The Counterfeit Gentleman (11 page)

“Then there is nothing we can do,” Bethia cried out,
fighting back her tears. “If what you say is true—and I can
not doubt your analysis of my cousins’ probable actions—then all is lost.”

Mr. Rendel looked at her in obvious amazement. “Don’t
be daft,” he said. “Of course we shall marry, but not in
some havey-cavey manner. For the marriage to help you, everything must be done in an absolutely correct way.”

Taking the handkerchief he offered, Bethia wiped her
eyes and blew her nose. “But for that we need my aunt’s
permission, which will be impossible to obtain.”

Raising his eyebrows, Mr. Rendel regarded her with
some amusement. “Do you wish to make a small wager that
I shall have her permission to marry you before the week is
out?”

“You do not know my aunt,” Bethia replied. “Of all the
high sticklers in London, she holds herself to be the highest. Half the people who are given vouchers for Almack’s
would not be permitted through her door.”

“Do you wish to make a wager?” he repeated.

Nettled by his high-handed manner and his refusal to accept that she knew what she was talking about, she did not hesitate to nod her head.

“Then I shall set the stakes, and you have the right to accept them or not.” He appeared to be thinking, but Bethia suspected he already knew what he was going to ask for.

“If you lose, then after we are married, you must, with
out protesting or trying to make me change my mind, grant me one request,” he said.

“And if my aunt withholds her consent,” Bethia coun
tered boldly, “then you must, without any further argument,
go with me to the Continent, where I am sure we can elude
my cousins for the necessary months.”

“Without marrying you?” he asked.

Looking him in the eye, she replied quite brazenly,
“With or without benefit of clergy, the choice is yours.”

“You are too innocent to know what you are proposing,”
he said with a superior smile. “But fortunately for you, I
choose marriage—a legally sanctioned marriage accepted
by one and all.”

“Do you accept my terms?” she asked.

“If you will accept mine,” he replied.

“I will,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.

“Then I do also,” he said.

“Either way I shall win,” she could not resist pointing
out with a smile.

But his answering smile made her begin to wonder what
it was he would ask of her after they were married. What
could she have to give him? Her grandfather’s money
would be his once the marriage documents were signed.

And her very life already belonged to him, for every
breath she took, every minute she lived, she owed to him.

“While we are waiting for the others to report back, we
may as well start packing,” Mr. Rendel said.

“I have nothing to pack in,” Bethia said, “but that matters
little since I have nothing to pack except for one rag,
which used to be a charming day dress, and a linsey-
woolsey gown, which does not belong to me, and which the
rightful owner doubtless would prefer to have returned.”

“The dress is yours. It belonged to my aunt, and since
she is now resting beneath the sod in the churchyard, she
will make no protest if you carry it off to London. There is
a trunk full of her belongings over there by the window,
and you are welcome to sort through them and pick out
whatever might be useful. I realize the garments are not
á
la
mode
, but that is for the better since you will attract less at
tention along the way if you appear to be from the mer
chant class, rather than a member of the
haut ton.”

Without further discussion he went into the bedroom to
pack his own clothes.

Bethia crossed to the window and lifted the lid of the lit
tle chest, but she made no effort to sort through its contents.
Since she was about the same size as Mr. Rendel’s late
aunt, and since it mattered not whether the garments were
flattering, there was little point in trying any of them on.

While she was thankful once again to have a change of
clothing, she was beginning to understand how difficult it
was to accept charity.

Right now she was—and indeed always would be—
greatly in debt to Mr. Rendel, to whom she owed her very
life. But doubtless after they were married, he would feel as
if he were in debt to her, because she would be bringing
with her a truly magnificent dowry.

Men—at least men who had a modicum of pride—were
funny about accepting presents from women, and she sus
pected Mr. Rendel was a man who was more accustomed to
giving help than to accepting favors.

* * * *

Jem was thoroughly discouraged by the time he entered
the Double Anchor. So far no one in the parish or any of
the surrounding parishes remembered seeing three
strangers, only two of whom Jem could describe.

But to his surprise, the landlord, who introduced himself
as Tom Cardin, recognized the men when Jem described them. “The two of them spent the whole day and half the
night sitting at that table over there, drinking and muttering
to each other. Made no effort to be sociable.”

“Just two of them? There wasn’t a third?” Jem asked, his
hopes dashed as quickly as they had been raised.

“Not at the same table, no,” Cardin said. “But my wife is a clever one. She spotted something wrong about a sailor
sitting over there in t’other corner—had hands as soft and
white as any lady, the man did. And all he did was sit and stare at the other two. Not hard to figure they was all three
up to no good.”

“Aye,” Jem agreed, “murderers is what they were.” Then he realized he was talking too much about things that were
best kept secret, and he left off further explaining. “What
else can you tell me about the third man?”

“Didn’t ever see him up close,” the landlord said, “but
my wife might know more.”

He called her over, and after thinking a moment, she
said, “He was scruffy looking—hadn’t shaved in several
days, I’d say. Had a knit cap pulled down low over his forehead, but I could see a bit of his red hair sticking out from under it.”

The rest of her description could have fit any man in
Cornwall who went to sea for a living, but the red hair was
indeed a stroke of luck. Now all Jem had to do was spread
the word to the others, and with luck, they would catch the murdering villain before he managed to leave Cornwall.

* * * *

In the middle of the afternoon Harry and Big Davey
stopped by briefly to report that their mission was accom
plished. They looked at Bethia out of the corners of their
eyes and carefully spoke in a most roundabout way, but
even so she had to swallow the bile that rose up in her
throat when she thought about the two bodies sinking down
to the cold, cold bottom of the sea.

She knew from her own experience with the kidnappers
that they had not been good men. Not merely depraved,
they had, in fact, been downright wicked, and the violence
of their deaths only matched the violence of their lives.
And yet, the very suddenness and unexpectedness of their passing still had the power to shock Bethia.

Could anyone know the number of days he had remaining on this earth? Those men had thought they would live,
and she had thought she would die; yet here she was and
there they were. And she could not even discuss such sub
jects with Mr. Rendel because now that he had agreed to
marry her, she did not want to do anything or say anything that might cause him to change his mind.

For even though he had agreed, she knew he still did not think himself the proper man to be her husband.

Jem showed up late in the afternoon just as Mr. Rendel
was dishing up a tasty mutton stew. Accepting an invitation
to join them for supper, Jem pulled up a chair and began a
terse recital of where he had gone and whom he had spoken with.

“Could be he’s halfway back to London,” Jem said when
he’d finished both the account of his activities and his bowl
of stew. “And could be he’s hiding somewhere in the
neighborhood,” he added, taking a wicked-looking knife
from his belt and using it to cut himself a thick slice of rye
bread. “You’ve got problems either way,” he concluded.

“Miss Pepperell and I have decided it will be best if we
marry as quickly as possible,” Mr. Rendel said quite for
mally.

“Thought you might,” Jem said. “Couldn’t believe a man
with your book learning would miss the obvious.”

From his cocky grin Bethia thought there was a lot he
left unsaid, and she rather suspected his restraint was due to her presence.

“To be of benefit to Miss Pepperell,” Mr. Rendel continued seriously, “the marriage must be completely legal beyond a shadow of a doubt, which means we cannot elope.
Since we must obtain her aunt’s permission for the mar
riage to take place, we need to go to London with all possible speed.”

“You can borrow my yacht if you wish,” Jem said. “Sail
ing to London will be easier than trying to make speed on
the wretched roads between here and there, and I will be happy to crew for you.”

Bethia did not utter a word of protest. She could not. Her
mind was filled with such horror—such dread. She could
not even bear to think about hearing again those eternal
waves, feeling again the constant motion of the boat, losing
her way forever in another cold fog.

“Thank you, but I think it will be best if we travel by
coach,” Mr. Rendel said, and Bethia found she could
breathe again.

“In that case, you’d best take Big Davey with you,” Jem
said, “for he’s a much better hand with the horses than I
am.”

* * * *

According to the coachman, another half hour would see them across the Tamar River, and Mr. Harcourt knew that
once he was in Devon, he would be able to breathe a bit
easier.

Of course no one searching for him would ever suspect
that the clergyman in the threadbare frockcoat who was occupying the middle seat of the London stagecoach and the
redheaded seaman who had spent the entire previous day
sitting in the shadows at the Double Anchor were one and
the same person.

It was amazing the transformation one could achieve
with a wig and an unshaven chin. And he was reasonably
sure that none of the men who had ambushed Fane and
Williams at the cove had gotten close enough to see his
face. His mind, therefore, should be at ease.

But several things troubled him about the unfortunate
events that had occurred that morning. The most important
was the identity of the men who had been hiding behind the
rocks. Nothing about their appearance suggested that they
were excise men or soldiers.

Knowing the amount of French brandy that entered En
gland without the benefit of a tax stamp, the obvious an
swer was that they had been smugglers who had mistakenly
thought his two hirelings were themselves government
agents.

But Harcourt had seen no sign of any kegs—only
Bethia’s body lying at the water’s edge.

Surely the men on the beach could not have missed see
ing it also. And having discovered it, would they not, in the
normal course of things, have carried it back to the village
or to the nearest magistrate?

Had there been something about the body that had
aroused their suspicions? Had Fane or Williams disobeyed
his orders and tied the girl’s hands before they drowned
her? Well, if they had, they’d paid with their lives.

One thing was certain—that had been his cousin’s body
lying there on the sand, half in and half out of the water. He
had recognized her dress. There was no doubt in his mind
that she had drowned.

Which meant that the most crucial part of his plan had
succeeded. And now that she was dead, he stood to inherit
one third of her grandfather’s fortune. There remained only
the minor problem of identifying her body, which he could
no longer do in person.

He pondered his options while the coach lurched along,
taking him farther and farther away from the scene of the crime and from his pursuers, if indeed there were any.