Revenge of the Barbary Ghost (32 page)

Holding one hand out flat behind her in a gesture intended to keep Pam from talking, Anne waited, assuming a look of defiant expectation. One thing she had learned from dealing with village busybodies, talking to them gave them ammunition. After becoming weary of repeated questioning as to when she planned to marry, she had practiced a frigid hauteur that froze the busiest bodies to the marrow. She did not expect the technique to work with a man like Twynam, but it was worth an attempt.

The man moved ponderously forward, and let Mr. Puddicombe past him, into the cramped sitting room. Neither Anne nor Pamela asked them to sit.

“Did you not hear what was occurring on the beach below your home this night, Miss St. James?” Twynam finally said, after a few moments of silence.

Pamela looked from one man to the other, an expression of puzzlement on her face. “I do not know to what you refer, sir.”

“She’s lying,” Puddicombe burst out, moving forward and shaking his finger in her face. “She’s lying to you, sir. She is not only aware o’ what’s goin’ on, she’s taking part in it! She’s one o’ them dastard smugglers.”

Pam played her part to perfection. “Mr. Puddicombe!” she cried, rearing back. “
Smuggling?
What lady would ever do such a thing?”

“Really, Mr. Twynam,” Anne said, dismissively. “You’re here because of
him
? I thought you had some news of St. James’s killer. Is that not what you’re doing, searching for a murderer?”

He nodded, but his gaze stayed on her face. Anne met his eyes. Years of being on display at public events stood her in good stead. She gazed at him steadily, examining him in the weak lamplight. “I’m waiting for an answer, sir,” she finally said. “Are you not concerned with who killed Captain Marcus St. James?”

“Don’t let that ’un push you ’round, sir,” Puddicombe said, sweat beading on his forehead as he shook his finger in Anne’s direction.

Twynam turned, slowly, and stared at the excise officer. “Puddicombe, I would advise you to keep your mouth shut. And never speak to a lady in such a way, not in my presence.”

Puddicombe harrumphed, but was silent.

“My lady, Miss St. James, Miss Broomhall,” he said, bowing to Lolly, “I must confess I do not know why I’m here tonight. I received a message an hour ago telling me that Miss St. James had need of me, and wished to tell me something of great import.”

“I sent no such message!” Pam declared, genuine puzzlement on her face.

“And you say something was occurring on the beach below Cliff House property?” Anne asked.

“Yes, according to Mr. Puddicombe. Explosions, rowboats, men, torches, a flaming manikin. Such goings-on, it beggars belief that you heard nothing.”

“Good heavens!” Anne cried.

“That is utter nonsense,” Lolly added, but then she gave Anne a long hard look.

Anne, to distract the magistrate from Lolly’s accusatory gaze, said, “Sir, the walls of this house are three feet thick, and we are protected from the beach below by a cliff and bluff, so if anything did happen outside, I’m not surprised we heard nothing. But I am shocked that you are even listening to this … this gentleman.” She sent a contemptuous look toward Puddicombe, who appeared more choleric by the second, his face gleaming crimson in the yellow lamplight.

“In fact,” she said, slowly, injecting her tone with dawning suspicion, “I think he is highly suspect himself. Have you not wondered why he never seems to catch the one band of smugglers, the St. Wyllow Whips as even I, an outsider, have heard them called?” She hesitated, but surged on, wishing to confuse matters even more. “Why, I should not be surprised if he is one of that gang. His position would make it a simple enough matter.”

Apoplectic with fury, Puddicombe jumped up and down, shouting incoherent curses.

Pounding on the door added to the din, and Anne hopped over to it and flung it open, to find Darkefell and Osei there. He seemed terribly out of breath and his color was high, but he had a slight smile on his lips and he winked at her.

“Lord Darkefell!” she exclaimed, standing back to let him enter. “What are you doing out this night?”

He elbowed past Anne. “Mr. Twynam, arrest that man,” he said, pointing to Puddicombe. “For he is in league with the real smuggler, Micklethwaite, who even now is sailing away on a boat he hired to fool you, and anyone else who looked too closely at his smuggling empire. I have proof.”

Twenty

“You say you have proof of this, my lord?” Twynam asked.

As Puddicombe, becoming more frenzied, protested the charge and leveled various wild accusations and Lolly cried out about the noise and hid from Puddicombe behind the enormous magistrate, Darkefell, speaking loudly to be heard over the hubbub, said, “Yes, Mr. Twynam, I have evidence aplenty. I have been investigating on my own, for I had some suspicions in his direction.”

Puddicombe stilled and narrowed his eyes, the folds of flesh wrinkling, dander from his thick eyebrows flaking onto his cheeks. “Here, now, what d’you mean?”

“I mean you and Micklethwaite, Puddicombe. I mean you are a traitor to the vow you made to the crown. And beyond that, you’re a bully and a scalawag.”

“He don’t know nothin’, Mr. Twynam, sir. Not a thing.”

“How do you know that, Puddicombe? If we went to your house right now and looked in your cellar, do you mean we wouldn’t find, oh, unstamped goods? Tobacco, perhaps? Brandy? Lace, bolts of silk?”

Puddicombe paled and his mouth clamped shut. Darkefell noticed Anne staring at him, and he felt a welling of hope that his actions would impress her favorably. She needed to see him as a man she could trust to do the right thing. But he turned his attention back to the task at hand.

Twynam motioned to a couple of his men and had a hurried conference, then sent them on their way. Darkefell repressed a smile, happy that Harriet Puddicombe would not be in the house. She had escaped her brutal father’s keeping while he was busy with his night’s work, and would already be snugly safe at the Barbary Ghost Inn, in the care of Joseph Quintrell’s housekeeper, a redoubtable lady with a ferociously good reputation.

All the effort put forth by himself, Osei, and Johnny Quintrell would now come to fruition. He ruthlessly pushed back his own uneasiness at helping Miss St. James in an illegal activity. It wasn’t for her sake he had risked so much; it was all for Anne.

What Twynam’s men would find at Puddicombe’s house would be enough to satisfy any qualms the magistrate might have about accusing an officer of the crown of such a deed. Besides the smuggled goods, there were, in his library, notes of tide schedules and when goods could be expected. There was even—crowning glory of his investigation—a letter to Puddicombe from Micklethwaite, which Darkefell had left in a particular spot that would allow searchers to discover it easily. It did not spell out the alliance between Puddicombe and Micklethwaite, but implied it, while pointing no finger at Pamela, for it only ever mentioned Lord Brag. That was of prime importance, to leave no stain on Pamela that could result in charges against her. He would never have pointed the magistrate toward Puddicombe if he hadn’t been confident there would be no hint of guilt attached to the lady.

“In fact,” Darkefell said, leveling a serious gaze at Anne and nodding faintly, “I have evidence that Puddicombe, here, killed Captain St. James.”

Twynam bellowed, “What?”

Pamela cried out, “I don’t believe it!”

But Puddicombe’s shout was even louder, as he was pushed to the brink of apoplexy by the awkward nature of the accusations. “Liar! I didn’t do it, Micklethwaite did. I’ll not let that bastard pin the blame on me,” the man said, pointing at Darkefell. “Never was my idea to kill the cap’n, t’was Micklethwaite said we needed to get rid of ’im ’cause he was threatening if we didn’t leave ’is precious sister alone he’d expose me!”

An immediate silence fell. Darkefell and Twynam, with similar grave expressions, took both of Puddicombe’s arms.

“Mr. Puddicombe, you are under arrest for conspiring to cheat his majesty out of his due rights, and of failing to perform the office for which you were hired,” Twynam said. “And the charges against you will include conspiring to murder Captain Marcus St. James.”

“You animal,” Pamela cried and flew at him, weeping. Anne grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away. “Let the gentlemen take care of things,” she cried. “It’s over, Pam.” She took her friend in her arms and rocked her. “It’s over.”

***

The rest of the long, sleepless night was taken up in recriminations, accusations, and explanations. In the end Twynam, though he held Puddicombe in his custody, had apparently not decided whether to believe even so august and lofty a man as Anthony, the Marquess of Darkefell. He needed to sort out Puddicombe’s claim that it was Micklethwaite who committed the murder of Captain Marcus St. James, and Micklethwaite’s likely accusation of Puddicombe.

Who had actually done the killing? It was not clear to anyone.

To that end the magistrate sent his brother-in-law, who owned a fast cutter, out in pursuit of the mysterious boat for hire, while he had some trusted men search Puddicombe’s home as well as Micklethwaite’s. Within the next few days, Anne prayed that they would have a definitive answer as to who killed Marcus.

When the household was finally left in peace, Anne made sure Pamela was put to bed with a tea of Lolly’s creation supposed to guarantee a deep and dreamless sleep. Pam needed that. Lolly and Mary were going to take turns at Pam’s bedside. Osei went back to the inn with Johnny Quintrell. Johnny and Harriet were to marry that very day, for Darkefell had obtained a license for them to wed immediately as his gift to the pair; but as simple an affair as it was to be, there were still some things to be done. Joseph was beside himself with joy at his son’s marriage, and alternately wept and laughed, making him useless to execute plans of any sort.

“Come for a walk,” Darkefell said to Anne, as she returned downstairs from Pam’s bedside.

Anne was weary but knew she would be unable to sleep, even if she went to bed. She nodded, retrieved her Kashmir shawl from the sitting room, and they strolled out to the bluff overlooking the ocean. She wrapped the shawl around her and stared out at the stars. Darkefell pulled her close, her back to his chest, and wrapped his arms around her.

“Tony, Pam has a child, a son. His name is Edward,” she said, as he rocked her back and forth, holding her close. She leaned her head back against his broad chest. The comfort of his strong arms was intoxicating; it invaded her body with warmth and a sense of calm. “She was engaged to be wed, and so she and her fiancé …” She broke off. “She found out she was with child, and they were to marry within days, but Bernard died.”

“Mhmm,” he said.

His bass murmuring vibrated through her from her backbone to her breastbone, leaving her tingling with yearning. She had to keep talking, keep thinking other things. “I don’t suppose it excuses it, but that’s why she did this, the smuggling. She wants to make a life for them both together.”

“It won’t be easy for her.”

“She’s going to Canada, for she has family in Montreal. I’m going to miss her, but I suppose it’s the best way for her to make a good life for her child.” She turned in his arms and laid her head on his chest, with her lips near the pulse beat at the base of his throat. His black shirt was open, his bare skin entrancingly warm. She nuzzled and his arms tightened around her. She turned her face up to his, knowing his lips would meet hers.

She lost several minutes in mingled comfort, desire, and a fog of delight. His lips, moist and warm, clung to hers. The thought of making love had never left her mind in the last month. When she was with him, as little as she knew of such things, she could
feel
how good it could become with such a man. He was everything a woman could want: commanding yet tender, skilled and yet eager. She wasn’t frightened of it, beyond some virginal nervousness. The mystery of lovemaking added enticement rather than fear.

When she became next aware, she noticed the silvering of the sky. “It’s almost dawn,” she murmured against his skin. She twirled one finger in the hair on his chest, where his shirt was open. The sense of sleek musculature beneath his skin made her wild with a craving to touch and be touched.

“Mhmm,” he murmured. His thick fingers tangled in the short strands of her hair on the back of her neck.

They were silent again for several minutes. Pressed close to his body she could feel the stirring of excitement in his body, the pulse of desire. Anne closed her eyes. What was holding her back from marriage to Darkefell? He was intelligent, rich, healthy, generous, relatively good-natured—apart from his occasional black moods and towering rages—and she believed in her heart that he would be a good husband and father.

At least … a good husband as far as husbands went, and a good father assuming she wanted children. But children would come, whether she wanted them or not. Ah, and
there
was another wrinkle she hadn’t explored in her own unlovely character. Perhaps she didn’t want children. She felt no melting sensation at the sight of sticky fingers and the sound of childish coos. She did not long to hold one, nor did she think them enchanting. But Darkefell, as marquess, would need an heir, and sexual contact, in which she was
intensely
interested, resulted almost inevitably in pregnancy, with all the attendant discomfort and fear. She looked back a few weeks to how blithely she had assured Lydia, her dear friend, wed to Darkefell’s brother, Lord John, that there was nothing to fear in childbirth. What a fraud she was! Women died every day giving birth, and she desperately feared death.

Perhaps her faith was not strong enough, for she felt no assurance that there was more beyond the bleak darkness of the grave. And yet, if she did not do what she wanted on earth—and making love to this man who held her was an enticing possibility—then what good was her life to her. She shook her head, feeling numb with confusion.

She took a deep, quivering breath. Of course, setting aside the possibility of death in childbirth, once a child was born, she would not need to be concerned; her children would have the standard succession of wet nurse, nursemaid, nanny, governess, and boarding school to raise them. A strong wave of revulsion shuddered through her. If she set aside her own feelings toward offspring and put herself in the children’s place, she felt sorry for the babes. She had despised her own nanny, a nursery despot whom Anne suspected had put laudanum in her milk to make her sleep. And boarding school, which Anne had suffered for only a few months before weeping to her father to bring her home, had been a scarring experience. She had learned her lessons, after that, at his knee, and would always be grateful to him for his intelligence and patience.