Sea Wraith

by Jocelyn Kelley

  “Thank you, Helen,” she said as she tied the bonnet under her chin. Her voice was not steady.

  “Shall I come with ye?”

  She nodded and smiled unevenly. “Yes, if you wish.”

  “I do.”

  A strong gust almost prized Sian’s bonnet off her head as she climbed unsteadily into the carriage that was filled with bottles wrapped in cloth and hastily packed baskets of food. She hid how her ankle ached more. One word of complaint, and Helen would insist they return inside while the carriage delivered the food to St. Gundred.

  The carriage was shaken by the wind as much as the rough road. When drizzle shot through the windows with the speed of a ball fired from a gun, Sian hoped it would rain hard enough to combat the power of the wind. She peered out the window, looking for the flames.

  “‘Tis not in the center of the village, Miss Nethercott,” Helen said. “The fire be out there.” She pointed toward the edge of the village.

  Sian gasped. There were only a few cottages in that direction. Arthyn’s was one; Constantine’s another.

  The carriage slowed as it reached the village. The road was clogged with villagers rushing to help or gawk. Leaning out the window, paying no more attention to the storm than the villagers did, she called, “Whose house is on fire?”

  Either no one knew or no one would own to the truth. That unsettled her. The villagers should have been speculating on whose cottage was on fire, which ones were in danger, and how the fires could have started. Nobody acted as if they had any curiosity.

  “They know not to ask too many questions,” Helen said as if Sian had spoken aloud.

  “But don’t you find it odd?”

  “I find a lot ‘bout St. Gundred odd, Miss Nethercott. Ye need to be careful. Stay in the carriage. We will deliver the food and return to the ‘all.”

  She did not answer, because she did not want to quarrel with her maid. It was worthless to theorize about the villagers’ strange behavior and the fires themselves.

  Even so, Sian could not silence her gasp when she saw flames sprouting from the window of the cottage where Constantine lived. A small pile of belongings was set by the road. Was that all Constantine had left? A young boy watched over it to keep any of the bystanders from deciding to help themselves.

  Another cottage, set back farther from the road, had been burned to embers. Rain splashed down on them, sizzling and becoming steam. Was that Arthyn’s cottage? She had no chance to see more as the carriage continued past the firefighters.

  When it stopped, Helen began unpacking food and dishes and cups. She handed Sian a stack of cups and said, “The tea in the bottles is ‘ot, so take care, Miss Nethercott.”

  “I will.”

  She was unsure if Helen heard her because her maid did not reply as they began to hand out food and tea to exhausted firefighters. More than an hour later, when the last of the food was served and the tea was almost gone, a cheer rose through the steady rain. Sian looked up to see the fire was out. Whether by the efforts of the firefighters or by the rain, it was out.

  She took her cane and climbed out of the carriage. Pulling the hood of her cloak over her bonnet, she walked among the villagers. They were congratulating themselves for losing only two cottages.

  “What are you doing out in this storm?” asked Constantine as he appeared through the curtain of rain. His coat was charred in several places, and he was soaked to the skin. He carried a torch that sent strange shadows around him, but allowed her to see his face was rain-streaked with soot.

  “You are all right!” She grasped his arm, then released it when he winced. “No, you are not. How badly are you hurt?”

  “It is nothing more than the cost of my foolishness in thinking that my possessions were more valuable than my life.” He gave her a quick smile. “You may rest assured that Lord Pitchford has already dressed me down quite effectively, reminding me how sparsely he lives.”

  She smiled in return, knowing jests were his way of trying to ease her anxiety. “Come over to the carriage. I believe there is some hot tea left.”

  “Thank you, Sian, but not now.”

  Again she put her hand on his arm, but this time with more care. “Yes, now. The battle is over. You will not discover any answers until daylight.”

  “Answers?”

  “Do not be coy with me, Constantine. Come with me to the carriage, and we can speak in peace and quiet.” She hoped he would hear the emphasis she put on the word.

  He must have because he said, “Very well. I will sit with you in the carriage so you do not get wetter.”

  “I doubt I could.”

  Sian sensed the eyes watching them as they walked to the carriage, and she could not help recalling Wraith’s words that she take care what company she was seen in, because those around her would believe she had picked one side in the invisible war raging in St. Gundred. If the fires had not been accidental . . . Oh, she did not want to think such appalling thoughts.

  The carriage was empty when Sian reached it, and she wondered where Helen had gone. She sent the coachee to search for her, then allowed Constantine to help her in to sit on the damp seat. Dousing the brand, he climbed in and sat facing her.

  “You might want to sit next to me,” she said.

  “That could create more problems for you.”

  “If your answers to the questions I must ask are heard, that might be even more problemsome.”

  He moved to sit beside her. Stretching his arm along the back of the seat, he asked, “Should I put my arm around you to give credence to the scene we are playing?”

  “No. Just follow my lead.” She flung herself against him and began what she hoped sounded like real sobs. Between them, she asked, “Where did the fires start?”

  “Trembeth’s cottage,” he said quietly.

  She forgot her role and stopped feigning sobs as she sat straighter. Arthyn’s cottage had been the first one burned? Did someone else suspect he lived a dual life as the saintly curate and the dauntless wrecker? Making sure none of her thoughts were visible on her face or heard in her voice, she asked, “Did Arthyn lose everything?”

  His eyes had narrowed at her use of the curate’s given name, but he nodded and said, “Mr. Hallett did not want to be disturbed by the curate’s school. But what is most important, no one was injured either in the fire or fighting it.” He looked past her. “The rain was a great help, but not great enough. I have no place to live now.”

  “Lord Pitchford—”

  “Barely has enough room for him and his household staff in that tiny cottage. I could stay there for a night or two, but longer would be difficult.”

  “Then stay with me at Bannatyne Hall.”

  “With you, Sian?” He shook his head. “Do you want to ruin your reputation completely?”

  “You know what I mean,” she retorted, abruptly vexed with him. She folded her arms in front of her and glared at him. “There is plenty of room in the Hall. You could stay for weeks, and our paths need never intersect.”

  “Thank you, but I will not put you or your sister’s household in more peril. Maybe once I have answers to a few of my questions, I will give you a different answer.”

  “How did the fire start?” she asked, refusing to be put off by his evasion.

  “I cannot answer that.”

  “Constantine, if you do not want to tell me—”

  “It is not whether or not I want to tell you. I cannot. The fire was already eating through the roof of Trembeth’s cottage when I arrived back from Penzance.”

  “You were gone?”

  “Yes, for almost three weeks.” He ran his thumb along her cheek. “Do you think I would have been in St. Gundred and not called after hearing you were injured?”

  She ignored the warmth surging up from inside her at his tender touch. She must not be fickle when she longed only for one man’s caresses. A man who was both a villain and hero. Instead she asked, “Who knew you were coming home tonight?”


  Maybe the fire had been aimed at Constantine who was distrusted throughout the village.

  “I have no idea who knew I would be here tonight, but everyone knew I was gone,” Constantine said. “Certainly the colonel knew I planned to return tonight as well as several others in the village.”

  “Others you trust?”

  “Yes.” His eyebrows lowered in a frown. “If you are about to suggest that the fire was started in hopes of getting rid of me, stop! I would trust any of those men with my life. In fact, I have. It may not have been an accident, but none of them would have started it. And, as I told you, it began in the curate’s cottage.”

  “But, Constantine—”

  A shout of “Lord Lastingham!” interrupted her.

  “Stay here,” he ordered. “Better yet, go back to Bannatyne Hall where you can change into dry clothes before you catch your death of cold.” He jumped out of the carriage and went toward a crowd of men talking with broad and angry hand gestures.

  Sian could not leave when both Helen and the coachman, Williams, had disappeared among the villagers. As if she had called out their names, both her maid and the coachee hurried toward her. They appeared to be arguing, and they did not halt as they reached the carriage.

  “Willie,” Helen said to the coachee, “ye know that is impossible. Miss Nethercott would never find ‘erself in such a senseless situation.”

  “I tell ye what I ‘eard. That she was seen at the brothel down by the shore.”

  Sian realized they did not know she was in the carriage. She should halt them, but words failed her as she heard what they discussed.

  “By whom?” Helen fired back.

  “Some old fisherchap. Noy, I think they said. Saw her the night of the storm. Night she ‘urt ‘er ankle. Said she went straight to the brothel, knocked, and went inside.”

  Helen sniffed in disdain. “Would ye believe an old fool or Miss Nethercott?”

  “‘Tain’t what I believe. ‘Tis what these beef-‘eaded villagers believe.”

  “If they believe an old sot over such of a fine lady like Miss Nethercott, then they be as stupid as they look.” She climbed onto the carriage step and gasped, “Miss Nethercott I did not know ye were ‘ere.”

  “I am sorry to eavesdrop on your conversation,” Sian said.

  The coachee wrung his hands. “Forgive me, too, Miss Nethercott. We should not ‘ave been repeatin’ gossip.”

  “It is nothing.” Sian forced a smile. “You heard something that distressed you.”

  “We did not mean to distress ye, too,” Helen said as she sat facing Sian.

  “Silly words are just that. Silly. Do not fret.” Again she smiled, more sincerely this time. She must act as if such gossip was not worthy of her attention—or theirs. “There is nothing more we can do here, so we need to return to Bannatyne Hall. I want the kitchen to prepare more food for those who came to help with the fire.”

  “I will make sure it gets back ‘ere.” Williams tipped his hat to her, shut the door, and went to climb into the box.

  As Sian raised her hand to tap the side of the carriage for the signal to go, she heard her name called.

  “Miss Nethercott!” came the shout. Two men were walking toward the carriage. Constantine and—

  “Lord Pitchford,” she said as she opened the carriage door again and stepped out with the marquess’s help. He was also covered with streaks of soot. “I knew you must be here somewhere, overseeing the fight against the fire.”

  He smiled. “A retired cavalry horse still strains to answer the call to battle, so why should I be different?”

  “Do not let him bamboozle you. He was one of the first here,” Constantine said with obvious admiration. “I saw him fighting the fire as I came up the road from Penzance.” No hint of annoyance at her remained in his voice, but his eyes sparked when he glanced in her direction.

  She decided to take her cue from him and smiled. “I am not surprised. Lord Pitchford has shown himself to be the equal of any challenge.”

  The marquess bowed his head toward her. “As you have, Miss Nethercott. You arrived with what these people needed. A bit of food and something to warm their bones.”

  “When I saw the smoke from Bannatyne Hall, I feared the situation was far worse.” She looked at Constantine. “Of course, Constantine’s situation is as bad as I feared. I hope he will reconsider my offer for him to stay at Bannatyne Hall until he can find another place in the village.”

  “How kind of you!” gushed the marquess, his eyes widening.

  “Too kind,” Constantine hurried to say. “I told her that I appreciate her offer, but—”

  “You cannot wait to accept it.”

  “Sir,” began Constantine.

  Lord Pitchford waved him to silence, then, motioning to them to follow, he walked away from the carriage. He lowered his own voice. “Do not be short-sighted. The villagers will expect Miss Nethercott to make such an offer, and they will expect you to accept it. Think of the vistas of the sea available to you at Bannatyne Hall. Here you are restrained by the village. There, you will not be.”

  “True.” Constantine’s response was clearly reluctant. “From the upper floors, I should be able to see from St. Gundred to Land’s End.” He looked at her. “If your offer is still open, Sian, I would be glad to accept.”

  Lord Pitchford smiled broadly. “If my children would heed me half as quickly, they would not be wasting the results of my hard work with such alacrity.”

  “Good,” she said, not sure how to respond to the marquess’s comment. Such matters should not be discussed openly. “If you wish, we can wait until you get what you saved.”

  “Thank you, but I want to help more here,” Constantine replied.

  “I will let the staff know you will be arriving.”

  “Before midday, I would venture.”

  She nodded. “I will alert them, and rooms will be ready for you upon your arrival.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you,” echoed the marquess. “This may turn out better than we had hoped when the flames shot into the sky.”

  As they went back to where other men had gathered to make sure the fire was completely out, Sian returned to the carriage. She climbed in, closed the door, and raised her hand again to slap the side of the carriage. She halted, her hand lowering to the window’s edge, as her eyes were caught by Arthyn Trembeth stepping into the lantern light.

  He rushed over to her. “I am even more grateful for your offer of hospitality at Bannatyne Hall.”

  “Do you want to return with me now?”

  “No, I need to find out if anything can be recovered from my cottage. But thank you.” He clasped her hand between his, then pressed his lips politely to the back of her hand.

  She smiled as he released her hand and hurried away to the ruins of his cottage. Even that dispassionate kiss was one she would treasure. Outwardly, Arthyn appeared to be such a dear and uncomplicated man. But the passions in his eyes promised that any woman who was a part of his life would be a very lucky woman indeed.

  She slapped the side of the carriage, leaned back, and avoided looking either out the window or at Helen. How could she have been so foolish? She had invited the king’s representative and the man whom she believed to be Wraith to live beneath the same roof. Nothing good could come of that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “So this is what you have been working on.”

  Sian lowered her paintbrush and glanced back at the door to discover Constantine there. She frowned. “I thought I locked the door.”

  “You must have forgotten.” He left the door ajar, so there would be no hint of impropriety. “Why do you keep the door locked? So no one can see your chef-d’oeuvre?”

  She smiled. “It is hardly a masterpiece. I close the door because Mrs. Jenkin has the habit of sending in maids to clean up what she believes is an intolerable mess. The next day, I cannot find any of my brushes because she has had them
all taken down to the laundry to be cleaned.”

  “You are mistaken.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “It is not a mess. It is well done.” He walked past her to look at the mural. “I see that you are painting the dawn slipping across the sea.”

  “Yes.”

  “The dawn of a day for the dawning of a new life.”

  “Yes. I think Jade and Gideon will like it.”

  He faced her. “I am sure they will. Even if they cannot admire the artistry, they are certain to appreciate the heart you put into your work.”

  “As you do in yours.”

  “Yes.” He walked to the closest window and gazed out. “Pitchford was right. The Hall grants me views I never could have had in the village.”

  “Have you seen anything of interest?”

  He chuckled as he sat back on the thick sill. “I have been here only two days, and I must own that I fell asleep last night quite early.”

  “You had no sleep the night before.”

  “Or for several before that.”

  She put down her paintbrush and wiped her hands on a rag. “Was your trip to Penzance worthwhile?”

  “Yes.” He held up his hand. “Do not ask anything else.”

  “I was not going to. I thought only to encourage you in your efforts when you have lost so much.”

  “Less than Trembeth because the cottage was my temporary home. I brought only the basic necessities with me from London.”

  “He has nothing, but I have asked the household to find items he can use when a house becomes available in the village.”

  “The village is why I came to speak with you. I have heard a rumor I know cannot be true.”

  She did not demur. “My maid did as well. I asked her whom she would believe—me or an old man believed to be in his cups and out of his mind?”

  “A question she was able to answer with ease, no doubt, but, Sian, you cannot ignore that such rumors can do great damage to a young woman.”

  “I have no choice. Even to acknowledge it would prove it in some people’s minds.”

  “True. I should have considered that.”