Revenge of the Barbary Ghost (19 page)

He gazed at her steadily, divided as to whether he ought to laugh or take offense. But he caught a gleam in her faded blue eyes, and finally saw beneath the charade of an inoffensive busybody to the steely businesswoman beneath. It was a side of her he had not expected until that moment. Perhaps she could be his ally. “Miss Broomhall,” he said, leaning forward, “I am neither incapable, nor unwilling.” He did not speak further.

She sighed, eyeing him. “Well enough, for now. But we’ll speak again, Lord Darkefell.”

He rose as he heard the study door open and Anne’s voice in the hall. She entered the sitting room with the vicar, Mr. Barkley, whom Darkefell had met when he arrived. He bowed to the vicar. Miss Broomhall guided the reverend out, talking the whole way, but glanced back once at Darkefell and Anne. She smiled and nodded.

Anne looked troubled. Darkefell took her hand and pulled her into the dark hallway near the landing, and into his arms, anxious to soothe her pain. He would never forget the look on her face that afternoon when he came down the cut to find her, horrified, by St. James’s body. But the expression that had hit him squarely in the chest was the gratitude in her eyes, the appeal. It was as if she had lit up from within at the sight of him, and had run directly into his arms. She had spoken with such a tone of gratitude simply for his presence. That was a start in his quest for her tender heart.

He held her close and she nestled there, against his chest. He closed his eyes, aware of every point of contact between their bodies, from his cheek against her hair, his arms wound tightly around her body, her hips close to his, her long limbs. Of all the women in England, why did he have to care so deeply for this one, the most infuriatingly self-sufficient lady he had ever met? But he knew the answer. It was
because
of her independence of character that he had come to admire, and then to love her. There was no one in England like his Lady Anne.

But finally she moved away from him. “I have to go back to Pam, Darkefell. She’s alone in the study.”

He gazed down at her shadowed face, cradling her cheek in his palm, passing one thumb over her full lips. “How are
you
, Anne? I would give anything in the world for you not to have seen St. James dead like that. Are you all right?”

“He was a friend, and I cared for him. This is awful … simply terrible!” Her voice was clogged with unshed tears. She shook her head, shrugging off the emotion. She stared up into his eyes, her gaze searching. “Why won’t you tell me what he said that made you attack him? It doesn’t matter now; he’s dead!”

“It matters even more, now, sweet Anne,” he said, gently, pushing back some stray hairs and tucking them behind her ear. “I would never taint your memory of the fellow, and he is not here to explain himself.”

The door on the landing to the study moved. Darkefell swiftly bent his head and kissed her full on the lips, then released her, as Pamela St. James came out of the study, wiping her eyes, and descended the three steps to the hall.

“Miss St. James,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I am so sorry for your sadness. Though I didn’t know him well enough to judge, I’m sure St. James was a good and loving brother. The day dwindles. I must go now, but may I call on you ladies tomorrow?”

Anne cast a swift glance at Pamela, and said, “We will be out for part of the day.”

“We’ll stop in St. Wyllow on our way back here from our … our destination,” Pamela said, her cheeks reddening. “Marcus’s regimental funeral will be the day after tomorrow.” She caught her breath and stifled a sob, making an odd sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “I cannot attend. I just can’t!” she cried, a hysterical edge to her voice.

Anne soothed her with a hushed word and the touch of her hand on her arm, then turned to him. “Darkefell, we cannot attend the funeral. Pamela is just not strong enough, and there will be so many people! Will you go and tell us about it afterward?” Anne said, with a swift glance at her friend, who had ducked her head to hide her emotion. “I know you and St. James didn’t … didn’t …” She trailed off, not sure how to broach the subject.

He touched her shoulder and said, with meaning in his eyes, “I will go to the funeral. My connection with Colonel Withington will give me ample reason, and I’ll come to you after and tell you all about it.” He bowed. “I must leave, ladies, but will be in St. Wyllow tomorrow afternoon. If you do not find me there, I’m staying at the Barbary Ghost Inn. The innkeeper was equerry to my father many years ago, and I count Quintrell as my friend.”

“Until tomorrow,” Anne said, her heart thudding.

“Until tomorrow,” he agreed, and strode through the sitting room and out.

Anne stood stock-still, trying to understand her feelings. Darkefell took her by surprise every single time he kissed her, and even in the midst of such sorrow, his kiss had buoyed her, lifting her spirit, setting her heart to pounding, filling her with hope. But, hope of what? That was a question for quiet reflection, not this tumultuous longing to be back in his arms, but quiet reflection did not seem to be in her immediate future, not with so much sorrow and suspicion and uncertainty all around them.

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens,” Anne muttered.

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh,” answered Pamela. “I don’t think I shall laugh for many a day, Anne.”

***

Darkefell and Osei returned to the inn, and the marquess, determined to get to the bottom of the night before’s debacle, sternly told Johnny Quintrell to meet him out on the back terrace of the inn, which was close enough to overlook the inlet and cut below Cliff House. He paced the flagstone terrace, squinting across the distance toward the house where Anne resided, comforting her distraught friend.

He was used to getting what he wanted by the simple expedient of going after it. Houses, horses, women, political influence … they were all generally a simple matter of making the right moves, talking to the right people, using bribery, flattery, a push here, a carefully worded request there. When any other method failed, a command would bring him whatever he wished. But Anne baffled him. He could not just
make
her marry him. A command was out of the question in this case.

He stared across the cut, the vista of open sky and wild gray sea seeming forbidding and lonely. Was that all it was to him, baffled fury at being repulsed? But no, he was no child, to want what was denied him simply
because
it was denied to him.

Women had always seemed, to him, simple creatures. If you gave them what they wanted in the way of security or financial reward, then they acquiesced to a man’s wishes. Men were trickier to bargain with because there was often something deeper that drove them: pride, anger, honor.

But from the beginning it had been apparent to him that Anne was different. Though he did not consider himself to be conceited, he knew most other women would have been ordering a trousseau given half the attention he had lavished on Anne. He had evaded the marriage snares laid for him in the past; many matchmaking mothers and simpering maidens in their first or second or third Season had gone to great lengths to secure him as a most eligible husband.

So why did Anne not want him? She feared marriage as a rabbit feared a trap, as the end of any kind of life. He was beginning to worry that what she truly wanted—it seemed to be some intangible freedom that was not even possible for a lady—he could not promise. And yet, the more he saw her, the more he wanted her. How could he win her if he had nothing to offer that she wanted? He stared out to sea, the gray sky heavy, the ocean churning, white froth on wave tops giving no indication of the muck and filth underneath, dragged up from the seabed. It was a mystery that must be solved if he was to win Anne and find peace.

A subtle noise behind him alerted him to Johnny Quintrell’s presence and he turned, examining the fellow. He was stout and fleshy, like his father, a younger version of the man, in fact. Darkefell set aside his uneasy reflections about Anne, and concentrated instead on what he could do that moment, which was solve the problems troubling Joseph Quintrell and perhaps even Pamela St. James’s torment, the question of who killed her brother.

“Johnny, I need some information,” Darkefell said, eyeing the fellow.

The young man stayed sullenly silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“Last night went very badly for the smugglers. And yet, from what I observed, a great deal of goods were being landed. Someone must have felt secure that they would be unobserved last night. Is that a fair surmise?”

Johnny nodded.

“And yet the excise agents were there in full force, which means that either they were given information that a secret landing had been arranged or …” He thought for a moment. “Or whomever was in charge thought they had secured the excise officer’s agreement to turn a blind eye, and they were betrayed. Is that how it was?”

Johnny Quintrell looked confused for a moment, and then shook his head slowly. “I don’t know, milord.”

The boy was just another body to carry barrels and crates up the beach, and so merely did as he was told. “But you must know who is behind the smuggling, who directs things, for someone must tell you when a landing is planned.”

“Aye, milord.” He hesitated, then, fear in his eyes, said, “If I tell you, will he know?”

“The one who directs the operation? Will he know you have informed against him? Certainly not. Nothing will point to you, Johnny, I’ll lay my life on that.”

He appeared relieved and slumped down on a wooden bench, passing one hand over his grubby face, fair beard stubble adorning his jutting chin. He scruffed the bristle. “I’ve told you Captain Micklethwaite is one of ’em, sir, but there’s another, one who only shows up the night of the landing and directs everything. Must be th’ captain’s partner. We calls him Lord Brag, for ’is manner, you know. He always says he’ll make us rich as lords.”

“But you only ever see him the nights of the landings?”

“Aye. And no one knows who he is, ’cause he wears a mask. Lads think ’e’s some high muckety-muck.”

Immediately Darkefell’s mind went to suspicions that it had been St. James. Was he Lord Brag, then? And were he and Micklethwaite partners in the smuggling business?

“When will you hear next?”

“I ’spect t’will be today, milord.”

“What have you heard of those who were killed? Did you hear anything about Captain St. James, the man whose body was found on the beach below Cliff House this morning?”

Johnny appeared frightened and shook his head, but then reluctantly said, “That new colonel was in here just a half hour ago, blazing mad and ballyraggin’ at Mr. Puddicombe; he said as how the Puddicombe had not done his job from the start, or Captain St. James wouldn’t be dead now.”

“But you don’t know how it happened?”

“Last I saw anything down there was when you dragged me away from t’trouble, milord. And thankful I am,” he said, his expression gloomy, “for me best mate was kilt last night. T’would’ve been me, too, if it hadn’t bin for you.”

“I’m sorry for your friend, Johnny, but I’m glad you’re alive,” he said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. “For your father’s sake. And now you see why you must get out of this business. It’s dangerous.”

“Aye, but I was just tryin’ to make a bit extra. I’ve got a sweetheart, see, and we wants to marry, but her pa won’t let ’er. I’m hopin’ fer enough to take her away an’ get married. She’s able to wed without her pa’s permission in a week.”

“But you won’t be able to marry at all if you’re dead, Johnny. Have you told your father this, about having a young lady?”

Johnny shook his head. “Didn’t want to worry ’im. He’s been that cut up since Ma died. No time fer my nonsense.”

Darkefell paced the terrace, then said, “Let’s extricate you from this mess, find out who killed Captain St. James, and then we’ll figure something out for you and your young lady. Now, were others killed, besides your friend?”

“Two more. The excise men took ’em away. Me poor mate’s mum won’t even have his body to bury, ’cause the prevention men say he’s a thief and no-good smuggler, and he’s to be made a lesson of.” The fellow’s face was white, but his mouth was set in an angry line. “Can’t even let a poor widow have her son’s body to bury when she’s torn up and bedoled. Ain’t right. That Puddicombe is a proper arse.”

Darkefell thought for a moment. If that was true, then St. James’s body would have been taken away, if he had died with the other smugglers. He
must
have been killed after the melee, then, but how? And by whom? He would find out for Miss St. James’s sake. The tiny voice of conscience whispered that he was set on uncovering the murderer because he still felt a twinge of guilt. He had overreacted, perhaps in bashing St. James so brutally, for there was an ample measure of jealousy in his fury over the man’s words. But what was worse, he still couldn’t regret his actions, nor would he take them back, given the chance. He’d pound St. James again in an instant, for saying what he did about Anne.

He clapped Johnny on the shoulder. “We’ll figure it out, lad, I promise.”

Twelve

The evening and night were long and grim, and Anne slept but little. Every time she drifted into slumber, a nightmare of poor Marcus’s dead face rose in her bewildered mind, and she awoke crying out. Several times she crept down the hall to huddle in the dark outside of Pamela’s door, and heard her friend weeping within. She would then tiptoe down the hall to Marcus’s room, where local women, expert in such things, had prepared his body and sat with him. Though Anne did not believe he was there with his corporeal remains—she felt that his soul was long gone to wherever souls went—still, she was relieved he was not alone. She had already guaranteed the local undertaker that she would pay for everything concerning St. James’s funeral.

She lingered outside his room for a moment, then tried to return to her own bed, only to be beset by horrors and trembling. Though never overly religious, she even spent part of the night praying. Out of sheer desperation she finally wound the blankets tightly around her, imagining them as Darkefell’s arms, and drifted into an uneasy asleep.