"Well, there was that time at Morlaix, when the gendarmes burst upon us most inopportunely. I believe you said something of the sort then. And of course, there was that day I came upon you panting and stumbling; about in a hayrick with that merchant's daughter from Vannes."
"She was doing all the panting, believe me, my friend. Yes, I'd forgotten about that. But what is so important that you come here now?"
Padrig's ruddy face darkened. "French soldiers — a whole detachment, checking every vessel in the harbor. It seems they've an eye to appropriate anything that looks like it might float. I didn't think you'd care to lose the Liberte to one of Napoleon's admirals."
"You're right about that, my brawny friend. Give me a few moments and I'll follow you."
Silently the bearded captain slipped back to the candlelit room and stood looking down at the sleeping woman. Her hand reached out, curving around the spot where he had lain moments before. A frown creased her face.
"Sleep, bihan," Andre whispered. "When I return, believe me, I shall give you more to do than sleep."
He found Marthe in the pantry, setting away the last cleaned dishes. "Watch her, Marthe. I'll not be gone long, but if she should wake ..."
"I'll see to your woman," the old servant said briskly. "Just you go before Padrig bursts his seams with impatience."
In the quiet night hours that followed, the old woman fought a valiant fight, pacing a bit and then sitting down to mend some of Andre's torn shirts. When her eyelids grew too heavy, she stood up to pace once more.
But somehow she kept seeing the lined, smiling face of her dead husband drift before her tired eyes. Before Marthe knew it, she was asleep.
* * * * *
"You still have had no letter from her?"
Lord Lennox sank into a chair in the Angel's front parlor, disappointment creasing his handsome features.
Impassively Hobhouse shook his head, continuing to lay out silver trays, cutlery, and spotless linens for tea.
The earl sighed audibly, shaking his head. "It is only that she was promised to attend a small fete we are having two days hence. There is a party coming down from London — I was anxious to introduce her, you see." His voice trailed away.
"She did not plan to make her trip a long one, your lordship, that much I do know. Beyond that I would not make myself so bold as to speculate."
He was handsome enough, in a pattern-card perfect sort of way, the Angel's majordomo thought. Well respected, titled — which amounted to the same thing, didn't it? Yet Miss Tess continued to delay giving Lord Lennox the answer he sought.
It couldn't be that she was still grieving for that bastard Ravenhurst, could it? The man was an out-and-out bounder! The tales of his infamous exploits — both on land and at sea — had reached even Rye. In London, so Hobhouse had heard, the Devil of Trafalgar still figured in a great deal of very spicy gossip.
Although no one ever dared call him that name to his face, of course.
"If you do hear anything, you will let me know, won't you?" Lord Lennox asked, interrupting the majordomo's reverie.
"Certainly, your lordship."
"Ah, Simon, there you are." Lady Patricia stood silhouetted in the doorway, surveying the room with her small, sharp eyes. For a moment disappointment and petulance darkened their emerald depths. Then, with a sharp twitch of her taffeta skirts, she moved inside and sat down. "I shall be grateful for your escort home, to be sure, Simon. There are such tales being bruited about."
Lord Lennox's blond brows rose to questioning slants. "Tales? What sort of tales, my dear?"
Lady Patricia affected a shudder, pressing pale hands to her silk-clad bosom. "The very worst sort, I'm afraid. It seems this Fox fellow has tired of smuggling and has now turned to assaulting defenseless females upon the marsh."
Hobhouse's shoulders stiffened fractionally. What in the devil was the woman blathering about now?
"This is more of Hermione Tredwell's gossip, I take it." Lord Lennox came to his feet and began to pace the small room, his air abstracted.
"Nothing of the sort," his sister countered sharply. "I had it from the vicar himself. And we were having such a nice chat up until then," she purred.
Aye, and so can pigs fly, Hobhouse thought sourly, reaching to offer her a sweetmeat.
Lady Patricia waved him away brusquely. "Yes, it seems a young woman of his parish was assaulted last week as she returned from a visit to her ailing mother in Applegate. Being a country girl familiar with these parts, she had little concern for her safety and decided to take a shortcut through the marsh. A very bad notion, as it turned out, for a tall figure, caped and masked all in black, burst from the darkness and swooped down upon her." Her voice quivered delicately. "He ravished her most cruelly, the vicar said, and after that the brute tossed something onto her bruised body. 'Take it and remember me,' the girl recalls him growling before he rode away. When they found her several hours later, muttering and incoherent, a single black rose lay beside her. The Fox's very sign!" Lady Patricia added triumphantly.
Lord Lennox frowned, his pacing halted. "The vicar himself told you this?"
"Not five minutes ago."
Silently Hobhouse bowed and withdrew from the room, his thoughts in turmoil.
It could not be! Jack could never do such a thing, Hobhouse told himself. But where was the man? No one had seen hide nor hair of the smuggler since he'd left Fairleigh.
The majordomo's grizzled face darkened with worry as he moved down the hall. So absorbed was he by this startling news that he scarcely heard the merry shout from the front steps.
"Why so glum, Hobhouse? Don't tell me you've invested your money in the funds and lost it all?"
Frowning, Hobhouse looked up; an instant later his features froze in a look of comical dismay. No! It could not be!
"Well, you needn't rush to kiss me, of course, but I rather hoped for a warmer greeting than that." A slim, auburn-haired gentleman stood slapping a pair of fine leather gloves against his thighs, making a great effort to maintain an air of studied casualness. He was garbed in the height of fashion, from his polished Hessian boots and tight buckskin breeches to an embroidered yellow waistcoat and wasp-waisted green jacket.
Hobhouse felt his blood turn to ice. "Master — Master Ashley," he stammered. "What — what are you doing here?"
"Doing? I've come to see the contessa, of course." The name was an old childhood joke between the two young Leightons, bestowed upon Tess for her ability to cloak herself in cold disdain when the need arose.
Which it often had, given the sort of childhood they had been made to endure.
A faint titter echoed through the passageway at Hobhouse's back. "Yes, Mr. Leighton, what are you doing here? And where, pray tell, is that so charming sister of yours?"
"Sister? What makes you think — ooow!"
Somehow Hobhouse was across the corridor before Ashley knew it, his foot grinding into the young dandy's instep. "Lady Patricia has been awaiting Miss Tess's return from visiting you with great keenness," Hobhouse said impassively, turning slightly so that the woman could not see the warning look he sent Tess's startled brother.
"Visiting me?" The pressure to young Leighton's instep increased. "Agh, yes, that is — visiting me. Of course."
"Then where is she now?" Lady Patricia hissed.
"Who?"
"Your sister!" The blond beauty's voice was growing decidedly shrill.
"My sister? Oh, you mean Tess. Well, that is — damned if I know! With me one minute and gone the next. You know how women are," he added lamely, shrugging.
"No, I am afraid I do not know," Lady Patricia snapped. "And I quite fail to see how you could misplace her so easily."
Growing up with a father whose whims were always unpredictable and very often cruel, Ashley had learned something of the skill of improvisation. He called upon those lessons, unfortunately rather rusty, again now.
"Well, not to say misplace. Just overlooked," the young man emende
d carefully. "Yes, stap me if I didn't go off and leave her up at — at Fairleigh. Knew I'd forgotten something," he added with a bright, guileless smile.
Hearing the commotion, Lord Lennox stepped out to join his sister in the hallway. "Ah, good to see you again, Leighton. But your sister does not join you?"
Ashley tried, not quite successfully, to keep the coolness from his eyes when he looked at the immaculate earl. "Left her up at Fairleigh," he said flatly, tired of this interrogation.
"Then I shall wait for her," Lady Patricia announced.
Hobhouse and Ashley exchanged quick looks.
"Er — don't think that'd be a good idea."
Three pairs of eyes looked at Ashley, asking why.
"Well, er ..." For a moment his inventiveness failed him. Damn, he was hungry and dusty, aching from long hours of travel in a cramped coach. Not right that a fellow should be subjected to an inquisition on his own bloody doorstep — not right at all!
At this moment all he could think of was taking off his new boots, which were pinching his toes raw. But Hobhouse's eyes looked at him pleadingly, and Leighton caught back a curse. "Er, that is — angry, that's what."
"Angry?" Lady Patricia prompted impatiently. "Whatever are you talking of?" Fool. She did not say the word, but she might just as well have, considering the scorn in her voice.
Ashley's slim shoulders immediately froze in stiff, defiant lines. "Angry as a hornet, by God. Won't want to see anyone. Not for hours! Maybe even weeks. Devil of a bad temper, my sister has. Yes, you'd best steer clear of her, Lady P., if you know what's good for you." With a little smile, Ashley delivered his coup de grace, using this childhood name, which Lord Lennox's sister had always detested.
"My name is Lady Patricia, and I'll thank you to remember it," the blonde snapped, her cheeks flaming dangerously. "And I don't believe your story for a moment!"
"Please, my dear," Lord Lennox interrupted, pressing hard fingers into his sister's arm. "I am sure Miss Leighton will contact us at her earliest convenience. Let me escort you home, now, so that young Leighton can renew himself after his travels."
"But what about Pierre? He can't have finished speaking with Edouard yet, and he promised to get me the recipe for pates garnis before our fete on Friday. I really must have it," she added sharply.
"Don't worry your lovely head about Pierre, my dear. He can find his own way back to Lennox House, I should imagine." Slanting a last, polite nod at Hobhouse and Ashley, the earl began to steer his sister out, one hand clamped to her elbow.
"Whatever are you about, Simon?" she hissed, the sound clearly audible as they moved toward the door.
"Enough, Patricia." Lennox's voice was suddenly harsh.
Very interesting, Hobhouse thought, wondering if he had been wrong in grouping the pair together in the enemy's camp. His eyes narrowing, he made a mental note to go check on that ferret-faced chef of Lennox's, before the man wormed all of their best recipes out of Edouard.
"Now, maybe you'll tell me what in the devil all that was about, Hobhouse. And don't give me that farrago about —"
Hobhouse caught Ashley's hand in a hard grip. "Not here," he warned, already guiding the new arrival off toward his rooms, down the hall from Tess's own. "I'm afraid something has happened," the servant explained softly. "Something you'd better know about right now."
Engrossed in their soft conversation, neither man noticed they were not alone. Behind them a slim figure stepped back into the shadows at the rear landing. There the Duchess of Cranford remained, careful to make no sound as she studied the two retreating figures, her eyes sharp and very thoughtful.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A branch was tapping at the shutter when Tess awoke. Tugging at the cold coverlet, she sat up, trying to place where she was and the source of that dry, restless hammering.
A tree, she thought, its bough tapping against the window. Only a tree. But where?
For a moment fear skittered up her spine. Then she remembered who had brought her here — and why.
With a rich sigh, she lay back against the bed and stretched slowly like a lazy, contented cat.
Lovely, so lovely. All of it. His hands, his mouth, his hard body.
Warmth infused her at the mere thought of the things he had done to her.
But where was the Frenchman now? Frowning, she sat up again, searching for her velvet dress, which she found lying where he had tossed it earlier. Absently she realized she would never be able to secure the buttons now, for he had sheared them all off.
The tapping at the window grew louder. Shivering, Tess picked her way over the bare wood floor, searching for the window. Her fingers met cold metal and she pushed open the door; immediately a cool breeze brushed her cheeks.
Somehow she was not afraid anymore. As if by magic, Andre's strength and powerful presence permeated the room, wrapping Tess in warmth.
No, she was not afraid. For the first time in years, she had learned to trust.
Still drowsy, she stood before the open French doors, her face turned to the playful night breezes. Her auburn curls swirled about her shoulders as she listened, unmoving, to the sweet lilting song of a nightingale.
She was right to trust him. Somehow Tess knew it without question.
Through the doors drifted the fragrance of roses and night-blooming jasmine. From the darkness something called to Tess, coaxing her out to explore the night's beauties.
In her newfound confidence she did not hesitate.
Just for a few minutes, she promised herself — just until she discovered the source of that magic fragrance.
She found the rose hedge by scent alone, dipping her head to draw in a long breath of its dusky sweetness. She had just reached out to break off a stalk heavy with blooms when she heard the crunch of gravel nearby.
Tess froze.
Someone was approaching. Two men, she realized. In the clear silence of night, their words carried perfectly.
"Almost done here, thank God. Dieu, but this stinking piss-pot of a town makes me want to throw up! If we leave tomorrow, it won't be soon enough for me!"
It was their accent that held Tess's attention. Curiously enough, they spoke in rapid Parisian French, not the slow, thick tones of the local Bretons. "Even the women are cows, wrapped head to foot in black, till you can't see a cursed inch of skin."
"Just as well you don't, Marcel. They've all got thick ankles and fat asses! No need to see them anyway. A man can plow a fat ass just as well as he can a beautiful one! All the same in the dark, eh?"
Hard, cruel laughter ripped the quiet night. Tess shivered, feeling their malice, their restless hunger for violence.
For a while there was silence. The acrid odor of a cheroot drifted over the hedge.
"Ugly bitches or no, we leave when the Eagle says we leave, and not before."
"Eh, he's a cold-hearted bastard, true enough. But he's efficient, I'll grant him that. You couldn't pay me to do the work he does. No, I don't plan to dangle at the end of an English noose."
The other man snorted in agreement. "At least the next shipment should be here shortly. The Eagle was acting restless last week at camp, and that means we'll go out again soon. We must have brought in ten thousand pounds in English guineas already. Dieu, but what I could do with so much wealth!"
"Still hoping to buy yourself a bordello and settle down for life, eh? Not me. I've had my fill of sweaty, heaving females!"
The other man snarled a curse under his breath. "What does it matter, anyway? We'll never see a single cursed English guinea! Chest after chest, and not a single one for us, who do the real work!"
Tess did not move, feeling the blood drain from her face. Her hands began to tremble. Stop! she wanted to scream. No more! I don't want to hear any of this!
But the men did not leave, and so she was trapped, forced to listen, knowing that some dreadful revelation was about to come.
"I bet that bastard the Fox doesn't put up with any of the Eagle's cra
p! He's a tough one, I hear. Damned good at what he does, too."
"Which is to help us," the unseen companion answered.
Bitter waves of denial swept over Tess. She swallowed, choking. No, it could not be ...
Suddenly she had to get away. She couldn't stand to hear even one word more.
Wild-eyed, she turned and began to feel her way back along the hedge. She was very careful — or at least she thought she was. But not careful enough, as it turned out. Her foot brushed a fallen twig, and the dry wood snapped. In the crystal silence of the night, that small sound exploded with all the fury of a pistol shot.
A startled curse erupted from the other side of the hedge. "There's someone over there, by God! Get him. If the Eagle finds out —"
Tess stumbled forward, praying she was going toward the house. Behind her came the crash and snap of underbrush and the hiss of muffled curses.
Dear God, where was Andre? she wondered wildly.
Her foot slipped and she stumbled to her knees, but somehow managed to struggle back upright. Three steps more and she felt the edge of the flagstone terrace. Almost there!
"Not so fast, you!"
Tess gasped as hard fingers jerked her around.
"Dieu, but this bitch is a beauty. And half dressed, eh, Marcel? Waiting for your lover, little rabbit? Well, since he's delayed, I'll just have to take his place."
Wildly, Tess clawed the air, trying to find her assailant's face.
The man grunted, seizing her hands. "No need to fight. I've got a tool as hard as any man's. I'll give you a good ride — better than your clumsy Breton peasant would!"
Dimly Tess felt her fingers rake naked skin. Panting and sobbing, she clawed, again and again, knowing she dare not speak for fear the pair would recognize she was English.
"Infernal bitch! I'll teach you to —"
The man's open palm cracked against Tess's face, sending a burst of lights exploding behind her eyes. The world spun wildly, and Tess felt her knees begin to buckle.
Eager fingers dug at her dress, jerking the fabric from her shoulders.
Swept with waves of dizziness, she tried to fight, only to feel her hands knocked away.
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