by Mary Brendan
She had gone downstairs early to breakfast alone and her innocent questions had caused the serving girls to blush and giggle and scurry hither and thither with coffee and chocolate pots to avoid answering her. Basham had uncovered the dish of kedgeree for her with a flourish, then a wink and a tap at the side of his nose had warned her to ask no more. At nineteen she’d deemed herself a woman grown, not a child, and she had resented their attitude that it was some sort of secret from which she must be excluded. When she’d insisted on knowing what was going on, Basham had reported that back to the master of the house. Her stepfather had duly made a point of gently chiding her for her inquisitiveness about something that need not concern her. Bit by bit thereafter Deborah had pieced together the puzzle from overheard comments made by the servants and the locals. It became clear to her that not all thought it a shameful trade; a lot of people deemed the outlaws who ran contraband worthy of their pride and loyalty.
Her stepfather might not have held those fellows in high esteem, but he obviously gave tacit permission for their booty to enter his house.
That first introduction to the smugglers had been five years ago. Two and a half years later she’d become engaged to Edmund Green. It was to be a tragically brief betrothal. He had been killed within four months by one of the smugglers in an affray with the dragoons on coast watch.
Her solemn musing was interrupted as she spied Harriet’s brother emerging from a large, elegant house set back from the road. Her expression turned wry as she saw he’d caught his vicar’s robe in the gate and was fighting to free it from the hinge. Having adjusted his dress, the Reverend Gerard Davenport banged shut the gate with discernible irritation.
‘Gerard seems to have finished his meeting with the bishop earlier than expected.’ Harriet had also caught sight of her brother and waved at him. ‘I hope he is going to take me to Rye market.’ She gave her friend a smile. ‘It is always nice when Susanna is from home,’ she said, referring to her sister-in-law with a frown. ‘It is like the old times when Gerard and I would go shopping or visiting without a sour puss sitting between us on the seat.’
Gerard Davenport had married for the first time when he’d just turned forty. His wife, Susanna, was only a few years older than her sister-in-law. Harriet was twenty-eight but she had always got on very well with her older brother, and they had lived in peace and harmony at the vicarage until Gerard had decided it was time to get a wife and family.
He’d found his wife too quickly, Harriet was wont to mutter. She knew very well that Susanna resented her presence in what she classed as her domain, but Gerard maintained his sister was welcome beneath his roof for as long as she wanted to remain there.
‘Why do you not come to Rye, too, and forget all this unpleasantness for a short while?’ Harriet suggested. ‘Perhaps Mrs Woodville might like an invitation. An outing will do you both good.’
‘I’d like to go with you,’ Deborah said wistfully. ‘But…Mama has been suffering with her heads recently. I sent Fred back with the trap.’ She sighed. ‘I told him to bathe his face and rest a while in case he again came over queer. I shall walk home…’ Her soft lips remained parted as though she had more to say, but had been distracted.
Deborah had been intermittently flicking glances about at the street scene whilst conversing with her friend. She’d just noticed a gentleman emerge from the blacksmith’s doorway and she continued to gaze in his direction so steadily that Harriet frowned at her.
‘What is it?’
‘I thought I recognised someone,’ Deborah said with a hollow little laugh. Her heart had ceased beating for those few seconds she’d stared and wondered if it could possibly be him. The man had again gone inside the forge, and she was no longer able to scrutinise him from a distance. Now, as her lurching stomach steadied, she realised just how silly she’d been to imagine that Randolph Chadwicke would be so far from home. His home now, to the best of her knowledge, was in the Indies and had been so for many years. If he were back in England on a visit, she imagined he would either be found in Suffolk, where his family lived, or in Mayfair where he used to lease a town house. Perhaps he still did. She knew nothing of him now, nor did she want to. But once…once she’d been keen to know everything about him. She’d wanted him for her husband.
‘How are you, Deborah?’ Gerard asked solicitously as he joined them and slipped his sister’s hand through the crook of an arm. He gave Harriet’s gloved fingers a fond pat before launching into speech. ‘I saw Fred mopping his face of blood this morning. He told me that some local ruffians had set about him. Would you like me to speak to Savidge about it to find out what can be done, my dear?’
A grateful smile rewarded the vicar for his offer. ‘That’s kind, Gerard,’ Deborah said. ‘But I have already been to see him.’
‘Mr Savidge thinks that nothing should be done,’ Harriet told her brother flatly.
‘It’s a dreadful to do when even the local magistrate is too scared of the villains to act.’ Gerard Davenport sadly shook his head. He looked at Deborah for a response, but again her wide blue eyes were riveted elsewhere.
The tall gentleman had emerged from the smithy and she no longer was presented with his profile. He’d turned her way, causing a small gasp of disbelief to escape her soft lips.
Almost as though he sensed her eyes on him, he looked up. At first there was nothing, just the slightly sardonic, narrow-eyed interest of a gentleman who has caught an attractive young woman watching him. Then she saw the change in him, saw the hand that had been smoothing the sleek flank of the newly shod bay become still. He looked down before slowly raising his head to stare at her, and with such fierce intensity that Deborah felt her face flinch aside as though to evade a blow. A moment later she was aware of him approaching.
Chapter Two
‘Miss Cleveland?’
It was a long while since Deborah had been addressed so and it brought with it a poignant memory of her time as the débutante daughter of Viscount Cleveland. At eighteen she’d been the toast of the ton, and newly single, having broken her engagement to the heir to an earldom.
He’d spoken before reaching her, a query accenting her name. He’d thought, too, that his eyes might be deceiving him, Deborah realised. A darting glance at her companions confirmed they were swinging interested looks between the two of them.
George Woodville had been her stepfather, not her sire, but since she’d arrived in Sussex with her remarried mother, people had seemed to assume she would want to be a Woodville too. Her father had been a peer of the realm, but he was not known in these parts, whereas the Squires Woodville could trace their prominence in Sussex gentry back as far as Cromwell’s days. It had seemed trivial to Deborah to keep pointing out that her mother might now be a Woodville, but she was not.
Harriet was cognisant with her history and Deborah could see the young woman retrieving the relevant snippet from her mind. She turned with her brother to gaze up at the ruggedly handsome stranger who had joined them.
‘Why…Mr Chadwicke…what a surprise to see you,’ Deborah uttered in a stiff, suffocated tone. It was not at all the first thing she had promised herself she would say should their paths ever again cross. But her good manners dictated that she remain polite in company. She could tell that her friends were impatient to be introduced to him, but his relentless golden gaze remained unnervingly on her face, causing colour to seep beneath her cheeks.
‘I should like to introduce you both to Mr Chadwicke, he is…’ Debbie hesitated and her uncertainty on how to continue caused a skewing of his narrow mouth. ‘Mr Chadwicke and I…have mutual friends,’ she resorted to saying. ‘This is the Reverend Mr Gerard Davenport and his sister Harriet,’ she concluded the niceties.
Randolph enclosed Gerard’s extended fingers in a large brown hand and gave them a firm shake. Harriet received a courteous bow coupled with a murmured greeting.
‘Are you related to the Somerset Chadwickes, sir?’ Gerard asked brightly.
/> ‘I’m not,’ Randolph replied. ‘I hail from the east of Suffolk.’
‘Ah,’ Gerard said. ‘A good part of the country; I have been to Yarmouth on several occasions and have found it most pleasant. But the cold winds nigh on cut one in half.’
‘It can be bitter there in winter,’ Randolph agreed.
At close quarters, and having surreptitiously studied him from beneath her bonnet brim whilst he conversed with the vicar, Deborah was astonished she had so easily recognised him. Apart from those hazel eyes seeming just as wolfish as she remembered, he looked quite different. His hair, once nut brown, had been made fair by a foreign sun and streaked here and there to colours close to caramel. His skin tone, too, was weatherbeaten and his features roughened. He looked to be a man who had been brutalised by life and the elements since last she’d seen him. There was no more of the debonair youth in him. Yet something in her first glimpse of his profile, of his physique, had been achingly familiar to her.
‘Are you staying long in Hastings?’ Deborah blurted as a silence developed between them all.
‘I’m not sure, Miss Cleveland. Are you?’
‘I reside here now, sir,’ Deborah informed him levelly. ‘I live at Woodville Place with my mother. My stepfather, George Woodville, died just over two years ago.’
‘I had a communication from Marcus that your father had died,’ Randolph said gently. ‘I was very sad to hear that news. I knew, too, that your mother had remarried, but not that she was once again a widow. Neither was I aware you had permanently quit London for the country.’
‘My stepfather kept a small town house in Chelsea. Before he passed away we used it quite often in the Season. Now I believe his son lives there.’
A silence again strained, but it seemed that Mr Chad-wicke had no intention of taking his leave and returning to his horse. The blacksmith had emerged from his forge, looking for his customer; seeing him socialising, he’d tethered the magnificent beast more securely to a post before returning inside.
‘Are you away from Suffolk to visit relatives in the area?’ Gerard asked amiably.
‘I have no relatives in the area,’ Randolph once more told him. ‘I’ve travelled to the south coast on a business matter.’
‘And will it keep you here long, sir?’ Harriet asked politely.
‘Possibly,’ Randolph replied succinctly.
After a pause that vainly begged a better explanation Harriet reminded her brother, ‘Well…we must be going. You’ve promised to take me to Rye this afternoon and I’ve not forgotten. Are you sure you won’t come with us, Debbie?’
‘I must be getting along home,’ Deborah replied huskily, but with a small smile for her friend. The ruthless golden gaze was again savaging the side of her face and instinctively she raised a hand to touch her hot cheek.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk privately without being gawped at?’ Randolph said whilst watching the vicar and his sister strolling away towards their dogcart.
Deborah, too, had noticed that they were under observation. In London well-bred people would mask their inquisitiveness behind concealing lashes or fluttering fans; these simple country folk employed no such sophisticated tactics. They stared quite openly as they passed by.
‘Strangers always stir interest hereabouts,’ she explained to him. Deborah knew, too, that undoubtedly news was travelling on the grapevine that her driver had been involved in a brawl whilst protecting her.
‘Is there a tearoom we can go to?’
She had heard nothing from him in almost seven years. Now he wanted to sit and chat over tea!
Oh, there was much they could discuss that need not touch on the very thorny subject of their brief romance. They might swap news about their mutual friends, the Earl and Countess of Gresham. They could reminisce on the couple’s glittering wedding when she had been a bridesmaid and Randolph had been Marcus’s groomsman. It had been the last occasion they’d seen one another, seven years ago. The last time he’d kissed her passionately before forgetting about her.
‘There is a teashop, but I’m not sure that visiting it, or prolonging this meeting, is necessary, sir,’ Deborah rebuffed him coolly.
‘Not necessary?’ he ground out. ‘Have we nothing to say to one another after so long?’
‘If you had something to say to me, I imagine you would not have waited seven years to air it,’ Deborah snapped. She took a deep breath and looked away, striving for composure. She would not give him the satisfaction of guessing that she’d pined for him for years after he went away. She would never let him know that she’d wanted to write to him in the Indies but had felt unable to abase herself and beg an address from his friend, the Earl of Gresham, so she might do so. Nor would she have needed to do so if Randolph Chadwicke had been true to his parting words on that glorious day when Marcus Speer had married Jemma Bailey.
At the reception, away from prying eyes in an alcove in the hallway of Marcus’s magnificent mansion, Randolph had kissed her and told her that he must go away to sort out pressing family matters, but that he would write to her as soon as he could. Obviously he had never found the time or the inclination to put pen to paper and say where he was, or how he was doing, or when he would return and issue that unspoken proposal that had thrilled in the air between them. But no disaster had befallen him to prevent a communication. She had heard through her friends that Randolph Chadwicke was still in the Indies with his older brother.
‘I didn’t wait one year and well you know it,’ Randolph muttered viciously through his teeth. He’d deliberately put too little volume in the words. He was equally keen not to reveal he’d been wounded by their ill-starred attraction. ‘You sound as though you might have missed me, Miss Cleveland,’ Randolph drawled as his eyes roamed over her classic pearl-skinned profile.
This time she heard very well what he’d said, just as he’d intended she should. A bubble of laughter met his conceit, but she swallowed the immediate denial that sprang to her tongue. It would sound false however she expressed it. ‘Perhaps I did at first, sir,’ she insou-ciantly agreed. ‘But a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then.’ A smile was forced to her lips. ‘I was just a girl of eighteen when last we spoke.’ She raised cornflower-blue eyes to his, held his narrowed gaze for a significant long second whilst adding, ‘Now I am a woman.’ Her brashness withered beneath lupine eyes. She felt suddenly uneasy for having implied something that was quite untrue, and she was at a loss to know why she’d done it.
‘Despite all that water and experience you recognised me straight away,’ he reminded her very quietly.
‘As you did me,’ she returned in a snap and then swiftly turned to stare at the sea sparkling in the distance. Her mind was in turmoil. She felt unprepared and unequal to dealing with this meeting. Once she had longed for it to occur; she had prepared in minute detail what she would wear and what she would say. But the event had sprung up defiantly when she’d believed the chance of it doing so had expired. She was at a loss to recall any of that witty conversation that had for years whirled in her mind, and her outfit was sensible rather than seductive. ‘I didn’t intend to sound brusque a moment ago,’ she hastened on. What was she thinking of? Seductive? She no longer wished to attract him, she reminded herself. ‘I have rather a lot to do. I expect you, too, have a lot to do as you are in the area on business.’ She inclined her head towards the forge. ‘I see Donald Smith is again looking for you. He is a stickler, so I’ve heard, for having his bills immediately settled.’ She imagined Donald would not be too worried that this gentleman might abscond without paying. She ran a discreet eye over the impressive masculine figure beside her. His tailored jacket and snugly cut buff breeches were of obvious quality and the long leather riding coat that carelessly covered them looked to have been topstitched by a master craftsman. She remembered that she’d always admired how well his lofty, muscular body suited formal attire when they’d socialised together at balls and parties.
But all that
was gone and forgotten. Charming and elegant he might have contrived to be, but she knew it all for a sham. He’d been a practised flirt and she’d been naïve enough to take his empty promises seriously. She extended gloved fingers. ‘It is nice to have met you again, Mr Chadwicke. I hope your business in the area goes well.’ It seemed he was not going to match her polite farewell. A firm clasp tightened on her hand as she made to slip it free after an appropriate time had passed.
‘I have to go home now. My mother will wonder what has become of me.’ Deborah again wriggled her fingers against the warmth of his palm whilst scouring her mind for a polite yet meaningless remark. ‘Of course, if you find business ever again brings you this way, sir, you must come and see us.’
He looked down at those fidgeting digits and slowly released them. ‘Thank you for the invitation,’ he said softly. ‘I shall call on you tomorrow afternoon.’
‘I didn’t mean this time—’ Deborah blurted before her pearly teeth nipped at her lower lip. She hadn’t intended to sound quite so inhospitable, but she wasn’t sure she could cope with again being tormented with his presence. This impromptu meeting had set her pulse accelerating alarmingly; she couldn’t countenance sitting and politely taking tea whilst brooding on memories of what had happened seven years ago. The disturbing knowledge that just ten minutes of his company had the power to stir to life embers of emotions she’d believed withered to ashes made her heart constrict beneath her ribs. ‘It would be better to leave a social call till your next trip to Sussex,’ she insisted, dipping her head in readiness to step away.
