Reluctantly, Marcus agreed and shortly he took his leave of her and rode toward Sherbrook Hall. His thoughts heavy, Marcus had much to consider. Whitley had some power over Isabel. Whatever it was, and Marcus didn’t doubt that it was serious indeed, she was unwilling to tell him what it was or let him help her. He supposed he should be offended that she was willing to face social disgrace and rampant gossip rather than marry him. He half smiled. How could he have expected any other reaction from Isabel? She’d been confounding him since birth.
But the situation with Whitley was no smiling matter and, thinking of the major, his expression darkened. He would have to deal with Whitley. Isabel might refuse to marry him, but she could not prevent him from doing just as he pleased in the matter of Major Whitley. Whatever power or secret Whitley held over Isabel had to be discovered and destroyed and he was just the man to do it. A lethal, dangerous glitter lit his eyes. Julian or Charles would have instantly recognized that glitter and applauded its appearance with relief and enthusiasm. The tiger that both cousins knew had to live within the cautious and amiable Marcus Sherbrook had finally awakened.
Chapter 3
Isabel misjudged Whitley. Even with Sherbrook’s stunning announcement echoing in his ears, he did not immediately head back to the Stag Horn Inn and start ferreting around for information. Instead, he kicked his horse into a gallop and rode toward the coast. His schemes involving Isabel may not have played out as he had hoped, but he would consider his next move at a more convenient time. He could brood and plot later; right now, he was focused on another little plan dear to his heart—one that he was confident would pay a much bigger dividend.
Several miles later, the terrain changed dramatically and, as he came closer to the coast, the neat farms and forested areas of the gentle hills gave way to bare, windswept, wildly undulating ground. Coming to a divide in the road, he dug in his vest pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. After a glance at the directions he’d scrawled down, he turned his horse off the main road and onto a path that appeared little more than an animal track. After several turns, the restless English Channel came into view and the scent of the sea was strong in the air, a crisp wind blowing across the increasingly barren ground. Spying the small dwelling and the ramshackle outbuildings behind it in a narrow, desolate gully below him, he carefully guided his horse down the thin, twisting path.
Arriving at his destination, he pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. His boots had hardly hit the ground when an ugly black and tan mongrel of mainly mastiff heritage came charging and snarling from around the side of the house.
“Badger! Down!” yelled the roughly garbed, stocky man who ran close on the heels of the dog. “Down, you blasted cur, down! Down, I say!”
The dog, still grumbling fiercely, dropped to the ground but never took his yellow eyes off Whitley.
Seeing the pistol that had magically appeared in Whitley’s hand, the other man said, “Put that away! Badger won’t attack you ... this time.”
Slowly putting away the pistol, Whitley said, “Such a welcome. I am quite overcome.”
The other man smiled grimly. “We don’t like strangers around here. Be glad I knew you was coming and saw you on the trail; I was tying up the other dogs.”
Nodding to a sea-wind-blasted tree nearby, the man said, “Tie your horse there. We can talk inside.”
Glad to be out of the buffeting winds, Whitley tied his horse and followed the other man inside the house. A small fire burned in the fireplace. The air inside the house was thick and close, the smell of animals, unwashed bodies, and countless meals cooked over the fire stung Whitley’s nostrils.
Gingerly he seated himself in the rough wooden chair indicated by his host and accepted, with some reluctance, the pewter mug of amber liquid pushed into his hand.
Taking a sip, Whitley discovered the liquor was some of the finest French brandy he’d ever tasted. “Very nice,” he said, as he swirled the liquid around and delicately sniffed. “Not what I expected.”
The other man laughed. “You’ll find that here in the West Country we’ve grown to appreciate the bounty from across the Channel.” His jovial manner disappearing, he asked bluntly, “And now what need, Major, do you have of someone like my poor self?”
Whitley was aware that the whole south and east coast of England was rife with smugglers, and during his stay in the Devonshire area he had been surprised at how open the common folk were about the smugglers in their midst. But then it hadn’t taken him long to realize that in this neighborhood nearly everyone was in one way or another touched by the smugglers. From the farmer who turned a blind eye when oxen and horses vanished from the barn overnight, or the laborers who pocketed a bit of the ready for a night’s work, or the landowners who discovered a half anker of brandy or a few yards of lace or silk left discreetly behind, all benefited from the smuggler. Most inhabitants near the coast had friends or relatives who either plied the trade themselves or helped the smugglers. All were united against the Revenuers.
Whitley’s initial, discreet interest in the smuggling community had been met with blank-faced silence, but once suspicion had been erased that he might be a preventive man in disguise, it hadn’t taken him very long to learn what he wanted. Peter Collard, a local fisherman, might be helpful if one wanted to do a spot of private business. Whitley and Collard had met for the first time last night at the Stag Horn and, after sizing him up, Collard had agreed to a second meeting.
“Someone mentioned that you’re a very able sea captain and that your ship, the Sea Tiger, is bigger and better armed than any cutter in the Revenue Service.” Whitley took another swallow of his brandy and said carefully, “I heard a, er, rumor that if someone was wishful of escaping the eyes of the authorities and sailing for a French port that you’re the man to see about passage.”
Collard looked down into his mug. “People talk. Don’t mean ’tis true.”
Whitley bit back an oath, impatient with the fencing. “Let’s pretend it is true,” he said sharply. “And if it is true, what would one be expected to pay for a message to be delivered to a certain individual in Cherbourg ... and waiting a few days for a reply?”
Collard left off contemplating the contents of his mug and his brandy and stared hard at Whitley. “And would you be the one wishful of having such a note delivered?”
“I would.”
Collard studied him a few minutes longer, then named a price. It was higher than Whitley had expected, but since Collard was considered the best, he decided it was worth it. The last thing he wanted was for his message to Charbonneau to end up in the hands of the Revenue Service, or at the bottom of the English Channel.
Not wanting to appear too eager, Whitley haggled on the price, and eventually a deal was struck. They discussed the details over a second mug of brandy, and when Whitley rode away, he was satisfied that at least one of his schemes was unfolding as planned.
Having settled with Collard, Whitley turned his thoughts to this morning’s disastrous meeting with Isabel. Nothing had gone as he had assumed it would, and all during the long ride back to the inn, anger and resentment festered inside of him.
By the time he returned to the Stag Horn he was in a thoroughly foul mood and his thoughts about Isabel Manning and Mr. Sherbrook were not kind. Spying the innkeeper, Keating, behind the lovingly polished oak counter in the main room, his gaze narrowed and he considered how he might discover more about the irritating Mr. Sherbrook ... and more important, the engagement between Mrs. Hugh Manning and Sherbrook.
The news that Isabel was engaged had been a facer, Whitley admitted sourly, even as he smiled and watched Keating pour him a foaming mug of dark ale. Taking his ale with him, Whitley retreated to a small table in the corner to nurse his drink as well as his wounds. Isabel was proving more difficult to handle than he had first thought and, since his hold on her was tenuous at best, he had to pick his way with care. He had been positive that she would panic and agree to anything he wanted, t
o keep him from even hinting about his suspicions. It had been a decided setback when she had proved to be so obstinate. She’d eagerly paid him when he first confronted her and he had assumed that she would continue to pay to keep his mouth shut about what may or may not have happened in India. With his pockets newly plump, he would have happily ridden away ... for a while.
Whitley viewed blackmail as an investment, one that if he were careful and didn’t get greedy, would keep paying for years and years and years. His problem, in Isabel’s case, was that he had no tangible proof and could only bluff—which he was rather adept at doing. His lips thinned. Unfortunately, it appeared that Mrs. Manning was equally skillful; damn her!
Until this morning he had been confident that he could frighten Isabel into parting with a great deal more money for the promise of his silence, but the prospect of a fiancé changed the entire situation. Biting back a curse, he swallowed a deep draught of ale. That bloody Sherbrook!
Arriving in the area three days ago, Whitley had established himself at the inn and made friends with Keating and his wife and a few of the regulars. Having elicited Collard’s name, he then concentrated on pumping everyone for more information, ostensibly about the neighborhood, giving out that, though a stranger, he thought to settle nearby. His goal, however, had been to learn what Mrs. Hugh Manning had been doing in the ten years since she left India. Having no access to Isabel’s circle of friends or relatives, he’d been forced to use Keating and the like for information. It was surprising, he thought, what the common folk knew about the doings of the likes of Mrs. Hugh Manning. He’d been gratified to learn that she had been living quietly with her son at Manning Court in the home of her father-in-law, Lord Manning, and was well thought of and liked in the neighborhood. There had been no mention of any engagement or courting gentlemen.
It was pure mischance that had brought Whitley to Devonshire and Isabel’s doorstep. Newly retired, and with little but his government pension to sustain him, Whitley had immediately set into motion several long-held plans to arrange a very, very comfortable retirement for himself. While in London, he’d dropped in to visit several old friends now stationed at the Horse Guards. He smiled. Renewing former associations had proved useful. Having accomplished what he wanted to in London, it was then time to turn his attention to those individuals he’d known in the past and that he thought might be vulnerable to blackmail. Since he had need of someone like Collard and wanted to put some distance between himself and London and any repercussions that might arise, he had chosen Devonshire as a likely locale for the furtherance of his schemes. That Isabel happened to live in the district was pure chance, but it made her the first of several old acquaintances in England that he planned to visit.
Having discovered her still-unmarried state, he had an idea that marriage to a woman of fortune might not be so very disagreeable. Her son was the heir to a barony and the current holder of the title was elderly, Manning Court was a handsome house; he was confident that he could live quite comfortably there. Marriage to Isabel would have banished the disagreeable necessity of buying and setting up his own place, and it was unlikely, even with his various schemes to increase his ready cash, that he could afford a country estate like Manning Court. And even if he could afford to purchase such a grand place, the upkeep would have proven ruinous. Besides, why spend his own money when he could spend someone else’s?
Sherbrook’s advent on the scene certainly put paid to any notion of marrying Isabel and helping himself to her fortune. Sipping his ale, he brooded on the unfairness of fate. Isabel was not to his taste, a little skinny, hot-at-hand, and far too outspoken, but in order to get his hands on her fortune, he could have swallowed his distaste. Marriage to Isabel had never been a sure thing, and the way she was refusing to pay him to keep his mouth shut and go away had made the prospect of his being able to bring her to the altar even more unlikely. Still, it rankled to discover that someone was there before him.
Reviewing the meeting with Sherbrook this morning, he frowned. With his nose for scandal and gossip, he’d wager a purse full of yellow boys that there was something havey cavey about that engagement. There’d been nothing of May or orange blossoms about the pair of them and the more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that if Isabel and Sherbrook were engaged there was something unusual about it. Something he could use to his advantage?
After mulling the situation over for several moments Whitley finally gave up. He couldn’t see any way, at this time, that he could turn the engagement to his benefit, but he did intend to snoop about and see what he could find out.
Returning to the counter with his empty mug, he allowed Keating to pour him another. Leaning against the bar, he sipped his second mug of ale slowly and made light conversation with Keating, angling for an opening to drop in mention of Sherbrook.
An interruption occurred a few minutes later with the arrival of two youths. Jostling with each other, as boys will do, they approached the bar. Cheeky grins on each grimy face, they demanded lemonade.
Smiling, Keating served the two boys. Whitley recognized the one boy with the dark, lank hair and round, friendly features as a member of Keating’s numerous brood. The other boy was blond-haired, taller, and slimmer, and though his clothes were in as deplorable a state as the other boy’s, the material and workmanship bespoke wealth. Whitley’s gaze sharpened as he studied the newcomer. The resemblance to Hugh Manning was striking. So this was Hugh’s son. How very, very providential.
Having served his newest patrons, wiping a glass with a small white towel as he stood next to the bar, Keating asked, “And what have you two young hellions been up to today? If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it appears you’ve been wrestling in the mud.” He bent a teasing look on the taller boy. “I’ll wager that when Lord Manning and your mother agreed to let you miss term at Eton after you broke your leg at Christmas, they didn’t expect you to spend the time cavorting with this scamp. What have you been doing to end up in such a state?”
Both boys burst out laughing and the brown-haired one said, “Farmer Foster’s sow farrowed last night, Pa, and half the piglets ended up in the pen next door. He promised us a penny each if we’d catch them and throw them back where they belong. Coo! It was a dirty job. Squealing piglets everywhere and slippery as the devil in the mud and that old sow ... We were half afraid she’d break through the walls of her pen and eat us up.”
Keating’s nose twitched. “It smells as if you have brought home half of Foster’s farm with you.” Glancing at the taller boy, he said, “And you, Master Edmund, while I expect Sam to come home looking like a ruffian, I’ll wager your mother will not be pleased when she catches sight of you.”
Edmund grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “Mother says that boys are meant to be dirty and that when I grow up I will have a long time in which to be a proper gentleman. All she asks is that I don’t come to the table covered in muck or keep lizards in my room.”
Whitley cleared his throat and asked, “Did I hear the name Manning? Would that be any relation to Mrs. Hugh Manning?”
Edmund looked at him and said politely, “Yes, sir. Mrs. Manning is my mother.”
Whitley smiled charmingly. “What a coincidence! I visited with your mother only this morning. We are old friends; we knew each other in India.”
Edmund’s very blue eyes lit up. “You knew Mother in India?” Eagerly, he added, “Did you know my father?”
“Why, yes, I did,” Whitley replied easily. “Your father and I were great friends. I knew him even before he married your mother.”
“By Jove!” Edmund exclaimed, his face flushed with excitement. “That’s wonderful! Has Mother invited you to stay at Manning Court? I know that Grandfather will be most pleased to meet a friend of my father’s from India.” Shyly, he added, “I hope you do not think me too forward, but my father died so long ago and I know very little of him. Mother and Grandfather have told me all they can about him, but Mother doesn’t like to talk abo
ut India, I think it is too painful for her and reminds her of his death. I would be most gratified to learn more about my father from someone who knew him then.”
Whitley was conscious that Keating was watching him with a considering eye. Previously Whitley had given no hint that he had known Isabel—had stated, in fact, that he was a stranger to the area—and he was now worried that his claiming of a prior relationship with Mrs. Manning might arouse suspicion. Behind his jovial manner, Keating was a knowing one and Whitley doubted that much went on in the neighborhood that the innkeeper, or his wife, wasn’t privy to.
“Quite a coincidence,” Keating said slowly, his mild blue eyes fixed on Whitley’s face, “you being friends with Mrs. Manning.”
Whitley looked innocent. “You could have knocked me over with a feather when I met her by accident this morning. I pulled my horse aside to allow a lady to pass on the pathway I was riding and realized I knew her. We recognized each other in an instant. It is hard to say which of us was the most astonished.”
“I’ll wager Mother was elated to see you,” said Edmund, “and that she can’t wait to tell my grandfather the good news. Did she invite you to come to dine tonight?”
Taking spiteful pleasure in the problems he could see arising for Isabel once her son returned home, Whitley smiled. “No, she didn’t,” he replied, “but I think that was because she was distracted by the gentleman who joined us within a few minutes of our meeting. A Mr. Sherbrook? Tall, imposing fellow? A neighbor, I believe?”
Edmund grinned. “Mr. Sherbrook is a great friend of mine, but he and Mother usually avoid each other. I imagine Mother was too busy thinking of a way to escape from him and forgot to invite you.”
Surrender Becomes Her Page 6
