by Mary Brendan
‘I’ve heard Mr Savidge believes that the locals protect their own, and it is difficult to collect evidence against the perpetrators,’ she said carefully.
‘Perhaps I can persuade him to take a more robust attitude towards criminals, and his duty in bringing them to justice.’
‘Have you any news of Lieutenant Barrow?’ Deborah quickly carried on, feeling more unsettled than flattered by his unwavering regard. He was a well-built, good-looking man of about thirty years old, she judged. She’d known from the moment that they had been introduced earlier that he found her attractive. The gleam in his eyes was intensifying and Deborah knew, following a flitting glance to her left, that her mother had also noticed his interest in her.
‘He has regained consciousness, thankfully,’ Captain Stewart informed her.
‘That’s wonderful news,’ Deborah softly exclaimed, turning to beam her relief at her mother.
‘He has still a long way to go before he is fully recovered,’ the captain added pessimistically. ‘The hunt for those responsible goes on.’
‘I’ve heard a rumour the culprit fled abroad.’
Deborah had known that Randolph had risen from the card table after playing a couple of hands. Despite conversing with the captain, she was peripherally aware of where Randolph was and to whom he was speaking, just as she knew she was constantly under his covert observation. As he’d moved out of sight she’d imagined he had gone to join the group of gentlemen who were discussing some tomes on the bookshelves situated to the rear of the sofa. She had not expected to hear his husky baritone voice so close to her, or to sense the weight of a hand on the back of her chair, a hairbreadth from her exposed shoulder. He was so near she could sense his warmth bathing her cool, nude skin. To her shame she realised she yearned to sway closer to it.
‘Perhaps he did flee abroad. But there are people in the vicinity who were accessories to the crime. They will not escape punishment.’ Captain Stewart had looked over Deborah’s head to speak to Randolph, confirming that he had positioned himself just behind her.
Randolph had been the last guest to arrive at the vicarage this evening and, apart from a mild exchange, curtailed by her mother’s more enthusiastic greeting for him, they had barely had an opportunity to converse.
Deborah had been aware, before her mother mentioned it, of Susanna’s immediate interest in Randolph. She had clutched his arm to steer him hither and thither to ensure that introductions were made between the guests, although Gerard had already performed the office. On glancing across, Deborah realised that Susanna’s eyes were trained again on Randolph and she was ignoring Harriet’s game attempt to revive the card session since Sergeant Booth had joined them at the baize table.
‘So you hail from East Anglia, Mr Chadwicke,’ Captain Stewart said, whilst his eyes lingered on the long, dark fingers splayed on velvet, a fraction distant from nudging a sculpted ivory shoulder.
‘I’m from Suffolk,’ Randolph said easily. ‘And you, Captain? Where were you previously stationed?’
‘At Whitby—I had command of the coast watch there and was in league with the Revenue Officers to crack down on the smugglers plaguing the area.’
‘Were you successful against the rogues, Captain?’ Julia asked, agog with interest.
‘Indeed—we had a very great victory just a few months ago in the summer against a large gang of smugglers. They had anchored out at sea and came ashore in long boats armed with blunderbusses and pistols. There might have been as many as eighty of them.’ Pleased at having drawn so much attention, the captain settled back to continue recounting the incident. ‘We made a large seizure of liquor at Redcar. The smugglers were a crafty bunch and had tried to get the locals’ backing by staving in the heads of casks for the populace to drink what they would. Of course, a crowd of drunks is likely to offer little resistance to them or assistance to us.’ He looked about at his audience for their reaction. ‘After a savage fight we managed to retain hold of the illicit cargo. A band of stragglers who had not made good their escape tried to ambush a cart at the back of the line as we made our way to the Customs House. They were unsuccessful in reclaiming the casks on it. They were stupid, too, in following us, for they also were arrested. But, most importantly, a number of the ringleaders were apprehended that day. I feel able to boast that ever since the incident it has been quiet along that coastline.’
‘Will that peace last, I wonder?’ Randolph mused ironically. ‘No doubt other men will come forwards to replace those now in gaol. Unfortunately free-trading is part of the scenery all over the country and those who run contraband are often considered heroes rather than villains. Spices, tea, lace, tobacco, liquor…there is temptation for every class and community in their cargoes.’
‘Do you hold an apologist’s view of smuggling, sir?’ Paul Stewart enquired coolly.
‘I approve of a practical attitude towards the matter,’ Randolph returned with a slight smile. ‘It seems to me that as long as a demand exists for duty-free goods the trade will flourish.’
‘Then we will renew our fight there or anywhere else the criminals operate,’ Captain Stewart stated adamantly. ‘You seem to have an understanding of the trade, Mr Chadwicke. Am I correct?’
‘The Suffolk seaboard has its smugglers, as does every coastal region.’ Randolph gave the earnest young officer a half-smile. ‘I applaud your moral stance, Captain, and the fact that you are presenting the free-traders with such valiant opposition. I imagine that instead of allowing you to rest on your laurels your superiors have sent you south to defeat the smugglers operating in this neck of the woods.’
‘We welcome your presence here, Captain Stewart,’ Deborah quickly interjected, keen to prevent a hostile atmosphere from fomenting. ‘Unfortunately I understand Mr Chadwicke’s cynicism on the likelihood of ever completely eradicating the trade.’ She sighed. ‘We have had a lull in activity along this stretch of coast in the past when the dragoons have had victories. But eventually the lights again move through the woods at dead of night. There is much support for the villains in the surrounding villages, and constant demand for their goods.’
Julia leaned across and clutched the captain’s red-coated arm with thin fingers. ‘You must not leave, sir, until you have done for Hastings an equal service as you did for Whitby.’
‘I shall do my utmost for you, ma’am,’ the captain charmingly replied.
‘Who would like to join us in the music room and listen to a recital?’ Harriet had approached the sofa to make that amiable enquiry. ‘Mrs Pattinson has agreed to play the pianoforte for us.’
Julia Woodville gave a murmur of pleasure on hearing that musical entertainment was imminent. Immediately she extended a limp, freckled hand to the captain. For a moment he looked at it, then, with a faint smile, which had disappeared by the time his eyes had encompassed the other couple in the group, he helped the widow to her feet. Julia’s hand grasped his uniformed elbow and she urged him forwards, giving instructions on how to locate the music room once they’d quit the drawing room.
The two people who remained, one seated, one standing, received from Harriet a winsome smile before she moved on to urge her brother and the other gentlemen to repair to the music room too.
‘Come, Susanna,’ the vicar called to his spouse, still seated, alone, at the baize table. ‘Mrs Pattinson is going to play us a few tunes. Will you accompany her and sing for us, my dear?’
Susanna’s sour expression hinted she was unlikely to agree to do so. Her rouged mouth had tightened and it was with some bad grace, it seemed to Deborah, that the woman took her husband’s arm. She swished about and went off with him, thus leaving Deborah and Randolph the only occupants of the drawing room.
Deborah sensed a caress on her skin; so light and brief was that fingertip touch that for a moment she thought she must have imagined it. When it came again and zigzagged a fiery trail to a spot behind an ear before removing, a ripple of pleasure passed through her. She turned her head, t
ilting up her face so that her fair ringlets danced on her nude skin, to look at hard dark features.
‘I suppose we should go also,’ Randolph muttered huskily, ‘although I’d sooner we stayed here.’
‘Why? Do you not like music?’ Deborah rattled off as she sought to calm a feeling of excitement simultaneously chilling and heating her limbs. She, too, would sooner stay where she was so they might talk privately.
Many unanswered questions had been pricking at her mind since he’d left Woodville Place at dawn. Several times she’d inwardly berated herself for not insisting on having her answers before he’d carried her upstairs and left her at her door. If he had caught Seth Luckhurst prowling around Woodville Place’s grounds that night, why would he not tell her so? Had he sought to protect her because he imagined she might become as hysterical as had her mother on learning of the villain’s proximity? If so, he surely did not know her character—but then, why did she persist in expecting that he might? She had been completely fooled about the strength of his interest in her once before and should have learned her lesson from it.
Seven years ago she’d believed they were in love and had been proved foolish in assuming he returned her finer feelings. She’d put her love and trust in a man who’d conquered his infatuation with her as soon as they’d parted. But she was honest enough to acknowledge that she couldn’t put all the blame on him. It hadn’t been a callous seduction on his part: at eighteen she had spurned her fiancé and chased after Randolph with as much zeal as he had pursued her. The memory of her brazen immodesty, and her selfish disregard for her parents’ feelings in it all, still had the power to make her blush. Youth and innocence had been her undoing; she’d clung to a romantic idyll of her own creation, longing for it to be real.
Still she could not quash her gladness at their reunion, or her need to see desire in his eyes when he looked at her. And this evening he had constantly looked at her despite his well-mannered attention to the other guests when they engaged him in conversation.
This afternoon she had taken some time sorting through her clothes press to choose what to wear for the Davenports’ soirée. The grand ball gowns that she’d owned, but not worn for many years, were not appropriate for a cosy evening at the vicarage. Yet she’d known she wanted to wear something stylish to impress him with her appearance. At eighteen she’d frequently been told that she was stunningly lovely; even rival débutantes had admitted to it, albeit with reluctance or envy in their voices. Now she was older and, despite Randolph’s compliment that she’d changed little in the intervening years, Deborah knew her mirror did not lie. A tiny dent had appeared between her brunette brows from the sorrows she’d endured and the memory of past laughter was also delicately etched on her porcelain complexion.
When she’d met Randolph in Hastings she’d been garbed in serviceable clothes. When he’d dined with them later that day she’d dressed in a manner befitting to an informal meal with her mother and an unexpected gentleman guest. This evening had been the first opportunity she’d had to dress up and remind him of the vivacious young woman he’d once wooed. She’d wanted to resemble the seductive little miss who’d once driven him wild with desire.
The gown she had settled on was one that had been made for her début; fortunately it was of classic Grecian style and thus had not dated too much in the intervening years. A simple blue silk sheath was overlaid with a net of fine Brussels lace. Her figure was fuller now than it had been when she was a girlish eighteen and the snug fit thrust an alluring, rather than a vulgar, amount of exposed pearly flesh above the scooped bodice. The sheeny material clung to her slender midriff and enhanced her small waist, whilst the rich, sapphire colour was undiminished by the gauzy lace and intensified the shade of her eyes.
As though his mind tracked hers, Randolph said in a voice of gravelled velvet, ‘You look ravishing tonight. That dress always suited you, perhaps more so now you’ve filled it out.’
An immediate look was slanted up at him and her soft lips parted in readiness to launch an indignant retort that she thought it always had fitted her very well. It remained unuttered as her gaze locked with mocking amber eyes. Moments later his interest had deliberately slipped to her parted pink mouth before roaming the mounds of milky skin that were, from his vantage point, freely available to a ravening inspection.
‘Perhaps we should join the others,’ he muttered ruefully.
A thrill of anticipation stalked Deborah’s spine as she recognised the frustrated need in him. She realised he could easily move his hand and slide his fingers over the sensitive flesh of her breasts. He had stroked her in such a way once before when he’d been ardently kissing her behind a cool marble pillar. On that occasion she’d been dressed in her virginal bridesmaid’s dress and she’d had every silly expectation of soon becoming his wife. Her head jerked down; she was terrified he might guess her wish to have him again fondle her in such a way.
‘We should join the others in the music room,’ she gasped out. ‘I recall you used to like recitals and dancing. We often danced together at Almack’s.’
‘We did much together,’ Randolph reminded gruffly. ‘I haven’t forgotten any of it, not a single thing.’
‘You forgot me,’ she hissed in an angry, suffocated voice and made to jump up from the sofa. She felt his touch then, two warm palms sliding over her shoulders, curving on fragile shoulder bones to keep her where she was.
‘That’s the puzzle that remains unsolved, Deborah. I think it’s time it was.’
He leaned forwards so their heads were close as she continued to wriggle to get free of his restraint. She turned her head and her wide blue eyes met a fierce feline stare. Suddenly she could sense that anger, as well as desire, was firing him; the fingers curled on her cool flesh were firm and insistent. Instantly they were removed and he’d straightened. A single, negligent hand remained propped on the sofa as he turned to face the door.
Harriet had entered the room and immediately hurried towards the sofa with a frown creasing her features.
‘What is it?’ Deborah asked at once. She had immediately stood up as she sensed Harriet’s agitation.
‘Oh…I’m sure it is nothing,’ Harriet answered rather shrilly. ‘I was just in the kitchens asking Dilys to bring some lemonade to the music room and.’ She flapped a hand and giggled nervously. ‘It is your driver, Fred. He was in the kitchens and most upset. He had been keeping an eye on the horses and carriages in the yard in between sitting with the staff below stairs and—’
‘Fred? Is something up with him?’ Deborah interrupted.
‘He is in a high old state, I’m afraid,’ Harriet replied on a gulp. ‘I’d sooner not alert your mother to what he has said. I know she suffers with her nerves and it will ruin her enjoyment unnecessarily if nothing is amiss. I’m sure it is nothing.’
‘What is it, Harriet?’ Deborah moved towards her friend and clasped her hands, sensing a niggling apprehension curdling her stomach as she felt Harriet’s fingers trembling against her own.
‘Fred has said he was returning from the stable and, on looking towards the church, he saw Noose-head Ned up by the lichgate staring down on him.’
Chapter Twelve
‘Noose-head Ned?’
‘Oh, for Heaven’s sake!’ Deborah’s exclamation had mingled with Randolph’s amused quizzical voice for they had spoken together. ‘Fred was blathering about that silly tale the other day when I was tending Edmund’s grave.’ An exasperated sigh huffed out of her. ‘I suspect he has allowed his imagination to get the better of him.’ Deborah gave her friend an apologetic look. ‘I will go directly and try to calm him down before he causes a commotion and spoils the party.’
‘Who or what is Noose-head Ned?’ Randolph asked. His eyes had narrowed speculatively and the humour was no longer in his tone.
‘It is just a foolish tale of a ghostly being rumoured to materialise at night,’ Deborah explained. ‘According to Fred there are villagers who have become hy
sterical after the spectre crossed their path. He’s said to ride about moaning and groaning and swinging the noose that remains about his neck.’ On seeing Randolph’s sharpening interest, she told him what she knew about the origins of fabled Noose-head Ned.
‘Ned Swinton was a smuggler who was hanged several years ago. Or rather he was in the process of being hanged when some daring accomplices darted out of the crowd to free him. He was still kicking when they cut him down, and they rode hard and got away from their pursuers. By all accounts when they stopped, believing they were in the clear, Ned was found to have expired on his horse, still upright in the saddle with his hands entangled in the reins.’ She gave a self-conscious little laugh. ‘Folklore has it that Ned believes he still breathes and instead of passing over to a spirit world he’s trapped in a limbo between life and death.’ A small gesture described her scepticism. ‘His body was allegedly dumped out at sea by his cohorts. Now Ned favours haunting the churchyard to look for a resting place, and the lanes around Pump Cottage where he once lived as a young man.’ Having told all she knew, she started towards the door with a vexed sigh.
Randolph stopped her before she had time to quit the room. His fingers felt warm and firm on her cool, yielding forearm. ‘I’ll come with you and speak to Fred Cook just in case there is something in what he says that needs investigation. He might have actually seen a human being.’
He didn’t elaborate, but Deborah knew what he was thinking. Her driver might have caught a glimpse of a moon-dusted tramp and in his fanciful state believed the fellow a phantom. A grateful smile accepted his assistance. ‘But I don’t think Captain Stewart should yet be alerted,’ she added in a cautionary way. ‘I wouldn’t like an innocent traveller to be apprehended because of Fred’s hysteria.’
