call it when a man knowingly lets a criminal escape when he has stolen goods about his person? Worse, receives said goods in return for looking the other way?’

  ‘You don’t understand...’ The person they always used to drop Grandfather’s gifts at their gate was a boy. A mere boy. The son of their cook. Naturally Grandfather was not going to turn the lad over to the authorities. Cook would be heartbroken if the lad went to the gallows. Or got sent into the army.

  And might retaliate by leaving his service. Which Grandfather would hate, because she knew exactly how Grandfather liked his meals.

  ‘I understand only too well,’ he said grimly, after she’d been continuing with that train of thought, in silence, for more than a moment.

  ‘It’s all very well for you, coming down here and thinking you are better than everyone else,’ she blurted, in her frustration.

  ‘Is that what you really think of me?’ He took a step back. Taking his face out of range of her eyesight. ‘Then there is nothing further to be said. I bid you good day.’

  ‘No, wait! I didn’t mean it like that...’

  But it was too late. He’d gone marching back down the drive and had disappeared thought the gates before it occurred to her to run after him.

  Lord! They’d had their first quarrel.

  Chapter Twenty

  Lizzie dragged herself out of bed the next morning as soon as she heard a scullery maid raking coals across a hearth somewhere below stairs.

  As she rubbed her gritty eyes she wondered why poets and novelists went into such raptures about falling in love. So far, in her case, all it seemed to do was rob her of sleep.

  Though to be fair to Captain Bretherton, it wasn’t entirely his fault she’d scarcely slept a wink all night. Yes, she’d gone over and over their argument far too many times, but she hadn’t been able to stop wondering what was going on out at sea, either. And later, as daggers of moonlight pierced her elderly curtains, whether there was activity going on across the moors above her house as well. Many of the local men would get involved once the kegs, or packages, or whatever was being landed, had been brought ashore. Or would turn a blind eye when their horses and carts went missing for a day or so, knowing that Bolsover’s gang would leave them some kind of reward. And, more importantly, that if they protested, or reported the borrowing to the parish constable as theft, they would face the consequences.

  She’d heard tales about what happened to people who tried crossing Bolsover. First, he’d give them a warning. Something in the nature of smashing a few of their windows. At night, when they and their family were asleep in their beds. Only once or twice had anyone tested his determination beyond that and he’d promptly set fire to some of their property. They’d got out alive, then left the area altogether. The blackened remains of their cottage still stood as a testimony to the whole affair.

  She’d tried flipping on to her back, but there had been no getting away from the fact that Captain Bretherton had a point. It would be better if Bolsover’s gang stopped behaving that way. But what could anyone do? Round them all up and arrest them? Even if that were possible, which it wasn’t considering how impregnable Peeving Cove was, then what would become of their wives and children? And the economy of the whole district, come to that. Those men had money to spend, which they spent locally. They supported the grocers and the drapers, and the bakers and butchers...

  She poured water into her basin, hoping a wash would help clear her head before going down to breakfast.

  But when she reached the dining room it was to find Grandfather appeared to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed as well.

  ‘My egg is runny,’ he said as he flung his spoon on to the table in disgust. He then bellowed some extremely unpleasant words at Sergeant Hewitt, as though he was responsible for the condition of the egg when all he’d done was serve it.

  She sighed. Were all men so prone to anger? She was beginning to think they must be, given the way Captain Bretherton had reacted yesterday, merely because she’d expressed some opinions that ran counter to his own.

  Well, and made him agree to act counter to his conscience, she reminded herself.

  Yes, but what should she have done? Kept her opinion to herself? Meekly bowed her head and said Of course you must be right, dearest, instead of telling him what she really thought? Perhaps if she had they wouldn’t have quarrelled, though, and he wouldn’t have stalked off in high dudgeon. And she might have had a decent night’s sleep.

  ‘I will go and see if Cook can do you another egg,’ she said to Grandfather, since there was no point in sitting down and having her own breakfast. He would be impossible until his own needs were met. ‘You drink your coffee,’ she said, whisking his plate away before he could throw it, too, across the room. ‘I am sure it won’t take a minute to do you another egg.’

  ‘It should take four minutes,’ he snapped. ‘Not one.’

  Yes, and since Cook knew Grandfather could not abide a runny egg and normally prided herself on serving everything up precisely as he liked it, that meant there must be some kind of trouble brewing below stairs.

  Just as she’d suspected, when she got to the kitchen it was to find the cook sitting at the table with her head in her hands, a pan boiling over on the stove and the scullery maid hopping from one foot to the other, a
nd twisting her hands in her apron.

  ‘I am sorry to have to trouble you,’ said Lizzie, handing Grandfather’s plate to the scullery maid, thus giving her something useful to do. ‘But Grandfather cannot eat his egg.’

  Cook said something rather rude about the egg. ‘What does eggs matter,’ she then wailed, ‘when our Billy has gone and got himself tangled up with that Bolsover’s lot? What do they want with the likes of him? What good can he be to them, that’s what I want to know? More skin and bone, he is, than muscle. And not a lick of sense in his head.’

  So there had been a run last night.

  ‘Oh, dear. No wonder you are too distracted to think about such mundane things as eggs.’ Lizzie went to sit next to Cook. Gingerly, she patted the woman’s hunched shoulder.

  ‘He ain’t a-coming back,’ sobbed Cook. ‘Promised him riches, that’s what they did, I shouldn’t wonder. And excitement. And the silly sod is probably lying drownded somewhere with a knife in his back. Just wait till I get my hands on him. I’ll give him what-for, so I will, for running off and scaring his mother like this...’

  ‘Yes, well...’ Lizzie began, with no real idea of what to say. And as she glanced round for inspiration she noted the pan sputtering water all over the hotplate. ‘Perhaps it would help if I were to see to Grandfather’s breakfast this morning?’

  ‘You? No, miss, don’t you dare!’ Cook shot to her feet, scurried across the kitchen and took up a defensive position in front of her stove. ‘You’d end up burning the house down like as not and then I’d be out of a job and a home as well as losing my boy.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lizzie, drawing on all the years of experience in dealing with such slights, so as not to reveal how hurtful that remark had been. And reminding herself that at least her suggestion had prodded Cook into action. ‘What could I do to help, then?’