Morland watched Dane's fingers tighten on the fine crystal goblet. So the Old Man was right about Fairleigh too. By God, was there anything the bloody old martinet did not know?
"All of this is lamentable, of course, but I fail to see how it involves me," Ravenhurst growled.
Morland took his time answering. His next words would have to be chosen with care, he knew. "Something big is building just now, Ravenhurst. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to tell you what, but believe me when I say it may well turn out to be the key to Wellington's success on the Peninsula." His voice dropped then, to emphasize what he said next. "This traitor must be found before word of the new operation gets out. Found and disposed of, by any means necessary. Since you're familiar with the area, the Old Man deemed you the logical candidate for the job."
"Logic be damned!" Dane snarled, striding to the mantel and slamming down his glass. "By God, he doesn't ask much, does he? I've been five years from home, man, and six more in active service before that! I've lost my father, my brother, and my mother. I come back to find my ..." His voice hardened. "My fiancee dead." His back rigid, he stared down at the puddles of brandy splashed like blood across the mantel. When he looked up his face was shuttered, set in harsh, forbidding lines.
Morland sat unmoving, looking deep into his friend's soul, where he saw reflected the cruel fragments of his own nightmares.
"I've lost the taste for fighting," Ravenhurst said finally. His fingers tightened, gripping the etched crystal goblet. "No, by God, I'm finished playing at games of war. The sea makes a damned cold and unforgiving mistress, Tony. So 'tis real women and fine wine for me, and nothing more serious to consider than the next night's pleasure!"
Morland steepled his fingers as he studied his friend's grim face. The keen blue eyes narrowed, sweeping over Dane's scarred wrists and the stark streaks of white hair blazing at his temples.
Morland knew, of course, that Ravenhurst had refused to discuss his role in the rout of Villeneuve's flagship at Trafalgar. He knew, too, that the officer had vehemently refused a commendation for his bravery in that encounter.
What troubled Morland more was that his friend refused to speak of what had come later — those hellish months last year after Corunna, months spent trekking home through enemy territory after he'd been blown overboard by an exploding shell. Oh, he'd turned in a report to the Admiralty upon his return, but it was the merest skeleton of the truth — all terrain and troop movements.
It was the rest that worried Morland, the flesh and tears of those long months. Those were the things not so easily forgotten.
They all carried the scars of this bloody war, Morland thought angrily.
And it was far from over.
Abruptly Ravenhurst spun around. "Damn it, Tony, I'll have nothing to do with it! Because you're my friend I've let you speak, but, by God, don't ever bring the subject up again!" He muttered a graphic curse, balling his fists and thrusting them deep within the pockets of his silk dressing gown.
Morland sighed. "I quite understand, my friend. Better than you realize, perhaps." Slowly the earl uncoiled his long frame and stood up, trying to conceal his regret. This assignment of the Old Man's might have been the perfect prescription for Dane. He'd been raking about London for almost six months now, ever since his return to town, and all he had to show for his dissipation was a new set of lines about his mouth and forehead.
But one could only ask, after all. In the end, the decision had to be Ravenhurst's.
Morland averted his face, making a great business of locating his silver-topped cane, which had dropped to the floor. When he finally straightened, his face was carefully expressionless. "So. That's that. I had to make one last attempt — for the Old Man's sake, if not for mine." And for your sake, Tony thought. He forced his features into a faint smile. "Go ahead and enjoy yourself, my friend. You've earned it, God knows. And give my regards to that daunting old dragon of an aunt when next you see her. I still haven't forgotten the way she trounced me at faro." He raised a dismissing hand as Dane moved to follow him to the door. "No need to see me out. You've got other matters to attend to right now, unless I'm sadly mistaken."
Morland gathered his gloves and shrugged on his greatcoat. Without another word he turned and made his way awkwardly from the room.
For a long time Dane stood listening to the echo of his friend's halting footsteps. The limp was slight but unmistakable as Morland moved down the quiet street.
With a bitter curse, the viscount tossed down the last of his brandy, then lowered his head to his hands. Bracing his forehead, he scowled down at the cold, empty grate.
So the Fox was using that great old wreck at Fairleigh for a base, was he? Dane's midnight eyes narrowed. Hard to believe. The man's reckless bravery and generosity to the local folk had reached legendary proportions, even here in London. Aye, the Fox would be a hard man to run to ground.
But now he'd tired of landing tea and brandy. Now he itched to play a deeper game — running secrets and gold to aid Napoleon's armies.
The bloody scum! Icy fury licked at Dane's blood. Every fact whispered, every guinea traded meant more English blood spilled. Didn't the scoundrel realize that? Or didn't he care?
And what of her? Ravenhurst wondered. If the Fox was working from Fairleigh, how could she not be involved?
"Tess." The word trembled in the chill air, no more than a reluctant whisper.
He'd said the name at last. The act purged him somehow, allowing him a brutal detachment — enabling him to remember all the cold, sordid details of their final encounter.
Ravenhurst's face darkened, his eyes icy lapis shards. Was she the Fox's woman now? Did they laugh together in bed about their cleverness?
And how many other men had there been to share her bed and body?
Soleil. Like a silent scream, her name echoed through his angry thoughts. With a savage curse, Ravenhurst swung his fist down against the mantel.
Layered silk whispered suddenly from the doorway. The rich fragrance of roses drifted into the room.
"Here you are, my lord," the voluptuous Danielle purred, her voice faintly chiding. "Come back to bed before you catch a chill." Her green eyes glittered; her full lips arched in a knowing smile. "There, mon coeur, in that big soft bed, I shall find a most unusual way to warm you."
Dane smiled slightly as he saw the lush curves clearly outlined through her diaphanous gown. "A tempting thought, ma cherie. I grow warmer already."
"Ah, but of a certainty I mean to make you a great deal more warm before we're finished."
But when the viscount found himself once more beside Danielle in the tumbled sheets, his hands cupping her full breasts, his lips drinking her wild moans, his heart was filled with nothing but a terrible, numbing cold.
Dead, he was. Distant and apart from his pleasure.
Only his body functioned. Just as always, he might have been watching two strangers pursue their reckless, drugging lust. Superimposed on his mistress's face he saw another pair of eyes — gray-green and stormy. Imperious. Adoring.
Danielle's lush body convulsed around him. Even then he felt a cold detachment. Moments later he threw back his head, groaning his release against his mistress's slack mouth.
Outside in the street a carriage clattered by. The candles slowly guttered out.
Then, with a muffled oath, Ravenhurst rolled them over as one. To Danielle's surprise and very great delight her lover began to move inside her again. Par Dieu, he had the shaft of a stallion, this one!
If there was an air of recklessness in the viscount's passionate assault, his mistress was far too wise a woman to comment upon it. Her lips curved in a smug smile and she ran a knowing hand down his hard torso, tracing the pulsing length of his manhood.
Yes, her English viscount was a man in a thousand. Danielle of all people knew exactly how rare were his talents as a lover. But then she was a woman in a thousand too. She would catch him somehow, Danielle vowed: it was only a questi
on of time.
When his hoarse groan filled the quiet room some minutes later, Ravenhurst was pondering a very different question.
How he would enjoy making the beautiful harlot with gray-green eyes pay for what she'd done to him five years before.
* * *
PART ONE
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark —
Brandy for the Parson,
Baccy for the Clerk ...
— Rudyard Kipling
* * *
Chapter One
Camber Sands
Southeast Coast of England
May 1810
The wind was fine, high, and steady. Out to sea a line of breakers roiled their white heads across the Channel between England and France. Thin rushing lines of cloud flashed before the slivered moon, transforming the marsh into a world of black and silver.
A smuggler's moon, so they called it here on the Romney Marsh, where the southern shore of England teased the coast of France. Enough light to make it easy to slip over the sand with uncustomed tea and brandy, but too little to give His Majesty's riding officers a clear shot at one's back.
Close to the beach, a slim figure crouched in the lee of a sand dune, invisible amid the rustling reeds and marsh grass. The shadowy form did not move, carefully hidden in the other black blotches on the marsh.
Near the horizon a lugger's sails billowed in the fine wind, flashing white against the dark water. Its cargo of brandy landed, the fleet craft ran before the wind out toward open sea, its hold now several hundred pounds lighter.
Gradually the white sails grew smaller. Still the slim shadow waited, motionless, caught by the beauty and peace of the marsh.
Overhead came the quiet hiss of wind-driven sand. Somewhere far in the distance a lonely curlew cried.
A beautiful world, but a very deadly one.
Without warning an excise cutter slipped from one of the myriad coves notching the coast between Hastings and Rye, meaning to give chase. But the smuggler's craft was swifter and better manned, disappearing over the horizon while the excise vessel was still gathering speed.
Well pleased, the figure watching in the dunes at last began to move. As the Crown vessel tacked and began to make its way back to Rye, the slim shadow straightened and came upright, making a graceful, mocking curtsy in the direction of the returning Revenue ship.
Moonlight played over a black tricorn hat set rakishly askew. Below the hat, long quivering whiskers radiated from a dark pelt crowned by a foxy nose.
And then the tricorn went flying. Rich auburn curls spilled down over slim shoulders. The dark animal vanished, and as the fox mask fell, full lips the color of spring strawberries curved into a delighted smile.
When the moon darted from behind the clouds, its silver glow illuminated a piquant face with upturned gray-green eyes. An unforgettable face, especially now, when it was lit with triumph.
And it was most certainly a female face; the delicate brow and chiseled nose might have been the work of a Renaissance master.
The woman's slim frame shook with silent laughter as she bent down and tossed an oilskin bag of tea over her shoulder. Dressed in tight black breeches, a baggy white shirt, and high boots, she might have been a young village lad making his way home through the marsh — except for her swaying gait and the faint curve of breast and thigh revealed by her unorthodox costume.
But no one was watching this night as Tess Leighton bent her head and caught up the heavy curls that flowed like fine burgundy in the moonlight. With a defiant smile she stuffed her hair back under the tricorn and tossed her black cloak about her shoulders.
No more tears for Tess Leighton! No more poverty, she swore, her young face hard with determination. No more insults and pitying glances.
Her father was dead and the bleak past behind her. She'd made a new life for herself — a good life, no matter what others might say. Yes, she was strong and whole again. Under her deft management the fourteenth-century inn that had been in the Leighton family for generations was flourishing. Soon she would have enough money to be free of the monstrous debts her father had left.
And after that?
Theresa Ariadne Leighton froze, listening to the high, lonely notes of a kestrel. Kee-lee, kee-lee, it sang, winging south over the blackness of the marsh.
Yes, what then?
Her eyes darkened, emerald shifting to smoky gray.
A gust of wind caught her cloak and sent it flapping about her slim legs.
Shivering slightly, she caught the heavy wool and dragged it closer about her body.
She shrugged defiantly, a wild gleam flashing in the bottomless depths of her eyes.
Why, then she'd settle down and become a fine lady, so she would! 'Twould suit her nicely to take tea before a crackling fire when her days with the free traders were done. But not for a while yet.
Her full lips quirked as she thought of the customs inspector's fury when he discovered that more contraband cargo had been slipped ashore, right beneath his eyes. She almost wished she might be there to hear Amos Hawkins's curses.
Yes, there would be no more tears for Tess. This new life was exactly what she needed.
After a final look out to sea, the woman who dared to masquerade as the Romney Fox darted to the brow of the dune, her feet whispering across the sand. A moment later her slim form vanished into the black and silver silence of the marsh.
* * * * *
Viscount Ravenhurst reined in his horse, frowning. For long moments he stared out over the leaden marsh, dismal in the strange half-light. A light drizzle began to fall and he jerked his collar up about his neck. In the distance he could just make out the rooftops and church spires of Rye, an inland isle surrounded by a dark, waving sea of marsh grass.
He was cold and hungry. He was also devilishly out of shape, Ravenhurst realized. He had muscles aching where he hadn't even known muscles existed. Right now all he wanted was a hot bath and a long drink — not necessarily in that order.
The rain increased, seeping unpleasantly beneath his collar and trickling down between his shoulder blades. Ravenhurst hunched his broad shoulders beneath his greatcoat and scowled, wondering why he had ever agreed to accept this wretched assignment.
Something drew his eyes to the south, where a tangled network of dikes and canals glimmered in the faint light of a half moon.
Soon even that light would be gone, he thought, studying the heavy storm clouds rolling in off the Channel.
Suddenly he stiffened. There it was again, the faintest tingling along his neck. Uneasiness — and something more.
Abruptly he straightened in the saddle, his sore muscles and aching neck forgotten as he spurred Pharaoh forward across the deserted flood plain.
* * * * *
"Wait, Cap'n! Over there near the reeds! I swear I saw something move!"
It was one of Amos Hawkins's men, Tess realized as she hunched down beside a low wall of marsh grass at the edge of one of the many canals crisscrossing the marsh.
In the distance she heard Hawkins's angry curses as his men pounded inland, searching for their quarry. Suddenly one of the Revenue officers let out a bellow. "There! In the reeds. It moved again!"
Tess shivered, swallowing a moan of fear. They'd found her!
Desperately she blinked back tears, trying to concentrate. Her ribs were aching where she had fallen during her passage through the marsh, and her feet were leaden. Her heart hammering, she crouched lower, praying that the thick foliage would conceal her.
From the far side of the river Hawkins began bellowing orders.
Tess's haunted eyes rose to the high ground in the distance, where the ragged turrets of the old priory stood silhouetted against a pale, rising moon.
Fairleigh, she thought, shivering. What madness have you driven me to this time?
But there was no time for regrets, no time for fear.
Not with Hawkins only minutes behind her.
S
o she gritted her teeth and began to move, ignoring the pain at her side and the cold creeping over her feet. Soon her slender shadow was caught up in the vast sea of shadows scudding beneath the leaden sky.
* * * * *
Ravenhurst's mood grew steadily blacker as he crossed Gibbett's Marsh, his greatcoat sodden, his boots squishing against the stirrups.
Abruptly his eyes narrowed. Unless he was mistaken, that solid wall of black before him was the line of warehouses along the quay.
Nearly there, thank God! Moments later the steep length of Mermaid Street was before him. Pharaoh's hooves echoed sharply as they struck cobblestone.
The city seemed deserted. Only one faint light glimmered at the top of the hill.
Frowning, Dane reined in his horse. Once again he felt that strange, jarring twinge at his spine.
Three figures slipped from the shadows. "Don't move, traveler," the man in front ordered harshly. "Keep yer hands clear o' yer coat an' state yer business in Rye." As he spoke, the man slid the muzzle of a musket from beneath his cloak, revealing a crimson uniform.
So the dragoons were out this night, were they? Ravenhurst gathered his reins loosely in one hand.
Just in case.
"My business is with the magistrate, but first I'm bound for the Angel, where I mean to stay the night."
"What sort o' business?" the dragoon demanded, moving to block Dane's path.
The fellow's surly tone set Dane's teeth on edge. He had never liked bullies — whether they were French or English. Nor did he care to stare down the muzzle of a gun.
"My business is of an official nature," he growled. "The maintenance of the Royal Military Canal, to be exact." Damn! He hadn't meant to make his presence in Rye known just yet. But these men gave him no choice.
The Black Rose Page 2
