Fenella J Miller (21 page)

‘I shall see to it, sir.’

Ned decided he might as well rest
if he could; he was going to get precious little sleep that night. He pulled
his boots off and tossed them in the corner, his jacket and cravat followed.
His heart was pumping hard, excitement flowing freely round his body. He was
going to miss these episodes when he settled down to a sedate married life.

Stretching out on his bed he
folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, running through all the
possible eventualities that might occur when he ambushed the smugglers and the
count. He was sure with six men at his side he would have no difficulty.
Surprise was the key to this exercise.

The soft knock on his bed chamber
door roused him from his planning. ‘Come in, Simpson, I’m not asleep.’

‘I’ve tidied your study, my lord;
I found this note for you on the desk and thought you’d like to have it.’

Ned took the paper, not recognizing
the handwriting. He opened it and scanned the contents. His eyes glittered as
he read the words of love. No, he would not
miss
 
the
espionage, not anymore; now he had
something far better to do with his life. He refolded the square and pushed it
into the pocket of his shirt, next to his heart.

Penny returned
to her chambers a little after ten o’clock and was glad she had already
dismissed her
abigail
; she intended to visit Ned just
in case he was genuinely unwell and offer her assistance as a nurse. She took a
candlestick and opened the hidden door in the wooden panelling in her parlour.
She was going to retrace her steps and find his room via the servant’s route.

She would have no difficulty
finding his room again, for each flight of stairs was numbered and each
passageway had a letter assigned to it. She had memorized the numbers and
letters and written them down as soon as Ned had left.

The only danger was that she
would meet an unsuspecting servant and be obliged to explain her presence. The
passage was eerily quiet, none of the voices and clattering footsteps she had
heard when she’d travelled along this way before. Perhaps all the staff had
finished early tonight and
were
enjoying a convivial
evening in the servants’ hall below stairs.

On reaching her destination she
pushed open the door and stepped into the dressing room. The room was already
occupied. Her sudden appearance so startled Simpson he dropped the shaving mug
he was carrying.

‘Miss Coombs, his lordship’s not
receiving tonight.’

Penny smiled at the flustered
valet. ‘Is he here? I came to see how someone who was in rude health less than
two hours ago could now be prostrate with fever.’

Simpson accepted the inevitable.
‘Lord Weston has gone out. I don’t expect him back until the morning.’

‘I guessed as much. He has gone
to apprehend a traitor. Would you tell him I called?’

The man bowed. ‘I shall do so.’
He hesitated as if not sure whether to pass on this piece of information. ‘Lord
Weston received your note, miss, and put it in his waistcoat pocket.’

‘Thank you for telling me. I
shall leave you to your duties. Goodnight.’

Chapter Twenty-two

‘Any sign of the diligence?’ Ned whispered
to Perkins, who was watching the track.

‘Nothing, yet,
sir.
I reckon it’ll be another fifteen minutes or so. They’ll not get
down this path
quickly,
the sand’s soft and the wheels
will sink in.’

The time was a little after
eleven o’clock and the moon temporarily hidden behind a bank of cloud making it
difficult to see. ‘Reynolds, you’re certain you saw the French ship anchored in
the bay before the moon went in?’

‘I did, my lord, clear as day.
We’ve got the right place, all we have to do is
wait
for
the villains to appear then we can do the lot.’

The four men were bristling with
weapons and eager to apprehend the smugglers and the traitor who had
orchestrated this event. A slight sound approaching through the long marsh
grass stilled them. Silently Ned got to his feet and, half crouching, moved
into a position where he could strike down whoever this was, before they were
able to warn those waiting on the beach of their presence.

‘Lord Weston? It’s Billy and me.’

Thank God! Ned relaxed and called
back softly. ‘Up here, lads. Come in on your knees or you’ll be spotted from
the beach.’

A slight rustling greeted his
words and then the grass parted and the two young men slithered in to join the
other four. ‘The
Frenchy’s
down there with them
smugglers, my lord. We followed him until we was certain he were going down to
the sea and then come up here to join you.’

‘Are you all clear about your
part in this?’ There was a murmur of assent. ‘Good. Reynolds and Perkins you
stay up here where you have a clear view. The only live captive we want is the
count; the rest must not be allowed to leave the beach and carry tales.’

Ned turned to resume his vigil on
the edge of the sandy dip he had selected for their ambush. His four men were
seasoned fighters and wouldn’t balk at dispatching any of the smugglers, but he
was less confident about the two from
Nettleford
.
They were loyal to Penny and prepared to die for her if necessary, but were
they prepared to kill?

Far too late to worry about such
details; Perkins had explained to them what tonight would entail and they
hadn’t demurred. He rolled over and beckoned to Riley. ‘Keep an eye on those
two for me; I don’t want any harm to come to them if possible.’

‘Me and
Blakey
will take care of them, sir, don’t you fret.
There’s
five of them smugglers on the beach and Reynolds said there’s three more with
the wagon. With the
Frenchy
that makes nine.
Hardly a fight at all!’

The horses had been tethered in a
coppice half a mile away, too far from the track to be overheard by either the
men with the wagon or those waiting on the shore. In that final few minutes Ned
reviewed his plans, checking he’d missed nothing. When the attack started it
would be too late.

He checked Reynolds and Perkins
were in position and their powder and ball was to hand; he ran his hand over
the hilt of his sabre to see this was loose in its scabbard. His pistols were
loaded and primed; all he had to do was cock and fire. The men who would
accompany him downhill were armed, but the two
Nettleford
boys had cudgels instead of swords. He smiled wryly at the thought of his
guests seeing him like this. Would they be shocked or impressed?

He stiffened at the unmistakable
sound of harness jangling and the muted hiss of voices. Saying a quick prayer,
as he always did at such times, he gestured to the others to be ready to move
on his signal. He glanced up and saw the moon appear from behind the clouds
bathing the beach in
a ghostly
silver light.

His riflemen signalled they were
ready to fire. He withdrew his pistols from his belt and cocked them. The noise
of the others doing the same, echoed round the dip. Damn! Had this alerted the
men below? No, the wagon continued to lumber down the sand; this was joined by
the free traders and a taller man dressed as a gentleman, unlike his companions
who were roughly garbed. Replacing his weapons carefully in his belt, he
whispered his final order to Perkins and Reynolds.

 
‘Wait until we’re away from the dunes, then
open fire.’

‘Understood,
sir.
Remember, boys, don’t get in our line of fire. Keep to the right,
that way we’ll not hit you by mistake.’ This remark was for the benefit of the
two new men, everyone else knew exactly what to do. They had done it many times
before.

The unsuspecting group on the
beach were fully occupied trying to push the wagon down to the edge. The two
carthorses were straining every sinew, leaning heavily into the traces, but the
weight of the gold and the depth of the sand were making it difficult for them.

‘Now, we’ll take them before they
get the cart on to the hard sand. At the moment they’re too busy pushing to
hear us approach.’

He didn’t need to worry about his
riflemen’s efficiency. These two could take the centre out of coin tossed into
the sky every time. Even in the semi-darkness their aim would be lethal. He
beckoned to the four other men and, on his belly, crept through the tufty
undergrowth, slithering down the sand towards the beach.

As they reached the edge of the
sea grass he motioned to the others to flatten
themselves
on the ground whilst he reconnoitred. The voices of free traders and the count
carried clearly through the darkness.

‘
Buggeration
!
It’s bloody stuck again, ’ere, Joe,
give us an ’and. Put your bloomin’ shoulder on the tailboard and shove. We
don’t
wanna
be down ’ere all bleeding night.
Them
toy soldiers ’
ave
been
taking too much interest in this bit to the coast just recently.’

Someone else spoke up. ‘It ain’t
us
makin
’
all the
rattle;
shut your gob, you stupid bugger.’

 
A figure moved away from the wagon and walked
towards the sea. The man was carrying a carpetbag and wearing a heavy drab coat
but was unmistakably the Frenchman. Ned scoured the inky water - was that
something?

Yes - a rowing boat was sculling
steadily to shore and was about three hundred yards from the beach. There was a
soft exchange of French - the moment for action had arrived. If he delayed any
longer whoever was in the boat could tip the balance, and not in their favour.

‘Right!
Keep low, and for God’s sake keep your head down. Your face will reveal you before
you have them in range.’ He didn’t wait for them to reply. In a crouching run
he led the charge across the beach pulling out his pistols as he did so.

The stench of unwashed humanity closed
his nostrils - he was near enough. Raising his guns, he fired. The noise of
several shots shattered the peace and the screams of the men that were hit
merely spurred him on to complete his mission. Tucking his spent weapons into
his belt he drew his sword and raced to reach the count before the bastard was
picked up by the frantically rowing Frenchmen.

The loud crack of rifle fire
echoed across the carnage and the last two men who had accompanied the
ill-fated wagon slumped to the sand. Leaving his men to complete the ambush Ned
continued his dash towards the sea. Count Everex was screaming at the oncoming
dinghy as he waded into the sea.

Icy water filled his boots as he
splashed closer and closer to his quarry. He didn’t want to kill the man, but
if the choice was losing him or killing him, he wouldn’t hesitate.

‘Give up, Everex, you’ve lost. My
marksmen will drop you where you stand if you attempt to board that vessel.’

‘Never!
Kill me if you must, you will not take me otherwise.’

The sabre sliced through the air
cutting deeply into the count’s left arm. The man staggered and fell to his
knees, clutching the wound in a vain attempt to stem the blood. ‘I surrender,
Weston. I’ll come with you.’

Ned sheathed his sword and his
teeth flashed white in the moonlight. It was over. No one was hurt apart from
the traitors. All that remained was for his men to load the bodies on to the
wagon and dispose of them. The gold and prisoner would be collected at the
rendezvous by Andover.

‘Come along, you traitorous bastard,
my superiors wish to speak with you before they send you to the gallows.’ He
reached down to haul the injured man to his feet, turning his back for a moment
on the Frenchmen in the dinghy out to sea. Perkins and Reynolds would have them
covered, that was their job.

Then a second bank of clouds
obscured the moon and the riflemen could no longer see the shore. Realizing his
danger Ned turned, still gripping the panting count by his shoulder. A second
fusillade of shots reverberated across the deserted beach, this time they came
from the dinghy and not from the beach. A shot penetrated his shoulder and he
staggered forward, almost losing his balance.

The thickness of his cloak had
absorbed some of the force of the ball, but he was injured and needed urgent
medical attention. ‘Riley, I’m hit, dammit! Come and take this vermin from me.
Tie up his arm before he bleeds to death.’

Billy appeared at his side and
offered a steadying arm around his shoulders. ‘Thank you, lad, you did well
tonight. Assist me to the wagon; I expect they’ll have a lantern we can light.
I want to interrogate this man before he passes out.’

He was in as much danger as the
prisoner of falling into unconsciousness. The walk across the sand seemed
endless. His sodden cloak and water filled Hessians weighed him down making
every footstep difficult. He had to find something to stem the blood.

Fred had found the tinderbox and
two lanterns bathed the wagon in flickering golden light. He sagged against the
wooden side, using his good arm to support him. There were pounding footsteps
and Perkins and Reynolds arrived at his side. They knew what to do; this was
not the first time one of them had been injured in a skirmish.

‘Here, Billy lad, hold the
lantern closer, let me get a proper look at his lordship.’ Perkins gently
peeled back his jacket and shirt. ‘You’re lucky, sir. The bullet’s gone right
through. You’ll be right as trivet in a day or two.’

Ned gritted his teeth as a pad of
folded cloth was pressed on either side of his shoulder and then bound tightly
with two strips torn from the bottom of his own shirt. He was light-headed, but
quite capable of conducting the interview with the Frenchman. He wanted to know
whose idea it had been to target his future wife. ‘That will do, Perkins. I’ll
manage until Simpson can dress it properly. Has Reynolds taken care of the
Frenchman?’

‘He’s about finished, my lord,
we’ve got him in the back of the wagon.’ The man knew better than to offer his
assistance to his master, unless asked for it.

Ned pushed himself upright, and
exerting all his willpower strode round to the tailgate as though his injury
was trifling. The count gulped as he saw death staring back at him. His bladder
emptied much to the repugnance of the man who received the steaming liquid on his
boots. With a grunt of disgust Reynolds shook his foot but didn’t step away.

Not a flicker of sympathy at the
Frenchman’s misery crossed Ned’s face. This man had betrayed the country in
which he lived, not for altruistic reasons, but to fill his own pockets, which
was even worse.

‘Everex, before my men take you
to London for interrogation, I wish to know one thing. What maggot got in your
brain and persuaded you that trying to kill Miss Coombs would make me less
aware of your activities?’

The count gawped at him as if
he’d been speaking in tongues. Ned felt a surge of fury; nobody, least of all
this abject specimen, ever denied him the information he sought. He slammed
both hands down on either side of the shivering body, putting his face and inch
from the Frenchman’s. ‘Answer me, damn you!’

‘I know nothing about the attacks
on Miss Coombs; I have every admiration for your lovely lady and whatever my
shortcomings, I wouldn’t harm a hair of her head.’

With difficulty Ned straightened,
the jolt to his injured shoulder had started the bleeding again.
‘And what about the free traders?
Was it their idea?’

‘No, they’ve not been near
Headingly
. You’re the local magistrate, why should they do
anything to attract your attention?’ The man frowned and shook his head as if
something puzzled him. ‘Lord Weston, why are you here alone? Where are the
militia? I had no idea a magistrate acted independently,’ he seemed to shrink
back into himself before continuing, ‘no idea you could be so ruthless and kill
without hesitation.’

‘You’re a clever man, work it out
for yourself.’ Ned had seen enough and heard enough: the man was a liar.
Whatever his threats he was in no shape to carry them out. He would leave Major
Carstairs to elicit further information.

‘Take him away, Perkins. Lord
Andover will be waiting for you. I must return home before I’m incapable of
doing so.’

He turned and began the long
march back across the beach, a distance he’d covered at a run less than thirty
minutes before. He was sweating and his knees felt weak by the time he got to
dip where they had all gathered before the ambush.

He swayed, and his teeth started
to chatter. It was damn cold out here. His eyes misted. Slowly he toppled
forward, face first, into the sand.