Sandra Heath

by The Haunting of Henrietta

  But as the manikin and its makeshift craft slipped farther and farther away, carried out to sea by the tide and unseen current of the mighty Thames, something else in the water caught Marcus’ attention. He leaned over to look more closely, then stiffened. “Ice floes,” he breathed, then looked a little farther away, and saw more.

  Henrietta watched him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Before he could reply, there was a shout from the lookout. The Légère had reappeared on the horizon and was coming up at a speed that suggested she had the advantage of the breeze.

  Beneath his breath, Marcus uttered an expletive of which the bogle would have been proud. Henrietta looked at him in puzzlement. “What does it matter if the Légère comes now? We’re sailing farther into the estuary all the time, and must surely be safe?”

  “I wish it were that simple. There are ice floes. The thaw and high tide must have broken up the Thames ice. No wonder there aren’t any other vessels around. The estuary is dangerous to shipping.”

  “What are you saying? That we may not be able to continue to London?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’m saying.” He cupped his hands and shouted urgently up to the lookout to forget the Légère for the moment, and have regard instead to what lay ahead.

  The man did as he was told and everyone on deck saw how his face changed. “Ice floes, my lord! Large ones, and plenty of them!”

  There was an uneasy stir among the crew, and Marcus bellowed at the helmsman, “Come about, and be swift about it!”

  Mr. Barrington shouted as well. “To your stations, lads, unless you want us to become a French prize! Jump to it!” The bogle was forgotten as heavy sea boots thudded on the deck. The Avalon began to swing around, heeling over alarmingly as the wheel was turned to its limit. The sails cracked and billowed, and orders were roared.

  Clinging to the rail, Henrietta glanced back at the Légère, which was already perceptibly closer. She looked uneasily at Marcus. “Where will we go now?” she asked, although deep inside she knew the answer.

  He met her eyes. “No one is going to come to our aid, Henrietta, so we have to look after ourselves. I’m going to try for the Downs.”

  “Is there no other choice?”

  He hesitated. “Yes, but I want to put an end to the Légère.”

  “But if there are other choices, surely—

  He silenced her by putting a finger to her lips. “I will not let ice or a Frenchman harm you. Trust me in this, for I know something I am certain Lyons cannot yet know,” he said quietly, his voice almost lost in the noise of the ship and crew. Then he took her face in his hands and put his lips tenderly to hers. It was a lingering kiss. His lips were warm and pliable, and yet strong as well. For a moment she felt the tip of his tongue slide against hers, before he released her and strode away toward the helm.

  Rowley glowered after him and growled, his canine jealousy aroused as much by this relationship as it was by that between Jane and Kit. Henrietta tapped the spaniel’s nose, just as Jane was wont to do. “Stop that, sir,” she murmured.

  Rowley gave another disgruntled growl, but then fell silent.

  Henrietta remained on deck as the Avalon came about, and struck east-southeast toward the jutting North Foreland of Kent, some fifty miles away. The sloop leaned to starboard as the northerly breeze filled her sails, and Henrietta saw the distant Légère come about as well. The privateer still had the weather gauge, and her astonishing spread of canvas made her seem to fly toward them like a hawk swooping on a sparrow. Whatever Marcus’ plan was, it would have to be very good indeed if the sparrow was to escape those savage talons.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Avalon’s nimble maneuvering was her salvation, and as she forged toward the North Foreland, not even the Légère carried enough sail to cut her off. It wasn’t for lack of trying on the privateer’s part, and the activity on her decks was furious as the crew strove to slice across the estuary and close the way to the sloop. The Avalon slipped through the gap with barely a hundred yards to spare, and when the Légère fired her forward howitzers at the sloop’s rigging, intending to disable her rather than sink her, the shots flew wide. The privateer was forced to check and come around again, and while she was doing this, the sloop picked up her skirts and fled.

  As the Légère took up the chase once more, Charles Lyons was aggravated considerably. He was as prideful as he was handsome and had expected to make sure of this particular prize long before now. Instead she’d led him a merry dance. On top of that his crew had let him down. They should have been more careful the night before, but by their negligence had let the British sloop slip away in the darkness. It was a state of affairs to which the French captain was unaccustomed, and his temper was foul.

  Amabel kept out of his way, for he had been further irritated by the crew’s consternation at having a woman on board. She’d gone briefly on deck the previous day, hut had met with such hostility that she’d soon retreated to Charles’ cabin again. She was devastated by what had happened at Mulborough. Instead of securing the Treasury gold for France, and at the same time ridding herself of Henrietta, she had been forced into ignominious flight. Her plan had been to return to London and George Sutherton, to resume her agreeable social existence, while at the same time continuing to spy for France. Because of Henrietta and Marcus, that was all at an end. There would be no more George, and instead of the freedom and pleasures of London, there would be the turbulent atmosphere of Paris.

  The need for revenge contorted Amabel’s face as she sat alone in the cabin, dwelling upon her misfortunes. She prayed the Avalon would be captured and those who’d interfered made to suffer, especially Henrietta. Oh, how she loathed her old school friend now. The vapid little creature had everything, while she, Amabel, had lost all!

  If the privateer captain and his sister were in foul moods, so was the bogle, which did not know how it was going to get out of its watery scrape. The Thames tide had changed at about the same time the Avalon had gone about, so that the current now bore the bucket in the same direction as the sloop. The bogle sat disconsolately in its unlikely conveyance. Maybe it would float aimlessly like this for weeks! Then something thudded against the side of the bucket, and the bogle peered out. Its wicked little eyes widened as it saw an ice floe, and then several more nearby, one of them disconcertingly large. The bogle swallowed, but then heard the telltale rush of a ship’s bow slicing through the water. The manikin’s eyes nearly popped from its head as it saw the Légère bearing down on the tiny bucket at a rate of knots as she tried to cut off the Avalon’s escape.

  The privateer was only yards away when she opened fire with her howitzers. The bogle squealed and flattened itself at the bottom of the bucket, its hands to its ears. As the shots whistled overhead and fell harmlessly into the water, the manikin peeped out again The Légère was upon it, and as the bucket spun uncontrollably along the privateer’s hull, a hanging net came providentially within reach. Lunging up, the bogle hauled itself to safety and climbed through one of the many open gun-ports on the main deck. There it crouched beside the nearest cannon.

  Its fear was soon a thing of the past as it watched the French crew dashing to and fro. The wicked gleam returned to its eyes and it rubbed its bony hands together in glee. But first a little rest after suffering ordeal by bucket. It would commence its troublemaking in a little while. Slipping slyly across the deck, it vanished through a hatch into the hold, where it soon found a comfortable corner in which to doze. But the doze became a deep snoring sleep, and it was to be some time before it wrought the same havoc among the French sailors that it had among the British.

  Throughout the long morning, as the Avalon managed to keep ahead of the Légère, Marcus gave more thought to his plan to rid British shipping of the privateer. It all depended upon the shift of the sands, for just as at Mulborough and the Black Deeps, the currents and channels around the Goodwins could never be relied upon. A single bad s
torm could shift countless tons of sand, sometimes to devastating effect. Channels closed and new sandbars appeared where none had been before, lurking beneath the water to trap unwary vessels. Just one such spit had been detected a month ago by a naval survey, and he himself would not have known of it had he not encountered the captain of the frigate that came weekly to Mulborough to escort the packet vessel. They had fallen into conversation, and knowing that the Marquess of Rothwell’s country seat was on the coast facing the Goodwins, the man had mentioned the matter.

  Marcus pursed his lips thoughtfully. Charles Lyons could not yet know anything because the Légère had been in northern waters for some time. What was needed was for the Avalon to reach the new spit as the tide was falling, which, by his reckoning should be toward the dusk. With her shallow draft, the sloop would pass safely over the hidden peril, but if the Légère attempted to follow, she would strike it hard. The tide would retreat apace as always it did on the sands, and the privateer would be left high and dry, soon to break her back. The only risk to the Avalon was that the sand had moved again since the survey, and either disappeared or been raised that fatal foot or so to trap her as well. It was a chance that he had to take.

  He summoned the senior members of his crew to his cabin to tell them what he intended. With Rowley asleep on her lap, Henrietta sat on the window seat as the men pored over a sea chart, and the stratagem unfolded. She lowered her eyes as she imagined Jane’s reaction to learning they were to make for the Goodwins after all. Henrietta knew her own resolve was frail. She wanted to place her complete faith in Marcus, but since the phantoms’ disappearance she had been forced to share Jane’s conviction that the past was going to be repeated. If Jane was right, not only would the Légère suffer the Basilic’s fate upon the sands, but the Avalon would perish as the Wessex had perished. And so would all on board.

  Mr. Barrington’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up. Marcus had finished outlining his plan, and asked if the others had anything to add. “Well, my lord, in theory it seems infallible.”

  “But?”

  “But we can’t be sure of getting to the spot at the right time. If the tide’s gone that bit too far, we’ll strike fast as well.”

  “I know, but I’ve calculated that we should be able to get it right. And if we keep our course and speed steady at this, the Légère clearly can’t close on us sufficiently for capture before we reach the sands. Provided the weather doesn’t change, I think we stand a good chance.”

  “The tides are untrustworthy once we round the North Foreland, my lord,” Mr. Padstow reminded him.

  “I grew up with those tides, and I think I know them well enough,” Marcus replied, studying the chart again.

  Mr. Harrington studied the chart as well. “My lord, how can we be sure the Légère will risk coming that close to the Downs? There’s a constant naval presence, to say nothing of the batteries on the Kent coast.”

  Marcus glanced up and smiled. “I think I have the measure of Lyons’ arrogance. Remember how audacious he was at Mulborough? By the time we reach the Downs, he’ll have given up attempting to take us as prize. Instead he will be intent upon sinking us. By my figuring, he should just have us within range as we have the Goodwins in sight, and he’ll fire with everything he has forward.”

  “Which is considerable,” the first officer observed quietly, thinking of the privateer’s formidable howitzers.

  Marcus nodded philosophically. “Yes, and we have nothing mounted astern to give as good as we get, but he’ll have to be accurate immediately because in a very short time we will have sailed safely into the Downs. If he’s to sink us before that, he will have to gain the measure at the first few attempts, and in my experience very few vessels manage that. We must sail on as if the channel ahead is absolutely clear. On no account must Lyons be alerted, for the Légère is nimble enough to extricate herself even at the last moment. She must be lured right into the channel, where it is impossible to turn until the very edge of the Downs. Then, while we glide serenely over the hidden sandbar, he should pile up most fatally. With her immense spread of spar and canvas, the Légère’s demise should be a sight to behold.”

  Mr. Padstow smiled. “I will follow wherever you lead, my lord, for I owe you my life. Besides which, I think it an excellent scheme.”

  “Thank you for that vote of confidence, Mr. Padstow.”

  The boatswain spoke again. “One last thing, my lord. Assuming it works, and the Légère is wrecked, what if there are survivors?”

  Marcus straightened from the chart. “In conditions like this, the good men of Kent will no doubt put out in their luggers to rescue them. The wreck will be plundered, then Lyons and his crew will be flung in jail, where they belong.”

  Another man grunted. “The captain of the Légère has hoisted a red flag enough times to be undeserving of any mercy. I’d leave him and his cutthroat crew to the justice of the sands.”

  “There won’t be any mercy for them once the authorities have them. The hangman’s noose awaits privateers,” Marcus reminded him.

  Henrietta spoke. “And what if Amabel survives?”

  Marcus turned and met her eyes. “She’s a traitor and a spy, so I cannot answer what fate will befall her. Don’t waste your pity, for she deserves none of it. She was the most false of friends, even to the extent of attempting to murder you.” He glanced at the men again. “That’s all. I think we know what to do.”

  As they nodded and filed out, he rolled up the chart and put it away. Then he came over to take Henrietta’s hand, but as he did so, Rowley awoke. The spaniel immediately took jealous exception to the intimacy and growled. Marcus looked down toward the sound. “So I’m trespassing, am I?” he murmured to Henrietta.

  “It would appear so.”

  “Have I understood correctly that this particular ghost cannot pass through closed doors?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that he has a passion for sugared almonds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how fortuitous that this cabin not only possesses cupboards with doors that close tight, but also a supply of said sweetmeats, for which I also happen to possess a liking.” Marcus went to the cupboard concerned, flung the doors open, and took a little bonbon dish from the top shelf. Opening it, he placed it on the bottom shelf of the cupboard and then looked at Henrietta again. “Will you do me the inestimable service of placing our spectral friend in here?”

  “You mean to shut him in? Oh, Marcus, I can’t—

  “My need is greater than his, believe me,” Marcus replied softly, looking deep into her eyes.

  Without another word, she gathered Rowley into her arms and got up. Before the spaniel knew it, he was shut in. Initially his clamor of protest was tremendous, but then he scented the sugared almonds. His noise was silenced, and instead came the scrape of the dish as he moved it around in his endeavors to consume the contents.

  Marcus smiled at Henrietta and took her hand once more. He drew her close and slipped an arm around her waist. “We are at a perilous moment, Henrietta, and approaching danger is a most efficient clearer of the mind. I will be honest with you. I left Scotland early and called at Mulborough in the sole hope of seeing you again. I knew you’d be there, and I wanted to win you back.”

  Down in the depths of hell, Old Nick had been watching the proceedings with increasing alarm. What was this? A proposal? Surely victory wasn’t going to go to St. Peter at this eleventh hour? His hand tightened upon his pitchfork and he held his breath.

  Marcus smiled into Henrietta’s eyes. “I love you, and I believe you love me too.”

  “I do, oh, I do.”

  He crushed her tightly to him, bruising her lips with the passion of his kiss. Hungry emotions tumbled through them both, and as his hands roamed lovingly over her body, she felt how aroused and needful he was. His virility excited her senses and she longed to satisfy a desire that turned her blood to fire. It was a hunger that could be denied no longer,
for it had ached through her ever since the masked ball. He was the only one for her, and always would be. Now they were sailing into danger, and maybe it would all go wrong, maybe they would not survive. What price propriety then? What good would have been served by denying themselves the love they yearned for?

  She drew back and looked into his eyes. “Make love to me,” she whispered.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Marcus smoothed Henrietta’s hair hack from her forehead. “Make love to you? How shameless you are.”

  “I’m in earnest.”

  He gazed at her. “I want to more than you can know.”

  “I do know, Marcus, for I feel it too. Please, for this is the right moment, and I think we both know it.”

  “The sin against propriety would be cardinal,” he reminded her.

  “I no longer care,” she said recklessly.

  He put his hand to her cheek and drew his thumb lovingly across her lips. “You have always been temptation beyond endurance, my darling,” he breathed, “but I will continue to resist. One day soon the circumstances will be right, but until then ...”

  Tears filled her eyes. “But I need to be with you now, with you in a way we haven’t been before.”

  He smiled and lifted her into his arms. “Kisses and intimate embraces we can share in abundance, my dearest, only the final act of love must wait.” He carried her into the adjacent cabin.

  Old Nick remained uneasy. Wait for what? The marriage bed? How could it be anything else? And if that was in Marcus’ mind, how easily he might suddenly put it into words! And how clear it was that Henrietta would accept! Hell’s overlord watched intently as they lay together on the bed, where Marcus’ caresses soon made her sigh with pleasure. A satanic eyebrow was raised at the extent of Marcus’ skills. Had he worn a collar, the Master of Hades would have run a bony finger around it. The Marquess of Rothwell was devilishly accomplished in the art of love, and had he been of a wickeder disposition, he would have made a superb diabolic agent.