by Joan Smith
“I suggested that greeting as most people would say it was chilly,” she explained. “It would have meant nothing if I had said it was chilly. And we are meeting here as it is private.”
“It’s on the main road! I passed half a dozen carriages. There are probably squatters in the house this minute. These abandoned houses are a magnet for tramps and smugglers.”
“No one would dare squat here. It is Lord Ashworth’s property. He has them shot off. He uses this as a sort of bolt hole, in case of trouble. He would like me to acquaint you with its features,” she said, drawing a key from her pocket.
“I would like you to tell me why I am here!”
Her fingers trembled slightly as she unlocked the door and stepped into a derelict kitchen, dimly lit by one window. “The house hasn’t been lived in for several years,” she said, “but it has been outfitted with the essentials. Fresh water is kept in that copper tank in the corner. The stove works.” She nodded to a cast iron stove in the corner, on which rested a kettle and a pot. A tinder box and a pile of wood sat beside it on the floor.
“There are blankets, food, brandy and wine, medical supplies.” Her complacent expression as she looked around suggested to Ravencroft that this bolt hole was her own idea. “I fancy one could survive a week, if necessary.”
“It hardly seems it would be necessary to remain a week, as Bratty Hall is so close.”
She handed him a key. “All the same, the Cougar would like you to have this.” She added ominously, “Just in case.”
He pocketed the key with no expression of thanks. “I must see the Cougar,” he said again. “Just a word, I shan’t disturb him.” His sharp eyes observed the nervous quickening of her breath. Why did his insistence bother her inordinately?
“Papa is not well enough,” she said firmly. “His health is failing. He had a heart attack the day he wrote that note to Sir George.”
Papa! So she was Lord Ashworth’s daughter! He thought a noble daughter would have turned out in better style. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said perfunctorily. “He asked you to post the note?”
Her chin lifted, indicating an argumentative mood. “After I read it, I decided it must be posted,” she replied.
“He shouldn’t have permitted you to read it. These matters are top secret!”
“Are you suggesting I should have ignored such an important matter?” The effect of looking down her nose was defeated as she had to look up to him. “I read all his mail,” she continued. “As he is unable to write, I act as his secretary. He depends on me to execute his orders. And speaking of following orders – you have removed to the Greenman?”
“I have not.”
Amy drew in a long breath to steady her temper. “Please do so, at once. Why didn’t you?”
Ravencroft crossed his arms and stared down at her from the lofty height of six feet plus two inches. “You appear to misunderstand the matter, ma’am,” he said in a drawling voice. “I am in charge of this affair. As a courtesy, I agreed to consult with Ashworth. As he is hors de combat, however, I shall work alone. Thank you for meeting me and informing me about the Greenman. I shall remove there as soon as a room is available. There was none when I applied an hour ago. It would have helped if you had hired a room for me in advance of my arrival, as that is where Bransom was staying.”
Amy regretted that she had not thought of this, but she was not about to admit it. Early as it was in their acquaintance, she sensed that capitulation would only goad this toplofty gentleman on to taking over completely. It was regrettable that they had crossed swords so early in their acquaintance, but as they had, she must stand her ground.
“Much good it would have done hiring a room in Mr. Vincent’s name, when you are calling yourself Mr. Stanford.”
His eyes narrowed. “How did you know that?”
That shot had hit home. No need to tell him everyone at the market knew the name he was using at the inn. What was his real name, she wondered. “The Cougar has his ways,” she replied.
He set his curled beaver on his head and turned toward the door. “I’ll let you know when I find Bransom,” he said over his shoulder.
Smoldering resentment flared to anger. “You won’t find him without my help,” she called after him.
He didn’t stop walking, or look back. “I’ll find him.”
In her frustration, she stamped her foot, and immediately regretted that she had revealed her annoyance. “But I can help!” She immediately regretted that too. It sounded like begging.
Ravencroft didn’t see how a lady living out of town with an old invalid could be anything but a nuisance. With his hand on the door knob, he stopped and turned around. He saw the irritation on her face, and credited it to being thwarted. “If you know something about this, it is your duty to tell me.”
“I don’t know for certain, but I have my suspicions.” He waited, staring at her with those dark, impatient eyes that unnerved her. “Bransom was working with the Gentlemen,” she said. “That is what we call the smugglers here on the coast.”
“Naturally that was to be my first line of inquiry. Was there anything else? No, I thought not, but thank you, Lady – What is your name?”
“Miss Bratty. Lord Ashworth is my stepfather. I am not called Lady Amelia.”
He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Bratty. And now I must be about my business.”
When he opened the door, needles of rain were blown in on the wind. The downfall was light, but wind buffeted the treetops, suggesting a storm was imminent. A rumble of thunder grumbled nearby.
“You should wait here until the storm is over,” she said. “That nag you hired at the Rose and Thistle shies at lightening. Caesar has thrown many an unsuspecting rider.”
His curt bow was more an insult than a compliment. “Thank you for the warning, but he’ll not throw me. Good day.”
He darted down the two steps, hopped astride the mount, tipped his fingers to his curled beaver and galloped off into the rain. Amy watched him leave with a sinking heart. It had gone even worse than she feared, and since first meeting the Wolf, she had not imagined it would go well. He had no intention of working with her. Her instinct was to let him flounder and come to grief on his own, but this matter was too important for taking a petty revenge on a toplofty London buck.
Who could he be? It seemed to put her at a disadvantage, not knowing his real name when he knew hers. His arrogance suggested he was someone important. Very likely a lord. Lord or not, he would return to the inn covered in mud, as he had not heeded her warning about Caesar. A mischievous smile quirked her lips. She felt an unworthy wish that she could see him in his humiliation.
* * * *
Riding an unfamiliar mount in the dark along an unknown road was uncomfortable at any time. The sullen ocean growled in the distance. On either side, tall trees groaned as the wind swept them. With the rain pelting in his face, Ravencroft was extremely irritated. He was unhappy that Sir George had saddled him with an untrained female who dabbled in intrigue, no doubt to lighten the tedium of living in this provincial backwater. That the trip had been in vain was an added irritant.
Despite Miss Bratty’s good intentions, she could prove a nuisance, and she had nothing to tell him. He already knew Bransom had been working with the smugglers. Who else was in close touch with France? He would not encourage her. He smiled at her childish notion of setting up a bolt hole so close to Bratty Hall. If he required some place to hide, why not hide in comfort at the Hall? A flash of jagged lightening rent the sky, revealing the charcoal branches of nude trees and momentarily turning the ocean to glistening silver.
Caesar reared up on his hind legs and bolted. Ravencroft held on for dear life as the horse careened down the road. It wasn’t the rearing that unseated him, however. That came when Caesar dashed under an overhanging branch that caught him a stout blow on the forehead, sending his curled beaver into the mud, and himself beside it.
Caesar didn’t stop, but galloped home to t
he stable of the Rose and Thistle. Ravencroft walked the mile with a howling headache, cursing the horse, the lightening, himself, and Miss Bratty for having invented this perfectly useless journey. What had he learned? Nothing, except that he must avoid Miss Bratty.
Chapter Three
At Bratty Hall, Amy was distracted from nursing her grudge by tending to her stepfather. His physical health was indeed precarious, but this was not the only impediment to his helping the Wolf. His mind had been going for some years now. One year ago, he had reverted completely to childhood.
It was Amy who had made the initial contact with Sir George and informed him of questionable doings on the coast. The Wolf’s behaviour confirmed how little attention Sir George would have paid to a young lady. She was glad she had signed her missives with her stepfather’s old seal. Bransom, initially known as the Bat, had accepted her help without question. But the Wolf was a different matter.
She took the dinner tray up to her father’s bedchamber and stopped at the door, in case he was in one of his moods. It was not unusual to be met by a flying pillow or slipper. Lord Ashworth was in his self-pitying mood that evening. A wrinkled wraith of a man looked up from his pillows with age-dimmed eyes. Long locks of white hair hung over his ears. “Read me a story, Nanny,” he whined.
She exchanged a meaningful look with Tombey, his aging valet and nurse, who had served him faithfully for half a century. “Of course you shall have a story,” she said. “But first you must eat your dinner. Cook has made you a nice turbot in white sauce.”
He pouted. “Don’t want turbot. Want plum cake.”
Plum cake played havoc with Lord Ashworth’s digestion. “No, no. You want a nice blancmange – after you eat your fish,” she said, smiling to entice him.
Tombey took the tray. “Allow me, Miss Bratty. We are in a bit of a pucker today. You might get the nice blancmange thrown in your face.”
“Try to get him to take a little of the turbot, Tombey,” she said. “He cannot live on blancmange.”
“He had some coddled bread and milk this afternoon. Perhaps I can tease a few bites of this into him. I had best get a bib on him first.”
Amy watched in consternation as Tombey fastened a towel around his neck. As she returned belowstairs, she wondered what the Wolf would think if he could see Lord Ashworth at this moment. She must see that the Wolf and the Cougar never met.
Her own dinner was waiting for her. Since her stepfather no longer came to the table, Amy usually ate in the morning parlor, unless there was company. This small room with its cozy fireplace and oaken paneling just suited her. Felix Bratty, the son of Ashworth’s younger brother, now deceased, was spending more time at Bratty Hall since Ashworth’s decline, and he insisted on the proper dining room. Amy preferred dining alone. As far as conversation and common sense went, there was little enough to choose between the nephew and his senile uncle.
It had been Ashworth’s wish, when he was of sound mind, that Felix and Amy should marry. He was not such a tyrant as to force Felix on her, however. He had settled on her a dowry of twenty thousand pounds, fifteen of which had belonged to her mama. She never could decide whether it was the fortune or herself that was the lure to Felix, but he left no doubt that he wanted her to be his wife.
The turbot was delicious, done in Cook’s special cream sauce. The roast beef that followed it was tender and juicy. Amy cleared her plate, but she hardly tasted her dinner. She was busy trying to discover some way in which she could inveigle the Wolf to include her in his plans without begging.
She was just leaving the table when Mary, Cook’s flustered young helper, came rushing up to her, blotting at her eyes with the tail of her apron. “Oh Miss Bratty, the rain’s stopped and they’re coming for sure, and Da’s taken another of his turns. I haven’t the nerve to ask you–”
“It’s quite all right, Mary. I’ll see to it. The usual time and place?”
“Yes, Miss. All just the same as usual. I’ll not ask you again, Miss. It’s just that we need the money to home, and if Da loses the job–”
“Yes, yes. I understand. Leave it to me. Now go and tend to the washing up or Cook will be in a pelter.”
Amy was always delighted to fill in for Jed Hoskins, who was spotsman for the Gentlemen. His job was to scout about to see the Preventiveman was not around when the Gentlemen were bringing in a load, and give the French captain the signal that the coast was clear. In fact, she made it a point to be lurking nearby even when Jed held the lantern that flashed the signal.
She had first taken on this unlikely role a year ago when she found Mary crying in her room. Mary had told the sad tale that her papa’s gout was acting up, and he couldn’t do his job that night. Obie Hanks, from the blacksmith shop, had been after the job for a year now, and if her papa couldn’t do it, the family would be destitute. No one must know he was unwell. The pay was good, half a crown a day while waiting, and a guinea a night when actively engaged.
Amy had arranged for George, the brightest and strongest of the footmen, to masquerade as Jed, but he had come down with the flu on the crucial night and was incapable of either speech or standing when the time came. With only minutes to make a decision, Amy had said, “Don’t cry, Mary, I’ll do it myself. But you mustn’t tell a soul!”
“Oh Miss, you can’t! It’s too dangerous!”
“What is the danger? They’ll be landing not a half mile from Bratty Hall. All I have to do is make sure the Revenueman is not about, give three flashes from the dark lantern, and leave.”
“Oh no, Miss. You can’t leave. You have to stay around and keep watching till the brandy’s landed, in case Rankin is lurking behind a bush.”
“But I don’t have to talk to anyone?”
“No, miss. Our own lads would never lay a hand on you, and the Frenchies only come ashore for a few minutes.”
“The Frenchies actually come ashore? Is that how it’s done? I thought our Gentlemen went to France, or met the Frenchies in the Channel.”
“It’s done all different ways along the coast, Miss, but our lads just buy what the Frenchies bring in.”
“Why do the Frenchies come ashore at all?”
“To get paid, Miss. Cocker, he’s the Gentleman in charge, he picks a barrel at random and breaches it to make sure the stuff is good before he pays them. He started that after he got a load that was diluted with caramel water. But Da has nothing to do with that. He just watches to see Rankin ain’t on hand. And if he is, he don’t flash the lantern. That’s the signal not to land. I’d do it myself, only Da says I haven’t the wits.”
Mary was given to fits of hysterics. A mouse was enough to set her off. Amy borrowed an old hacking jacket and hat of her father’s, a pair of boots from a footman, and went to hold the lantern for the Gentlemen.
She had enjoyed the adventure. There was really very little likelihood that Rankin, the Revenueman, would be about. Other Gentlemen had the job of making sure he was not, and they were very good at their job.
Mary’s papa had a bad spell over the summer, and Amy had filled in for him a few times. It was on the second night that she overheard the two Frenchies talking between themselves in French. They appeared to be complaining of the amount of money they were paid, but their complaint wasn’t with the Gentlemen. They had said they were fools to be carrying brandy when their lugger could as easily hold paper.
This made no sense to Amy, until rumors of forged banknotes began to surface in Easton. She got hold of one of the notes and enclosed it in a letter to Sir George, explaining her suspicions. To lend credence to her report, she had used the Cougar’s seal. On another night, she had overheard the Frenchies name “Alphonse” as the Frenchman who was carrying “paper” into England at great profit. This, too, she had reported to Sir George, who had immediately dispatched Mr. Bransom to Easton to discover who was receiving the “paper” on the English side. Cocker, a patriotic Englishman even if he was a smuggler, had agreed to let Bransom pose as his cousin and
join his gang when the situation was explained to him under oath of silence.
At eleven o’clock, Amy donned her disguise, took up the dark lantern, and went out into the night to watch for any sign of the Revenueman. The rain had stopped and the wind subsided, but the grass was wet and the air chilly. She knew that Larry West, a local yeoman farmer who raised donkeys, would be waiting nearby with his eight donkeys to haul the brandy to various hiding spots. Ditches, pig styes, haystacks and any abandoned buildings were used for temporary concealment, when she was sure the coast was clear, she took up her position to watch for the arrival of the lugger from France.
She always waited at the same spot, atop an outcropping of rock with one straggling tree to lend concealment. She lay flat on her stomach, looking down on a small bay with a shingled beach where the barrels would be hauled in. The ocean glittered with a dull light under the moonless sky. Gentle waves whispered on the shingle, leaving a rill of white lace as they receded.
Her heart pounded, not with fear, but with the hope that tonight she would learn who was receiving the “paper” cargo. That was what Sir Hugh wanted to know. That was why he had sent his “best man”, the Wolf, down to Easton. And Amy wanted very badly to teach the Wolf a lesson.
Chapter Four
Amy watched as the barrels were dropped with a splash into the water and the Gentlemen waded out with their grappling hooks to retrieve them. As the last barrel was hauled ashore, two men from the French lugger lowered themselves into a small rowing boat and rowed ashore. Cocker chose a barrel and got out his hammer and chisel to breach it.
While this was going forth, the Frenchmen talked to each other in their native tongue. Knowing the Gentlemen couldn’t understand them, they were careless of what they said. Amy lay down on the rock with her head directly above them and listened, hoping to hear the name Alphonse. The taller was boasting to the shorter about some woman he was going to visit as soon as they reached home. The other man told him that Jeanne was only after his gold.
