Wreck and Ruin (Regency Rendezvous Book 6)

by Amy Corwin

  And now, she wondered if the wreck of the Orion had destroyed even that small, private dream.

  “I see. Was your father acquainted with Lady Blackwold, then?” Mr. Hodges asked politely, turning to wave at the dowager.

  She waved back with her handkerchief, the feathers of her bonnet bobbing as she nodded.

  “No. At least, I am not aware of any acquaintance between our families,” Hannah answered, acutely aware of the closeness of Blackwold.

  She couldn’t trust him, she reminded herself sharply. He wore that ring.

  In fact, she couldn’t trust any of them. Her gaze bounced from one man to the other before coming to rest on a small, smooth stone near her right foot. Her mind raced furiously, sorting through the facts she thought she knew. But the facts warred with her feelings.

  Despite his doubts about her character, she’d liked Blackwold. He intrigued her with his sense of humor and his bearlike appearance seemed more endearing than frightening. But she knew no more of him than he knew of her.

  He wears a ring! Her mind insisted.

  “She was on the Orion,” Blackwold said, stepping further away and eyeing the men laboring on the beach. “If that answers your questions, Hodges.”

  “Ah, I see.” Mr. Hodges nodded and touched her forearm lightly with sympathy. “I am so sorry. I heard the news this morning. It must have been a terrible ordeal.” He shivered with sympathy. “Should you not be resting?”

  Hannah shrugged and looked away, lowering her arm to avoid his lingering touch.

  “Well, it shows great strength of character that you are here and able to view the sad evidence of your recent tragedy.” Mr. Hodges paused to adjust the cuff on one sleeve and brush off a speck of sand. “And, I beg your pardon, but did I hear mention of a trunk?”

  “Yes—my trunk. I was hoping to find it, if it washed ashore. It has my name, Hannah Cowles, engraved on it.” She studied the thin, frayed jackets of the scavengers. “I am not concerned about the gowns; if the villagers want them, I will not object. I simply want the trunk itself.”

  “Generous and intriguing…” Mr. Hodges murmured. His eyes glittered strangely and a small, secretive smile curled his lips. “Shall we see if such a trunk has been found?” He held out his arm to her. “Our industrious scavengers may have seen it, or pulled it out of the sea.” His contempt for the men on the beach came through clearly in the curl of his thin upper lip and emphasis of the word scavengers.

  When she glanced at Lord Blackwold, he was already walking away to join the villagers.

  He’s one of them. It must have been him, last night. And how many of the other men scattered over the beach were there, as well, clubbing the survivors?

  White and gray gulls shrieked overhead, eyeing the intruders on the beach and landing on nearby rocks to search for tempting bits of sea life left behind by the storm. They were scavengers, too, fighting and screaming over remains of the Orion.

  The thought sickened her, and she swallowed, forcing down the knot in her throat. Slowly, with reluctance, she slipped her hand through Mr. Hodges’s elbow and let him escort her to the growing pile of goods the men had collected from the wreckage.

  One large, aggressive gull kept landing on the pile, only to flap away when one of the men approached.

  “Where did you come ashore, Miss Cowles?” Mr. Hodges asked as he assisted her around rocks and broken planks from the Orion.

  “Come ashore?” she repeated the question, stopping to glance around. “Not here—I must have been swept further south and away from the house.”

  “One of our villagers must have assisted you; it would have been difficult to avoid the rocks during a storm.” He shivered elaborately at the thought. “I am accounted to be a decent swimmer, but even I would have had difficulties finding my way to shore safely anywhere except this small scrap of beach.”

  “No one assisted me,” she replied sharply. “I saw no one—if anyone was trying to assist us, the storm hid them from view. I had to do the best I could with a broken spar to aid me.”

  “Regrettable,” Mr. Hodges murmured. “I’m sure you would have gained a much better view of our quaint little village and its inhabitants if they had been able to assist in your rescue. We are not a callous and inhospitable race, I assure you, and I sincerely regret our failure.”

  “There is nothing to regret. I’m sure they would have come to my aid if they’d seen me.” Even if that aid consisted of a club to the head.

  As they neared the pile of refuse, the gull flapped away again. Hannah’s heart twisted as she recognized bits and pieces that belonged to the crew and passengers aboard the Orion. A small wooden chest with brass hinges had been thrown heedlessly midway up the left side of the pile.

  It had belonged to her companion, Mrs. Lawrence.

  Pulse racing, Hannah paused, almost tripping over a broken board. Should she try to claim it? Mrs. Lawrence had no family, no one to notify of her death, and no one to care what happened to the contents of that small box.

  “Do you see something you recognize?” Mr. Hodges asked, turning to look at her. Speculation turned his eyes to smooth gray stones, like those washed onto the beach by the tide.

  She glanced away, rubbing her arms with cold hands. Fear tasted sour in her mouth as she heard the low murmurs of the men around her, men who cast enigmatic glances at her as they worked. How many of them had been present last night? What would they do if she tried to claim a few of the items she recognized?

  Before she could decide how to answer Mr. Hodges, Blackwold loped over and picked up the small box. He flashed her a shy grin before striding over.

  “Something of yours?” Blackwold held the box out to her.

  A few of the men paused, scowling in their direction.

  She shook her head and clasped her hands at her waist. “It belongs to Mrs. Lawrence—my companion.” Her voice broke, and she pressed her fingers against her lips, struggling to regain her composure. Warm tears stung her cheeks, and she blinked rapidly. “Belonged to Mrs. Lawrence, that is,” she said in a stronger voice.

  Mr. Hodges glanced away, pretending to be fascinated by the efforts of three men to drag a large crate to shore, thereby giving her a moment of privacy.

  “I’m sorry,” Blackwold said, thrusting the box at her again. “A keepsake, perhaps?”

  “The villagers may want it. To sell,” she replied, struggling for a light tone. Chest tight, she tried to take a deep breath, but it came out as a shuddering sigh before she pressed her hand to her mouth again.

  One of Blackwold’s brows rose. “Is it valuable, then?”

  “The box, perhaps. Mrs. Lawrence—” She broke off again, swallowed, and cleared her throat. The sharp pain of her companion’s death cut deeply—too deeply to let her say her name easily. Suddenly, she felt terribly alone. Mrs. Lawrence had been with her for so long that she could barely remember a time when her calm presence hadn’t been there to give her guidance when she needed it and hug her when she desperately craved comfort.

  She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “My companion didn’t have much of value. I don’t know what she kept in that little chest.”

  Without asking, Blackwold reached over and plucked a long, elaborate hatpin out of her hat. Her hands fluttered up to hold her borrowed bonnet in place, sudden anger whipping through her in outrage at his overly familiar gesture.

  But her protest died on her lips as he delicately inserted the pin in the brass lock and wriggled it. His first attempt to open the box failed. He frowned in concentration before a sudden click rewarded his efforts.

  “There you are.” He held the wooden box out to her with his left hand and shoved the hatpin back into her hat with his right.

  Once again, her hands flew to her head as her bonnet slid back under his assault, and she readjusted the pin to hold the hat more securely on her head before accepting the small box.

  Staring down at the box, she calmed herself. I won’t cry—I won’t! She f
lipped open the lid to find a small bundle of papers inside. They were damp, and the ink had seeped through in a few places where the sea water had moistened the paper.

  “Just letters,” she said, glancing up. From her husband—Hannah felt sure, remembering her companion’s few remarks concerning her loss.

  Blackwold was studying the growing pile of salvaged goods while his cousin was looking at her with a strange expression of distaste. Or perhaps scorn. Hannah couldn’t decide, but it made her feel embarrassed about the show of emotion she’d been helpless to control.

  She plucked the letters from the box and held them against her. She could read them later, in private. “Here. The others can have the box, if it is of value to them.” She shoved the box into Blackwold’s hand, once again noticing the ring on his finger. A chill slipped down her neck, and she looked away, fixing her gaze on the gray, restless waves pounding against the rocks and sending up spumes of frothy white foam.

  More gulls screamed and wheeled above them, their wings flashing white against the blue-gray sky.

  “Surely, you mean to keep it,” Mr. Hodges said. “The villagers have salvaged enough from the sea. That small box is of no use to them.” His thin lips twisted. “Since it is clearly empty of any valuables.”

  “Bereft of valuables for them, perhaps,” Hannah replied abruptly before pressing her lips shut.

  “Of course,” Mr. Hodges said smoothly, brushing one hand down the front of his coat. “Your tender sensibilities do you credit, Miss Cowles.”

  Instead of feeling flattered, Hannah felt a surge of irritation at Mr. Hodges’s remark. He clearly intended it to be sympathetic, but it felt condescending. Nonetheless, she forced herself to smile and nod her head in thanks, precisely like the empty-headed English lady he clearly expected her to be.

  Perhaps Mr. Hodges, like his grandmother and cousin, had an unfortunate way of expressing his thoughts. She shook her head. She was so tired and overset with warring emotions that she might have interpreted his words in the worst way possible.

  She doubted it, but it remained a remote possibility.

  Without explanation, Blackwold thrust the box back into her hand. The ring on his finger flashed in the gray, wintery light. Once again, she felt a stab of deep fear and doubt, although her hand closed automatically upon the box.

  Could this amiable man really be the same one who had given orders for Officer Trent to be clubbed? It seemed impossible. She would rather believe it of Mr. Hodges than Lord Blackwold.

  The marquess certainly appeared to be on good terms with the villagers, though. While she could not prove that any of the shabbily dressed men had participated in the events of the night before, it did seem likely.

  Before she could express her thanks, Blackwold turned away. “Turner!”

  A gray whiskered man straightened, lifted his cap, and ran his forearm over his glistening bald head. Then he moved toward them with a rolling, bandy-legged gait. “Yes, my lord?”

  “A guinea for the box. Agreed?” Blackwold held out a coin.

  The old man’s pale blue eyes locked on the box with the air of a connoisseur judging a fine painting. He pursed his wrinkled lips and scratched the rough gray whiskers of his cheek.

  “There was nothing of value in it except some old letters,” Blackwold pointed out before pulling back the proffered coin a few inches. “At any rate, you would have sold it, so it should not matter to you if I am the purchaser. But if you are not interested…” His hand holding the coin descended toward his pocket.

  “Aye, my lord. A guinea would suit me fine. Just fine.” Turner held out a grubby hand. When Blackwold tossed the coin to him, Turner caught it with an adept movement and shoved it into his pocket in the blink of an eye. “Thank you, my lord.”

  The old man gave the box one last, speculative glance.

  Before he could move back to the pile of salvage, Hannah stopped him. “Mr. Turner,” she said. “Do you know if anyone has seen a trunk? It is a round trunk, covered in leather, with brass tacks and iron handles. The tacks on the lid form a design incorporating my initials, HCC. It is unmistakable.”

  “Can’t say as I’ve seen it, Miss.” Turner shrugged and took a sideways step toward the rapidly increasing stack of goods.

  “Inform me if you do,” Blackwold said.

  Turner eyed him and scratched his whiskered cheek again.

  “For suitable recompense, of course,” Blackwold added.

  “Aye, my lord.” Turner grinned and ambled off toward a fresh pile of detritus rolling over the beach, dragged forward and back by the waves.

  “Thank you, Lord Blackwold. That was very generous of you—too generous,” Hannah said, wishing she didn’t feel like a poor relative being tossed a few scraps. She slipped the letters back into the box.

  “I’ll get a locksmith to replace the lock. Tomorrow,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the restless, dark gray ocean.

  “There is no need,” she started to say, but she was speaking to his broad back.

  Lord Blackwold’s long stride carried him quickly down the beach.

  Mr. Hodges touched her arm. “Perhaps you will permit me to escort you back to the house? Although you are as lovely as ever, this must have been a strain for you. You must need rest to refresh yourself.” His thin mouth twisted into a smile. “My grandmother is sure to demand your attendance at supper, so you may not have another opportunity for privacy today.”

  “Thank you, you are very kind.” Hannah allowed him to draw her back to the path and help her to ascend, although she’d felt safer on her own without his hand in the center of her back encouraging her forward.

  “This trunk you mentioned,” he said in an offhand way.

  The path was too precipitous for her to glance over her shoulder at him, though she wished she could see the expression on his face. “Yes?”

  “You must have some valuable belongings in it. It must be distressing to lose everything to the storm.”

  “Yes—but it is not merely the loss of my gowns that concerns me.” Her jaws clamped shut. She must have explained the matter of her trunk and documents a dozen times, and the subject was becoming exceedingly annoying. “There are papers inside—documents that establish that I am indeed Hannah Cowles and that grant me access to the funds my lawyer in Boston transferred for me to the Bank of England. On Threadneedle Street.”

  The silence behind her made the vulnerable nape of her neck tingle.

  They were within ten yards of the top of the cliff when Mr. Hodges said, “Your chest must be found, then, Miss Cowles. I would not have you left impoverished by the storm.” He gripped her elbow as they stepped onto the firm grassy ground.

  When she glanced at him, he smiled at her.

  “Though I doubt anyone truly questions who you are,” he added.

  “Clearly, you underestimate the suspicious nature of Lord Blackwold and the dowager.”

  He laughed and shook his head over the foibles of his relatives as he led her over to Lady Blackwold.

  “I see you have met another of my grandsons,” the dowager said with a grin. She held out a gloved hand to Mr. Hodges and drew him close enough to kiss his cheek as he bent over her hand. “Handsome devil, isn’t he?”

  Hannah murmured a vague reply, not wishing to get into a discussion about the relative appearance of Mr. Hodges versus his cousin, Lord Blackwold.

  “Help me to the house, Henry. This breeze has chilled me to the bone.”

  “I hope you have not caught a chill, Grandmother. I cannot imagine what possessed you to sit here at the edge of the cliff for so long.” Mr. Hodges assisted his grandmother to rise and tucked her hand through his elbow before he thrust out his other arm for Hannah.

  She swallowed back a sigh.

  Mr. Hodges was trying so hard to be kind and gentlemanly to her, and he was the only one who’d neither questioned who she was nor insisted she was ruined simply because she had the misfortune to survive the wreck. But as perverse as it wa
s, she preferred his ridiculous cousin who clearly failed to trust her and was most likely a cold-hearted wrecker who’d murdered the rest of the survivors.

  “I wished to see if they’d found anything of interest on the beach,” his grandmother replied loftily.

  “And did they?” Mr. Hodges asked, obviously humoring her.

  “Not that I could see. Although Miss Cowles has brought back a box of some sort.” The dowager peered around Mr. Hodges to grin at Hannah. “Is that the chest you were so anxious to find?”

  “No.” Hannah cleared her throat at the sudden stab of pain over the loss of Mrs. Lawrence. “It belonged to my companion. And friend. I didn’t see my trunk among the wreckage.”

  “Don’t give up hope, Miss Cowles,” Mr. Hodges said. “It may yet appear. Tomorrow morning, I will personally go to the village and enquire about it. Someone may have already transported it there.”

  “I would sincerely appreciate that, Mr. Hodges.”

  As they neared the terrace doors, Hannah paused to allow Mr. Hodges to assist his grandmother to ascend the shallow steps and enter the house. She glanced out across the wide expanse of the sere gardens and lawn, noting once again the proud spears of green thrusting their way through the earth.

  Dark clouds were gathering over the gray Atlantic, and a cold, brisk wind was whipping the waves into a froth. Gulls swooped and screeched, flashing white, black, and gray against the sky. From a distance, they were beautiful and sleek, despite their harsh noise. Over the ocean, the vast expanse of sky grew blacker as she watched.

  Another storm was brewing. Hannah drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders and smiled gratefully at Mr. Hodges as he helped her into the house.

  “Will you stay for supper, Henry? It will not be much—we had dinner earlier, and there will only be cold meats and whatever was left,” the dowager asked as she began the tedious process of removing her bonnet, gloves, and multiple shawls. One after the other, she handed the items to the butler, who already had his arms full with Mr. Hodges coat and hat.

  “If I may,” he bowed to her, grinning.

  Lady Blackwold snorted and gave his forearm a light slap. “He is a charming rogue, isn’t he, Miss Cowles? One can never be sure what he will do.”