Lily

by Patricia Gaffney

  She was rigid with anger, too furious to speak. She shoved one shoulder at him with all her strength, but it was like pushing on a rock. All of a sudden he reached out with both hands and grabbed at her breasts. With a cry of outrage, Lily dropped her buckets and batted his hands away. “Bastard!” she swore, while his ugly laugh rang in her ears. Weak-kneed, she backed down a step and stared at him, holding onto the rail.

  “Oh, now, ain’t that a shame. Lost your buckets, did you?” He peered over the edge of the railing at the beach below, where her two empty buckets lay half buried in the sand, and shook his head in mock sympathy. “Now you’ll have to start all over. Want me to help you, your highness?” He took a step toward her, holding out a paw of a hand and grinning at her.

  Lily imagined him backing her all the way down, one step at a time, laughing all the while. She planted her feet. Gripping the rail with one hand, she made a fist of the other.

  “Miss Lily.”

  Trayer whirled. Galen MacLeaf stood on the brow of the headland above them, legs spread, roguish blue eyes darting a challenge.

  “I was telled to fetch you. Lowdy says master d’ want you right away.”

  Trayer turned back. She looked away to avoid his eyes, but as she brushed by him he murmured, “Next time, bitch,” in her ear. A shiver tingled up the length of her spine to her scalp.

  “Thank you, Galen,” was all she could say to MacLeaf. But the gratitude in her eyes told him how timely his arrival had been.

  “I’ll pitch his fat arse into the sea if you d’ want un, Lily,” he said softly, touching her arm.

  “It was nothing, truly. Best to leave it.”

  He grinned his cocky, gap-toothed grin. “That’s as you please. But there’s the offer, whenever ee d’ need it.”

  Although she tried to smile, she couldn’t quite manage it. She left him and set off toward the house, aware that behind her she’d left a friend and a dangerous enemy.

  Nine

  DEVON CAME OUT OF the lightest of dozes when he heard the door open and saw Lily tiptoe in. “Where the devil have you been?” he wanted to know. His eyes narrowed. He pushed himself up on his elbows painfully and asked a different question, in a softer voice. “What the hell have you been doing?”

  Ignoring him, Lily went to the bedside table, where half a pitcher of beer still rested on the tray. She poured most of it into a glass—his glass—and drank it down without stopping. “What is it you want?” she asked directly, dragging the back of her hand across her wet forehead.

  With lightning-quick speed she would not have given him credit for, his hand snaked out and caught hold of her wrist. He tugged on her arm, and she stumbled against the side of the bed. Turning her hand over, he stared at the raw, blistered flesh of her palm. He looked up at her in amazement, then reached out for her other hand.

  She whipped it behind her back. “It’s the same,” she said stolidly. “What is it you want with me?”

  Dropping her hand, Devon slid back against his pillow. “I want you to sit down.”

  “Good,” Lily breathed, and sank down on the chair beside the bed. Every muscle in her body was screaming with exhaustion. But it was so cool and dark here, so quiet. When a moment passed and he didn’t speak, she let her eyelids close. She could almost fall asleep, right now. Later—a second? a minute?—she jerked herself awake in alarm. He was still staring at her. “How do you feel?” she asked guiltily. She thought he looked a little better, maybe not quite as pale.

  “What do you do, Lily? What chores do they give you?”

  The question startled both of them.

  “I clean your house,” she answered simply.

  “Yes, but what do you do?”

  She sighed and leaned her head against the back of the chair. “Polish the furniture. Scrub the floors and beat the rugs. Dust. Tidy. Help in the kitchen, the laundry, sometimes the dairy.” Her eyes had slid closed again; she opened them to see if he was still listening. “Do what I’m told,” she finished tiredly.

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Why?” She laughed without any amusement. “To live.” She glanced across at him, into his serious face. The conversation had taken an odd, dangerous turn. She was afraid her own face might give something away, and slowly got to her feet. She tried to sound brisk. “Have you had your dinner yet?”

  “I don’t want anything.”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him when there was a light knock at the door. She had time to jump away from the bed and busy her hands with the plates and glasses on the tray before it opened.

  It was Stringer, the butler. Lily thought he made a point of not looking at her. “Gentlemen to see you, sir. From the Revenue, they say.”

  “Bring them up, Stringer, I’ll speak to them here.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  As soon as the door closed, Lily went back to the bed. “Are you sure you should be doing this?” she asked anxiously, helping him to sit up, then to stand. They walked to his desk together, her arm around his waist, and he sat down heavily. Already his face was gray and perspiring. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” she muttered, aware that she might as well be talking to herself. “You look terrible.” She ran the fingers of one hand through his hair to straighten it, mumbling, “Excuse me,” and then peered at him critically. “Should I open the draperies? You look ill, but with them closed it looks like a sickroom. I’m not sure—”

  “Yes, open them.” With one hand he lifted his heavy ledger book from the top of the desk and opened it to the current date. “Fix me a pen, quickly.”

  She opened his ink bottle, then took the knife he handed her and sharpened one of the quills from a jar on the desktop. “It’s lucky you’re right-handed,” she murmured distractedly, giving it to him. “Will you stand up when they come?”

  “Certainly not. The Viscount Sandown doesn’t trouble himself for trifling government pettifoggers.”

  The dry humor in his tone cheered her enormously. On an impulse, she reached down and pinched his cheeks. “For color,” she explained when his blue eyes widened. Just for a second her fingers lingered on the hard flesh of his jaw. She jumped when another knock sounded. “Good luck!” She reached the door just as it opened.

  Preceding Stringer, two men came through. Devon recognized one as Polcraven, the Customs Collector at Fowey; the other was a stranger. Devon folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. At the movement, a sharp, agonizing pull in his shoulder had him gritting his teeth and willing his face not to flinch. “Gentlemen,” he got out with what he hoped was lazy disdain. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Before either could answer, he said to Lily, who was still standing by the door, twisting her hands, “That’s all, thank you.” She curtsied and went out. But he noticed she left the door open.

  “Your lordship,” Charles Polcraven intoned with a low bow, endangering the security of his bagwig. “Forgive the intrusion, I beg you, we won’t keep you two minutes. The simplest questions you can imagine, that’s all we need to ask. And let me assure you it was not my idea to come here and disturb you in this unseemly way, without notice or—”

  “No, it was mine.”

  Devon steepled his fingers and peered over them at the tall, ax-faced man in uniform standing beside Polcraven. “Indeed? And you are—?”

  “Lieutenant Edward Von Rebhan of the Revenue Service, Commander of the cutter Royal George.” He executed a precise military bow.

  “Lieutenant.” Devon let mild surprise flicker for a second in his eyes. “How may I help you?”

  “You can tell us where you were last night,” Von Rebhan answered boldly, while Polcraven bounced on his toes and made little sounds of distress and apology.

  “Really? Why would I do that, I wonder?”

  “Because the penalty for assaulting an officer of the Revenue is hanging.”

  “My lord!” cried Polcraven, flapping his fat hands in the air and beginning to dance in place. “I beg your pardon,
I most humbly do, this is not at all what we mean to say to you!”

  “No? What do you mean to say to me?”

  The cold, quiet tone of his voice made Polcraven go pale and apparently lose the ability to speak.

  Lieutenant Von Rebhan got a better grip on his cocked hat. “I apologize if I was too direct,” he said stiffly. “Allow me to explain the circumstances of our visit, my lord.”

  “I look forward to it.” Devon crossed his legs and tapped two impatient fingernails against his desk—a distraction for the hand he passed over his face, wiping away the sweat that had beaded under his nose. His head was clear enough, but the throbbing pain in his shoulder was unrelenting.

  Von Rebhan cleared his throat. “Yesterday morning, my lord, on routine patrol out of Fowey, my cutter came upon a sloop lying in a hidden cove.”

  “A ‘hidden cove?’ ” He let a suggestion of amusement shade his tone.

  “Indeed, sir, a hidden cove. One of many along the river in that area where smugglers’ vessels put in to off-load their contraband cargos. This particular sloop was unmanned at the time. We confiscated it immediately.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it. I’m sure your superiors will be pleased.”

  Von Rebhan’s gray eyes hardened. “I doubt that, sir. Twelve hours later, as they waited for help from the Waterguard at Falmouth, the men who were holding the sloop were attacked.”

  “Attacked?”

  “By more than a dozen ruffians, carrying pistols and swords and cutlasses. My men were routed, thrown over the side of the vessel, and left to drown.”

  Devon massaged his mouth to hide a smile; in fact, there had only been five “ruffians.” “Left to drown?” he said quizzically. “But I thought the sloop was tied up in a ‘hidden cove.’ “

  The lieutenant reddened slightly and began to stroke his mustache. “They might have drowned,” he said doggedly; “two of them couldn’t swim.”

  “Ah.”

  “At the time, my cutter was lying at the mouth of the Fowey, waiting for the Falmouth mariners. The Spider was seen to—”

  “The what?”

  Von Rebhan’s shrewd eyes narrowed, measuring him. “The Spider,” he enunciated, and this time it was his voice that held a hint of mockery.

  “That would be the smuggling vessel?” Devon asked blandly.

  “Precisely. The Spider was seen to draw close to the shore and discharge one passenger before heading out to sea. The Royal George gave chase.”

  Devon rubbed his hands together. “Lieutenant, I trust there’s a point to this story eventually, but in the meantime I must say I’m enjoying it tremendously. It seems to get more exciting as it goes along.”

  Von Rebhan flushed again, and twisted at his mustache as if he wanted to screw it into his face. “The Spider carried twenty carriage guns and twenty swivels,” he went on tightly. “And she had a carronade. She came in close and fired at us for over a quarter of an hour. In the end, my cutter suffered thirty shots in her sails, two dozen in her boat, and her mainmast and mizzen halyards were blown away.”

  “Did you lose any men?”

  “No.”

  Devon masked his intense relief with a show of impatience. “Good, good. Is that the end of it, then?”

  “Not quite. I thought you might be interested in what happened to the passenger the Spider discharged near Polruan, my lord.”

  “No, I’m not. But if it will speed things along, go ahead and tell me.”

  “Evidently this man had left a horse tied nearby. Under cover of darkness, he began to make his way west. Toward Trewyth.”

  Devon smiled. “Trewyth? Toward St. Austell, Mevagissey, and Portloe as well, then. Not to mention Truro, Redruth, Hayle, Penzance—”

  “Thank you, sir, you’re quite right. At any rate, just north of Dodman Point, he was overtaken by Riding Officers sent out from Falmouth to help with the confiscation of the Spider. Four of them.”

  At least he had that number right. “And did they capture the man?”

  “They did not. He overpowered them.”

  Devon lifted his brows. “You astonish me, lieutenant. How could such a thing happen?”

  “I wasn’t there, my lord,” Von Rebhan said through his teeth. “I can’t explain it. All the officers were disarmed; two are still recovering from head wounds.”

  “Incredible. And this man got away unscathed?”

  “By no means. One of the Riding Officers assured me he was wounded seriously, perhaps mortally.”

  “And yet you haven’t found him?”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said evenly, “No, my lord. Not yet.”

  “How unfortunate. Why have you told me this story?”

  Now that the moment had come, the lieutenant seemed to lose his nerve. Polcraven screwed up his courage and spoke for him. “I’ve told Lieutenant Von Rebhan a dozen times his suspicions are groundless, your lordship, but he won’t listen. He has it in his head that young Mr. Darkwell captains the Spider, and that you yourself were with the men who seized it from the Revenue Officers last night!”

  Bleeding hypocrite, thought Devon; there was no doubt in his mind that Polcraven was one of the Customs men whom Clay regularly paid off in exchange for keeping his mouth shut and looking the other way. He barked out what he hoped was an incredulous laugh. “Is this true, lieutenant?”

  “It’s a possibility I’ve been instructed to look into,” Von Rebhan said steadily.

  “By whom?”

  “By the Surveyor of Sloops in Exeter. Who, by the way, is under orders from the Home Secretary himself.”

  “Fascinating. And do I take it that you believe I am this man who was ‘mortally wounded’ a few hours ago by Riding Officers?” Von Rebhan was silent, his consternation obvious. “Well? Is that what you think, lieutenant?” Devon stood up abruptly and walked across the short space of floor to the spot where the two men were standing. Polcraven retreated; the lieutenant, to give him his due, held his ground. “Do I look like a mortally wounded man to you?” he asked softly. A momentary dizziness, nothing more. But he wished he’d gotten up more slowly.

  “I’m only doing my duty, sir. It’s not my intention to insult you. This entire matter could be cleared up in minutes if you would be good enough to tell us where you were last night.”

  “And I say that’s none of your damn business.”

  “Several of the servants have told us you were not at home for supper last night, nor did you—”

  “You’ve questioned my servants?” Devon roared. The thunder in his voice sent Polcraven scurrying backwards toward the door.

  But Von Rebhan would not be intimidated. “Yes, sir,” he admitted staunchly. “Neither you nor your brother was at home last evening.”

  “Are you telling me, lieutenant, that my ancestral home is nothing but an owlers’ den, a hotbed of thieves and cutthroats, vice and violence?”

  “I’ve no opinion on that score whatsoever, my lord; I’m merely making an inquiry. Would you be good enough to tell me where your brother was last night?”

  Devon heaved a defeated-sounding sigh and moved back to sit on the edge of his desk, hoping he didn’t look as if he were collapsing on it. “Very well, I’ll tell you, to get rid of you. Clay is on his way to London, via Devonshire to visit his mother. Also via Epsom, Petworth, and Newmarket, to throw away his money. I don’t know when he’ll arrive in Russell Square; I should think it would depend on which horses he chooses to back en route. Now, go away.”

  The lieutenant planted his feet. “Meaning no disrespect, would you mind telling me your own whereabouts as well?”

  “Yes, I would mind. You try my patience, sir. You come to my home uninvited and question my servants. You have the effrontery to tell me that assaulting Revenue Officers is a capital crime, and the impudence to use the Home Secretary’s name in a pathetic attempt to threaten me. I sit in the House of Lords, sir. The Home Secretary has been a guest in my home. I could make threats, too,
but you strike me as a man of decent sense. I’m relying on you to see the light within the next few seconds, lieutenant, take Polcraven with you, and get the hell out of my house.”

  Von Rebhan’s face was beet-red. “You won’t answer?” Devon sent back a frigid stare. “Then you’re correct, there’s nothing more to say. But I must leave you with a word—and I assure you it’s not intended as a threat: This matter is far from closed, and you will be hearing again either from me or my superiors in the very near future. Good day to you.”

  By God, Devon couldn’t help but admire the bastard. He didn’t envy him his thankless, underpaid job, and he’d wager that Edward Von Rebhan was one of the few honest Revenue men in the whole of Cornwall. “Good day,” he echoed, and watched him leave. Polcraven scuttled out after him sideways, like a crab, trying to bow and escape at the same time.

  Devon got up from his desk and went to the window, where he leaned against the sill and mopped his sweating face with his handkerchief. At least he hadn’t fainted—he could take some comfort from that. But bloody hell! Von Rebhan was no fool and he wasn’t bluffing: he would be back. And the next time he would not be put off by haughty words and trumped-up indignation. He, or someone in his stead, would politely insist on answers. Devon had to invent some in a very short time, and then he had to implement them. “Implementing” them, he knew, would mean bribing people to lie.

  Damn Clay to hell! No doubt he’d find all this amusing when he came back and heard the details. Devon wanted to wring his neck. He wouldn’t, of course; he’d be cajoled out of his ill humor by Clay’s damnable boyish charm—as usual. But at twenty-three, his brother was closing in on the far side of boyishness. The only good thing about this idiotic Spider affair was that it was bound to wake Clay up to some of life’s simple realities. In the meantime, Devon was being forced to use his wits to thwart an investigation he would otherwise have championed. He was on Von Rebhan’s side, for God’s sake—he’d voted for bills that would finance the requisition of more men just like him! This was intolerable; the more he thought of it, the angrier he got.