Revenge of the Barbary Ghost (5 page)

“He’s just that type, y’know, the kind the ladies swoon over. Fair-haired dandyish feller, good-looking, or so I’m told, not bein’ a judge o’ that sort o’ thing. A red coat improves any fellow’s look, I’m told.”

“And he spends much of his time at Cliff House.” The knot of anxiety froze into a lump of dread. His Anne was passionate by nature, a fact he knew, even if she would not acknowledge it. His fear was that the spark of passion he had awoken with a multitude of kisses—every kind from chaste pecks on the cheek to amorous assaults on her luscious mouth—would leap to a flame with another man’s fanning. She had run from his offer of marriage, but it was a rude and belligerent wooing, he now admitted, hasty because of his state of anxiety at the moment.

He had just watched her teeter on the edge of a cliff, almost losing her life to a madman’s crazed attack, and it had hit him in that moment what pain he would feel if he lost her forever. Another woman may have been swept away by his passionate proposal, but Anne viewed it as a startling bit of lunacy, and departed Yorkshire.

Still, he had followed her to Cornwall because he had every confidence that a renewal of his suit would receive a more favorable reply, now that she had had time to think about what she had rejected. Her mother and grandmother’s gratifying response to him in Bath had shown him there would certainly be no family objection, not that he had expected there would be.

“Who is this lass, milord, the lady you seek?” Quintrell asked.

With a sigh, Darkefell said, “A woman of extraordinary intelligence and the poor taste to refuse my offer of marriage.” He sat back in his chair and stuck his booted feet out in front of him.

Quintrell raised his bushy eyebrows. “Refuse a marquess? Begging yer pardon, milord, but that don’t seem too intelligent to me.”

With a sharp bark of laughter, Darkefell snorted, “Nor to me, Quintrell. But I have not given up hope. She is a lady worth winning, I have decided.”

“And yer like yer father, milord, if ya don’t mind me sayin’. He was niver one t’take no fer an answer, neither.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been compared to my father, but in this, at least, I do not mind resembling him.”

“He were a better man than many thought, sir, an’ I’m one has cause to know.” Quintrell rose from their table and bowed. “’Scuse me, milord, while I make sure t’lass is gettin’ your room ready.”

Left alone, the marquess pondered. First, he decided, he’d find out what he could about this dashing captain. His Anne had, perhaps, a fondness for regimental red after her late fiancé’s unfortunate death several years before, but he was not about to purchase a captaincy just for that sake. Then he would go about making Anne see that his proposal was not well phrased, perhaps, nor particularly well timed, but it was serious. She would listen to his proposal and consider it properly, for he would not be dismissed like some cow-handed sprig of a boy.

And that was that.

Three

The next day dawned bright and sunny, another lovely day in Cornwall. Anne was crabby, though, and snapped at everyone, not her usual demeanor. She couldn’t think what was wrong with her! Lolly had arrived, yes, one more proof that her mother would never leave her alone to live her life, but Anne dearly loved Lolly, and by now knew many ways to circumvent her “companion” when it was inconvenient that she should be around.

In fact, the night before, while Pamela was in St. Ives at the rout to welcome her brother’s new regimental colonel—for Lolly’s sake, knowing her companion would be weary after such a trip in the Royal Post carriage, Anne had remained at Cliff House for the evening—Anne had been a little overly generous in pouring the blackberry wine, and Lolly had nodded off quite early, while it was still twilight. Taking advantage of her companion’s drowsiness, Anne slipped out to the cliff to see if the smugglers or ghost appeared, but she was disappointed.

Those few pointless hours spent watching and waiting must be what was causing her dissatisfaction, Anne reflected, as she pulled on her gloves preparatory to their walk to the village. It had been too dark to explore, for she didn’t relish falling off the cliff, and boredom had set in after a while. That had to be the source of her miserable mood, she decided, as they set out to St. Wyllow market day. She was just miffed at her disappointing ghost hunt.

But self-knowledge would not let her pacify herself with such delusions. In truth, it was the dream that still haunted her. As the three of them strolled to the village, dust rising up from their progress, Lolly kept up a constant stream of nonsense to Pamela, leaving Anne to recall her vivid dream. It featured the powerfully built Marquess of Darkefell. He stalked her, following her wherever she went, and finally he confronted her, taking her in his arms and holding her close to his body. Trapped, her arms pinned to her sides, she had felt helpless, and the wicked look on his face showed that he knew it.

What were his intentions? What did he want of her? She had struggled and twisted, but there was no getting away from him. She had awoken in the gloom of the early hours, just before dawn, to find herself helplessly bundled up in her sheets.

She couldn’t imagine why the dream upset her so, for she had dreamt of men before. There was a passionate side to her character that she’d had her share of unrequited passions, daydreams, one-sided fascinations, generally with very unsuitable men: a good-looking footman, a roughly handsome stableboy when she was very young. But never before had she experienced such intense and entirely improper physical yearning mingled with fury and a sense of helplessness that was not wholly unpleasant, as she had in her dream, in the arms of the far-too-suitable Marquess of Darkefell.

“Far too suitable.” Her eyes widened as she understood why that phrase occurred to her in a description of the man. Lord Darkefell was an eminently appropriate suitor to Anne in title, wealth, age, and every other little necessity of character and position. If her intention was to remain heart-whole and unmarried, she was in danger. Her
tendres
for unsuitable men stayed in her imagination, pleasant fantasies to while away the hours. But Darkefell was doubly dangerous. She was fascinated by him, for one thing, and she feared if she allowed herself, she could become wholly consumed in love.

He was an honorable man, and despite an air of rakishness, he was really rather circumspect, as far as his affairs went, from what little she had been able to glean while resident on his estate. Fear of ravishment, then, was not behind the dread that had permeated her dreaming self while in his arms. In truth, she desperately feared that she would be inveigled into marriage with him, when she did not yet know what she wanted from life.

But that was ridiculous. No one could make her do anything she didn’t want. She stiffened her spine and strode on. Putting those thoughts out of her mind, she set herself to being entertaining to Lolly and Pam as they strolled toward St. Wyllow. Pamela had been accommodating about Lolly turning up unannounced, and even more than before, Anne knew she had to find a way to repay her friend’s generosity. Market day was her opportunity.

The sea breeze was light, the walk refreshing, and St. Wyllow bustling in comparison to the normally quiet morning. Market day; was there ever a better day to see a village? On the common, locals had their stalls set up: fresh new greens, paper sacks of mushrooms, butter and cheese and eggs in bowls, strings of herbs, pots of preserves, pies and cakes, live chickens and geese in wooden boxes, strings of trout, and even a bucket of oysters. It was a feast to the eyes and nose, the scent of sage and mint mingling with the yeasty fragrance of fresh-baked bread.

Even the sounds were such as to make her hungry, for a chicken’s contented cluck made her think of fresh eggs poached and served on a bed of sautéed mushrooms and the garden greens presented for sale. Anne, always an enthusiastic gourmand, glanced around. Where to start? She must have the soul of a housewife, she thought, to enjoy the sight of fish and eggs and vegetables so much.

Not that she had eaten much good food since coming to visit at Cliff House. Pamela’s “cook” was a surly local woman who came in to “do” for the brother and sister, but did not live in. Her eldest daughter cleaned, she cooked, and they returned to their own home in time for dinner with her family. It was a novel arrangement for Anne, to not have a cook living in, one that she could see had its benefits and drawbacks.

Such a way of living was less expensive than keeping a cook and chambermaid available at all times, but on the other hand, Pamela’s lady’s maid, Alice, also had to answer the door and show in guests, as well as look after Pamela’s clothing and hairdressing. Alice was a local girl, too, and did not seem to mind her extensive other duties, which included emptying slops on occasion, dusting and waiting on the table, and helping cook clear the dinner dishes. In deference to the cook’s need to get home to her own family at a reasonable time, they dined very early at Cliff House, while the sun was still up in most cases, unless they were willing to eat a cold supper of cheese and meat.

Mary was scandalized at Anne’s easy acceptance of the situation. It wasn’t fitting, her maid fumed, for the daughter of an earl to live in such disarray. The house was dirty, the slops were not cleaned as often nor as carefully as they should, the fires were not swept daily, the front step was never scrubbed, and there was no order in the household. Anne thought it gave a peculiar holiday atmosphere to the whole adventure, and Robbie thrived in the disordered household. Irusan was growing fat from the number of rodents he was catching.

Was dirt really so dangerous a thing, then? Mary thought so, but Anne was surprised at her own capacity for ignoring the dust and cobwebs.

Anne looked about, her foul temper evaporating. The village green, where the market was set, was a large open triangular space at the top of the village, just below the church, a Tudor chapel of excessive quaintness. Lolly enthused over every pretty child she saw, especially the red-cheeked farm children, brought to market day by their enterprising parents, who sold their goods on the green. Anne encouraged her companion’s amusement, which was simply talking to the prettiest children, and even bought her a large bag of boiled sweets to hand out. Her only stricture in providing of the treat was an admonition to Lolly to give some sweets to the ugly children as well.

Lolly swiftly became a popular attraction. Deposited on a bench in the middle of the green with her bag of sweeties on her lap, she had children clustered around her like bees on a hive.

“Pam,” Anne said, glancing over at her friend as they strolled from farmer’s cart to stall to barrow, “I am so sorry Lolly was dropped on us in this manner. It was unconscionable of my mother and grandmother to behave in such a high-handed manner.”

“Darling heart, Lolly is a sweet old biddy,” Pamela said with a smile, while she turned a length of lace over in her hand. Noting the price attached, she gently laid it down and turned away. “How could I ever frown about her presence?”

“Nonetheless,” Anne said, carefully, knowing her friend’s pride, “it does increase the load upon your household, and I absolutely
insist
on contributing to the expense of putting the two of us and Mary and Wee Robbie up for this delightful holiday. I will not take any negative, so you must just say,
thank you, Anne, dearest, give me whatever you think fair
.”

Despite Anne’s jocular tone, Pam froze up briefly, her expression holding a flash of prideful disdain, but then she grinned, and said, elegant brows raised in the shade of her broad-brimmed straw hat, “My dear, I am not without resources. Knowing how I love gossip, your best currency to repay me my extravagant hospitality would be information. Tell me what sent you scurrying away from Yorkshire and darling
dizzy
Lydia’s side, when you had just discovered she was with child? I know you, Anne; you are the soul of helpfulness, and it seems to me you would not depart at such an interesting time without compelling reason. You’ve been here two weeks and have said not a word, you sly boots! I’ve been circumspect until now, but am perishing for gossip or scandal.”

Anne was silent, consciousness burning in her cheeks as she examined a stall with ribbons. “How about this hue?” she finally said, holding up a chartreuse grosgrain.

“Not with your coloring, darling, it makes you look feverish. Or is that just because I am inquiring too closely into events in Yorkshire?” She leaned closer, her stiff silk gown rustling. “There was a man, I know it, and if you don’t tell me all the details I shall set Marcus on you, and you know he can winkle out any secret.”

With the haunting memory of the dream of Darkefell upon her, Anne muttered, “There was a man, Pam, I cannot lie. But such a man! I’ve never met anyone like him.” She stopped dead and stared blankly. “Why? Why did he keep kissing me?”

“He kissed you?” Pam clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling. She grabbed Anne’s wrist and tugged her away from other shoppers. “You must tell me all about him!”

Anne tried to brush off further questions, but Pam was resolute. So while they observed a game of battledore on an open part of the village green, she briefly told Pam some of her encounters with the marquess, and related her dream from the night before, and how it had brought back to her vividly the feel of Darkefell’s lips pressed against hers.

“My dear, I do think you had better marry, and quickly,” Pamela said, with an odd, pensive expression.

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind what I mean. But do consider marriage. The man sounds like a catch. Oh, there is Marcus!” Pam said, waving to her brother, who was bent over Lolly, laughing.

He added another sack of sweets to Lolly’s booty. That lady was now teaching the children a song, while engaging the youngest in a rousing game of peek-a-boo.

“Darling Lolly,” Marcus said, indulgently, as he approached, circling the part of the green where the battledore game was being played and bowing to the combatants, a couple of young ladies who smiled and curtseyed at his notice. “So simple are her joys. Can she really be as transparently sweet as she seems, and so enormously empty-headed?”