Sandra Heath

by The Haunting of Henrietta

  The ghosts began to realize that their prey would soon be out of range, and in desperation Kit fixed his fearsome gaze upon the sea, in an effort to make it heave up into waves. But the almost smooth surface merely rippled a little, and under the cloak of darkness, the gig drew farther and farther away.

  By now the dismayed Mulborough townsmen knew the extent of their mistake, and that far from apprehending French spies on the cliff, they’d inadvertently alerted the real conspirators at the landing below. But it was too late, and all they could do was stand by helplessly as the sound of moving pebbles and tearing seaweed drifted up through the darkness. More than one man thought of the bogle, and more than one fearful glance was cast toward the dark shadows of the churchyard.

  Marcus scrambled to his feet and then pulled Henrietta up as well. “What in God’s name is going on down there?” he breathed, gazing over the edge of the cliff, but seeing nothing.

  “I—I don’t know,” she replied, although having seen a cup of chocolate float through the air, she could guess. But right now it wasn’t the probable activity of ghosts that unnerved her, but the closeness of the shot Charles Lyons had fired. If Marcus hadn’t reacted as swiftly as he had, she would undoubtedly have been struck. Maybe even killed.

  Marcus glanced at her face, and quickly slipped an arm around her waist. “It’s all right, you’re safe now,” he said gently.

  “You saved my life.”

  “Don’t feel obliged to thank me, for it was the least I could do after being so unbelievably unchivalrous a moment ago.”

  Suddenly there was absolute silence, and icy fingers began to pass down the spines of the onlookers. Then, as one, the brave men of Mulborough look to their heels, leaving Henrietta and Marcus alone. Henrietta heard a stifled cry of terror from the bottom of the cliff. It was Jane.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The reason for the sudden silence and Jane’s fear was very simple; the ghosts had themselves seen a ghost, and it was one that struck dread through them both.

  They’d been continuing their onslaught of pebbles and seaweed against the retreating gig, when suddenly a glowing silver sloop with black masts glided across the entrance to the tiny inlet. The blue-and-gold banners of the Bourbons streamed from her masts, and her canvas billowed in a wind only she could feel. She heaved away from the inlet and suddenly her name came into view above the great cabin at the stern: Basilic. It was the privateer that had driven Jane and Kit’s merchantman, the Wessex, on to the Goodwins.

  That was when Jane cried out, and the moment she did, the ghost ship disappeared. As darkness engulfed them again, Kit put his arms tightly around his love, pressing his lips to her hair. “It’s all right, my darling, it’s all right...” he whispered, trying to sound strong for her, although in truth he was shaken too.

  “Why is the Basilic here? Has she come for us? Are we to go to Old Nick because we’ve failed?” Jane whispered, clinging fearfully to him.

  Kit was afraid too as his glance moved up toward the cliff top. He hadn’t seen the townsfolk at all, but Henrietta was still there with Marcus. The wraith’s fear somersaulted into anger and accusation. Henrietta had promised to remain behind; instead she had not only followed, but had brought Marcus too, and they’d been stupid enough to call out, warning the French. It was their fault that Amabel and her vile brother had escaped, their fault that the Légère had not even come under threat. Maybe it was even their fault that the Basilic had appeared!

  Henrietta looked frantically down through the gently falling snow. For once her psychic abilities had failed her, for although she had heard Jane’s cry, she hadn’t seen the phantom privateer. She wanted to call out to the ghosts, but couldn’t because of Marcus. What had happened? Were Jane and Kit all right?

  Marcus gazed down as well, but sensed nothing at all. He listened carefully, but there was only the lap of the sea in the inlet. The French had escaped, and Amabel with them. It was time to return to the abbey to acquaint Russell and Charlotte with the night’s startling events. He took Henrietta’s arm to usher her away from the edge of the precipice, and after resisting for a second she allowed him to lead her back to the horses.

  In Hades, Old Nick’s mood was mixed. He was ready to deal with what was to come, and had found it amusing to taunt the specters with the Basilic, but he was decidedly displeased with Amabel for not seeing through the ruse with the curare. He had looked after her thus far, but she had failed him once too often, and would now be abandoned to her fate.

  Henrietta and Marcus hardly spoke as they rode back to the abbey through the snowy darkness, but the lack of communication was pensive and tired rather than antagonistic. As soon as they arrived, Russell and Charlotte were awoken and summoned down to the grand saloon, where Marcus had tossed a fresh log onto the dying fire. As the eager new flames hissed and spat, and sparks fled up the chimney to the snow-filled night, the story of the night’s events was related, Henrietta telling her version of how she’d found out about Amabel, and Marcus continuing the tale with events on the cliff.

  Russell stood before the fire in his navy-blue paisley dressing gown, and tossed his nightcap aside in outrage as the full iniquitous truth about Amabel was revealed. Charlotte, who wore a peach robe trimmed with swansdown and was seated in a fireside chair opposite Henrietta, was aghast. “Oh, how right I was to despise and mistrust that vile creature! I was even right when I suggested in jest that she probably pushed you down the churchyard steps, Henrietta, but I did not for a single moment imagine she was capable of all this!”

  Russell placed a slippered foot on the polished brass fender and gazed into the fire. “It seems we have had the vilest of cuckoos in our nest,” he muttered.

  Charlotte was distressed. “When I think back, there were so many clues. The mere fact she came here at all should have spoken volumes! She asked so many questions about the gold and the harbor.”

  Russell sighed. “I fancy we need look no further for the cause of poor Renchester’s demise. I’ll warrant he was innocent of all charges. Curare will have disposed of him too. Tell me, Henrietta, exactly how did you say she administered it to you?”

  As she began to answer, Jane and Kit appeared angrily beside her chair. For a moment her voice dried up completely, and Marcus, thinking she was overcome, hastened to pour her a fortifying glass of Cognac, which he pressed into her shaking hands. She gave a weak smile and battled on with what she’d been saying, even though at the same time she was on the receiving end of bitter ghostly recriminations for jeopardizing matters by leaving the abbey.

  Kit had no compunction about laying the blame squarely at her feet. “It was ill done, madam! Just look what happened! It’s really too bad!”

  Falteringly, Henrietta continued telling Russell about the curare.

  Jane was now angry with her too. “Amabel has escaped scot-free, and the Légère is able to carry on as before! And it’s all your fault!”

  Henrietta forgot herself. “It isn’t my fault! The signals had been seen in the town!” she countered defensively.

  The odd exclamation filled Charlotte with concern and she hastened to reassure Henrietta. “You mustn’t blame yourself. No, of course it wasn’t your fault.”

  Henrietta’s cheeks flamed. “I—I feel as if it is,” she said lamely, wishing the spirits would save their remonstrations for when she was alone. Maybe she had been in the wrong, but the men from Mulborough would have arrived anyway.

  Kit hadn’t finished with her yet. “Have you any idea what you may have unleashed?” he demanded.

  Her eyes flew inquiringly to his. What was he talking about?

  He bent down to face her, his hands on the arms of her chair. “The Basilic appeared, and Jane fears she has come for us. I do not believe she would have appeared at all if you had not broken your promise to us. We risked breaking the rules in order to save you from Amabel, and in return you betrayed us!”

  Henrietta stared up at him. The Basilic! Her thoughts whirled. Wa
sn’t that the name of the privateer that had chased Jane and Kit’s ship in 1714? Yes, it was!

  Marcus looked curiously at her, but said nothing. Russell cleared his throat awkwardly, and Charlotte prompted her. “You were saying, Henrietta?”

  Henrietta pulled herself sharply together and somehow managed to complete what she’d been telling them.

  Russell glanced toward Marcus and then nodded at the Cognac. “I fancy a little liquid restoration would be in order for us all, mm? And it can be guaranteed free of curare, eh?” He smiled at Henrietta.

  As Marcus went to pour generous measures, Kit went with him, peering longingly over his shoulder as the amber liquid splashed into the glasses. “Oh, tonight of all nights, what I’d give to down a measure or two of good Cognac,” the wraith muttered wistfully.

  The ghostly yearning communicated a little, and Marcus turned sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

  Everyone in the room looked curiously at him. Russell raised an eyebrow. “No one said a word, dear boy.”

  Henrietta whispered to Jane. “Please go. If you must chastise me, do so later when I’m alone.”

  Jane knew the request was justified. “Very well, but we’re very angry with you.”

  “That is abundantly clear.”

  Charlotte looked across. “Did you say something to me, Henrietta?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking what a long night it’s been,” Henrietta replied, watching with relief as Jane took Kit’s hand and led him through the wall.

  Marcus dealt out the Cognac, and Russell sipped his with relish before speaking again. “Right now I’m damned glad I had that gold moved. The icehouse was clever enough, but totally undefended.”

  Marcus gave a wry smile. “To say nothing of the close proximity of the livery stables, with all those potential packhorses.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Charlotte sighed. “Right now I wish the wretched gold were elsewhere entirely.”

  “It will be shortly, my love,” Russell reassured her. “The Treasury has been sitting on its hands thus far, but as soon as all this is told, swift action will follow.”

  Marcus had been swirling his Cognac slowly. “I don’t wish to be alarmist, but there is the possibility that Charles Lyons and his merry men may try to catch us unawares by raiding Mulborough this very night, before we have the chance to do anything.”

  Russell stared. “Tonight? But he’s already been once. Surely he won’t attempt anything again right away! Especially now we’ve been alerted.”

  “He may anticipate our reaction to be just that. He’s bold and enterprising, so do not leave any chink in the armor. The most gaping hole is the smugglers’ path. My advice is to blow it up without further delay.”

  Russell nodded. “You’re right. I’ll take a party of men right now, and—”

  “We’ll take a party of men,” Marcus corrected quietly.

  “As you wish.”

  Charlotte got up agitatedly. “Is there anything else we should do?”

  Seeing her unease, Russell was immediately concerned. He went to take her hand. “My dear, all you need do is return to the warmth and comfort of bed. Leave everything to Marcus and me.”

  “But—”

  “All will be well, I promise you.”

  As they went out together, Marcus finished his glass in one gulp, and then looked at Henrietta. “If there is one thing the French do well, it’s make good brandy,” he murmured.

  “They also produce successful privateers,” she replied.

  His eyes met hers. “So they do. Well, I hardly imagined that my impulse to interrupt my voyage south to come here would lead to all this.”

  “Why did you leave Scotland? I was under the impression you were going to stay there for some time.”

  “Instead I arrived here and spoiled your New Year. How very disagreeable of me.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “As it happens, I’m returning to London to commence arrangements for my marriage.”

  Henrietta’s heart stopped. “Your—your marriage?”

  “You seem surprised. Did you imagine I intended to remain a bachelor for the rest of my life?”

  Somehow she clung to her poise. “To be truthful, I had not considered your situation at all.”

  “That I can well believe,” he replied, then inclined his head and went out.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Marcus and Russell left to destroy the path, and at dawn had still not returned. Snow was now falling very heavily and roads that had been cleared were once again impassable. The temperature had dropped like a stone, and the very air seemed to crack with cold.

  Henrietta had fallen asleep in the conservatory. Shaken by Marcus’ announcement, she hadn’t been able to go to bed. Instead she’d wandered wretchedly through the deserted ground floor rooms, and ended up in the conservatory, where she curled up unhappily in a chair beside one of the stoves that warmed the tender foliage all around. She had no right to feel as she did, but was completely devastated by the knowledge that Marcus was going to be married. She stared miserably past the billiard table at the snowflakes tumbling past the window. The terrace, which had been cleared, was white again. Gradually the warmth of the stove overcame her and she drifted into sleep.

  The scent of orchids and orange blossoms filled her nostrils, and the strains of dance music echoed gently through her dreams as suppressed memories had their way again. She was at Devonshire House, and had retreated to the conservatory to try to regain her composure after forfeiting the kiss to Mark Paynson during the cotillion. Dark leaves pressed in the shadows and stars lit the summer sky. Variegated lanterns adorned the gardens, and there was glitter and laughter everywhere, except here in the quiet of the conservatory, where the orchids were so choice and magnificent that it was quite the thing to view them. But there was no one else around as she tried to collect her scattered senses sufficiently to return to the ball. Even behind her sequined domino she felt as if the world could see that it was Henrietta Courtenay who had been set completely at sixes and sevens by the casual brush of a stranger’s lips.

  Hearing a step behind her she turned in dismay to see the tall stranger coming toward her, removing his mask as he did so. For the first time she gazed upon the face that was almost to prove her undoing. “Would you slip away incognito. Fair Lady?” he asked softly.

  “It—it was hot in the ballroom.”

  “True, but it is even more hot in here, don’t you think?”

  “I—I merely wished to be alone for a while.”

  “May I at least know your name?”

  “Is that not flouting convention? It is a masked ball, and anonymity is the order of the night.”

  “I desire to know your name because you have aroused my interest as no other has before,” he said quietly.

  Her pulse quickened unbearably. “You have a practiced way, sir.”

  “Look into my eyes and know I’m speaking not with practice, but with honesty.” He spoke softly, and came close enough to slide his hand around the waist of her bluebell silk gown. She was spellbound, and offered no resistance as he pulled her gently toward him.

  His lips were tender, warm, and soft as he pressed her to him. She felt his body through their clothes, experienced an excitement she was to know only too well in the coming days....

  He drew back slightly to remove her domino and gaze into her eyes. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  Her disarrayed senses fled into oblivion, and she did not have the wit—or the will—to invent an identity. “I am Henrietta Courtenay.”

  For a second she thought his touch wavered, but then it became steady again. “My name is Mark Paynson,” he replied after a moment.

  Anguish suddenly laced her dreams. Liar, oh, liar! I was fool enough to tell you my real name, but you were false from the outset! I was naive and artless; you were base and predatory!

  “Henrietta?”

  The muted strains of music were banished,
and she awoke with a start as the sound of his voice brought dream and reality together. It was daylight, and he stood before her chair.

  “Henrietta?” he said again.

  She sat up in alarm. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “I was merely concerned to find you sleeping in here.”

  Tendrils of the past crept around her again, as did the revelation about his intention to marry. She got up quickly, obliging him to stand aside. “Concerned? I find that hard to believe,” she said quietly.

  “Nevertheless, it is true.”

  She wanted to keep the conversation neutral. “Have you and Russell attended to the path?”

  “Most finally.”

  She looked at the terrace. To her dismay the snow was now a foot or more deep against the window, and still falling heavily.

  Marcus watched her. “Your journey is out of the question.”

  “But I must be in London for the wedding. I’m the chief bridesmaid.”

  “Henrietta, the road across the moor has quite disappeared, and Mulborough is already cut off, so in this you have to heed what I say.”

  “As no doubt your unfortunate wife will have to do for the rest of her days. I wager she will be the unhappiest of creatures.”

  He searched her face. “I did not know you were a betting woman, Henrietta.”

  “Oh, I think we both know whose great example I follow, sir.”

  “Riddle me, riddle me ree,” he murmured enigmatically, and walked to the billiard table, where he and Amabel had left a game unfinished on the night the gold had been secretly moved from the icehouse. He picked up one of the balls and rolled it gently across the green baize. As it chinked against another and fetched up against the apron, he was reminded of the strange occurrence the first night he’d arrived. He gazed at the part of the table where the ball had so mysteriously moved of its own volition.