Читать книгу Pride in Regency Society - Sarah Mallory - Страница 16

Evelina’s breath caught in her throat and for an instant she thought she might faint. The look of surprise on Nick’s face gave way to one of wry humour. The corners of his mouth lifted.

‘Oh, lord,’ he murmured. ‘This was not meant to happen.’

Eve regained her balance and pushed away from him. Something was wrong. It was her husband, but it was not the fashionable beau she had married. The superbly tailored frock-coat and snow-white linen were replaced with a worn frieze jacket and a coloured shirt, while his raven-black hair was no longer neatly confined by a ribbon and one black lock hung rakishly over his eyes. The blood was drumming in her ears as she sought to make sense of the situation.

‘You are alive.’ She could not take her eyes from his face. ‘But how, why—?’

One of the other men shook his head and said warningly, ‘Cap’n…’

Nick put up his hand. ‘I cannot explain now, sweetheart, but you must not been seen with me. Richard shall take you back to your room.’

‘No—I—’

Nick reached out and caught her arms. ‘I will explain it all later.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Go back inside, Eve. You must act as if you have not seen me, do you understand?’

Eve swallowed hard. She understood nothing and wanted to argue.

‘Eve.’ He held her eyes. ‘I need you to do this for me.’

‘Y-you’ll come to me?’ she whispered, her hands still clutching at his coat.

‘You have my word.’ He looked down at her, then in one sudden movement he pulled her to him and kissed her once, hard, on the mouth. ‘I’ll join you in your room, very soon. Now go.’ He turned her away from him and gave her a little push.

Richard Granby took her arm and walked her back to the private parlour. There was so much conjecture in her head that this time she did not notice the diners in the coffee room or the raucous laughter as they passed the taproom.

Granby ushered her into the private parlour. Martha, who had been dozing in her chair, uttered a shriek and jumped to her feet.

‘In Heaven’s name, Richard, what have you done to her?’

Granby guided Eve to a chair and gently pressed her down. ‘She has had a shock. Can you fetch a glass of wine?’

Eve raised one hand. ‘No,’ she said, her voice unsteady. ‘I want nothing, only to know what is happening.’

‘It will all be explained later, ma’am. For the moment you must stay here and say nothing.’

‘May I not tell Martha?’

‘Tell me what?’ demanded her maid, looking bewildered.

Granby gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Oh, I think there would be no harm in that, as long as it goes no further. I shall return in a little while and escort you to your room.’

He bowed and retired in his usual unhurried style, leaving Martha almost hopping with impatience.

‘What is it, Miss Eve, what are you to tell me?’

Eve stared at her anxious face. ‘I have just seen Captain Wylder. He is alive.’

Martha’s reaction was as noisy as Eve’s had been controlled. She screamed and fell back on her chair, drumming her heels on the floor. It was unfortunate that the tavern-maid chose that moment to come in with a fresh pot of coffee. Remembering Nick’s words, Eve knew it was imperative that Martha did not blurt out her secret, so she immediately took her by the shoulders and shook her.

‘Stop it, stop it this instant!’ Her sharp treatment had its effect; Martha stopped shrieking and subsided into noisy sobs. Eve dismissed the round-eyed tavern-maid and waited patiently until Martha had stopped crying and mopped her eyes. With no more than the occasional hiccup she apologised for her outburst and quietly requested her mistress to tell her everything. Eve obliged, but she found that relating her meeting with Nick only added to her frustration, for Martha kept asking her questions she could not answer.

Eve wanted nothing more than to sit quietly and consider her own feelings. The first shock of finding herself face to face with her husband had been followed by a surge of elation, but that had been replaced almost immediately with consternation. Why had he wanted her to believe he was dead? Answers crowded in upon her, none of them satisfactory, most too painful to contemplate, so she resolutely pushed them aside, determined to remain calm and to await Nick’s explanation. Martha’s reaction to the news was much more straightforward. The master was alive, and she was glad of it. Eve wished she could be so easily satisfied. She was relieved when at last Granby came in the room and announced that the landlord was waiting to escort her to her room.

‘It is our finest apartment, madam,’ their host told her as he led the way through a winding corridor and up the stairs. ‘It has been said that good Queen Bess herself slept there. I am sure you will find it very comfortable.’ At the end of a dim corridor he threw open the door and stood back for her to enter. ‘There, is it not a handsome apartment?’

Eve had to agree with him. It was a large, square room with an ornate plaster ceiling and richly carved panelling on every wall. Candles glowed from the wall sconces, illuminating the rich scarlet-and-gold hangings that decorated the huge tester-bed and the matching curtains pulled across the window to blot out the gloomy rain-sodden sky. A large chest of drawers and a sofa covered in wine-red damask occupied the far corner of the room and the only other items of furniture were two chairs and a small gatelegged table set before the stone fireplace, where a merry blaze crackled. The table was already laden with dishes and it was set with two places. Eve’s eyes flew to the landlord. He beamed at her and tapped his nose.

‘Mr Granby suggested a collation, so you need have no servants interrupting you. There’s meats, bread, pastries, fruit—everything you could wish.’ He pointed to a little door in the corner of the room. ‘That is a private stair, madam. Leads up to your maid’s room and down to the back hall, so even she can come and go to the kitchen for her dinner without disturbing you.’ He gave her a knowing wink and Eve felt her cheeks grow hot.

‘Thank you.’

With another beaming smile the landlord bowed himself out and shut the door carefully behind him. Martha was already bustling around, inspecting the room.

‘Very comfortable, Miss Eve. Everything just as it should be. And very clean, not a speck of dust. Shall I unpack your trunk, ma’am? Seems such a lot of work for just one night.’

‘Yes. No. That is, no.’ Eve tried to think of practical matters, but her brain did not want to work.

‘Then I’ll lay out your nightgown—’

‘No! No, leave it where it is, Martha. Go now. I shall call you if I need you again. Oh, Martha—’ she pulled a small bottle from her dressing case and handed it to the maid. ‘You never did dose your self with Glass’s Magnesia.’

‘No, ma’am, I’ll take it now, if you don’t mind. Thank you. That is, if you don’t want it yourself?’

Eve looked towards the table, where a decanter and two glasses stood in readiness for the coming meal. She felt in need of something more than medicine. ‘No, but you may pour me a glass of wine before you go.’

Eve watched the maid fill up one glass with blood-red wine before making her way to her own room. The little door closed behind her with a click and Eve was alone. But it was not the peace of the old room that enveloped Eve: it was a brittle, ice-cold fury.

‘I will not see him!’ she said aloud. ‘He has treated me abominably. I shall not see him.’

She walked over to the main door and bolted it. There was a wooden peg on the door to the servants’ stairs and she used it to secure the latch. She gave a long, deep sigh. There, it was done. Slowly she removed her pelisse, folded it neatly and placed it upon her trunk before returning to the table and picking up her glass of wine. The storm had passed and there was a stillness about the room. No noise filtered through to her from below and the air seemed to settle around her, calm and tranquil, in complete contrast to her own nerves, which were stretched tight as a bowstring. Let him knock. Let him hammer on the door, she would not admit him.

She stood in the middle of the room, facing the door, straining to hear the slightest sound. Clutching at her wineglass, she silently berated herself for her anxiety. No one could surprise her, the room was secure. Or was it? The scrape of wood on wood made her spin around in time to see one of the panels beside the fireplace swing open and Nick Wylder step into the room. He still wore the frieze coat, but instead of the tattered coloured shirt he now wore a fresh white one, fastened with a froth of white lace at his throat, and a black ribbon at the nape of his neck confined his black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. The baggy sailor’s trousers and worn shoes had been replaced by buckskins and topboots. With the skirts of his coat swinging around him the inconsequential thought came to her that he looked every inch a pirate. Nick gestured towards the panel.

‘The stair leads up directly from the alley. You need not be alarmed; I have bolted the door at the foot of the stairs; no one else can come in that way.’

He stood, feet slightly apart, hands at his sides, watching her. Like a cat, she thought. Alert, wary. Eve’s heart had misssed a beat but now it was thudding painfully against her ribs. She did not know whether she was going to laugh or cry, to be thankful or furious.

‘You did not drown,’ she said at last.

‘No. Sweetheart, I am so sorry I was not there to help you when Sir Benjamin died.’

‘You lied to me.’

‘Evelina, I—’

A red mist descended over Eve, blotting out reason. The wineglass flew from her hand, its contents leaving a dark trail across the floor. Nick side-stepped neatly and the glass sailed past him to smash against the wall.

‘How dare you!’

‘Sweetheart, listen to me—’ He ducked as she snatched up the second glass and hurled it towards him. ‘Eve, I am sorry. Let me explain—’

His words were lost as the glass shattered on the panelling and fell in tinkling shards to the floor. With a shriek of rage Eve picked up the carving knife and advanced upon him.

‘I hate you, Nick Wylder!’

As she hurled herself at him he caught her arm, holding the lethal blade away. ‘Eve, I had no choice.’

Unable to plunge the knife into his heart, Eve brought up her other hand, her fingers curled ready to scratch his eyes out. With an oath Nick caught at her arm, easily overpowering her.

‘I know you are angry, my love, but I am not going to let you kill me.’ His fingers tightened on her wrist; her grip loosened and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. ‘That’s better.’ He grinned and released her. ‘No wonder my father said never trust the carving to a woman!’

‘Are you never serious?’ She gave a sob of frustration and began to beat at his chest with her fists.

Nick reached out and put his arms about her, pulling her closer. ‘I know,’ he said quietly as she continued to pound him. ‘I know I was a monster for doing this to you.’

She hammered her fists against his hard, unyielding body until there was no strength left in her arms. Then, as her anger evaporated, it was replaced by tears. She found herself crying; huge, gulping sobs that could not be controlled. She did not resist as Nick pulled her closer, stroking her head and murmuring softly. He continued to hold her while she cried herself out and at last she collapsed against him, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He reached into one of the capacious pockets of the old coat and pulled out a clean handkerchief.

‘I thought this might be needed,’ he murmured, pressing it into her hand. ‘I had no idea my wife had such a temper.’

‘Nor I,’ mumbled Eve from beneath the handkerchief.

He touched his lips to her hair. ‘Now will you listen to me? Will you let me try to explain?’ He guided her across to the sofa and they sat down together, Nick keeping one arm firmly around her shoulders. ‘I did not plan this, Eve. Believe me.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Angrily she shrugged off his arm and sat up very straight while she wiped her eyes. ‘You have lied to me from the beginning. You married me to gain control of Monkhurst, did you not?’

‘Richard told me you had gone there. Yes, it is true that I wanted access to Monkhurst. Marrying you was one way to get that.’

Misery clutched at her heart. ‘You are despicable!’

He sighed. ‘Perhaps I am, but I never meant to hurt you. I admit I went to Tunbridge Wells in search of your grandfather, knowing he owned Monkhurst. I soon learned that the property was part of your marriage settlement and that Sir Benjamin was looking for a husband for you.’ The irrepressible smile tugged at his mouth. ‘It all fitted neatly with my plan—and my family have been nagging me for years to settle down so I knew I would be pleasing them, too. So I accepted Sir Benjamin’s invitation to visit you at Makerham. What I had not anticipated was finding such an adorable young lady waiting to meet me.’

Evelina stifled the traitorous surge of pleasure she felt at his words. She dare not consider them or her brittle self-control might shatter. She injected a touch of impatience into her voice. ‘And just what were your plans? Why did you need Monkhurst?’

‘I suspected Monkhurst was being used by smugglers.’

‘Very likely.’ She shrugged. ‘Nearly every house in the area would be the same.’

‘Yes, I know that, but—I think I should go back to the beginning.’ He paused and Eve waited, pulling his handkerchief through her restless fingers. ‘My—ah—adventurous career in the navy brought me to the attention of the Admiralty, and since returning to England I have been working for them, investigating certain…activities.’

‘Smuggling. You have said that.’

‘Yes, but not the innocuous practice carried out by Silas and his friends, a few barrels of French brandy and bundles of Brussels lace. The villains I seek are involved in a much bigger enterprise. Not only are they depriving the government of duty—and before you interrupt me let me say that I have heard all the arguments that the duty is too high! The people I seek are flooding the country with a tea that is, at best, illegal and at worst, poisonous.

‘They call it smouch. It is made from leaves gathered from the English hedgerows and mixed with chamber-lye, green vitriol and other choice ingredients, including, very often, sheep’s dung. Then it is baked and rubbed to a black dust. Quite,’ he said, observing her look of horror. ‘I traced the most recent consignments to this coast. It is being shipped to Boulogne, then sold to our—er—freetraders.’

‘But they wouldn’t,’ she exclaimed. ‘Silas would never carry such a cargo.’

‘Not knowingly, but he has been duped into bringing it ashore. Did you not think it odd that Mrs Brattee had no tea in her store cupboard when you arrived at Monkhurst? Now Silas knows the truth he will not trust any tea coming from the Continent.’

Eve’s eyes darkened. ‘It is some horrid French plot to poison us!’

Nick shook his head. ‘I wish I could say that was it; the evidence points to it being made in this country, and in this area.’

‘And you suspected Monkhurst? My house?’

‘One of the cargoes we intercepted contained a fragment of a letter. Monkhurst was mentioned in it. Silas swore there was no connection, but I wanted to see for myself.’

‘So you married me to gain access to my house.’

‘Yes.’

She threw him another savage look. ‘You do not apologise for it.’

He smiled. ‘I am not sorry I married you, Evelina. I never could be.’

Her skin tingled when saw the glint in his blue eyes. It was difficult to remain angry when he smiled at her like that. She reminded herself that his smiles meant nothing. They were as worthless as his honeyed words. She looked away, scowling. ‘Go on.’

‘Once Silas was persuaded to let me into the house we searched it thoroughly. There are extensive cellars, and a very interesting underground passage leading to the boathouse on Monkhurst Drain, but no sign that it has been used in recent years.’

‘Well there is nothing secret about that! Mama showed me the tunnel when I was a child. She told me her grandfather had built it so that the family need not get wet walking to the boathouse on rainy days, but if that was the case why does it come up into the kitchen? And why is the entrance hidden behind the panelling at the back of the boathouse? From the outside the tunnel is well hidden; it appears that the boathouse is built into the bank.’ Eve shook her head. ‘I always believed it was built for smuggling goods into the house, but Mama would never admit it.’ She forgot her anger as a half-forgotten memory surfaced. ‘I remember having nightmares about people stealing into the house through the tunnel, so Papa took me down there. He showed me the iron grating at the far end. It had a big lock and the key was kept on a hook in the tunnel, so that anyone from the house could get out, but no one could get in.’

‘That is still the case, Eve, so you may still rest easy. But the boathouse is in a sad state of repair.’

‘When Mama and Papa died the boats were sold. Grandpapa kept the house in order, but we only visited Monkhurst once or twice after that.’

Nick had stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. His fingers were playing with one of the curls at her neck. It was a great temptation to turn her head and rest her cheek against his hand, but she resisted it.

‘And what about you, Eve?’ he said softly. ‘Do you dislike the house?’

‘Oh, no, it holds only good memories for me. We lived there until I was about nine, you see, then I went to stay with Grandpapa while my parents went abroad and…they never came back. They died in Italy.’

His fingers left the curl and squeezed her shoulder. ‘I know, you told me they caught a fever. I am sorry.’

‘So, too, am I, but it was a long time ago.’

‘I am sorry, too, about your grandfather, and even sorrier that I could not be with you.’

She drew herself up, not prepared to accept his sympathy. She hunched her shoulder to shake off his hand, yet was disappointed when he removed it. She said gruffly, ‘We are straying from the point, sir. Why did you leave Makerham so suddenly?’

‘My enquiries had led me to suspect that Lord Chelston was involved in this business. He owns a sizeable property near Northiam and keeps a yacht at Hastings. I have had people watching him for some time now, but he is very elusive. On the morning after our wedding I received word that a rendezvous had been arranged. After so many months of work I could not leave my men to deal with it alone, so I had to come here to the coast.’

‘But you have not arrested Lord Chelston?

‘He is a powerful man. We need hard evidence before we make our suspicions known. Besides, I want to catch all the main players and close down the whole operation. If we move too soon they will merely go underground, move production to a new location.

‘These people are clever; they have a warehouse in Boulogne. The French are not averse to helping anyone who is working against England. You said yourself, smuggling is a way of life in these parts; the local gangs are trusted by their regular customers who believe they are purchasing good Black Bohea.’ He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘There were reports that a consignment of smouch was ready to be shipped out of Hastings on a brigantine and transferred to a French lugger cruising off this coast. We thought it would be possible to catch Chelston’s men red-handed with the goods; with their evidence we could convict him. Captain George has a cutter at his disposal, the Argos, but on the night of the rendezvous some of us were in disguise on a small fishing smack, hoping to get close enough to the brigantine to board and overpower the crew, but they discovered the plot.’

‘What happened?’ asked Eve, enthralled in spite of herself.

‘In the fighting I was shot and toppled into the water.’

‘Shot!’

‘A flesh wound, just below the ribs. Nothing serious, but it carried me over the side. Thankfully I managed to swim to the Argos, but having been lost overboard it was decided it would be to our advantage to let everyone else think I had perished.’

Eve kept her eyes on his profile, noting the fine laughter lines etched at the corner of his eye and at the side of his fine, curving lips. It would be so easy to lose her heart to him all over again. She squared her shoulders, determined to resist the temptation.

‘I understand that you would not want these villains to know you were alive, but what of me?’ she said quietly. ‘Why did you send Granby to tell me you were dead?’

He turned his head to look at her and for once there was no smile in his blue eyes. ‘I never intended to tell you. I thought we could wrap up this matter quickly and there would be no need for you to know. Then I received your note, saying your grandfather had died, and I knew I would have to send Granby to you.’

‘But why? I do not understand.’

‘Because the man who shot me was your cousin, Bernard Shawcross.’