Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) (7 page)

“What are you going to do now, Harriet? Kick me in the shins?” James raised his swords again.

“You didn’t did you, Harry? Not again.” Bill exclaimed behind her. Harriet had regularly kicked both Bill and James in the shins when she was younger and they didn’t do what she wanted. But that had been when she was fourteen and —

The nape of Harriet’s neck prickled with heat. James persisted in treating her like a child. She hadn’t been a child since he’d left her on that beach with the tide coming in and no route of escape except to follow the path into the mine. Six hours it had taken her to find her way out in the pitch black.

“I’ve read what they said about you in the circulars,” Harriet said in a low voice. “They call you the Killer Lord. What did you do, James? How many did you kill?”

James’ face blanched and he dropped the swords slightly. Without waiting for his response, Harriet reversed her grip on the handle of her sword and with a stabbing motion, pinioned him in the side. She nodded at Benjamin and straightened her back.

“And that is how Tybalt kills Mercutio, when Mercutio doesn’t expect it, with a stab under Romeo’s arm.” Embarrassment flooded her and she refused to look at James. It had been a low blow.

“And that is why I asked you to pick on someone your own size,” James murmured behind her.

Harriet’s neck was still rather hot. The crowd at the back of the room had grown larger.

“That’s Lord Stanton, that is.”

“Miss Harriet just skewered the new lord.”

“Bet he ain’t too happy about that.”

Reluctantly, Harriet turned and put out a hand for James’ swords. “Rehearsal over,” she said in a loud voice. “Time to go home.”

“But we’ve got half an hour left,” Benjamin protested.

James placed the swords into Harriet’s outstretched hand. “Better do as the lady says before you get stabbed yourself.”

Harriet waited patiently but still James did not release the swords. Her ears burned as the room laughed at James’ comment. She steeled herself and looked up. James’ dark hair had fallen over one of his green eyes, and the dim light from the windows cast shadows from the sharp planes of his cheekbones. He looked like every hero she had read about. The hero she had imagined nightly in her dreams. Despite him not coming back for her, Harriet had thought of James every day for the last two years. Her breathing deepened as anticipation flooded through her.

“Are you sure you don’t want to kick me in the shins?” James let go of the swords. She caught them with a fumble as they fell to the floor.

Damn the man. Her heroes had not spoken like that. If at all.

At least he had called her a lady and not a girl.

CHAPTER 6

James left the schoolhouse and rode slowly towards the Fountain Inn, his hand lightly touching his stomach beneath the fine linen of his shirt. An unexpected wave of warm familiarity washed over him. He had known just a split second before Harriet had pinned him with the wooden sword that she was going to do something unexpected. It was the look that she got in her eye, an indescribable widening that warned of unspeakable consequences.

He gazed out into the distance across fields of corn rippling in the breeze. A low wall separated them from fields of dull brown. Brambridge Manor fields. The golden corn belonged to Lord Anglethorpe. What in the blazes had he done in order to get his crops to grow? Nudging Scorpius into a trot, he headed back towards the Fountain Inn.

Entering the tap room was not the same noisy affair as when James had left. The room was empty, apart from Bill, who sat quietly in the corner.

“Hello, James. Or should I say Lord Stanton?” Bill straightened and kicked a stool out with his foot. “Come and sit down.”

Taking off his coat, James loosened his cravat and, sitting on the stool, put an elbow on the table. “Thank you.”

“Two years it has been, James, and nary a word. Where have you been?”

“In the army, at Waterloo, at Salamanca, wherever there was fighting.”

Bill arched an eyebrow. “I thought you were more interested in the stars than fighting.”

“The small matter of a murdered riding officer changed that.”

Bill grunted and sat. “Aye. I know. The
Rocket
dropped you in Calais, remember. You were a wreck. I thought you were going to remain at that tavern. You seemed to be prospering there.”

“Somehow the authorities found out about me. Those first three months were… formative.” James winced. “I learnt a bit about fighting, hand to hand. And then someone called the Hawk contacted me through our old friend Renard. Said England needed me. Asked me to join the Tenth Hussars as a scout.”

Bill nodded and sighed. “I know the Hawk. Can’t get away from him. Granwich too.”

“Granwich? Who’s Granwich?”

“You’ve not met Granwich?” Bill tapped his fingers on the table. “Have you ever met Harding… or even the Hawk?”

James shook his head. “I’ve been too busy hiding in bushes and galloping around armies.” It hadn’t left a lot of time for socializing. He had just kept his head down and done what he had been told to do.

“Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“Interesting. I need a drink. Ned? Ned! A pint of your best please.”

The short, portly figure of the landlord who had greeted James a few nights ago bustled over.

“Well lads, this be a pretty scene. I think Lord Stanton has something on you now, Bill, even if you do look like the spit of each other.”

“You knew who I was? Why didn't you say?” James brushed his hair out of his eyes. It was becoming a damn nuisance.

“Err. I. Well. Pint of bitter was it?”

James nodded. Ned trotted back to behind the bar and, with hurried movements, started to fill two pints.

“Do you know what Brambridge has gone through since you left?” Bill stretched and cocked his head to one side. A large paw appeared on the table. “Down, Brutus.” Bill clicked his tongue and the paw disappeared. James stood and peered over the table. The enormous head of a wolfhound gazed back at him from the gloom under the seat.

“He’s new,” James said, sitting back down gingerly. Soldiers he weren’t afraid of. Large animals with many teeth were something else. He couldn’t count the number of farmsteads he had vaulted through chased by
something
on a chain.

“You’ve a lot to catch up on.”

“I’ve noticed. My—”
Dammit
but how could he phrase it now? “Stanton estates do not seem to be prospering.”

Bill snorted. “The only thing that is doing well is Harriet’s school.”

“She always liked her books.”

Bill nodded. “Yes. But she works for a pittance. Don’t know how she did it but she persuaded Edgar that Brambridge needed a dame school. I think she told him that the more the children were happy, the more lace they would produce.”

She had, had she? Harriet was nothing like the old, uneducated ladies who normally ran dame schools, their service more a glorified child care operation than a seat of any real learning. “Who pays her?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve seen Edgar hand her some money on occasion. I think he likes her to be beholden to him.”

“That sounds like my cousin.” Indeed it did, much more than the concerned man who had greeted him in the drawing room.

Bill nodded. “Your father started laying off workers on the land as the crops turned bad. He got Edgar to turn them away. Then the mine started failing. Now the village is mostly unemployed, and the young people have started leaving to go to the bigger towns where there is employment. But even there they starve because no one looks out for them.”

James frowned. Spoilt crops did not tally with what he had seen on the adjoining Anglethorpe estates that were positively gleaming. And there was no reason for the mine to fail.

“I've helped where I can,” Bill continued.

“The
Rocket
still sails?”

“We couldn’t stop. The money from the goods was all that has kept many families afloat. We'll be sailing again in a week.”

“Brandy?”

“Amongst
other
things.” Bill brought his tankard to his lips and took a long swallow. “It's hard going. A new Riding Officer has been assigned to the district because of all the stories of smugglers in our coves. Not many customs men applied for the job when the last one died.” He gave James a sly look. “Running the contraband gives the unemployed some work, and allows the village to remain above the bread line.”

“Is everything alright, sirs?” Ned bustled back, a drying cloth over his arm, two pints of ale and a loaf of bread on a tray in one hand and a plate of cheese in the other.

James nodded. Ned laid the food on the table.

“How did you know who I am?”

“You've got the look of your grandfather,” Ned looked around and drew up a stool. “I knew of him when I was younger. Look just like him you do, although his hair had a reddish tinge. You must have a picture of him somewhere.”

There were many dark portraits hanging in Brambridge Manor. James hated them all. But there hadn’t been one of his grandfather.

“How did you know him?” Bill asked, pulling a hunk of bread from the loaf.

“It was before he won Brambridge. My father owned the inn in Honiton. The Five Cocks. Lord Stanton was the fourth son of an impoverished titled family.”

So that was why there was no portrait of him up there with the rest of the smirking bastards.

Ned got up and walked back to the bar. “His three elder brothers died. Carried off by the pox,” he threw over his shoulder as he poured himself a tankard of ale. “He inherited the Stanton title unexpectedly. Up until that point he was a regular at the inn, always tupping one of the barmaids, gambling and drinking. Father had to stop him coming in because he was regularly drunk before he even arrived.” Ned paused for a breath, and took a long sip of his beer. “It was unexpected when he won Brambridge. He was a noted loser. And Viscount Summerbain, the man who owned the manor, never gambled. It was a sad day when the Viscount had to leave. He was a real gentleman.”

“Viscount Summerbain?” James gave Ned a level stare. “Do you know if he had a family?”

“Aye, a daughter. Lovely little thing she was. No idea what has become of them both now.”

James clenched his fists under the table. It was going to be harder than he thought to find this Marie girl. But he wasn’t going to give up easily.

Ned stood and returned to the bar as new customers came through the door, lightening the tap room. Looking around to make sure that no one was listening, James motioned Bill back outside.

“Can I trust you?”

“Of course you can, James,” Bill said, looking hurt. “Two years ago.—”

“Yes, I know.” Two years ago Bill had saved his life. James rested against the edge of the horse trough. “Look. Father's will has just been read. I don't inherit anything unless I can find Viscount Summerbain's granddaughter, Marie Mompesson, within six months.”

Bill stared at him. “You mean you can’t inherit until you find her?”

“No.” James did not mention marrying the girl. It just made the task even more impossible. “And during that year all bills will be paid by the lawyers.”

“Granger?”

James nodded.

Bill shook his head and sat down next to James on the other edge of the trough. “That’s not good news. He’s a lawyer but he’s only out to serve his own interests. I would keep an eye on him if I were you.”

“I'm going to go to Ottery St Mary tomorrow to see him to make sure all the right payments are going to be made regarding the estate.”

James put a hand on the edge of the trough. Should he tell Bill about his other mission to find out what was happening to disrupt the trading routes? When they had sailed on the
Rocket
they had trusted each other with their lives, and it seemed he knew the Hawk well. But Bill was one of the main facilitators of the trading route. If anything happened he would be the first to know about it, and yet he hadn’t mentioned
any problems
with it at all. Just how much did he know about what was going on?

CHAPTER 7

Harriet looked up as Agatha stretched and pulled down the hunting knife from behind the door of their cottage.

“You seem tired, Harriet. Perhaps you should scale back your play. I don’t understand how you fit it in with the teaching. Especially if Edgar is not paying you for it.” Agatha picked up the dull cotton of her overskirt and smoothed it over the blade of the knife.

Harriet sighed. Her aunt wasn’t as taken with theatrical pursuits as Harriet was. Sometimes she wondered if they were related at all. Agatha was so methodical and mathematical. And practical. At least she hadn’t seemed put out that Edgar had stopped dropping by. To Harriet it had been a distinct positive. She thrust another log onto the pile by the fire.

“At least Mrs. Madely has been in a good mood recently.” Agatha held up the blade to the fire light.

“Mmm.” Harriet suspected that having the attentions of a wealthy man might have bolstered that mood. Despite Mrs. Madely’s pious ways she seemed to forget that she was married to the vicar.

“You know, there is also something a little off about Edgar Stanton,” Agatha said thoughtfully, rehanging the hunting knife. The intricate design of the elephants on the handle shone in the firelight. Agatha pushed her hand down the side of the armchair by the fire and pulled out a small letter with a familiar seal. She received them regularly, once every two months, but Harriet had never seen her write back.

“I agree. He robs everyone when he buys their lace.” Harriet pursed her lips as she thought about her procrastination outside the shop. “And despite his enormous profits, the Stanton estates don’t seem to be doing well under his hand.”

“Well, you could do well with Bill Standish,” said her aunt pensively. “Those nice strong shoulders, well, all I will say is that sometimes you need a strong man to get by.”

Harriet gazed at her aunt, nonplussed. Agatha was incorrigible. Harriet didn’t want Bill. He was like a brother to her. She wanted a hero on a large horse to sweep her off her feet. Someone a bit like—