Wreck and Ruin (Regency Rendezvous Book 6)

by Amy Corwin

  For some reason, she felt embarrassed. Everyone was staring at her, mouths partially open and brows arched with enquiry. Self-conscious, she pulled her shawl up around her shoulders and leaned over to peer at the chest.

  Saltwater had darkened the leather and left wandering trails of white salt behind. Some of the brass tacks securing the leather were missing, and parts of the leather covering were peeling. Despite the tarnishing of the brass, her initials were still clear, however.

  She straightened. “Yes.” She touched the brass plate with her gloved fingers. “These are my initials.”

  “How wonderful!” Gina clapped her hands before gripping her uncle’s sleeve, though she glanced at her cousin. “How did you find it, Cousin Henry?”

  “It was brought here for our sale,” the vicar stated in his clockwork voice. “We are in need of roof repairs.”

  “Who brought it?” Hannah asked.

  “Does it matter?” Henry replied in a hearty voice. “The important point is that your wish has been granted, and you have been reunited with your trunk.”

  “What’s in it? Oh, I wager there are all sorts of beautiful gowns. Can we open it?” Gina asked, stooping over the box.

  A curious reluctance filled Hannah, but she reached up to pull a chain out of her bodice. By some miracle, she hadn’t lost the key—it had been forgotten at the bottom of her linen pocket—despite everything that had happened. And to avoid any mishaps, she now carried it with her wherever she went.

  “I have the key,” she admitted. Then she realized that the chain wasn’t quite long enough to slip over the bonnet she wore.

  Gina reached over to help her, but only succeeded in tangling the chain with the black ribbons holding the bonnet on Hannah’s head. The result was that she almost strangled Hannah before the vicar pulled her away.

  “Georgina! Please show your friend some courtesy. There is no reason to insist she open the trunk now,” Carter chided her, his face growing stern.

  “No—I need to open it. I need to prove that I am who I say I am.” Hannah undid the ribbons of her bonnet and pulled it off. She then drew the chain over her head and knelt in front of the trunk.

  The waves had not made what had always been a stiff lock any looser, but after some fumbling and twisting, she managed to undo the lock. Gina, shouldering her way past her cousin and uncle, knelt and unfastened the leather strap nearest to her.

  “You had the key and unlocked the trunk, surely that is proof enough,” Carter said.

  “There is one more thing,” Hannah said.

  Her fingers were as cold and stiff as the lock and, although she rubbed them, her hands refused to cooperate. Finally, she took off her gloves, massaged her icy hands, and began the intricate process of opening the secret panel built into the domed lid. Small pieces of wood slid from one location to another in a mosaic before she felt the last slat move solidly into place.

  A lid within the lid opened. There, resting in the narrow hollow was a small bundle of documents, securely wrapped in a thick piece of oilskin fabric and tied with sturdy string.

  She lifted the packet out and held it up. “You see? These will prove who I am—and you saw me open the compartment—no one else knew the secret. And once we arrive in London, I can present my lawyer’s letter to the manager at the Bank of England, and I can become quite independent.” She flushed with pleasure at the thought. No more cast-off gowns, no more depending upon others for every little thing.

  “Indeed.” Carter nodded. “If required, we can, indeed, act as your witnesses, Miss Cowles. You had the key to the trunk and opened it. And you knew how to retrieve your package from the hidden compartment. I, for one, am thoroughly satisfied that you are who you say you are.” He glanced at Henry. “If there had ever been any doubt.”

  “And I agree with my uncle, Miss Cowles,” Henry said with a smile. The smug satisfied expression on his face gave Hannah pause, but she finally decided he was simply happy to have the problem of her identity resolved so easily.

  “You mentioned the Bank of England, Miss Cowles,” the vicar watched her steadily. “The manager is an associate of my brother—Georgina’s father. We will send word to him that you have arrived safely so that you may obtain an accounting of the funds your trustees transferred for your use.”

  A tightening in her belly revealed a tinge of disquiet. Her lawyer in Boston had suggested that she wait for confirmation of the successful transfer of the majority of her fortune before she left, but she had just laughed. She refused to wait another month or more just to receive yet another letter.

  She’d shaken off the twinge of uneasiness then, and she ruthlessly crushed the feeling again. She nodded. “That would be kind of you and Mr. Hodges, though we shall most likely reach London before any reply reaches us here.”

  “No doubt,” Carter Hodges agreed in a patronizing tone that suggested he believed she didn’t quite understand his caution, and that since she was only a female, he didn’t actually expect her to.

  “Who cares about some old papers? What’s inside?” Gina wailed, her hands resting on the edge of the trunk’s lid. “Do you have a great many dresses? Jewelry?”

  “True heroine that she is, she managed to save her jewelry in the midst of the storm,” Henry replied. His gray eyes twinkled with amusement. “And her dresses are no concern of yours, my little goose.”

  “You must have some tea after your long walk.” The vicar shook his head. A long, lugubrious sigh escaped him. “A serious risk to your health so soon after your illness, Miss Cowles.” He gave his niece a reproving glance. “It was not kind of you, Georgina, to force your friend to attend you, simply to see what ribbons Mrs. Shaw might have.”

  Georgina flushed and stared down at the floor, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Stepping closer to her and slipping an arm around her waist, Hannah said, “Oh, I insisted. After being indoors for so long, the fresh air was a blessing.”

  “It is kind of you to say so,” the vicar replied, his gaze still firmly fixed on his niece’s downcast face. “Nonetheless, you must join me for tea before my nephew returns you to Blackrock Manor. We have the use of a trap when I require it, and there is no reason why Henry cannot drive you to Blackrock Manor in it.” He eyed his nephew. “In fact, he may go to the inn now, while you have your tea.”

  Henry chuckled and gave Hannah a bow as he placed his hat on his head with a jaunty tap. “I shall return with your carriage—”

  “Trap,” the vicar corrected. “It will, however, accommodate the three of you, I assure you.”

  “Anon,” Henry concluded, ignoring his uncle. “I am away, then, on winged feet.”

  With stooped shoulders and a heavy sense of doing one’s duty, onerous though it may be, Hannah followed a very quiet Gina into the small sitting room on their left. The room was surprisingly austere—there were no comfortable padded chairs in sight, only five straight-backed wooden chairs. The chairs did have thin cushions on them, made out of some stiff dark material that, while practical, didn’t look at all appealing. A small writing desk and another wooden chair were positioned by the window, and a low square table sat in front of the fireplace, between a pair of the wooden chairs.

  The vicar pulled a third chair away from the wall and positioned it next to the chair on the left of the table. Then he gestured for Gina and Hannah to be seated.

  “I will notify Mrs. Anderson that we have guests.” He left them abruptly, just as they were sitting down.

  “My uncle has a great deal on his mind,” Gina said, fidgeting with the strings of her reticule. “The roof of the church is in a terrible state.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Hannah replied, wondering when they could decently get up and leave.

  It would probably be unforgivably rude to go outside to wait for Henry at the curb.

  “Mrs. Anderson makes very good scones, though. She puts currants in them,” Gina remarked, staring at her lap. “I hope you didn’t think I was terr
ible when I wanted to see your gowns.” She sniffed and gave Hannah a sideways glance. “I just can’t seem to help myself when I am overcome with a fit of curiosity.”

  Hannah laughed. “Don’t apologize—it didn’t bother me in the least, and I know precisely what you mean. I would have been wrestling open the trunk, myself, had I been in your position. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but at least she died with a smile on her face.”

  “Thank you—you are such a dear friend. I just knew you would be!” Gina reached out and gave Hannah’s wrist a squeeze.

  A man’s firm footstep interrupted them, and the vicar strode into the room. They half-rose from their seats and then sat down again as Carter flicked the tails of his black coat out of the way and seated himself in the chair opposite them. A long minute of silence reigned while he studied the two women. The clicking of the simple wooden clock on the mantle sounded so loudly that Hannah almost flinched.

  The patter of lighter footsteps finally broke the uncomfortable quiet. Bearing a large tray, a woman entered, the ends of her apron sash fluttering behind her. She moved with brisk competence and unloaded the contents of the tray onto the maple table before straightening and smoothing her white apron.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Hodges?” she asked in a way that suggested that his answer had better be no. A white cap was set neatly on her graying black hair, and everything about her seemed to be in shades of gray, black, or white. Her dress was black, relieved by the white of her collar, cuffs, apron, and cap. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight knot at the base of her neck, and the gray strands at her temples almost matched the hue of her eyes.

  She appeared to be a stern, dour woman of the same stamp as Mary, until Hannah caught her gaze. Blue and silver flashes in her eyes hinted at a pleasant disposition, and she was surprised when the housekeeper gave her a quick wink.

  “No, Mrs. Anderson,” the vicar replied dutifully.

  “The scones are fresh from the oven—they are best when warm,” she said before turning on her heel and striding out of the room.

  The vicar passed around the plate of scones, along with a pot of clotted cream, while Gina poured the tea into the plain white cups provided. To Hannah’s surprise, Carter liberally applied the cream to his own scone before taking a large bite. Somehow, she thought he was the type of self-sacrificing, austere man who would refuse to allow himself to indulge in such luxuries.

  “So, Miss Cowles, I was sorry to hear that your introduction to our shores was so tumultuous,” he remarked after swallowing. He picked up his cup and took a sip, his eyes fixed on her face above the rim.

  “Yes.” Hannah picked up her cup and took a sip. The tea was warm and soothing, precisely what she needed. “It was not an experience I wish to remember.”

  He shook his head. “Of course. But was there no one to offer any assistance? The folk of our little village may be somewhat rustic, but they are well-known for their generosity as well as the kindliness of their spirit. Was there no one on shore to help you?”

  “No.” Hannah picked up her scone and took a large bite to avoid a lengthier discussion.

  The questions reminded her of Blackwold and her unwilling admission. Why did everyone insist on knowing if she’d seen anyone? Did they imagine she would try to report the wreckers to the authorities?

  If so, didn’t that imply that they were in league with the wreckers?

  A frown pinched the skin between her brows. If that were the case, why didn’t they simply cut her throat and be done with it? The men she had seen on the beach didn’t strike her as the sort who would be overly concerned about murdering an innocent woman, regardless of what she had, or had not, seen.

  “Miss Cowles is going to go to London with me for my Season!” Gina blurted out, her teacup rattling in its dish as she placed it on the table in front of her. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  “Indeed,” her uncle replied. He studied Hannah. “You saw no lights? No one coming to the shore to assist the survivors?”

  “I saw nothing but wind and waves. The storm made it impossible to see anything else. And apparently, there were no other survivors.”

  “No. They brought the poor souls to my church. We interred them as best we could in the churchyard, though I’m afraid there is to be but one headstone for all of them.”

  A lump formed in Hannah’s throat, and a sense of deep loss filled her. She swallowed several times and took a sip of tea to wash down the crumbs, almost choking on the scone, delicious though it was with the rich, thick clotted cream melting into the soft, steamy interior.

  “It was such a tragedy,” she said at last. “I cannot think about it.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed, though his intent gaze belied his words. He clearly wanted very much to talk about the wreck of the Orion. “It is simply that one hears such tales after an event. And I am sure you do not appear to be the sort of young lady who would—well, enough said on the subject. My niece is clearly consumed by thoughts of her upcoming presentation and bow to Society. And I am sure you must be relieved to have your belongings restored to you, Miss Cowles.”

  “Yes, though I’m sorry you shall lose any profit you may have earned from the sale of them.” She leaned forward. “I would be honored to make a donation for the repair of the church roof.”

  The vicar laughed stiffly, his lips barely moving. “It is not necessary, Miss Cowles. We will find the funds somehow.”

  “No, I insist. You have kept my trunk safe and returned it to me, and I would like to do this to thank you.”

  “Really, I would not expect such a sacrifice.” Despite his words, his gray eyes gleamed. She could almost see him evaluating the possible size of her fortune.

  Well, she felt no desire to enlighten him. She smiled demurely. “Nonetheless, I will send you something. A small token. To thank you for your gracious welcome and the return of my trunk.” Not to mention all the rumors you’ve been happy to spread about me wrestling with some man at the edge of the cliff.

  The vicar wisely let the subject go, and they talked about Gina’s London Season until Henry returned, his face flushed from the cold air.

  “Are you ready to return to Blackrock?” he asked from the doorway. A draft of chilly air blew in around him, ruffling the hems of their skirts.

  Gina and Hannah leapt to their feet and gave Carter a hasty goodbye.

  As they climbed into the trap, the two girls sitting with their backs to Henry, Hannah reflected that perhaps it was not such a sad thing that Carter Hodges neglected his grandmother. At least it was unlikely that there would be more such uncomfortable and tedious teas in the future.

  Her recent illness also had one unexpected benefit; it was entirely likely that she could suffer from regrettable relapses of her illness, inexplicably occurring on Sundays.

  Chapter Eleven

  Out riding, Blackwold brought his horse to a halt and watched the trap heading toward Blackrock. Even at this distance, he could make out the slender figure of Hannah, topped by a ridiculous old black bonnet of his grandmother’s. He grinned and his hands tightened on the reins as a desire to join the group filled him.

  His horse, sensing the quickening of his interest, moved in the direction of the road, and he had to bring the mare, Hera, to a stop. Hera snorted and danced sideways, wanting to continue forward to join the old chestnut horse pulling the trap.

  “You’re as bad as I am—wanting all the wrong things, eh girl?” He patted her neck and turned her around to gallop over the pasture sloping away from the cliffs behind them and the road bordering the other side.

  The devil of it was, that despite everything else on his mind, his thoughts continued to stray to Hannah’s smiling face.

  He rode for another hour, tiring Hera, before easing her down the trail to the beach. Searching along the beach for more debris from the Orion and any clues left behind by the wreckers, he reviewed what little Hannah had told him. A broken mast and huge pieces of the hull had washed u
p, along with bits of rope, a few bottles, and even a waterlogged bible that was too far gone to salvage. He studied the wreckage before climbing back up on Hera and guiding her up one of the steep paths leading to the cliffs from the small, secluded beach.

  His early morning interview with Hannah had confirmed his concern that she’d been a witness to the bloody activities that night. His brow wrinkled in deep thought as he rode back to the house. The distinct impression that she hadn’t told him everything about the sinking of the Orion plagued him.

  She didn’t trust him, that much was obvious. And really, why should she? She didn’t know any of them very well, and the Hodges were not known for being sensible or comfortably commonplace.

  By the time he’d returned to the house and ensured that Hera was properly taken care of, the female members of the small party he’d seen on the road had disappeared indoors. Henry, however, had set out again almost immediately to drive the trap back to the inn.

  Aware that the odor of horses and barnyards lingered around him, Blackwold ambled upstairs to wash and don a less fragrant set of clothes. His valet informed him that the dowager and the young ladies were in the Rose Drawing Room on the first floor, and Blackwold didn’t bother to resist his desire to join them.

  “Where have you been?” his grandmother greeted him in a querulous, shaky voice.

  He glanced at her, his brows raised in mild surprise before his incipient grin turned into a frown. Her brown eyes appeared sunken into deep hollows, and her normally ruddy complexion had turned gray, emphasizing the deep wrinkles around her mouth and eyes.

  If her voice hadn’t alerted him, her appearance certainly did. She was not at all well, and, as usual when she didn’t feel up to snuff, she showed signs of extreme irritability.

  “I was out riding.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered into the room. “I see the ladies have returned from Pencroft. How many ribbons did you buy from Mrs. Shaw this time, Georgie?”

  Georgina rolled her eyes and let out a long sigh. “It’s Gina, as you well know, Blackwold. How would you like it if I persisted in calling you something dreadful?”