Rake Beyond Redemption (17 page)

He was very anxious for her to go. But indeed, she was in no danger. Had she seen any sign of the Fly-By-Nights over the past week? No. Had she seen anything of Zan? No. Not even a distant view to set her heart beating. That was all over, of course. If she was careful and circumspect in her movements she could see no danger.

Captain D’Acre was hardly likely to take the Pride by storm, was he?

‘Thank you for your concern for my welfare, George. But for now I’ll stay at the Pride.’

‘Aye, mistress.’ He shuffled to the door with a sketchy bow. ‘Thought you would.’

Zan lounged at his desk that same night, damning all foolish, intransigent, entirely desirable women, and scowled even harder. Bess, sitting expectantly at his crossed ankles, whined to catch his attention.

‘Why could she not just do as she was told! I wager Gadie was too circumspect by half and let her ride roughshod over him. For so small and feminine a woman, she has a wickedly opinionated demeanour! And French to boot! I doubt she’s ever followed an order in her life. I’ve a good mind to…’ The prospect
of kidnapping rose again and sent a spasm of heat, of brutal desire, straight to his loins. It was entirely too pleasing a prospect to have her under lock and key and under his dominion. Except that that was no way forwards for either of them. There
was
no way forwards. ‘Perhaps not.’

The spaniel whined again and pawed at his leg.

Zan grinned and stroked her ears. ‘It’s not you, Bess, who drives a man to distraction. How difficult can a woman be? She worries me like the devil, but I have to admire her wilfulness. Why was it necessary for me to play the villain in her eyes? And by God I did it well, did I not? I can play a role better than most men. I played that one to the hilt.’ The grin died at the memory of some of the things he had said to her. ‘So, she won’t take advice. What shall we try? An anonymous letter from a well-wisher, with just enough of a threat to frighten her into retreat?’

He raised a glass of fine brandy to his lips, drank. Considered.

‘It could work. I doubt it, but it might. At least it’s worth a try.’

He opened a drawer, rummaged to find ink, quill and sheets of paper. Then set himself to write two letters.

One, brief and very much to the point, to Captain Rodmell in Lewes. Zan read it through and nodded, satisfied, then quickly sealed it and put it aside to be delivered.

He sat and thought about the second. Much more difficult, to achieve a nice blend of warning, compassion and threat. He set pen to paper.

To Marie-Claude Hallaston

Your presence at Lydyard’s Pride has become
dangerous to your safety. The Fly-By-Nights have become a force for evil in the village.

That should grab her attention, although he was sure Gadie had told her as much without effect. Zan passed the quill over his lips, imagining her as she read it. The line between her brows, the tightening of her lips. And he remembered the softness of them against his own, her sweet breath…

Damnation!

He wrote again.

Those who wish you well can no longer guarantee your safety. It would be better for you, and for all those connected with the Pride, if you left. And soon. You are already aware of the perils to your reputation and to your person. If you remain at the Pride, you open yourself to further humiliations and possibly physical harm.

The Fly-By-Nights have neither honour nor principle.

This warning is in your own interests. If you choose to ignore it, the price could be higher than you could imagine.

From A Friend

How melodramatic was that! And it contained a hint of cruelty that would worry her. Hopefully she would recall D’Acre’s unpalatable overtures. A weight of guilt settled like a rock in his belly, but it couldn’t be helped. It would be much worse to leave her there to face the consequences of her stubbornness. Far from convinced, he sealed the letter, praying it might do the trick.

‘Come!’ He snapped his fingers and Bess instantly
leapt to follow him as he went in search of Tom. She would receive it within the hour. With any luck she could be packed and off to London tomorrow. And then his life could get back to normal. Or whatever passed for normal.

He would never see her again.

‘A letter, ma’am. Came this morning.’

Marie-Claude took the letter from the tarnished silver salver offered by Wiggins at the breakfast table. Opened it.

‘Who delivered it?’ She looked up sharply.

‘No idea, ma’am. It was left on the hall table.’

He shuffled off, leaving her to read the single sheet. It took a matter of seconds and Marie-Claude did not appreciate what she read. The second warning in two days. Someone wanted her gone from the Pride. Placing it on the table in front of her, she read it again. A cold hand squeezed her heart.

A warning, true. But also an overt threat. If she refused, what next?

Well, why not go? Common sense told her to do exactly that. Why not just give in, pack her possessions and join Harriette?

‘
Mon Dieu!
Why should I?’ she demanded of the lines of black script.

This all had to do with smuggling. She was sure of it. And if it was, it had to do with D’Acre and his crew. George Gadie had more or less admitted it—although this letter was not the old smuggler’s work. She’d be surprised if he could do more than write his name. Was this letter from Captain D’Acre, to get her out of the Pride under the pretence of being a concerned friend? Friend!
She was no fool. Nor was she a weak woman to simply run in the opposite direction when danger threatened. If her suspicions were right, D’Acre had his eye on the Pride as the centre for his operations, just as it had been when Harriette had sailed her cutter as Captain Harry.

Marie-Claude blinked as the truth struck home.

Of course that was it. Of course he would want it. Anyone of sense would see where D’Acre’s presence in the village was leading. The Pride was the perfect place, empty for much of the year apart from Wiggins, who would stand firm against no one! A Tower room and a Smugglers’ Lamp to signal smuggling vessels home to safety. Or lure the helpless storm-tossed wrecks if that was the intent. Spacious cellars to store the contraband. That’s what it was, and D’Acre would rather not have her in residence when he came to take it for his own.

Well, she would not go.

She sat and sipped her cooling tea thoughtfully. It needed careful thought. The Pride was in danger. It was Harriette’s own much-loved inheritance. She had lost her own cutter,
Lydyard’s Ghost
, to vengeful retaliation by the Preventives. How heartbreaking it would be if she lost the Pride to a gang of bloodthirsty cutthroat smugglers. Could they take and hold it? She was sure they could.

And how demeaning if she simply ran and left them free to take possession.

Furious at the underhand scheming, Marie-Claude hatched her own little plot.

She would make it known that she was leaving. Have the house shut up as if it were empty. It would not curtail her activities for more than a day or two. She had the strongest feeling that whatever was about to happen was imminent. She would make sure the doors and windows
were locked and barred every night, with strict instructions to Mr Temple and Wiggins to open the door to no one.

She would inform Sir Wallace Lydyard of her fears. If he did nothing else, he would make sure that Captain Rodmell kept a close eye on the Pride.

Should she warn Luke and Harriette? No. No reason to do that. After all, the threat might never materialise if it was only a figment of her over-active imagination. How ridiculous to bring them down to Old Wincomlee on some absurd enterprise.

When D’Acre came to do whatever nasty trick it was he planned, he would find the Pride locked against him and the Preventives armed and ready, lying in wait. She would sleep with a pistol underneath her pillow if she had to. And D’Acre would find himself behind bars in Lewes gaol.

She pushed the note away with a gesture of distaste. It was probably all a lie. How could she not be safe at the Pride? Yet she still decided to ask George Gadie when the next night for a run was planned.

One question remained in her mind for which she had no answer. What role did Zan have in all this? Was he part and parcel of it all? Was that why he had joined forces with the Fly-By-Nights? Even worse, although he had denied it and she had been inclined to believe him, was that the reason why he had sought her out in the first place? To seduce the occupant of the house would be a far easier means of getting control of the Pride than organising an attack. To step in the door, through the invitation of a silly, gullible, love-struck woman.

Marie-Claude thumped her fist on the polished surface of the table. Zan was involved. She would wager her silk stockings on it! He did not care for her, he never
had, and she had been such easy prey for his scheming. But she was no longer a love-struck woman. Marie-Claude tore the warning letter into small pieces and cast them into the empty fire-grate. Whatever her weakness then, she was well over it.

She would do all in her power to foil Alexander Ellerdine—and Captain D’Acre.

Mr Temple and Wiggins were given to understand that the French lady would be leaving Lydyard’s Pride in two days. It was not unexpected. Surely she had been lonely without a Hallaston family gathering to keep her company. She had enjoyed her respite from the heat and bustle of London, she explained, but was now to join the Earl and Countess at The Venmore. Few preparations would be necessary, merely to pack her clothing and order up the travelling coach. The house could be closed up and put under Holland covers.

Those who had any interest in such news in the village were soon brought up to date with the French lady’s intentions. Zan heard as soon as any.

Thank God!

Within two days she would be gone and he could stop thinking about her. Could stop expecting to see her whenever he set foot outside Ellerdine Manor. Whatever the outcome of events at the Pride, it would have no bearing on her life. She would be safe and—eventually—content away from Old Wincomlee. Her memories of the summer would fade and die until she would think of it only as some dream, some summer madness that had afflicted her, but from which she had, thankfully, escaped.

It would fade and die for him too. Wouldn’t it?
Why did it seem that all the brightness in his life had drained away, no matter how sunny the days? Moonlit nights were an agony of loss. The sooner she was gone the better, and he could turn his mind to stop thinking about her.

But he could not. She persisted in his dreams and his waking hours. Until against all the promptings of common sense he knew that he must see her one more time, even if she damned him anew for his vicious treatment of her at the Silver Boat. He would tolerate that if he could have one more moment of her nearness, to carry the memory with him when she was gone.

Fool! he admonished. Far better to remember her when fate smiled and love seemed a possibility. That’s what a man of good sense would do, and steer clear of her.

When Tom had brought the information, courtesy of George Gadie, that the French lady planned on her final morning to ride to make her farewells to Lady Augusta Lydyard at Whitescar Hall, Zan had changed his mind and was lying in wait on his mare on the cliff top to waylay her on her return.

It was like the inundation of the sea at high tide. She filled every part of him, every sense, the minute he saw her cantering along the cliff top towards him, making the most of the short sward, enjoying the exhilaration of the wind and the view of the sea. He knew when she became aware of him, when she lifted her head and looked towards him. Momentarily he saw her make a check on the reins, but he had no fears that she would retreat. He watched, waited, as she applied her heels and continued on her chosen path, only pulling her mount
to a standstill when he manoeuvred his mare so that she had no choice but to speak with him.

She raised her chin in defiance. Her eyes were brilliant, rivalling the sunlit waves, and they met his with no embarrassment over their last meeting.

How could he not admire her?

Only the disdain in the curl of her lips wounded his heart as if she wielded George Gadie’s ancient cutlass. He steeled himself to weather the storm of her hatred and contempt.

‘You are in my way,’ she stated with a toss of her head.

‘But not for much longer, I understand.’

‘News travels fast. I’m sure you’ll not be sorry.’ The edge to her voice twisted the blade.

‘I think it’s a sensible decision.’ All he could think to say.

He hadn’t realised she could ride so well. But then, why should he? Truth to tell, he barely knew her. Had no knowledge of her likes and dislikes, her skills and accomplishments. Even his knowledge of her past was sketchy. How could a woman he had known little more than four weeks have come to mean more to him than anything else? But then he had been lost after that first hour in her company, had he not? And did he not know enough? That she had untold energy. That she was a woman of courage and independence. That she had a predilection for blue gowns and bonnets trimmed with flowers and ribbons. And foolish fripperies such as parasols. That her lips were soft and her arms allencompassing, her body a delight that he longed to sink into until the day he died. But he knew that she had no tolerance for a man without honour who could betray her and hurt her with lies and deceit.

Today she wore a riding habit in deep green, not an outfit he had seen before. The jacket fit her slight figure snugly, the skirt sweeping to the toes of her polished boots. The jaunty hat anchored to her fair curls was decorated with a feather that curled and teased her cheek with every movement. Colour had been whipped into her cheeks—if he leaned just a little he would be able to touch it with his fingertips.

How much he loved her. More than every breath he took.

‘When do you leave?’ he asked more brusquely than he had intended.

‘That’s not your concern, sir. But tomorrow I shall be gone.’