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Verena had still refused to believe that Lucas had resigned from the army out of fear. But she was forced to believe everything else she heard about him, because the stories spread throughout the following winter and into the spring of Lucas’s high living amongst the Prince’s set, of the gambling and the parties that lasted for days and nights on end in London, Brighton and even the Channel Isles—for, like many of his aristocratic companions, he had his own sea-going yacht.
Captain Alec Stewart, his services in the Light Dragoons clearly minimal, was often his companion in these outbursts of revelry. Their female conquests were legendary; that spring, the rumour had spread that Lucas was about to announce his betrothal to one of the diamonds of the Season, Lady Jasmine Rowley.
True or not, Lucas had betrayed Wycherley. And had shattered her stupid heart.
Now, suddenly, on the day their fast-disintegrating fortunes were put on public display, Lucas was back in her life again. And she wouldn’t accept any of his offers of help, for she could not believe a word he said.
Yet the trouble was that not a night had gone by, since that magical autumn, without her thinking of him. Missing him. Wanting him so badly that it was as if her life was broken without him.
It was nine o’clock and the ordeal of the dispersal sale was almost over. The chaises and carts had departed along the Chichester road, piled high with items that had been in Wycherley Hall for centuries. Verena, feeling tired and alone, set off down the stairs. At least Lord Conistone and Captain Stewart would have gone by now.
But the day was not over yet. As she entered the great hall, that this morning had been piled with furniture and ornaments and was now almost bare, she saw Turley, looking hot and distressed.
‘Turley, what on earth’s the matter?’ Not Lucas again, causing trouble, please…..
Turley rushed towards her. ‘There’s bad doings down a Ragg’s Cove, Miss Verena! The militia, they’re roundin’ up some local men who’ve bin fishing!’
‘The militia? Fishing? Why on earth—?’
‘They’re saying our men are in league with French spies, Miss Verena! And they’re plannin’ on taking them off to Chichester gaol!’
‘This is ridiculous! French spies? I will deal with this!’
Now Turley’s kind old face was truly tight with alarm. ‘You mustn’t go down there, miss! You know as well as I there’s been strange things goin’ on around here lately! Oh, I wish I’d never told you…’.
‘This is Wycherley business,’ she replied crisply, ‘and you did quite right to tell me, Turley. Believe me, I’ll be back before anyone’s even missed me. No need to make matters worse with a general hue and cry!’
Ignoring Turley’s protests, she went to put on her cloak, glad that at least it had stopped raining, and the thunderstorm was past. It would take her very little time to hurry through the gardens and down the steep track that she knew so well to Ragg’s Cove. French spies? Martin Bryant was always muttering about them, but no one else took the notion in the least bit seriously. She would vouch for the local men and get rid of the interfering militia. And then this dreadful day would be—almost—at an end.
Waving Turley aside, she found a lantern and headed out into the darkness, towards the cliff path.
And did not see, in the black shadows beyond her lantern’s glow, the figures moving behind the trees, following her
Chapter Five
Lucas Conistone was waiting on horseback by the deserted lodge where the Wycherley drive met the toll road to Chichester. The lights of Wycherley Hall twinkled a quarter of a mile away, through the darkness.
His horse was growing restless, and so was he. He constantly scanned the long driveway back to Wycherley Hall, until he saw that someone was coming at last, trotting up the drive from the house on a stocky bay cob.
‘My God, Bentinck,’ said Lucas, urging his horse forwards to meet him, ‘you took your damned time!’
Bentinck, who had once been a prize fighter, ran his hand through his spiky black hair and grunted. He had been Lucas’s aide and valet for many years; now he looked mildly aggrieved at Lucas’s comment.
‘Done just as you asked, milord, all right and proper! I took a good look round all the books and desks and so forth that were up for sale—did pretty well until I almost got caught!’
Lucas’s face tightened. ‘Who by?’
‘The young lady of the house. The pretty one, with chestnut hair and proud eyes, and, ahem, luscious figure…. She saw me opening drawers and havin’ a good poke around and started coming over to take me to task, but I was too quick for her! A tasty armful, I’d reckon, in spite of them drab clothes—’
Lucas broke in, ‘Did you find anything?’
‘Nothing to our immediate purpose, milord. But I did find something of interest, you might say. I got into the study and took a good long look at the window that we’d heard on our way here was the one that was used to get in to burgle the place…’. He paused weightily.
‘And?’
‘Some villain did indeed ‘ave a go at that window, milord, to make it look like it had been forced. But he was doin’ it from the inside. Get my meaning?’
‘From the inside. Thank you, Bentinck,’ breathed Lord Lucas Conistone softly. ‘Thank you very much’.
‘One thing more, milord’. Bentinck frowned. ‘As I was leavin’ just now, all quiet-like, to find my nag, I heard a bit of an argument between the girl—the beauty—and a servant. Seems as if there’s trouble down at the beach, Ragg’s Cove they call it, between the militia and some fishermen. And the girl’s gone hurrying down there to investigate’.
‘Not—on her own?’ Lucas’s voice was harsh. Incredulous.
‘Sounds like it, milord. Weren’t nothing I could—’
‘I know Ragg’s Cove’. Lucas looked grim. ‘There’s a path down to it from where the Wycherley gardens end at the top of the cliffs…’. He was making rapid decisions. ‘We’ll both ride quietly back towards the house, then you must keep yourself and the horses hidden. If I’m not back in half an hour—come after me’.
‘But—’
‘That’s an order. Understand?’
Bentinck sighed. ‘Understood, milord’. And followed.
As Verena hurried down the last few yards to the shingle beach, a hoarse cry of welcome rose from the half-dozen or so figures who cowered from the militia men’s pointed muskets. ‘Miss Verena! It’s Miss Verena!’
Drawing nearer, she recognised them: old Tom Sawrey, Billy Dixon, Ned Goodhew, and two others. Wycherley tenants, they farmed smallholdings and fished to supplement their income.
She also knew the officer in charge of the militia. ‘Colonel Harrap! Yes, it’s me, Verena Sheldon! I have no idea what you and your soldiers think you’re doing! French spies indeed!’
Colonel Harrap puffed himself out like a peacock. ‘I’m afraid you aren’t acquainted with the full facts, Miss Sheldon! Are you aware, for instance, that these scoundrels—’ he pointed at the Wycherley men ‘—made a signal—a fire, up on the cliff—to lure the enemy into land? And as a servant of his Majesty, it’s my duty to arrest them!’
Her heart lurched sickly. A fire. She looked sharply at the villagers again.
Fish weren’t the only haul they landed at night. Occasionally she and her family had received good French brandy, and sometimes even a bale of silk. Tonight—yes, tonight it was all too possible that they’d lit a fire to guide in a boat—to help not French spies, but French smugglers.
Then Billy Dixon stepped forwards, desperate. ‘We didn’t light that fire, Miss Verena, honest! We’d just been out fishin’ and we saw the flames while we were out at sea!’
‘A likely story!’ snorted Colonel Harrap.
‘It’s true! We rowed back in to see what it could be, but just after we pulled our boat in, that—that officer and his men came running down from the top of the headland and told us we was all under arrest! See, there’s our boat, look!’
He pointed to the big rowing boat heaved up on to the shingle, to the folded nets and baskets of glistening fish. Verena was just starting to breathe again.
But Colonel Harrap hadn’t finished. ‘Their word against mine, Miss Sheldon! And the lighting of a signal to the enemy amounts to treason, as I’m sure you know! This will go before the magistrates, I promise you!’
Verena gave him her best frosty glare. ‘I think the magistrates, Colonel Harrap, will require more evidence than you’ve just given me!’ she declared stoutly. Oh, Billy. You’d best be telling me the truth about this, or else.
‘We’ll see! If I should find proof that some French villains have indeed landed, there’ll be the devil to pay!’ blustered Colonel Harrap. And, after muttering ‘You’ve not heard the last of this!’ he led his men surlily back to the steep path that led up to the headland.
Verena drew her hand across her eyes, feeling a little faint. ‘Billy, Tom,’ she said, ‘I really hope you’ve been honest with me’.
The Wycherley men had quickly surrounded her, their faces shining with relief. ‘Oh, yes, Miss Verena!’ said Billy. ‘But—’ and he glanced at the others ‘—there’s somethin’ else you ought to know. Something we wasn’t going to tell old Harrap and his bunch of brass buttons!’
Verena’s heart sank anew. ‘Tell me, Billy’.
‘Well,’ said Billy, ‘we were out at sea, like I said, when we saw that fire lit. We saw nothing else. But when we landed, young Dickon—he’s Tom’s lad, he’s only thirteen—he’d been watching for us, to help us in with the catch, and he saw a boat come in, saw them land, three of them, and he said they were mighty quiet about everything, but he’s got sharp ears, and he said they talked real strange!’
Verena’s heart thumped. French. Oh, no. Maybe the villagers should have told Colonel Harrap this from the start. If he found out now, Harrap would jump on the chance to accuse them all of conspiracy. If I should find proof that some French villains have indeed landed, there’ll be the devil to pay!
‘Then tell Dickon to keep quiet about it,’ Verena said swiftly. ‘You must all keep quiet about it! As long as you are innocent…’.
‘We are, Miss Verena, we are!’ said Billy. ‘Should we go with you, back up to the house?’
‘No, Billy’. She knew they’d be anxious to get their catch in safely. ‘No, I’m all right. I’ll make my own way up in a little while’.
Thanking her again, they slung their baskets of fish over their shoulders and went trudging up the steep path.
She stood there, gazing out to the moonlit sea, the only sound the gentle rasp of waves on shingle. And her heart was heavy.
They’d escaped trouble for now, whether or not their story about the mysterious French boat was true. They thought life would go on as ever. Those villagers had worked on Wycherley land and fished from Ragg’s Cove for generations. And, yes, had landed smuggled goods from time to time as well….
But soon the Wycherley estate would have a new owner, and if the Earl bought it he would be a harsh and grasping landlord who would give bullies like Colonel Harrap a free hand. The old and easy ways of her father would vanish into distant memory. What could she do? Nothing.
She picked up her lantern and started to climb slowly back uphill. It was raining again; by the time she reached the top of the path, her bonnet and cloak were sodden. She could just see the lights of Wycherley Hall, dimly shining through the mist and rain.
The Earl. Lucas. She suddenly stopped and pressed her palm to her forehead. Why had Lucas come here today of all days? Had he come to gloat? To satisfy himself that he could still reduce her to a quivering, needy mess, by just being near her?
And—her face burned anew—she had let him think she might accept Martin Bryant’s proposal! Oh, what a foolish, stupid lie! Well, soon he would be going back to his London parties, to join his friends of the Prince’s set, with his loose-living companion Alec Stewart. She would never see Lucas again, and nothing could give her greater pleasure than his complete absence from her life!
That was a lie, too. The terrible ache in her heart told her so.
The danger erupted so suddenly. One moment she was quite alone. The next, three heavily cloaked men were crashing through the thicket beside the path towards her, with pistols gleaming in the lantern light. Something like a blanket was thrown over her face, so she could not see, could not breathe. The lantern was snatched from her. Hands were grabbing at her roughly, hurting her.
She remembered in those brief, terrifying moments the sensation of so often being followed, remembered the break-in at Wycherley Hall. Fight as she might, they were pulling her, hustling her towards the trees. Smugglers? But why attack her? And she thought she heard them muttering, ‘C’est elle. C’est la fille’. Her blood froze.
Then she heard a man’s voice roaring, ‘Verena!’
She heard the sound of a gun exploding within a few feet of her and realised the restraining hands were gone. Pulling the blanket from her face, gasping for air, she saw the three cloaked men running off, heads low, into the dark woods.
‘Verena!’ The same desperate male voice, close now.
Turning, she saw Lucas, his long coat and hair glistening with the rain, standing there with a gun in his hand. At first she did not understand. At first she thought he was the one who had fired.
Then she realised that Lucas was sinking very slowly to his knees, and where he clutched his left hand to his arm, bright blood was welling through his fingers.
Chapter Six
Lucas was kneeling on the ground. She ran to crouch beside him, her heart hammering.
‘Lucas. Oh, we must get your coat off’. Her voice shook with emotion. ‘We must tie something around your injury, I must get help!’
‘They told me you’d gone down to the beach—alone!’ he grated out. ‘How could you have been so—so foolish?’
‘Foolish?’ she cried. She felt faint with fear. ‘Some militia men were threatening our villagers—was it foolish to try to protect them?’ She was striving, with trembling fingers, to ease his coat from his shoulder, but she could see the perspiration pouring from his forehead, indicating his pain. He is your enemy, she reminded herself, your family’s enemy.
‘Who were your attackers?’ he rasped.
‘I’ve no idea. Not smugglers, definitely not—’ she was thinking of the danger Billy and his friends might be in ‘—so they must have been robbers, and it was my misfortune to be in their way’.
‘I never thought they were smugglers,’ Lucas said bluntly. ‘Smugglers don’t attack innocent girls. And they were not robbers either. Verena, they were trying to drag you away. Did you hear them speak?’
Swiftly she tore aside the fabric of his shirt and pressed her clean folded handkerchief to the wound, remembering Colonel Harrap’s warning: If I should find proof that some French villains have indeed landed, there’ll be the devil to pay!
‘They sounded like Portsmouth men,’ she lied. ‘I heard a few words I wouldn’t care to repeat, I’m afraid—’ Then she realised that his blood was still welling through her handkerchief. Oh, no. ‘Have you got anything else I can bind it with?’ she asked rather faintly.
‘There’s my cravat’. He was already loosening it, with his left hand; his face was very pale, though the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. ‘I didn’t realise your numerous skills extended to nursing’.
She reached for his loosened cravat. So much blood. She struggled to stay calm, to say matter of factly, ‘Oh, my sisters were for ever getting into scrapes—literally—when they were small, and my mother tends to faint at the sight of a scratch, so it’s almost a matter of necessity. Can you hold your arm up, Lucas, just a little? That’s right. Then I can bind it—it will help to stop the bleeding’. Her voice was tight with strain.
Too close. He was too close. Difficult to concentrate on her bandaging, difficult not to notice the taut, tanned skin, the underlying muscle and sinew of his warm, powerful arm. A young lady should never be nearer than two feet to a gentleman who is not a close relative…..
Miss Bonamy’s Young Lady’s Guide to Etiquette wasn’t much use here.
She tied the knot with a snap. ‘There,’ she breathed. ‘Now, if you will stay here and rest, I’ll run to the house and fetch help’.
His good arm grabbed for her. ‘No. You must not be by yourself!’ He rapped out the warning.
She shivered and retorted defiantly, because she was afraid, ‘You cannot really think that—those men will be back?’
‘Who knows? You’re not going anywhere on your own! I can walk, if you’ll let me lean on you a little! It’s not far to Wycherley’.
Her eyes jerked up to his. ‘You cannot stay at Wycherley!’ With Deb. Herself. A thousand times, no.
‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘But I could, perhaps, make use of your family carriage to get to Stancliffe’.
She felt her stomach lurch sickeningly at the thought of Lucas, in pain, being transported along the rough road to Stancliffe Manor, two miles away.
Wasn’t it what he deserved? He had made her fall in love with him, he had betrayed her.
But then she saw that he was swaying where he stood, and his face had gone very white. ‘We’ll go to Wycherley, of course, it’s far nearer,’ she muttered. She guessed from the little she knew about bullet wounds that he must be in acute pain, and losing blood fast. ‘Put your arm around my shoulder, quickly. Can you really walk all the way there? Shouldn’t I fetch some men from the house to help you?’
‘I said—no!’ He tightened his arm around her. The close contact of his lithe, muscular body set into motion all the long pushed-aside memories that still haunted her every waking moment. ‘And anyway, who would you fetch? Captain Martin Bryant? He’d most likely cheer and put a second bullet through me, for making advances to the woman who’s to be his wife—’
She gasped. Oh, Lord, her lies. ‘Stop it,’ she breathed, ‘please stop it, Lucas…’.
‘Stop what?’
‘Talking’.
