The Least Likely Bride

by Jane Feather

  “The carriage is ready.” Cato reappeared. “Are you feeling any better, Olivia?”

  “Yes, much better. It was just a moment of weakness,” Olivia said, taking his free arm.

  “Why was Lord Channing so anxious to make our acquaintance?” Phoebe asked from Cato’s other side. “He’s not a suitor for Olivia’s hand, is he?”

  “He may have some such plan in mind,” Cato said as they reached the carriage in the courtyard.

  “No!” Olivia cried in alarm. “I don’t want any such suitor.” She turned to look up at her father as he handed her into the carriage, her dark eyes intense in the torchlight.

  “Then you must simply tell him so,” Cato said calmly. “You’re at the age now, my dear, when suitors are going to come thick and fast. You must decide for yourself how to deal with them.”

  “I’ll help you,” Phoebe said, laying a hand on Olivia’s arm. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “No, indeed not,” Cato agreed, mounting his horse to ride beside the carriage. “It’s natural enough that you should have suitors, Olivia.”

  Olivia slumped back against the leather squabs. She was being irrational; of course she could dismiss Lord Channing’s suit, if indeed it was what he had in mind. But it certainly added another skein to an already impossibly tangled knot.

  Nine

  BRIAN MORSE LEANED BACK against the wall in his customary place in the inglenook of the Anchor’s taproom. He rubbed his thigh and as he moved his arm the thick scar beneath his ribs seemed to stretch and throb. The pain was always with him. The pain and the knowledge of defeat. It was there in the deep lines of his face, in his limp, in the constant dragging pain. No one had expected him to survive after Cato’s sword had brought him down, and he hadn’t wanted to during those months of agony. But somehow he had done so. After many months his body had somehow healed, not straight, not clean, but healed nevertheless.

  He raised his tankard to his lips, glancing towards the door. He was expecting Godfrey Channing with a progress report. Channing married to Olivia was a pleasing prospect. A man with a vast ambition and no morality whatsover. Thus a very dangerous man. A man clever enough to conceal his true colors to achieve his purpose. But he would show them eventually. When it was too late for the Granvilles to do anything about it. And then, oh, then, Olivia would pay the price and Cato Granville’s pride and arrogance would turn to dust. It was a wonderfully subtle revenge.

  The door opened and Godfrey came in. He’d changed his earlier puce and scarlet finery for riding dress and had the air of a man well satisfied with himself. He spotted Brian immediately through the blue smoke of half a dozen clay pipes and strode across to him through the clotted sawdust on the floor.

  Brian indicated the pitcher of ale on the table in front of him, and with a nod of thanks Godfrey raised the jug to his lips and drank deeply.

  “The evening went according to plan?” Brian inquired over the rim of his tankard.

  “I believe so.” Godfrey set down the pitcher and sat on a stool. “Granville was interested in what I had to say and wants me to spy on the king.”

  Brian nodded. “I’ll give you bits and pieces of information about the progress of the Royalist uprisings and the Scots march that you can pass on to the king in some secret fashion. Then you simply tell Granville what the king knows. He’ll think he’s finding you very useful. And if you’re useful to Granville, he’ll welcome you into the bosom of his family with open arms.” His mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. “And what of my little rabbit?”

  “Little rabbit?” Godfrey looked puzzled.

  “Olivia, my little sister. It was a pet name I had for her when she was a child. Such an endearing little rabbit she was. Particularly when she ran.” The smile flickered again.

  “I think she’s rather appealing,” Godfrey said. “I won’t have to keep my eyes closed in bed.” He gave a coarse laugh and drank from the pitcher again.

  “I haven’t seen her for several years,” Brian mused. “She must be all grown up now. Does she still stammer?”

  “I didn’t notice. She didn’t say very much. But my interest in her mouth has little to do with what might come out of it.” He laughed again.

  “You’d better not let her know that. I told you, she has a brain.”

  “Oh, she’ll soon learn there are other things more important than books,” Godfrey said carelessly. “I’ll keep her far too busy to bother her head with such nonsense.” He drank from the pitcher again and glanced at the watch in the shape of a skull that hung from his belt. “Well, I’d best be on my way. I’ve an appointment at midnight.”

  “Your customer?”

  “Aye.” Godfrey looked a little startled. “What d’you know of him?”

  Brian shook his head. “Nothing. I merely overheard your conversation about a potential customer for your culling with George here … just before you and I began our association. And an appointment at midnight …” He shrugged.

  Godfrey remembered. “Aye, well, you’re right. And once we’ve struck this deal, I’ll be a lot plumper in the pocket.”

  “Come to my lodgings in Ventnor in two days’ time. I’ll have some more information for you.” Brian leaned back against the wall again, half closing his eyes.

  “I’ll be visiting the lady Olivia tomorrow,” Godfrey said over his shoulder as he turned to the door.

  “Ah, yes, my learned little rabbit.” Brian smiled to himself. “You’d better do some scholarly reading first. Just so that you have something to talk about.”

  Godfrey grimaced as he left, but he was willing to listen to a man who was so clearly intimate with the habits and predispositions of the Granvilles.

  PRECISELY AT MIDNIGHT, Anthony descended the narrow cliff path to Puckaster Cove for his rendezvous with Godfrey Channing. Gone were the elegant bronze silk, the lace ruffles, the black pearl, the onyx signet ring. He was dressed once more in the fisherman’s garb, a limp mustache framing artistically blackened teeth, his face painted as before. The knit cap was pulled down low over his forehead. The sword at his hip was the pirate’s plain, serviceable blade.

  He left two men behind him on the undercliff, assigned to watch his back. As the pirate’s footsteps faded on the sandy path, Sam muttered to his companion, “There’s times when I reckon the master’s off ’is ’ead. What’s all this, then, about sendin’ Mike to the lass’s ’ouse, tellin’ ’im to make a plan of the ’ouse?”

  “Mike’s good at scoutin’, though,” the other replied, sucking on a blade of grass. “Best man to send, I reckon.”

  “Aye, but why’d he ’ave to send any bloke, that’s what I want to know.” Sam peered down at the cove through the screen of scrub that concealed them. The master had reached the beach and was standing, hands thrust deep into his pockets, looking out to sea, his posture as casual as if he were taking a moonlight stroll.

  “It’s not like the master to let a woman get under ’is skin,” Sam’s companion observed. “Easy come, easy go, is ’is way.”

  “Aye,” Sam agreed, then he inched forward. “Reckon this is the bloke now. Seems t’ be alone. You take a look along the path, while I keep watch ’ere.”

  The other man eased away down the path, and Sam took his cutlass from his belt and watched the beach.

  Anthony didn’t turn as Godfrey approached across the sand. He continued to look out to sea, whistling softly between his teeth. Only those who knew him very well would recognize in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, that every muscle was taut, every inch of his tall frame ready for trouble.

  Godfrey coughed loudly. Without turning, the fisherman observed easily, “Beautiful night, ain’t it, sir?”

  “I care not,” Godfrey said. “Are you alone?”

  A murdering popinjay who cared nothing for beauty. Anthony’s lip curled but he said only, “As alone as you.”

  Godfrey glanced around. The beach under full moonlight was deserted. “We have to climb.”
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br />   “Then lead the way.” Anthony turned then and offered his black-toothed smile. “Let’s see what ye’ve got fer me.”

  “You have the money? I’d see it before I show you anything.”

  “Not very trustin’, are ye, sir?” Anthony dug into the pocket of his filthy britches and drew out a leather pouch. “There’s five ’undred guineas in there. Ye’ll get the rest on delivery.”

  Godfrey’s eyes gleamed as he hefted the pouch on his palm. He untied the leather drawstring and peered inside. Gold glittered. “You’ll have to move the goods yourself,” he said.

  Anthony reached over and took back the pouch. “ ’Tis understood. But let’s be seein’ what you ’ave, fine sir.”

  Godfrey turned back to the cliff path. Anthony followed. He could barely contain his contempt. After the evening at Carisbrooke he now knew whom he was dealing with. People were always willing to retail gossip, particularly if the gossip was malicious. He knew much more about Lord Channing’s affairs than that gentleman would ever wish to be revealed. He knew that the lordling’s greed was fueled by necessity. He was deeply in debt. A man who aspired to power and influence needed wealth to smooth the path, and the Channings, while noble, were poor, their estates laid to waste by generations of greed and stupidity.

  The present Lord Channing had a certain cunning to aid the greed. He seemed to plan well and carefully. He employed men to take the biggest risks for him. But the cunning went hand in hand with a complete absence of respect for human life … unless, of course, it was his own. He took where he could and from whom he could.

  Anthony lived his life beyond the law, but this man was vermin in his eyes.

  Godfrey turned to the right when they reached the undercliff. The uneven path was rocky, more of a goat trail than a path. He picked his way carefully, while Anthony strolled along as if walking on greensward.

  Sam and his fellow watcher kept their distance, moving like wraiths in the shadow of the cliff.

  Godfrey stopped in the middle of the path and waited for Anthony to come up beside him. “Disarm yourself. I’m not such a fool as to show you the goods when you’re carrying a sword.”

  Anthony shrugged and unbuckled his swordbelt, laying it on the ground.

  “What else are you carrying?”

  Anthony bent and drew a knife from his boot. This he laid beside the sword. Then he extended his hands with another shrug.

  Godfrey nodded. “This way.” He turned to the cliff face and pushed through a cascade of weeds and vines. Anthony followed.

  They entered a cave, black as pitch. Godfrey felt around at the entrance. Flint scraped on tinder and a small light glowed from a lantern. Godfrey held the lantern high to show the bales and crates piled up against the walls.

  “Take a look.” He put his free hand to his sword hilt and drew the blade an inch or two from its sheath.

  Anthony’s smile was not a pleasant one as he heard the sound, but his back was to Godfrey and the other man didn’t see his expression.

  Anthony examined the wares. They were in good condition for the most part and would sell well at auction in Portsmouth. He loathed wreckers, but was too pragmatic to look a gift horse in the mouth. Later, when Godfrey Channing was no longer useful, the pirate would impress upon him the error of his ways. For the moment, he would use him. And the king’s cause would be the beneficiary.

  He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and moved among the goods, marking his choices with a cross. “I’ll take these four chests, the figured silks, the two bales of velvet, the Brussels lace, the case of delftware and the other of Venetian crystal. The rest is dross.”

  A crispness sharpened the fisherman’s drawl. Godfrey didn’t notice the slight change in the vowel sounds. He knew only that this was a man who would do business.

  “A thousand guineas,” he said. “We agreed on a thousand guineas.”

  “Only if I took the whole. I’ll pay eight hundred for what I’ve named. Not a penny more.”

  Eight hundred was eight hundred. “Done.” Godfrey rubbed his hands together. “How will you take delivery?”

  “Leave it to me, young sir.” Once again it was the fisherman who spoke. “They’ll be gone from ’ere by mornin’.”

  “And payment?”

  For answer, Anthony tossed the pouch across to him. Godfrey, caught by surprise, grabbed for it and missed. It fell to the ground with a heavy clink. He bent and picked it up, unaware of the fisherman’s curled lip and contemptuous eye.

  “The rest will be delivered to the Anchor at midday tomorrow. I reckon George’ll be wantin’ his share. Seein’ as ’ow your ship’s not come in.” The fisherman laughed and it was not a kind laugh.

  Godfrey’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. There was nothing he would have liked better than to have spitted the man on his blade. He demanded angrily, “What time will you take delivery? I’ll be here.”

  “Soon after dawn, I reckon,” the fisherman drawled. “No need for ye to be ’ere, though. My men know what to do.”

  It must now be around one o’clock, Godfrey calculated. Dawn was but four hours away. He’d get no sleep tonight. “I’ll be here,” he stated. Did the man think he was fool enough to let him take delivery unsupervised?

  “Please yerself.” The fisherman shrugged and turned to the concealed entrance of the cave. “Stand watch if it pleases ye. My men’ll not lay down their arms, though, I give ye fair warnin’. They move fast and quiet and will be out of ’ere by six. They’ll not take kindly to bein’ followed, either. An’ their manners aren’t as gentle as mine. So keep out of their way.”

  And he was gone, leaving Godfrey alone in the cave with his rage and his five hundred golden guineas.

  Anthony retrieved his weapons and strode back along the trail. Sam and his fellow materialized from the shadows of the cliff some hundred feet from the cave.

  “You can find it again?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “At dawn, then. You’ll need ten men, probably three boats. The goods are marked with a chalk cross.”

  “Should us expect trouble?”

  “I don’t think so. The little man’s too greedy to risk this sale. But be on the watch anyway.”

  “Aye, sir. You goin’ back to the ship?”

  Anthony smiled then and lightly clapped Sam on the shoulder. “No, not yet, my friend. And there’s no need to be anxious. I have my wits about me.”

  “I ’ope so,” Sam muttered. “Mike’ll be waitin’ at the top fer ye, I suppose.”

  “I certainly hope so.” Anthony laughed and loped off down the path.

  Mike was waiting at the head of the path. Two ponies grazed placidly on the springy grass of the clifftop.

  “Success, Mike?” Anthony unbuckled his swordbelt.

  “Aye, sir. I’ve drawn ye a rough plan. Miss has ’er chamber at the side of the ’ouse.” Mike unfurled a sheet of paper. “See ’ere, sir.” The drawing of Lord Granville’s house in Chale was a competent piece of draftsmanship, every door and window clearly marked. “There’s this ’ere tree, see. Magnolia.” He pointed to the tree beside the window in question.

  “How very convenient,” the pirate murmured, peeling off his mustache with a wince. “You’re positive that’s her chamber? I’d hate to barge in on my lord Granville and his lady.” He thrust the ratty mustache into the pocket of his britches and took out a handkerchief and a twist of paper that contained salt.

  “I ’ad it from Milly, sir. She’s a maid there. I’ve known ’er since she was a babby, an’ she was ’appy enough to offer me a pot of ale in the kitchen an’ chat, like.”

  “What about dogs?” Anthony’s voice was muffled as he scrubbed his blackened teeth with the salt.

  “A couple of hounds, but they’re kept in the kitchen at night. They’ll rouse the house if’n they ’ear ye, though.”

  Anthony thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket and examined the map. “The kitchen’s at the back of the house?”

>   “Aye, sir. There.” Mike pointed.

  “Then they won’t hear me.” He folded the map and reached into his pocket again. He drew out a slim volume, weighing it for a moment on the palm of his hand, a half smile on his face. Then he tucked the map inside its front cover and pushed the book into his pocket with the handkerchief.

  He took the reins of one of the ponies. “Keep hold of my sword and I’ll be back here before dawn.”

  “Shouldn’t I come with ye, sir? Watch yer back, like?”

  Anthony shook his head and swung himself astride the pony. “This is a frolic of my own, Mike. I’ll watch my own back. Be here at dawn to take the pony.” He grinned, raised a hand in farewell, and nudged the horse into a canter.

  He left his mount at the gates to Lord Granville’s house, hobbling him so he wouldn’t stray, then stood back in the lane to survey the obstacles to clandestine entrance. The gates were locked; the red brick wall was high but presented no problem to a man accustomed to climbing the rigging of a frigate.

  He was up and over the wall in a moment, landing in the soft earth of Lord Granville’s garden. It was very dark and quiet in the shadow of the wall, the silence of the night broken only by a blackbird’s trill and the rustling of small animals in the undergrowth beneath the trees.

  Anthony approached the sleeping house through the trees. There were no lights visible; only a curl of smoke from the kitchen chimney gave evidence of habitation. Keeping to the grass, he walked soundlessly around the side of the house.

  The magnolia was a venerable tree massed with thick, glossy leaves. A sturdy branch reached almost to Olivia’s window. And the window was most conveniently ajar.

  Anthony swung himself into the branches of the magnolia and climbed swiftly. In a few minutes he was sitting on the window ledge of Olivia’s chamber. The room was faintly lit by the moon, and the curtains around the bed were drawn back to allow the cool night air to reach the sleeper. Even so, Olivia had kicked aside the covers. She lay with her back to the window; her nightgown was twisted and caught up around her waist, leaving her lower body naked in the moonlight.