"I don't need a bloody nursemaid, Peale!" Ravenhurst snapped. "We've been through a great deal together, but even Trafalgar does not give you that right!"
The grizzled manservant sighed quietly. There was nothing more he could do this night. At least when the viscount drank, he could sleep.
Most nights he simply paced the floor, back and forth, circling like an angry, restless animal.
For long minutes Ravenhurst brooded over the fire, his lapis eyes smoky. "I'm sorry, Peale," he said presently. "You didn't deserve that. I of all people should know that."
With unsteady movements Dane stood up and walked to the window. Pushing aside the crisp white curtains, he stared out at the quiet street. To the south, the mouth of the Rother stretched ghostly in the moonlight. He could just make out the glimmer of a schooner far out at sea, long past the breakers of Winchelsea harbor.
More smugglers, no doubt, God rot their souls! The curse of this whole bloody coast!
What was he doing here anyway? Dane asked himself. He ought to be out at sea pacing the quarterdeck, with the rough timbers creaking at his feet and the wind whistling through the overhead rigging.
Why in God's name was he cooped up here on land, when there was a war raging just over the horizon?
Ravenhurst's fingers tightened on the frilled white curtains at the casement. The white hair sweeping from his brow glowed starkly, silver against ebony.
No, it was time to face the real question that was bothering him. Why had fate seen fit to spare him when so many others, far better men than he, had fallen?
But maybe it did not matter, he told himself grimly. That life was gone forever. Nelson was dead. His family, too, was gone, swept away by sickness and a freak sailing accident. He could go no more to sea, not when he had a duty to his name. One day that duty would require him to marry and provide an heir to carry on the Ravenhurst line.
He scowled at the idea of a cold-blooded alliance for the sake of progeny. But he supposed he must learn to accept that, too, just as he had learned to accept so many things since his return.
Out at sea the sails of the distant schooner twinkled for a moment, then disappeared as the ship ran south before the wind. To Dieppe, no doubt, Dane thought, his fingers unconsciously twisting the cloth at the window.
Did they even now carry gold guineas to feed and arm Napoleon's war-weary troops?
Dane's features hardened as he recalled his last meeting at the Admiralty only days before.
"Had a hell of a time tracking you down, Ravenhurst," the stern, white-haired admiral had said stiffly, with the merest touch of grudging respect. "The wine and the wenching are all very well. You've earned that, of course. But don't you think it's time to get back to the business of living again? Your wounds must be long healed, after all."
Only the wounds that showed, Dane thought bitterly, staring out into the night. His left hand moved restlessly, fingering the ugly scars that ran from wrist to elbow.
Long, searing lines that gleamed silver and blood-red in the dancing firelight.
Maybe the Old Man had been right. Maybe work was what he needed after all. Something to take his mind off the specters of Trafalgar and Corunna. Lord knows, he'd tried everything else in the last months. The wine hadn't worked, nor had the empty gaiety of London.
The women had helped — but only for a while. Soon their attractions, even those of the lush Danielle, had begun to pale.
And then the Admiralty had found him.
Dane's eyes darkened as he recalled the Old Man's blunt words.
"This time it's an order," the stern-faced man had said flatly. "I know you've been released from duty since that wretched business about your family. Hell of a thing to come home to." He held up a hand as Dane made to interrupt. "No, let me have my say. I'll not send you back to sea, so don't ask. This is something a damn sight more important, though I can see from your scowl that you'll disagree about that too! This time it's a spy I'm after. The fellow's base appears to be Fairleigh, that old wreck west of Rye. You know it well, so don't tell me you don't," he'd continued inexorably. "Been in the Leighton family for generations. A vast ruin now, unfortunately. From what I hear the last Leighton was an out and out bounder — gambled away his last shilling, then took his life. Nasty business, I can tell you. His creditors descended, and by the time they'd picked over the carcass there was very little left."
The admiral had stopped then, glancing down at a handful of papers lined up neatly in the middle of his desk. "One daughter — Theresa Ariadne Leighton. Only other survivor is her brother, Ashley. The boy's up at Oxford and already making a name for himself among the wilder set." The admiral sniffed in disapproval. "The boy's brash enough to take up smuggling, I've no doubt. But it would be a damned difficult thing to arrange at such a distance. And he is rather young for such leadership, of course. But one can never say ..."
Frowning, the silver-haired officer had returned to the subject at hand. "At any rate it's your problem, now, Ravenhurst. We have reason to believe the man behind the spying is the Romney Fox. Damned elusive scoundrel — you must have heard of him. And you can expect no help in Rye, for the fellow's a great deal too cozy with the townsfolk there."
Too cozy with her? Dane had asked himself, icy fingers of fury gripping his throat.
Across the room the steely-eyed admiral had studied him long and hard. "Find the Fox, Ravenhurst. Run him to ground and see if he's behind the spying and the gold shipments. If he is" — the admiral's eyes did not flicker from Dane's face — "then remove the bastard once and for all. We can't afford for Viscount Wellington's plans to reach Bonaparte, not now, when things are reaching a crucial stage on the Continent. I won't tell you when or where, for that information only a handful are privy to. But I'll tell you this, Ravenhurst. Use whatever means you require — I give you an open hand. Just see to it that the traitor is silenced. For good."
The white curtains fluttered around Dane as he stood unmoving in a faint bar of moonlight. His lapis eyes were hard and unreadable.
Even then he had tried to escape the Old Man's net. "What makes you think I have the slightest interest in your concerns or in this cursed war?" he had demanded brusquely.
"So you won't listen? Not even for a man who saved your life?" the admiral demanded sternly. "You do remember young Thorpe, do you not?
The midshipman on the Bellerophon, who lost an arm at Trafalgar? The boy'd been on half-pay since Corunna. Did occasional jobs for us. Well, he was the one who washed up in Fairleigh's cove. Morland didn't tell you that, did he? Nor the boy's last words. 'She was waiting for me ... the Angel ... Tess.' "
At the sound of that name, Dane had jerked forward in his chair, his hands clenched, his face a dark mask. An acid rage began to burn through him, churning his thoughts to a dark whirlwind.
To work with the smugglers was foul enough, but to murder an innocent lad of seventeen ...
The bitch! The cold-blooded bitch!
Suddenly the whole business had changed, no longer King and country, navy against navy. Now it became deadly personal, a debt of revenge owed to the innocent midshipman who had once saved Dane's life, losing his own arm in the bargain.
Now it was man against man.
Or woman.
Yes, Ravenhurst vowed grimly, he would do as the admiral ordered. He would break Tess Leighton without the slightest twinge of regret.
"You have six weeks," the admiral had continued relentlessly. "Very soon Wellington will be poised for a major push in the Peninsula. Suffice it to say that we cannot let anything interfere with the success of his mission. You and I are both expendable, so long as the campaign is safeguarded."
"But I won't need six weeks," Ravenhurst had answered softly, his voice taut with menace. "I'll have your answer for you in half that time." A cruel smile played about the corners of his mouth. "Oh, yes, I'll run your Fox to ground, Admiral. When I'm done with him, he'll wish he'd never been born."
So will she.
> Dane's hands twisted convulsively against the white curtains as he remembered the harsh vow he had made that day in London.
Behind him, Peale coughed discreetly. "Will you be requiring aught else, your lordship?"
"Luck, Peale," Dane muttered, his voice slightly slurred. "Maybe even a miracle."
"Miracles have been known to happen, your lordship," the servant said quietly. "And Rye is a place where one could almost believe that magic exists."
As the door closed softly, Ravenhurst continued to stare out toward the sea. With expert eyes he scanned the horizon, where ragged white clouds ran before the wind.
Yes, he would have his dark vengeance. It might just begin to repay all the bitterness the last five years had brought him.
Suddenly the quiet of the night was rent by shouting as a company of mounted dragoons and a score of excisemen clattered up the narrow street.
So Hawkins's hounds had scented their prey, had they? Ravenhurst spun around, swaying slightly, and realized he was more than a little drunk. Smiling grimly, he jerked on his greatcoat and boots.
So what if he was a trifle bosky? That was bloody fine with him. In fact, it put him in a perfect frame of mind to do a little hunting of his own!
Chapter Eight
By the time she got to the top of the tunnel, Tess was weaving, fighting desperately to stay upright. Her brow furled with pain, she pressed the hidden latch that opened the outer door from the tunnel to her room. Then, her heart pounding, she gave silent thanks for the Angel's myriad secrets.
Once more they had saved her life.
Her side burning, she rapped on the inner door. She could feel a fine sprinkling of sweat bead her forehead under the thick charcoal, and something warm and sticky on her side. Probably blood where that imbecile Ransley had kicked her.
A moment later there came a flurry of steps, and the door sprang open.
Letty's pale, frightened face appeared in the doorway. "Thank the good Lord! I was near to dying with worry about you, miss."
Tess tried to pull off her damp cloak and grimaced, swaying wildly.
"You've been hurt!" Letty gasped.
"That swine Ransley kicked me. Oh, don't worry, he had no idea he was kicking a woman and not another of his rough fellows. But Jack — Jack took a ball in the side, damn Hawkins's black heart!" Tess's voice grew muffled as she bent to study the dried blood and angry purple bruises mottling her side.
"Oh, miss. 'Tis mad you are!"
"You might be right," Tess said through gritted teeth. "But if I am, it's a fine sort of madness." Already she was shrugging off her filthy shirt and reaching for a piece of linen to scrub the soot from her face. "Now, hurry downstairs, Letty. I've need of some of that fine port Jack brought on his last run."
"Give it up, miss, for God's sake! Before something terrible happens!" the maid cried, her voice shrill with panic.
Tess smiled grimly. "Give it up I will, Letty, and with pleasure. But not just yet — not when I'm so close to everything I've worked for. Fairleigh's walls need shoring up, and the roof is rotten. But soon I'll have enough to do all those things. Then —"
What Tess would have said next was lost as angry fists pounded at the Angel's oak double doors three stories below. The two women froze in a crazy tableau, Letty reaching for a water basin and Tess tugging off her thick woolen stockings.
"Open up in there! Crown excisemen on official business! Fetch the proprietor!"
For a moment Tess reeled. Would this nightmare never end?
Far below she heard Hobhouse's irate answer, which was drowned out by a babble of furious voices.
"Miss Leighton is sleeping," the loyal majordomo insisted, "and not for a passel of brutes like yourselves would I even consider waking her."
"Mebbe she'd prefer to receive Captain Hawkins in her bedroom then!" one of the men barked crudely.
Letty turned a white, shaken face toward her mistress.
"Quickly, Letty, help me into a gown," Tess ordered. "Nothing too low, else they see the bruises. A little dishevelment may be expected, thankfully, when a lady is dragged from her bed in the middle of the night."
The anxious maid heard the rising note of hysteria in her mistress's voice, an unsteadiness which was promptly stamped out.
"Hurry, Letty!" Tess said urgently. "The blue muslin. I mustn't keep our visitors waiting too long."
The maid's answer was muffled as she thrust her head into a tall armoire opposite the door, then emerged with gown, chemise, knitted stockings, and blue kid slippers.
Grim-faced, Letty pulled Tess's lawn chemise over her head, frowning as she surveyed the dark bruises mottling her mistress's chest and ribs. Shaking her head disapprovingly, she handed Tess her knitted wool stockings.
Aye, Miss Tess was a beauty, all right. That slim white body was supple and strong. Ought to be married to a good man and raising a family by now, not careering about the countryside on God knows what wild errands!
And there was that strange episode last night, when she'd found the window unlatched and Tess's gown gaping open from neck to toe. Had Amos Hawkins somehow managed to get a key to Miss Tess's room? Letty shivered at the thought. No one was safe from that brute.
An angry bellow exploded below, unmistakably the voice of Amos Hawkins. "Where's her room, damn ye?"
The two women's eyes met, wide with fear.
"Oh, Miss Tess, what's to become of us?" the maid cried, wringing her hands. "We'll all be hanged for sure!"
"Nonsense, Letty! We shall come about," Tess said firmly. "Now stop fretting and hand me my gown."
Despite her brave words, Tess's fingers were trembling as she pulled the blue muslin over her head. Amos Hawkins was a stupid man, but he was dogged and vindictive. The Fox had mocked him too long, and Tess knew the man would stop at nothing to corner his elusive prey.
"Go down and tell Hobhouse to build a fire in the small salon. I'll receive our visitors there shortly. And ask him to bring tea and sherry precisely five minutes later." Tess's gray-green eyes burned with angry glints as she saw Letty's frightened look. "Don't worry, Hawkins won't try anything here under my own roof, Letty." Her full lips curved into a slightly crooked smile. "At least not with Hobhouse standing at the door."
A moment later Tess's smile faded. Suddenly she shivered, recalling her captor's warning in the Needles passage.
Yes, Amos Hawkins was not a man she wanted to meet alone on a dark night. God willing, she never would.
* * * * *
Five minutes later a coolly elegant Theresa Leighton descended the ancient stairway and crossed the gallery to the Angel's main wing.
Not a strand of her rich auburn hair was out of place. An angry fire burned in her magnificent eyes and her slim, elegant figure was rigid with indignation. If there was a certain tightness about her lips, it was only to be expected when she had been summoned so rudely from her bed.
Yes, she was entirely ready to do battle with Amos Hawkins, but Tess realized she would have to play this scene just right. A touch of outrage was called for, but not so much that she made Hawkins suspicious.
A fire was blazing in the grate when she swept into the quiet room at the front of the inn. Judging by the laughter down the corridor, Tess decided Hobhouse had guided Hawkins and his men into the taproom and was treating them to her best brandy.
The Fox's best brandy, she corrected herself, smiling thinly.
If only Hawkins knew.
But maybe he did know. Maybe that was why he was here. To arrest her, she thought wildly, her heart beginning to hammer.
Stop it! Tess told herself savagely. Ashen-faced, she moved to a small rosewood side table and poured herself a glass of port.
Dutch comfort, she thought, cupping the glass with trembling fingers and draining it quickly. She coughed sharply but forced herself to swallow the sweet, fiery liquid, which burned down her throat and immediately sent a pleasant warmth radiating from the pit of her stomach. She poured herself another, and
this time the alcohol did not take her by surprise.
I rather think I might begin to enjoy this taste, Tess thought grimly.
A brisk tap sounded at the door. After squaring her shoulders, Tess turned and took a deep breath. "Yes?" Thank goodness her voice did not tremble. It was cool, she noted, with just the right touch of irritation.
Hobhouse's stern face appeared at the door. "Mr. Hawkins to see you, miss," her majordomo said in frigid tones, which told exactly what he thought of this insolent intrusion.
"Stand aside, damn ye!" Hobhouse was abruptly thrust aside as the customs inspector forced his way into the room.
Her brow raised, Tess stared at the cold, leering countenance of Amos Hawkins, willing her face to remain calm.
"So here ye are, Miss Leighton," the officer snarled, darting a quick glance about the room. From there his small eyes flickered over Tess's neck and muslin-clad chest, as if to discover what lay beneath the cloth.
His look made Tess uncomfortably aware of Dane's warning. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" she demanded furiously, pulling herself up to her full height.
"Tell him to leave," came Hawkins's sharp order.
"I'll do nothing of the —"
"Now! Or I'll have my men drag him out!"
"Very well," Tess snapped, desperate to get rid of the man. Only raw willpower kept her on her feet now.
Without warning a wave of dizziness hit her, and she braced herself on the back of a nearby wing chair. Her eyes closed for a second, then sought Hobhouse's angry face. "You may wait for me outside in the hall, Hobhouse."
Her instructions were not lost on Hawkins, who scowled and stalked over to slam the door in the majordomo's wake. "Ye don't ask me to sit down, Miss Leighton?"
"I can see no reason to do so, Mr. Hawkins, for our business will not last long enough to require it."
"Not my business, the King's business, Miss Leighton! Aye, the King's business," Hawkins repeated menacingly. "I'm out to catch my Fox this night and neither yerself nor anyone else is going to stop me. And I'll start by searching every room." His colorless eyes scoured Tess's face. "Starting with yers, m' dear. Unless ye can give me a reason why I shouldn't."
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