‘Nothing,’ said Cook, reaching for a fresh egg and tossing it into the boiling water. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do about the likes of Bolsover. A law unto hisself, he is.’
‘Oh. But then I wasn’t thinking of actually going to see him and demanding an explanation.’
Cook whirled round, her spoon dripping water on to the flags. ‘If anyone could find out where my Billy is, it would be you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. Stands to reason. He wouldn’t look on you as a threat for a start, would he, miss?’ Cook eyed her in a way that made her feel like a slab of meat on the butcher’s block, being judged for her tenderness on roasting. ‘Everyone knows how gentle and harmless you are,’ except when it came to eggs, stoves and fires, apparently. ‘And you would only be asking after the welfare of one of the staff from your own house, wouldn’t you?’
But then, abruptly, her shoulders sagged. ‘No, no, I couldn’t ask it of you.’
But Lizzie’s heart was pounding. For a moment there, Cook had really thought that she might be able to deal with a man like Bolsover. A man Lizzie knew by sight, and by reputation, but to whom she’d never spoken.
‘He wouldn’t really dare do anything very dreadful to me, either, would he,’ she mused aloud. ‘Not with Grandfather being who he is...’
The smugglers and the local law enforcement existed in an uneasy state of truce. Grandfather did not interfere in Bolsover’s business, as a rule. But if anything were to happen to Lizzie, that state of affairs would soon change. And Bolsover was not a stupid man. He wasn’t the ringleader merely because he was taller and stronger than everyone else, but because he could think clearly. All of which gave Lizzie a kind of immunity.
‘You’d really do that for me? You’d really go and find out what’s become of my boy?’
Lizzie had never had anyone really believe she could accomplish anything before. So the sound of hope and faith in Cook’s voice acted on her like a shot of rather strong spirits.
‘Yes,’ she vowed. ‘I would. I will.’
There was no sense in returning to the breakfast table after that. If Grandfather got wind of what she was planning he’d be bound to put a stop to it. Besides, her courage might evaporate as swiftly as Cook had roused it. So Lizzie went straight upstairs to her room.
And it wouldn’t just be Grandfather who would disapprove, she reflected as she bent down to strap on the knife that Sam had made her promise to wear every time she left the house. She and Captain Bretherton had already quarrelled about their differing outlook with regard to the smugglers. He’d be furious if he knew she intended to seek them out. Even if it was in a good cause.
What was worse, she thought, shoving her arms into the sleeves of her coat, she was supposed to be spending the morning with him. He’d want to know where she was if she failed to turn up. And would probably come here to ask after her. And then Grandfather would start shouting at the servants, as if Cook didn’t have enough on her plate today.
So...she would have to convince him she had a good reason for cancelling their arrangement. Which posed another set of problems, because normally she would send Billy down to Peacombe with any message she wanted delivered. But Billy was missing.
One thing at a time, she decided as she tied the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin. She could easily deal with any objections Grandfather might pose, by going down the back stairs and slipping out of the kitchen door.
As for Captain Bretherton, well, she would just have to hope she came up with some clever ruse to deflect his suspicions during her walk across the moors to Peacombe.
She’d hardly left the bounds of Lesser Peeving before it occurred to her that while she was making her way through Peacombe, she could very easily pop into the Three Tuns and leave some kind of message for Captain Bretherton, which would throw him off the scent. Surely she could come up with some reason for not wishing to spend the morning with him, without having to resort to a bare-faced lie? Something that would ensure he wouldn’t come up to the house asking after her, either. She didn’t want him to somehow get wind of Billy’s plight and become concerned, and offer to come with her, because his presence would ruin everything. Bolsover, like most of the locals, regarded her as a harmless, rather pitiful creature. He might become irritated with her for approaching him on a matter he’d think was none of her business, but he would only regard her as an irritation, not a threat.
Captain Bretherton, on the other hand...
She worried her lower lip between her teeth. She could just be deliberately vague, she supposed.
In fact, if she was going to be leaving a message with the likes of Jeavons, Captain Bretherton would not be the least bit surprised if she kept the details to a minimum.
That was that sorted then. She’d tell Jeavons to tell Captain Bretherton that she was unable to spend the morning with him, because she had a private and personal matter to deal with. And she’d say it down her nose, for good measure.
She reached that decision at just about the same time she came to the last rise of moorland, so that she could see Peacombe spread out below her around the bay.
She peered at the boats moored in the harbour, even though she had no intention of hiring one and getting someone to sail her up to the narrow inlet that most people said was the only way in or out of Lesser Peeving. Because not only was that too public, but she also had a much better idea.
During their childhood, she and Sam had explored the maze of tunnels that riddled the cliffs along this part of the coast. They’d used balls of twine to find their way out again, just as Ariadne had enabled Theseus to do in the Minotaur’s labyrinth. And one day, to their utter surprise, they’d discovered that one of the tunnels emerged in the cliffs overlooking Peeving Cove. They’d run home as quickly as they could, balling up their string as they went so that nobody would know they’d ever been there. But ever since then, she’d been able to understand how it was that Bolsover seemed to be able to pop up in Peacombe when the tide indicated he shouldn’t have been able to sail out of his cove.
* * *
Harry finally put his signature at the bottom of the report he’d started writing before dawn and rang for Dawkins. Perhaps, now he’d got the thing done, he could contemplate eating some breakfast.
Not that he deserved any. Not after compiling what amounted to a list of excuses for not acting on the information Lizzie had given him yesterday. Suspecting that Rawcliff would regard his inaction as proof that Harry wasn’t cut out to be a spy, that he was growing too susceptible to the charms of the woman he was supposed to be charming, he’d made a lot of analogies about the need for ‘sailing under false colours’ in order to get close enough to the enemy to ‘fire a devastating broadside’. He shuddered to think what Lizzie would think of this report if it should ever fall into her hands.
Lizzie, who he was going to have to face in little over an hour from now. Lizzie, who was expecting a proposal, who deserved a proposal, and who was becoming increasingly confused and hurt by the way he must appear to be dragging his heels.
There was a light tap on the door and Dawkins came in. His eyes went straight to the document folded in Harry’s hand.
‘You have another dispatch for Their Lordships?’
Harry looked down at it with revulsion. ‘Yes, take the damn thing,’ he growled, thrusting the report at Dawkins. ‘And this letter as well. It will need to go to my lawyer.’ Although Miss Hutton wasn’t actually his fiancée, nor was ever likely to be, there was nobody else to whom he could leave what savings he had. And it would go some way to atoning for the way he’d drawn her into Cottam’s web, should he suffer the same fate as Archie.
Which was more than likely. For he was going to have to make some sort of move against the man soon. This stalemate between them had gone on long enough. And the longer it went on, the more deeply hurt Lizzie would be when the truth came out.
; He was not sure, yet, what form his move should take, only that he would have to keep his eyes open for some opportunity. Or create one. He was growing increasingly frustrated with the state of affairs. It wasn’t like really sailing under false colours in order to confuse an enemy so he could get close enough to fire a broadside into an undefended hull. Or sneaking ashore at dead of night to commit a spot of sabotage. Whatever he did, here in Dorset, meant betraying someone. If not Rawcliffe, then Lizzie. If not Lizzie, then Archie.
Once Dawkins had taken the despatches, he felt sorely in need of coffee. And since he’d been holed up in this room since dusk the night before, he decided to go downstairs to the coffee room to take it, rather than ring to have somebody bring it up to him. Even though he hadn’t yet shaved. He’d order some breakfast while he was at it. There was plenty of time to spruce himself up before Lizzie was due to arrive.
Or so he’d thought. But the first thing he saw, the moment he reached the lobby, was Lizzie, coming in through the hotel door, untying the strings of her bonnet.
‘Oh!’ She stopped dead when she saw him, her expression a picture of guilt.
‘Good morning,’ he said, wondering what on earth she was doing here at this hour of the morning and why she looked so guilty.
‘I wasn’t expecting to s-see you,’ she stammered, backing up a pace, instead of stepping toward him and smiling.
Something like a fist clenched in his gut. And he remembered the way they’d parted. After quarrelling.
‘Why are you here then, if not to see me?’
‘Oh. Um.’ She lowered her head. Lifted it and met his gaze with more than a touch of defiance. ‘I only came to leave a message for you. To say that I would be unable to spend the day with you as arranged.’
Since sometimes the best form of defence was attack, he took a step forward. ‘How, then, are we to be able to patch up our quarrel?’
‘Quarrel?’ A look of confusion flitted across her features. ‘Oh, that. Um...’
It was like the ringing of alarm bells. The woman who could forget a quarrel with a man she considered her suitor was a woman who had something far more troubling on her mind.
‘Are you in some kind of trouble? Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No!’ Now she really did look alarmed. ‘That is, I am in no trouble. And the best thing you can do is to stay well out of it.’ She flushed. Took a breath. Licked her lips. ‘That is, I mean to say, I am perfectly capable...’ She shook her head. ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant to say. Oh, dear. I had a perfectly good speech worked out before I got here...’
Dear Lizzie. She was such a terrible liar.
‘Captain Bretherton, please...’ she stepped closer and laid one hand on his forearm ‘...please will you forgive me and excuse me, but there is something I have to do, today. Something I have to do alone.’
Something that had cropped up overnight. During a night when the smugglers had been active.
This could be it. The opportunity he’d been looking for. Lizzie knew something, or was covering for someone who was involved. And was planning to...well, he had no idea, but he was damn well going to find out.
He took her by the upper arms.
‘What kind of man would I be if I left you to deal with whatever it is on your own?’
‘A sensible one. Because if you try to get involved, it would only make matters worse.’ She shut her mouth with a snap, as though realising she might have given too much away. Which indeed she had.
‘Lizzie, I—’
‘Please, don’t ask me any questions. I don’t want to have to lie to you. Or...or quarrel with you.’
‘I don’t want to quarrel with you, either.’
‘Can you not just trust me?’
He thought very carefully about his response before making it. In many ways he had come to trust her. She might be a bit muddled in her thinking about the smugglers, but she couldn’t be involved in any of the crime going on in this area. She was too open, too honest. She’d been too upset about the rumours circulating about the deaths of Archie and the girl. What was more, she couldn’t even look him in the face while she was attempting to dodge round telling him something that fell even a little bit short of the truth.
Still, he didn’t want her to go dashing into what might be a dangerous situation under the naïve assumption that her gender, or her rank, would protect her.
‘Are you certain you wish to go ahead with this plan of yours and act in a way you will probably be unable to relate to me, at a later date?’
‘Oh.’ She stepped back, breaking his hold on her, and ran one hand across her forehead. ‘I knew you would be like this. That you’d try to stop me instead of...believing in me and supporting me...’
‘Dammit, Lizzie, it isn’t like that! I can see that you are planning to walk into a situation that may well be dangerous. You cannot suppose I will let you walk into any sort of danger alone?’
‘Let me?’ Her eyes flashed fire. She flung up her chin. ‘Until such time as you take it into your head to propose, and I accept, you have no say over what I do or where I go,’ she snapped, tying her bonnet ribbons into a lopsided bow. ‘I bid you good day,’ she finished, whirling round and storming out of the inn.
As though that was an end to it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Well, if that was what she thought, she was very much mistaken. Scarcely pausing until she’d left the Three Tuns, Harry darted out of the door after her. She was heading across the market square in the direction of the lane which led down to the harbour. Where else?
He cast one experienced eye to the skies and saw that it would be foolish to pursue her without the benefit of a hat and coat. But in the time it would take him to return to his room and fetch his own, she might get so far ahead he’d lose her trail.
Fortunately, he could see a fisherman’s-type smock affair hanging on a peg just inside the taproom. And a cap on another peg beside it. He took a moment to thrust his arms into the jacket, thankful that the loose cut meant it fit him. Where it touched, that was. Then clapped the cap on to his head and dashed after her.
There was no sign of her by the time he emerged into the square. It was just as well he’d taken note of the direction she’d been heading. He strode across the square, head down against the stiff breeze blowing in from the sea, then plunged down the lane he’d seen her take.
When he reached the harbour he first scanned the many boats dragged up on to the beach, assuming she’d hire one to take her to the smuggler’s lair. But she wasn’t there. His heart flipped over. Surely he couldn’t have lost her? Dammit, he should have just gone straight after her and taken no notice of the rain that was going to fall later on this morning, to judge from the weight of the clouds rolling in. Or perhaps he should have insisted on going with her and made her wait until he was sufficiently protected from the elements.
Although what would he have learned, if he’d done that? This way, he could both discover exactly where Lizzie’s sympathies lay, exactly how involved she might be, if at all, and be on hand to rescue her if she got out of her depth.
If he could find her, that was. Where the hell was the impossible woman?
Not on the beach. Not by the harbour wall. Not climbing the street that led back up to the moors across which she’d be going if she was heading home. But there! Marching along the promenade which led to the terraced gardens and the medicinal spring Jeavons had rhapsodised about. There she was.
Grim-faced, he set off after her. It only took a few minutes to draw near enough to be able to come to her aid if she did get into any trouble, but far enough away that she wouldn’t be likely to notice him.
Though actually, he could be three feet away from her and she wouldn’t be exactly sure who he was, not until he spoke to her, not with her eyesight being so bad. And, now he came to think of it, wearing
a loose smock and workman’s cap was also adding to his ability to evade recognition. She’d grown used to seeing him wearing his navy tailcoat and tricorne hat. Though his height gave him such a distinctive outline that even she might have recognised him if she ever took it into her head to glance over her shoulder, she never seemed to think to do so. She was striding along with her head high and her elbows pumping. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. Even when she was on her high ropes Lizzie Hutton was absolutely adorable.
* * *
Lizzie was so cross she’d got halfway along the promenade before it occurred to her that he’d taken her exit rather tamely. Which just went to show... She wrinkled her nose. She wasn’t sure what it went to show. But it certainly didn’t encourage her to believe that he cared about her. One moment forbidding her to go out and meet the smugglers—not that he knew that was what she was doing—and then, when she disobeyed him, simply washing his hands of her, by the looks of things. He certainly hadn’t come after her. He could easily have caught up with her, if he’d wanted to. But he hadn’t. Which proved he...
She sniffed. Blinked rapidly to clear her eyes. Flung back her shoulders and kept right on going. Past the end of the promenade, where she had to delve into her reticule for the entrance fee to the cliff terrace gardens, and then up along the winding paths until she reached the top.
‘I don’t need a guide through the caves,’ she said to the startled warden, as he thrust a black-glass bottle hastily on to shelf behind his chair. ‘I know my way round.’
‘Sure you do, Miss Hutton,’ he said with a relieved smile in his voice. He probably assumed she hadn’t noticed his sleight of hand with the bottle. Just because she couldn’t make out details with any clarity, people assumed she had no idea what they were doing.
‘You’ll want to take a lantern, though.’
She supposed she did. It grew dark not very far into the tunnel system, due to the fact that they went off at odd angles. Presumably following the seam of whatever it was they’d mined here in ancient times, before they’d discovered the marble. Or perhaps because the workings were from several successive enterprises.
The Captain Claims His Lady Page 16