The Ardent Lady Amelia (27 page)

“That would be your problem, of course, for I should be dead,” she rejoined callously. “If I weren’t dead, I would marry you. Otherwise I shan’t.”

He muttered something that sounded very much like “Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” and wandered off to the cold hearth. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said aloud, stalling. “After all, Amelia, you’ve told me you’re not really all that brave. I can’t think you would like to be in much danger.”

 Which was perfectly true. But she wasn’t going to see him go into a hazardous situation himself without her by his side. The possibility that he could fend better for himself if she wasn’t there never occurred to her. She had already put herself to a great deal of trouble to find out if Chartier was a French spy, and she wanted to be there when the solution was finally reached. It was Chartier who had blabbed to Verwood about her in the first place. Not that that had proved entirely without its positive side, of course, but the Frenchman certainly hadn’t intended it to.

Amelia frowned at him. “I can be as brave as the next one. If you don’t take me with you, I shall find a way of getting there myself.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Chapter 20

Mr. Upham had joined them for dinner again. Amelia had felt decidedly suspicious with the extraordinary amount of time the men took over their brandy and port. It seemed likely to her that during that period Verwood’s man had come and the viscount had set about making arrangements for catching Chartier in the act of setting sail for France. But no one said anything throughout the excruciating length of an evening spent at cards. Not one of them seemed to cast furtive glances at the clock, or at his pocket watch. If there was an air of expectancy about their waiting, Amelia was at a loss to discover it. They seemed, if anything, in amazingly high spirits, and any little thing was a cause for amusement, which was not an uncommon aftereffect of having drunk more than was quite good for them.

The party broke up at just going on eleven, with Trudy announcing that she was for her bed. Amelia suspected that one of the gentlemen had induced her to make this move, but she hadn’t been able to catch one of them at it. Trudy shepherded Veronique Chartier and Amelia off with her, waving a cheerful good night to the men, who remained standing about the drawing room as though they had nothing more significant to do than chat about the price of corn.

Amelia was loath to go but decided that if Verwood hadn’t taken the opportunity to draw her aside and confide in her, she would have to make plans of her own. And the first thing she needed to do was to get out of her evening dress and into something more suitable for a ride to the coast. She allowed Bridget to undress her and slip her nightdress on before dismissing the girl.

Every riding costume she owned looked unusually cumbersome as she made her way down a row of them in her wardrobe. She had just decided on the emerald-green one when a knock came at her door. For a moment she froze, and then she tiptoed over to the door and whispered, “Who is it?”

“It’s Alexander, love.”

Well, really, it was a startlingly frank way for him to introduce himself at such a time. Nonetheless, Amelia opened the door to him. (It was a flannel nightdress she wore, singularly unrevealing, more was the pity.) The riding habit was slung carelessly over her arm and as he entered he said, “You won’t want that. I’ve brought you a pair of pantaloons and a shirt.”

“You’re going to let me come with you?” she squeaked.

“Obviously I had no choice,” he said with a sigh, setting the clothing down on the bed. “I couldn’t very well let you go off by yourself, could I?”

Recovered from her initial shock, she said sternly, “I should hope not.” She regarded the gray pantaloons and white shirt somewhat skeptically. “Is that all men wear?”

“Well, we wear drawers, of course, but I didn’t think any of mine would fit you.” He continued perfectly seriously, “We can roll the legs up on the pantaloons and tie a string round your waist to hold them up. And it doesn’t matter if the shirt is too large. You’ll have riding boots of your own, and I thought you could simply wear your cloak to cover it all.”

“I suppose so,” she said doubtfully. “Aren’t you going to leave while I dress?”

“If you want me to.”

“Well, of course I want you to,” she said, blushing. “I mean, since you’re letting me go, I suppose I shall have to marry you, but I haven’t anything on under the nightdress, and... Well, something should be saved for when we’re wed.”

“Do you think so?” His eyes were wide with innocence. “You may need help with the pantaloons.”

“I’ll manage. You wait in the hall.”

Verwood did as he was instructed.

In the end, Amelia decided to leave the nightdress on and put the other garments over it. Otherwise one could rather see through the shirt and that didn’t strike her as particularly desirable. The waist on the pantaloons was far too large and she pulled the door open a few inches to ask, “Did you bring string?”

He dug in his pocket and produced a ball of twine, which he handed her without a word.

When she had accomplished her dressing to her own satisfaction, she opened the door again and waved him in. “How do I look?”

His eyes trailed from her flushed face to her booted feet. “Splendid. There was a tinker who used to come through the village in Derbyshire who looked remarkably like that. Baggy breeches, and a shirt stuffed with cloths to keep him warm.

“It’s my nightdress,” she explained. “I kept it on.”

“Very appropriate.”

His eyes were sparkling with laughter, though he tried very hard to keep his lips from straying into a grin. Amelia chose to ignore this inappropriate lightheartedness. They had serious business ahead of them. “What’s happening with Chartier?” she demanded, breathless with excitement.

“He kept his carriage as far as Tunbridge, where he took a room at an inn for the night. Terwick saw him send off a messenger shortly afterwards and this morning the messenger returned. Then Chartier left the carriage there and returned here on horseback. He took a room at that unsavory inn southeast of Winchelsea right near the water and made an excursion up the beach about a mile on foot. Then he returned to the inn and has been there ever since. Terwick came just after dinner to tell me.”

“Aha!”

Verwood shook his head at her, unable to resist smiling this time. “Amelia, you really are too much. Don’t you think you’d be just as happy if you crawled between your sheets and had a good night’s sleep? I promise I’ll tell you everything that happened in the morning.”

“Never!” she declared, inspecting herself one last time in the glass. “Should we go now?”

He was reluctant to leave. “Perhaps, considering the danger of the expedition, you would just give me a kiss before we do. I’ve never been kissed by a lady wearing pantaloons before.”

“Aren’t we in a hurry?” Amelia wanted to kiss him, needed to kiss him, but was anxious about the possibility of missing out on all the adventure.

“They’re saddling the horses. You’ll be on Cleo but I’ve had them put a regular saddle on her. They aren’t to know at the stables that it’s you going out at this hour of the night.”

“I see.” She considered this a minute. “Well, I shall pull the hood of my cloak forward so they won’t see my face.”

“That won’t be necessary. Peter’s bringing the horses round to the side of the house.”

“Peter’s going with us? And he agreed that I could go?”

“I explained the situation to him. He wasn’t very happy with you, Amy, but he was forced to admit it was better than seeing you wander off on your own.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t just lock me in my room.”

“He considered it; then he decided it was safer to take you than chance your breaking a leg trying to climb down on sheets or something.”

Amelia wondered if she’d even have thought of doing such a thing, but she didn’t tell Verwood so. Really, it was quite unbelievable that they’d decided to let her come. She felt a little uncomfortable with the power she’d wielded, and more than a little frightened of being out on the beach with dangerous smugglers and a French spy. What if they thought the revenuers were after them? Surely they would turn into thugs, or worse. She crept closer to Verwood and turned her face up to him for a kiss.

Obligingly he closed her in his arms and pressed her firmly against him. His kiss was almost nostalgic, sweet and tender, as though it might be their last. Amelia shuddered against him.

“Why don’t you stay here and wait for me?” he whispered against her hair.

Actually, there was nothing, at the moment, Amelia would have preferred doing, but she pulled away from him with a show of indignation. “You won’t fob me off, Alexander. If you go, I go.”

“I shouldn’t let Peter go alone. It wouldn’t be fair.”

As though he would ever seriously consider staying with her, she thought, outraged. He was just trying to make her feel guilt-ridden. “We’ll all go.”

He gazed deep into her eyes for long moments. “Very well,” he said at last, resigned. “We’ll all go.”

Margrave was uncannily dark and Amelia was relieved that he held on to her hand as they descended the stairs. She found her cloak in the closet without any difficulty and he gallantly wrapped it about her, taking this last opportunity to hug her. They went out the side door into the brisk, moonless night. There were three horses on the riding path, one of them already with its rider mounted.

Amelia was a little nervous of her brother’s reception, but he merely nodded to her as Verwood helped her onto Cleo. She had never ridden anything but sidesaddle, and straddling the horse felt unfamiliar. Cleo sidestepped a few paces, as unaccustomed as her rider to this unusual arrangement, but Amelia easily brought her under control, maneuvering the mare between Verwood’s horse and her brother’s. They walked the animals until they were out of hearing distance of the house, and then broke into a canter.

It was exhilarating to ride astride, to be a real part of the gentlemen’s enterprise—or so Amelia told herself. Certain aspects of it made her rather dubious: the ominous roar of the ocean getting closer and closer, her inability to see exactly where they were going, the grave silence that came from each of the men, the fear of what lay ahead. If she hadn’t been so wretchedly stubborn, she’d be in her own bed right now, dreaming of the viscount, no doubt, and feeling a whole lot warmer and more cheerful.

Verwood gestured, with a hand Amelia could barely see, that they were to slow to a walk again. This indication that they were getting close to the scene of action did not encourage her. She could feel a bolt of lightning fear shoot up her spine, which caused her to tremble all over. They followed the trail along the marshy land a little farther before dismounting and tying the horses to the stunted bushes along the way.

Her voice trembled as she asked, “What do we do now?”

Verwood came forward to lay his hand on her shoulder. “We wait,” he said. “There isn’t much cover here, so we can’t get too close to the shore without being seen. When there’s activity down by the water, we’ll close in on them.”

“Do you and Peter have p-pistols?”

“Of course.” He patted the deep pocket in his dark coat. “Primed and ready..”

“You wouldn’t actually
kill
anyone, would you?”

“Only if necessary,” he assured her.

Amelia was not comforted. Her hands were icy and shaking; she wished he’d take hold of one of them. But he had moved away to consult with Peter in hushed tones she was not able to overhear. She felt wretchedly isolated on the black marshlands, unable to see clearly as far as the water’s edge, and therefore fearful of what might be happening without her knowledge. The men had ceased talking and for some time the only sound was the lapping of the water.

By the time she could make out some sort of movement on the beach, she was almost paralyzed by the wish to be in her own bed. Not that she wanted Verwood and her brother to be out here alone; she wished the comfort of their beds for them, too. Let someone else find out if Chartier was a spy. But she was impressed with the sheer confidence radiated by the viscount and the earl; they stood at their ease watching what for them must have been much more distinct activity down by the water.

“Now,” the viscount said, drawing his pistol from his pocket and grabbing hold of Amelia’s hand. Peter instantly produced a pistol too, and took her other hand. Wonderful, she thought. If they shoot at anyone, and are shot back at, I shall be the easiest target of the three of us, right in the middle. But she assured herself she would prefer to be the one to receive some fatal injury, rather than either of them, her brother and the man she loved.

They were walking at a pace it was difficult for her to keep up with. Her feet seemed to stumble continually on the uneven ground. By now she could see the scene before them with more clarity... but even less fortitude. There seemed to be an awful lot of people there, far outnumbering the three of them. A small boat was being launched into the waves. Amelia was surprised that no one had as yet noticed their approach. Didn’t they keep some sort of lookout?

Yes, they did. Suddenly there was a bellow that reached her with astonishing clarity. “Ho, revenuers!” The cry was taken up by what seemed a chorus of thousands, like a refrain sung at Covent Garden. Verwood and Peter never hesitated in their progress, dragging her along between them. There was a flurry of movement by the men on the beach as they scattered here and there. A shot rang out.

“Oh, my God,” Amelia moaned.

“Are you hit?” Verwood demanded.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

Another explosion roared, and this time Amelia could see the flash from a pistol in a man’s hand. For the briefest moment she thought she would faint, but she gathered her faltering courage about her and hurried on, since the two men still had not paused. She considered this foolhardy of them, but hadn’t the breath left in her fright to tell them so.

“We’re not revenuers!” Peter called. “We’ve come for the Frenchman.”