There was blood on his shirtsleeve, which in Bethia’s opinion should have elicited sympathy rather than censure.
One could hardly expect a wounded man to chase down an assassin, but apparently smugglers didn’t worry about such trivial things as bloody arms.
“He was aiming at his hireling,” Big Davey said, and with a terrible premonition, Bethia knew what he was going to say before he actually said it. “The poor fool was halfway up the path, doubtless thinking he was running toward someone who would save his worthless skin, when the second shot took him right through the heart.” He gestured down the beach to where a second body now lay broken on the rocks. “He’ll not be naming any names now, no matter how politely we ask.”
Despite their careful plans, death had found them there on the beach—not her own death, but it could easily have been. If her hat had fallen off and her hair had tumbled down around her shoulders, would her cousin—for she strongly suspected he had come in person to supervise his minions—would he have sent the second bullet through her heart?
Or through Mr. Rendel’s heart since he had thrown himself down on top of her?
“There’s still a chance Jem and Little Davey might be able to track him down,” Big Davey said, but his words did not hold the weight of conviction.
“At least I can give evidence that this was not your fault,” Bethia said, and both of the smugglers looked at her with strange expressions on their faces. “I am fully prepared to swear under oath that you did not kill these men in cold blood,” she explained. Then she realized that what she saw in their eyes was amusement.
Confused, she turned to Mr. Rendel for an explanation, which he was not slow to give her. “There are certain currents that carry kegs of brandy”—or dead bodies, his eyes added—“in to shore. And there are other currents that carry whatever is tossed into the water far, far out to sea.”
That was all he said, but in his eyes Bethia could read a smug, masculine satisfaction that he had shown her irrevocable proof that he came from a different world than hers, and that he could thus never marry her.
“In that case, I shall be ... happy to do my part to dispose of the bodies,” she said, grimly determined to hide her squeamishness.
For a moment she thought she saw a spark of admiration in Mr. Rendel’s eyes, but then he said flatly, “No,” and without another word his men left them and retrieved the rowboat, which they had hidden out of sight behind some rocks.
With an efficiency that amazed her, Big Davey and Harry set about loading the dead men into the boat, and soon the beach was empty of all but a few pieces of driftwood, and the tide quickly smoothed the footprints from the sand and washed away all traces of blood. The little cove was as peaceful as if there had never been any violence to mar its serenity.
For a second time in less than twenty-four hours—so little time?—Mr. Rendel helped her back up the path to the top of the cliff. Had he been this alert the last time also? Had his muscles been this tense, ready at any moment for an ambush? Had his glance continually darted from bush to stone wall to thicket, always searching for any would-be attacker?
She dared not ask him. But then she did not need him to tell her that there was no way of knowing if her cousin—whichever one of them was trying to kill her—had fled back to London to avoid detection, or if he was perhaps lurking in the shadow beside that little stone bam across the way, or if he was waiting around the next bend in the road, his guns reloaded ... or if he was behind them, slinking along to see where they were headed.
Chapter Five
The overwhelming relief Bethia felt when they reached the little cottage only strengthened her determination to change Mr. Rendel’s mind. She would never be safe until she was married. Somehow she must make him understand that he was the only man she could trust.
“Each of my cousins is accounted a good shot on the hunting field,” she began. “And wearing boy’s clothing will not protect me for long.”
“You must have a number of suitors,” Mr. Rendel responded immediately, correctly anticipating her next argument, “any one of whom will doubtless make you a better husband than I would.” Moving a step away from her, he pulled a pistol out from under his shirt and tossed it down on the table. Then he bent and took a wicked-looking knife from his boot.
He held the weapon in his hands, toying with it, then laid it down on the table, all the time watching her. With a flash of insight, she realized he was again trying to make her afraid of him so that she would give up her efforts to persuade him to marry her.
But her weapons, while of a different kind, were just as potent. Crossing to where he stood, she looked up at him. “Not many hours ago you told me I would be foolish to leap blindly into marriage with a stranger who might turn out to be a villain,” she said.
He looked away, and for a moment she understood how a woman could die of a broken heart, but then he turned back, and she saw that he was not unaffected, no matter how cold and disaffected he tried to appear.
“Let us be married today,” she whispered, knowing in her soul that he did not have the power to resist her for long—not when he could no longer hide his feelings from her.
But he surprised her once again. His eyes became hooded, as if he had drawn shutters across his soul, and she was almost convinced that she had failed at the most important task in her life. What more could she do? There must be something else she could try. There had to be.
Walking a few steps away from her, he stared down into the fire. Finally he spoke. “It will not be that easy.”
With those simple words she realized he had tacitly consented to do things her way, and her heart began to sing a happy little song.
“Of course it will be easy,” she said. “We can run away to Gretna Green, or perhaps you know of someplace closer where we can be married without banns or license.”
“And will your aunt give her permission?” he said, turning to look directly at her.
Bethia could not understand his objection. “I have always heard it said that English law recognizes any marriage contracted in Scotland,” she said faintly, taking a step toward him, “even if the bride is underage in England.”
“And do you wish to put it to the test?” he snapped back at her. “Suppose your cousins have me thrown into prison for the heinous crime of seducing an heiress and luring her away from her lawfully appointed guardian?”
“I d-do not think anyone would believe that you had taken unfair advantage of me,” Bethia said, unable to keep the doubt out of her voice.
“Or believe that you were of unsound mind when you married me, a base-born smuggler? Do you not realize your cousins will seize upon any excuse to rush to the courts and demand legal redress?—to demand that the marriage be declared null and void?—to insist that you be locked up in Bedlam for your own protection?”
“We could tell the truth—”
“That two men were hired to kill you? And when asked to produce those same two men, what will you say? That you have no idea who they were? Do you wish to explain how they were killed and why their bodies were cast into the sea? All you have to do is tell nothing but the truth, and with every word you utter you will be condemning yourself as a madwoman, driven out of her wits by her fevered imagination.”
“Then there is nothing we can do,” Bethia cried out, fighting back her tears. “If what you say is true—and I cannot doubt your analysis of my cousins’ probable actions—then all is lost.”
Mr. Rendel looked at her in obvious amazement. “Don’t be daft,” he said. “Of course we shall marry, but not in some havey-cavey manner. For the marriage to help you, everything must be done in an absolutely correct way.”
Taking the handkerchief he offered, Bethia wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “But for that we need my aunt’s permission, which will be impossible to obtain.”
Raising his eyebrows, Mr. Rendel regarded her with some amusement. “Do you wish to make a small wager that I shall have her permission t
o marry you before the week is out?”
“You do not know my aunt,” Bethia replied. “Of all the high sticklers in London, she holds herself to be the highest. Half the people who are given vouchers for Almack’s would not be permitted through her door.”
“Do you wish to make a wager?” he repeated.
Nettled by his high-handed manner and his refusal to accept that she knew what she was talking about, she did not hesitate to nod her head.
“Then I shall set the stakes, and you have the right to accept them or not.” He appeared to be thinking, but Bethia suspected he already knew what he was going to ask for.
“If you lose, then after we are married, you must, without protesting or trying to make me change my mind, grant me one request,” he said.
“And if my aunt withholds her consent,” Bethia countered boldly, “then you must, without any further argument, go with me to the Continent, where I am sure we can elude my cousins for the necessary months.”
“Without marrying you?” he asked.
Looking him in the eye, she replied quite brazenly, “With or without benefit of clergy, the choice is yours.”
“You are too innocent to know what you are proposing,” he said with a superior smile. “But fortunately for you, I choose marriage—a legally sanctioned marriage accepted by one and all.”
“Do you accept my terms?” she asked.
“If you will accept mine,” he replied.
“I will,” she said without a moment’s hesitation.
“Then I do also,” he said.
“Either way I shall win,” she could not resist pointing out with a smile.
But his answering smile made her begin to wonder what it was he would ask of her after they were married. What could she have to give him? Her grandfather’s money would be his once the marriage documents were signed.
And her very life already belonged to him, for every breath she took, every minute she lived, she owed to him.
“While we are waiting for the others to report back, we may as well start packing,” Mr. Rendel said.
“I have nothing to pack in,” Bethia said, “but that matters little, since I have nothing to pack except for one rag, which used to be a charming day dress, and a linsey-woolsey gown, which does not belong to me, and which the rightful owner doubtless would prefer to have returned.”
“The dress is yours. It belonged to my aunt, and since she is now resting beneath the sod in the churchyard, she will make no protest if you carry it off to London. There is a trunk full of her belongings over there by the window, and you are welcome to sort through them and pick out whatever might be useful. I realize the garments are not a la mode, but that is for the better since you will attract less attention along the way if you appear to be from the merchant class, rather than a member of the haut ton.”
Without further discussion he went into the bedroom to pack his own clothes.
Bethia crossed to the window and lifted the lid of the little chest, but she made no effort to sort through its contents. Since she was about the same size as Mr. Rendel’s late aunt, and since it mattered not whether the garments were flattering, there was little point in trying any of them on.
While she was thankful once again to have a change of clothing, she was beginning to understand how difficult it was to accept charity.
Right now she was—and indeed always would be—greatly in debt to Mr. Rendel, to whom she owed her very life. But doubtless after they were married, he would feel as if he were in debt to her, because she would be bringing with her a truly magnificent dowry.
Men—at least men who had a modicum of pride—were funny about accepting presents from women, and she suspected Mr. Rendel was a man who was more accustomed to giving help than to accepting favors.
Jem was thoroughly discouraged by the time he entered the Double Anchor. So far no one in the parish or any of the surrounding parishes remembered seeing three strangers, only two of whom Jem could describe.
But to his surprise, the landlord, who introduced himself as Tom Cardin, recognized the men when Jem described them. “The two of them spent the whole day and half the night sitting at that table over there, drinking and muttering to each other. Made no effort to be sociable.”
“Just two of them? There wasn’t a third?” Jem asked, his hopes dashed as quickly as they had been raised.
“Not at the same table, no,” Cardin said. “But my wife is a clever one. She spotted something wrong about a sailor sitting over there in t’other corner—had hands as soft and white as any lady, the man did. And all he did was sit and stare at the other two. Not hard to figure they was all three up to no good.”
“Aye,” Jem agreed, “murderers is what they were.” Then he realized he was talking too much about things that were best kept secret, and he left off further explaining. “What else can you tell me about the third man?”
“Didn’t ever see him up close,” the landlord said, “but my wife might know more.”
He called her over, and after thinking a moment, she said, “He was scruffy looking—hadn’t shaved in several days, I’d say. Had a knit cap pulled down low over his forehead, but I could see a bit of his red hair sticking out from under it.”
The rest of her description could have fit any man in Cornwall who went to sea for a living, but the red hair was indeed a stroke of luck. Now all Jem had to do was spread the word to the others, and with luck, they would catch the murdering villain before he managed to leave Cornwall.
In the middle of the afternoon Harry and Big Davey stopped by briefly to report that their mission was accomplished. They looked at Bethia out of the corners of their eyes and carefully spoke in a most roundabout way, but even so she had to swallow the bile that rose up in her throat when she thought about the two bodies sinking down to the cold, cold bottom of the sea.
She knew from her own experience with the kidnappers that they had not been good men. Not merely depraved, they had, in fact, been downright wicked, and the violence of their deaths only matched the violence of their lives. And yet, the very suddenness and unexpectedness of their passing still had the power to shock Bethia.
Could anyone know the number of days he had remaining on this earth? Those men had thought they would live, and she had thought she would die; yet here she was and there they were. And she could not even discuss such subjects with Mr. Rendel because now that he had agreed to marry her, she did not want to do anything or say anything that might cause him to change his mind.
For even though he had agreed, she knew he still did not think himself the proper man to be her husband.
Jem showed up late in the afternoon just as Mr. Rendel was dishing up a tasty mutton stew. Accepting an invitation to join them for supper, Jem pulled up a chair and began a terse recital of where he had gone and whom he had spoken with.
“Could be he’s halfway back to London,” Jem said when he’d finished both the account of his activities and his bowl of stew. “And could be he’s hiding somewhere in the neighborhood,” he added, taking a wicked-looking knife from his belt and using it to cut himself a thick slice of rye bread. “You’ve got problems either way,” he concluded.
“Miss Pepperell and I have decided it will be best if we marry as quickly as possible,” Mr. Rendel said quite formally.
“Thought you might,” Jem said. “Couldn’t believe a man with your book learning would miss the obvious.”
From his cocky grin Bethia thought there was a lot he left unsaid, and she rather suspected his restraint was due to her presence.
“To be of benefit to Miss Pepperell,” Mr. Rendel continued seriously, “the marriage must be completely legal beyond a shadow of a doubt, which means we cannot elope. Since we must obtain her aunt’s permission for the marriage to take place, we need to go to London with all possible speed.”
“You can borrow my yacht if you wish,” Jem said. “Sailing to London will be easier than trying to make speed on the wretched roads between here and
there, and I will be happy to crew for you.”
Bethia did not utter a word of protest. She could not. Her mind was filled with such horror—such dread. She could not even bear to think about hearing again those eternal waves, feeling again the constant motion of the boat, losing her way forever in another cold fog.
“Thank you, but I think it will be best if we travel by coach,” Mr. Rendel said, and Bethia found she could breathe again.
“In that case, you’d best take Big Davey with you,” Jem said, “for he’s a much better hand with the horses than I am.”
According to the coachman, another half hour would see them across the Tamar River, and Mr. Harcourt knew that once he was in Devon, he would be able to breathe a bit easier.
Of course no one searching for him would ever suspect that the clergyman in the threadbare frockcoat who was occupying the middle seat of the London stagecoach and the redheaded seaman who had spent the entire previous day sitting in the shadows at the Double Anchor were one and the same person.
It was amazing the transformation one could achieve with a wig and an unshaven chin. And he was reasonably sure that none of the men who had ambushed Fane and Williams at the cove had gotten close enough to see his face. His mind, therefore, should be at ease.
But several things troubled him about the unfortunate events that had occurred that morning. The most important was the identity of the men who had been hiding behind the rocks. Nothing about their appearance suggested that they were excise men or soldiers.
Knowing the amount of French brandy that entered England without the benefit of a tax stamp, the obvious answer was that they had been smugglers who had mistakenly thought his two hirelings were themselves government agents.
But Harcourt had seen no sign of any kegs—only Bethia’s body lying at the water’s edge.
Surely the men on the beach could not have missed seeing it also. And having discovered it, would they not, in the normal course of things, have carried it back to the village or to the nearest magistrate?
The Counterfeit Gentleman Page 7
