Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) (18 page)

Harriet pulled at the bottle in her pocket. It caught on the finely woven seam of her waistcoat. In the soft dusk light, she turned to look out towards the hazy image of Roscoff off the port bow and wrenched the bottle free.

It had taken two hours to load all the casks onto the boat. And there was definitely something very strange about the two passengers the
Rocket
had picked up. As soon as the first passenger’s hands had appeared on deck, Harriet had known it would be a woman, the fingers were too long and fine. She sniffed; hopefully she looked more believable in her man’s clothes. That woman did not know how to walk and the pantaloons were too ill-fitting to work.

Harriet pressed hard at the cork on the bottle but it refused to budge. She hadn’t eaten anything since daybreak that morning. The sailors hadn’t stopped for lunch. She leaned against the prow of the boat and, bracing her arms, wrenched at the cork, which exploded with a loud bang. Turning her head sharply, she surveyed the deck. The crew were still below, tidying away barrels. Bill and James had disappeared with who she took to be Renard.

Harriet smiled. She could have shouted something when the tall lean man with the sword had vaulted over the stern of the boat but the foxy look on his face had stopped her. He’d seen her watching him and put a finger to his lips. Treading lightly across the deck, he had obviously surprised James, who had jumped. Another man had followed Renard over the stern. A much heavier man, bald, with earrings, yet he was still as light on his feet as the other.

How long would it be before they called for her? Harriet tipped back to the bottle and took a swig. It was still as strong as the day before. Dutch courage, that was what it was called. Or was that gin? Goodness, but whatever it was, she was going to need it. Kicking at the timbers of the deck, she turned back to the view. So near, and yet so far. She’d never left England, Brambridge even in her memory. The time before the carriage accident that had killed her parents was indistinct, a blur.

What was it like across there? Did they have the same worries as she did—that the Brambridge villagers did? Had the war made life harder for them too? She’d have to ask James. That was, if he would speak to her. Harriet swallowed and scuffed her feet again against the deck.

“Master Chance!”

Harriet jumped and dropped the cork of the bottle in surprise. “Hell and damnation.”

“Well lass, that is a very fine turn of phrase, and just what a sailor would use.” Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. Tommy swept the cork up that had come to rest at his feet and handed it back to her. She thrust it back on the bottle and after a thought, pushed the bottle in Tommy’s direction.

“I think I ought to give this back to you.” She could feel the brandy already slowing down her thoughts. That had to be why Mrs. Madely called it the devil’s drink. At least she thought her thoughts were slowing. Why else was she constantly thinking about James?

Tommy laughed. “They are ready for you in the back cabin.” He looked at the level brandy in the bottle and then back at her in concern. “You did sip at it, didn’t you?”

Harriet nodded slowly. Now was not the time to receive a dressing down for illicit drinking. He was the one who had given her the bottle with so much in it.

“Come on lassie, follow me.”

Harriet took a gulp of air and loosened the chemise she was wearing around the neck. “Think Kean,” she muttered. “Think Kean.” Loosening her stride, she followed Tommy. “Master Chance to you, sir,” she said in a throaty voice.

Tommy cast her a knowing look. Patting the cravat around her neck, she tried again. “Lead me to them.” This time there was more gravel in her voice and she was happier with the attempt.

The cabin at the back of the ship was dimly lit in keeping with lowering all lights down on the boat at night. Candles in front of mirrors reflected back light. All three men had glasses in front of them. Harriet blinked as brandy fumes stung her eyes.

James sat with his broad back to her on a stool to her left, his hand resting on his glass as he finished his drink. Bill stood facing her directly on the other side of the table, with a half-full glass in front of him. He glared at her as she entered. Renard, the Fox, sat back on the right. His glass remained full on the table, and his chair was tipped back on its back legs, pushing his harsh face into shadow where the light did not reach.

“Right
lad,
” Bill said, unfairly emphasizing the last word. “I’ve told Monsieur Renard here that you have something to talk to him about.”  Bill sat down heavily on his stool on his side of the table and took a large swig of the amber liquid in front of him.

She took a deep breath and patted her waistcoat pocket for reassurance. The lace samples were still there. Thank goodness she had thought to bring a sample of some of the bales from the hold with her in her bags to her hammock. And even some newspaper prints of British society weddings. The lace was so fine that she had wrapped the gossamer thin material in her mother’s embroidery for protection.

“Monsieur Renard,” she started, then, realizing she had begun to sound too feminine again, coughed and retrenched into gravel. “Monsieur Renard. I have a proposition for you.”

Renard’s chair began to tip backwards and forwards.

She could not know whether this was a sign of impatience, or whether she was going to be thrown out. “I have brought some samples of lace that I think you would be interested in buying.”

“Really?” The low voice from the rocking chair sounded incredulous. She heard him murmur something else but did not catch what he said. Looking behind her, she saw the bald man, larger than she remembered, leaning against the wall, cleaning his nails with a large stiletto. She gasped and then coughed.

“Goodness, I mean, ye gods!” Harriet pushed her hand into her pocket in embarrassment. The bald man stopped cleaning his nails and took a step towards her.

“
Laisse-le,”
Renard said. Harriet sighed in relief. It seemed that Renard was the boss as the bald man did indeed decide to leave her alone. He went back to leaning against the wall, but this time he was more watchful, and his hand with the blade stayed by his side. There was no more pretense of cleaning his nails.

“I apologize,
monsieur
…” The silence spread in the cabin.

“Chance. Master Chance,” she responded.

Renard laughed. “Oh how beautiful. James, you must have smiled when you realized. Major Lucky and Master Chance both on the same boat. The
Rocket
must be blessed indeed.”

Oh dear
. Who was Major Lucky? Surely not James—it seemed an awfully incongruous name for him. Harriet looked at him. Major Lucky conjured up images of a dashing young man with a large grin on his face. She realized that she still hadn’t seen him smile, not properly since he had returned.

Harriet licked her lips. Keeping her eyes on Renard, she opened her pocket and pulled out the parcel of embroidery. Laying it on the table, she unfolded it to reveal one of the examples of lace work. Smoothing the embroidery to the side, she held out the lace with her hands. Renard stared fixedly at the table without moving. With a sigh, she lifted her hands off the table and picked up the embroidery.

Renard’s chair dropped to the floor with a bang. With lightning like speed, he slapped his hand down on top of her hers, trapping her arm against the table. Harriet was stunned. She tugged, but he wouldn’t let go. He glared at her.

“Here, what are you doing, Renard?” James stood; a dagger had appeared in his hand from nowhere.

“Please let go…” Harriet’s voice trailed off.

Renard turned over her captured wrist, and traced his fingers across the embroidery that lay bunched in her hand. Still he did not show any signs of letting go. Harriet blinked as the shock of being held pushed back any of the remainders of the brandy in her blood. Despite being held immobile, she could still talk. She cleared her throat.

“James, please sit down. I have some important business still to discuss with Monsieur Renard.”

James turned to look at her in surprise. She nodded at him. Slowly he pushed the lethal-looking dagger back under his coat and sat down. Renard made what Harriet thought was a surprised murmur.

“Whilst there is an English craze for all French furniture, I have heard that there is an equal French interest in English lace.” Her nose had started to itch. Resisting the urge to bury her head in Renard’s shoulder and rub it, Harriet carried on. “The lace made in Brambridge is some of the most famous lace in Britain and has adorned many a fine lady’s dress.”

Renard didn’t seem to be listening. He was still looking at her hand, grasping the ball of embroidery. He didn’t look at her. Neither did he look at the lace on the table. Finally he let her arm drop.

“I want to speak to you alone,” he said in a low voice.

James shook his head. “Not possible. The lad is under our protection.”

Renard quirked an eyebrow. He motioned to his man, who strutted menacingly to the door.

“He will throw you out if you do not leave yourselves, so you can leave on your own two feet, or by the seat of your breeches.”

“Then it will have to be by the seat of my—”

“Leave it, James. Master Chance will be in good hands, won’t he,
Renard
?” Bill stood, his bulk easily as large as the bald man, who took a step backwards.

Renard sniffed and released Harriet. “Of course. On my honor.”

“Hah, your honor—”

Bill placed a restraining hand on James’ sleeve and led him out of the cabin, still protesting.

The door shut with a clang with the mustached man still with them inside the cabin.

“Francois. Grab a glass and a chair. You too, Master Chance.”

Harriet rubbed at her arm and eyed the glasses on the table. She didn’t really want any more brandy.

Francois settled his bulk in what was for a large man a nimble fashion on the crude stool that Bill had been sitting on. Now that Harriet could see him in the light, the menacing air of the large man was reduced to that of a pleasing spaniel. Renard poured a new glass of brandy and pushed it across the table to Harriet.

Harriet took the glass and swilled the brandy round its sides.

Blinking, she centered her attention on Renard, who had moved his chair into the light. The man was extremely handsome, with golden brown hair and hazel eyes. A prominent nose finished off the look, along with sensual lips. He looked undeniably French in his dress, being lean but muscular.

“Show me the embroidery. All of it.”

Harriet tentatively laid her mother’s embroidery on the table. In the candlelight the white linen looked yellow with age.

“Where did you get this?” Renard asked, tapping his finger on the tiny stitches. His unwavering gaze promised great penalties if she did not answer to his satisfaction. She could see now why his reputation was so fearsome.

“From a lady in Brambridge.”

“What is her name?”

“M… Harriet Beauregard.”

“You lie.” He paused and looked at her before he spoke again. “Where did the design come from?”

Harriet looked at Renard’s tapping fingers as they touched the delicate stars.

“I… I don’t know.”

“This is the crest of a great family that my father knew.”

“Your father?”

Renard nodded. “A family who was pushed out of the aristocracy a long time ago. They fled to England thirty years ago. A man and his daughter.”

“Wh…What happened to them?”

Renard looked away. “My sources say his wife died en route. They said that he betrayed France, but he did nothing wrong. He had to leave before they killed him. I do not know what happened to them after that.”

Renard continued to tap at the lace on the table.

“And yet you, you girl dressed as a boy, cannot tell me where this design comes from.” Renard swept the brandy glasses off the table with one outstretched arm. They fell to the floor and broke into tiny splinters.

“I will take all of your lace.” Renard had hardly looked at the exquisite sample on the table. “Twenty guineas a bale.”

“Twenty five,” Harriet shot back, her words coming before her brain could catch up.

“Done.” Renard got to his feet and stared out of the small port window. “Francois. Get her out. It must be a coincidence. There are no more Mompessons left. Give her the money. We must go.”

Harriet gathered up the lace and the embroidery from the table and stuffed it in her pocket. Before she could think, she was swept from the room by Francois. As the door shut, she heard the clink of a bottle against glass.

Francois refused to let anyone near the cabin for a half hour after that. He proved to be enthusiastic about the lace as he handed Harriet three leather bags of chinking coin. Some, he even said, he would keep for his wife.

Harriet could still not believe it. She had received twice what Edgar, and the other shops in Ottery St Mary, would have paid her for it. Janey would have the money she needed to keep food on their table.

It was, however, still not yet the price that she had wanted to receive. She knew that Edgar’s onward sale prices were at least twice that again from what she had negotiated. However, even so, for a first shipment it was a great trade. She knew that if the French buyers were pleased then perhaps more bales of lace could be sent off with the
Rocket
.

Something nagged at her particularly. It wasn’t Renard’s revelations. She was sure that when Renard had spoken to Francois, he had done so in French, and she had understood words here and there, such as sly, bear and tail. None of it made any sense and yet it was like a lost voice that she had.

CHAPTER 18

They left at speed on the tide, at night, tacking backwards and forwards. The fine day had turned into an early summer thunderstorm. The rain fell incessantly, and the wind whipped the waves up into a frenzy.

James could not stay below. The boat was sailing close to. It heeled out of the water on one side. Her sails were constantly being let out to balance the boat, until the boom hit the water. Then they would have to pull the sails in again as the boom being in the water could drag the boat in. But this in turn made the boat heel even further.