by Mary Brendan
Deborah gave a slow nod, but the tears started to sting again. She thought of Fred trekking the miles back to the vicarage, perhaps concussed and unsure of his bearings. She dashed away the wet on her lashes. It was no time for a faint heart. She was feeling sorry for herself because her behaviour this evening had been stupidly rash and now she must face the consequences. Randolph was about to fight for his life, and despite her fears that he was as villainous as his brother, she couldn’t stop loving or wanting to protect him.
As he kicked the horse into action and they set off at a canter she plucked the hood of her cloak up to cover her head and turned her face against the warmth of his chest.
* * *
She wasn’t quite a prisoner, yet she knew too that if she attempted to leave, Mr and Mrs Pinner would stop her. Mrs Pinner she could no doubt evade, but her husband was another matter. He was a burly chap of about Basham’s age, Deborah guessed, but whereas Basham was a middle-aged man of limited strength and mobility Deborah could tell that this fellow suffered no such incapacity. Mick Pinner moved nimbly and his shoulders looked strong and broad.
Randolph had made speedy introductions between them before giving the couple strict orders that they were to open the door to nobody. Miss Cleveland, he’d impressed on them, was not to go out under any circumstances and later he or Ross would return to collect her. He’d then kissed her swift and hard on the mouth, stifling her questions and complaints, before leaving without another word. She’d known then just how much peril he faced; never would he act so indiscreetly in front of servants…unless he thought it might be the final time they would see one another.
‘Take a warm drink, miss,’ Frances Pinner gently urged and again set a mug of tea in front of her. The woman removed the cold brew that she’d put before Deborah some half an hour ago, but which had remained untouched on the kitchen table. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a bite to eat?’ Mrs Pinner asked in her country burr. ‘There’s some nice juicy ham and a fresh loaf.’
‘Thank you, no.’ Deborah managed to follow her immediate declination with a smile of gratitude. She couldn’t eat! Her stomach felt tied in knots and nausea afflicted her when her mind returned, as it constantly did, to mull over the evening’s horrific events. Her sense of helplessness was the worst to bear.
This couple were simply doing their duty. It wasn’t their fault that she was unable to rush out and discover what was going on. And she knew she desperately wanted to still her scampering thoughts with answers, whether good or bad. ‘Do you know…is the beach far from here? Where exactly is Hartsmere Lodge located from Rye? I have lost my bearings and don’t know which way is home. My mother will be frantic with worry. I should dearly love to let her know I’m all right.’ Deborah saw the woman exchange a significant look with her husband as he piled logs on to the fire.
‘No need to fret about any of that now, miss,’ Mrs Pinner cajoled. ‘Mr Chadwicke and the master will soon be back. You’ll be safe home before you know it to see your ma. Then all will be right as rain,’ she lilted.
The gallop through the woods to the lodge, held fast in Randolph’s arms, had taken no time at all and seemed now to Deborah so long ago. Due to her agitation when first she’d arrived she had repeatedly paced in and out of the Lodge’s various apartments in an attempt to disperse her nervous energy.
Now, on looking about, she reviewed what she’d seen with a less hectic eye. It was a luxurious property, hardly the spartan hunting lodge she’d imagined it would be. Of the outside edifice she’d seen little other than a gabled fagade. Internally it was a spacious and very well-furnished building that comprised several rooms on the ground floor. A staircase led from the hallway to a first floor where several bedchambers were situated. It had been decorated, she decided, with a woman’s elegant rather than feminine touch. She imagined if he were wed, Ross probably brought his wife here. Then she remembered what she’d heard about his philandering reputation and realised, married or no, it might be she was admiring a mistress’s taste. That idea led her to think it would be the ideal place for a discreet romantic tryst, and her thoughts again turned to Randolph while tears burned her eyes. She gazed blurrily into her tea and warmed her hands on the hot china.
‘What was that?’ Deborah had been about to sip from the mug. Now it banged down on the table and she blinked in alarm at Mr Pinner to ascertain whether he too had heard a rap at the door.
He definitely had. Mick Pinner was already reaching for the pistol on the mantelpiece. Once he had it in his grip he pointed it in front of him and went on silent feet into the hallway. Deborah jumped up from the kitchen table and rushed to watch him as he put a meaty shoulder against the stout oak door and listened.
Deborah swung a glance back at Mrs Pinner to see she hadn’t her husband’s sang-froid. The woman looked terrified, but Frances put her finger to her lips to warn Deborah to keep quiet and let her husband take charge.
The knock came again more insistently this time and heavy enough to rattle the door on its hinges.
‘Who comes calling at such an hour?’ Mr Pinner boomed.
‘It’s…it’s Fred Cook. Is my mistress with you? Is Miss Woodville with you? We’ve had an accident on the road and.’
A shrill, nervous voice, barely recognisable as Fred’s, had Deborah rushing towards Mr Pinner. ‘I am known as Miss Woodville,’ she explained immediately. ‘Let Fred in,’ she demanded and reached past Mick Pinner for the iron key. ‘All he has said is true. Our trap overturned. Oh, do quickly let him in. He was hurt in the accident and knocked unconscious.’ She shook Mick’s arm for he seemed reluctant to yet open the door. ‘Fred, are you all right?’ Deborah called. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. Wait just a moment, we are opening up to let you in.’
‘What’s he look like?’ Mick Pinner demanded. His beefy fingers tightened about the key to thwart Deborah’s attempt to prise them away so she might turn the iron implement.
‘He is young and quite short with freckles and light brown hair and…’ She gave an impatient gesture. ‘Oh, let him in, for goodness’ sake. I know my own servant’s voice, I can assure you.’
Mr Pinner gave her a dubious look, but he drew the bolts and chains and finally the key grated in the lock. He opened the door a crack with one hand whilst keeping his pistol levelled in the other. Having peered through the aperture to verify Deborah’s description of her driver, he stood aside to allow Fred to rush in.
Once over the threshold Fred whipped about to try to ram home the door, babbling incoherent warnings. But it was too late. A couple of fellows barged in after him and the larger of the two lunged straight at Mick Pinner and, having the advantage of surprise, managed to punch him to the floor. Mick’s pistol skittered away on the boards. Immediately Fred scrambled after it, but the slightly built intruder sent him sprawling with a hefty boot on his backside.
Deborah felt her heart pumping frantically as she whipped glances between the occupants of the hallway. Mrs Pinner had rushed from the kitchen to kneel beside her husband’s prostrate and bleeding form.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ Fred moaned miserably as he levered on to an elbow. ‘They had guns pointed at me and said they’d blow out my brains if I didn’t obey them. I tried to shut ‘em out, honest I did.’
Deborah started from her shock and rushed to Fred’s side as he pulled himself upright with the aid of a hall chair. She swiftly examined him from head to toe. ‘Are you hurt badly?’ A finger gingerly touched a gash on his forehead. The blood had congealed and a lock of matted brown hair had stuck to it. ‘Have they beaten you?’
He shook his head, wincing when his bump pained him. ‘Done that myself when I fainted,’ he owned up sheepishly. ‘I’m all right,’ he added bravely, cuffing his nose. ‘I came to pretty quick and started out for the vicarage to get help. Before I could raise the alarm these two captured me and forced me here as a decoy. Sorry.’ he mumbled and swiped again at his face.
Deborah turned her attention to the two
men who were standing just inside the door, presumably so that nobody tried to escape. The small individual, who was slouching against the wooden panels, had his foot planted on Mr Pinner’s pistol. He had his own weapon stuck in to the waistband of his breeches and a hand rested threateningly on the hilt. Noticing Deborah studying him, he swung his coat closed, concealing the gun with rough wool.
He was Ned’s puny accomplice on the road, Deborah realised. Now he was closer she saw there was something else familiar about him and she wondered whether she’d seen him previously in Hastings with the Luckhursts. Aware she’d taken an interest in him, he lowered his face and tapped the crown of his hat so the brim covered more of his features. Deborah turned her attention to the other fellow, swarthy of complexion, and with oily-looking black hair, beneath which glinted a gold earring. Unlike his colleague he met her stare boldly, eyeing her from top to toe in a way she didn’t like. He turned to his companion and muttered a phrase in French. No doubt he thought she’d not understood that he said she was pretty.
‘Are you French, too?’ she asked in English of the short fellow. When he didn’t reply, she repeated her question in French. Still he ignored her, so she made as though to approach him. A thin white hand gestured her away so violently that she stopped at once, thinking he might be surly enough to hit her if she got too close.
Now she’d satisfied herself that Fred was as good as could be expected in the circumstances, Deborah went to help Frances Pinner get her husband on to his feet. She tried to ignore the woman’s accusing look. She knew Mrs Pinner blamed her for her husband being injured. She had insisted he open the door, even though Randolph’s last command to the couple had been to admit nobody.
Between them they helped Mick Pinner drag his wobbly body into the kitchen. He collapsed down on a chair by the table and propped his swollen jaw in his hands. Whilst Frances hurried off to get water and a cloth to bathe his injury, Deborah again went in to the hallway and turned her attention on their gaolers. Now they had got inside, what was it they wanted? She knew they weren’t here to get her because Ned had taken a fancy to her and wanted to quench his lust. As Ross had told her earlier, this gang had far bigger fish to fry tonight…But these two seemed content to just loiter…waiting.
With an inaudible gasp of horror the dreadful truth hit her with the force of a physical blow. They were waiting for Randolph to return; perhaps Ross Trelawney, too, was a target for their bloodlust. Of course! Their master had no doubt sent them here! If Ned were unsuccessful in despatching Randolph in a skirmish outside, he’d make sure that his henchmen would lie in wait for his return and kill him at the Lodge instead. She put a hand to her throat as a mingling of wrath and fear blocked her voice there. ‘What do you want?’ she eventually burst out. ‘I have some money.’ She plunged a hand into a pocket of her cloak and extracted her purse. With shaking fingers she shook out the coins on the floor. They scattered and bounced and she hoped that their greed might make them move to collect the silver and gold. Two half-sovereigns glinted in candlelight and she saw the big fellow eyeing them. But it was the other one she wanted to lure. If she could just get him to move away from the pistol on the floor she might manage to pounce on it.
The swarthy fellow scooped up a gold coin, turned it over in his fingers, then turned his attention to her. He swaggered closer and circled her, looking her up and down with lustful black eyes. ‘Très jolie,’ he muttered in a tone pitched so low it was obvious he only wanted Deborah to hear what he’d said.
She glowered her disgust at him. It made him guffaw and reach out a hand to touch her luxuriant fair hair. When she stood her ground and merely slapped away his fingers, he became bolder. He grabbed at her waist to pull her against him and Deborah sensed pungent breath assault her nostrils as he tried to plunge his mouth on hers. A double-handed punch landed on his thick chest and, as he grunted in surprise, Deborah darted around him to freedom.
Her attacker’s puny accomplice had moved at the same moment. With a hiss of annoyance the fellow had lunged forwards to drag away his lecherous colleague, but instead he collided with Deborah. Deborah put up her hands to shove him off and froze for a moment as her palms came into contact with two round female breasts.
The woman sprang back spontaneously with a curse, but Deborah determinedly pursued her to knock the hat off her head and expose her as a fraud.
Chapter Seventeen
‘You?’ Deborah breathed in astonishment.
The flustered woman seemed intent on again hiding her long hair that moments ago had been anchored in the crown of her hat. She gathered the auburn hank in a fist whilst swiping her hat from where Deborah had sent it spinning into a corner. But, having realised the futility of further pretence, she hurled the hat back to the floor in temper, and the chestnut coil tumbled about her narrow shoulders once more.
‘What on earth are you doing here, Susanna?’ Deborah whispered. Her eyes flitted over Gerard’s wife from head to toe. She looked nothing like the sophisticated lady who, with her husband, had recently hosted a party at the vicarage. Then she’d been sleekly coiffed, dressed in silken finery and embellished with powder and rouge. This evening her complexion was bare, her features pinched, and her hair tangled. The breeches and rough wool coat in which she was garbed had hidden her slim curves, allowing her to impersonate a youth very well.
‘You will regret this night for as long as you live.’ Susanna barked a harsh laugh. ‘And that will not be long, I promise,’ she threatened through taut lips. She jutted her chin and marched closer to Deborah. ‘I should have let Pierre take you upstairs, then you’d be none the wiser who I was, would you? Now you’ve caused trouble that can’t be undone.’ She seemed to have conquered some of her agitation, but she sent an angry curse flying at the Frenchman who’d caused her to be unmasked.
Instead of retaliating, Pierre slouched off to skulk sulkily against the wall and watch proceedings from beneath lowered lids. Deborah knew then that, hefty as the fellow was, he took his orders from Susanna.
‘Tie the two men to chairs in case they are stupid enough to try to escape,’ Susanna bawled at Pierre whilst strutting to and fro. ‘If the old woman causes trouble, bind her too. Now I am compromised, all here who’ve witnessed it must be silenced.’ Having watched Pierre start to obey her commands, she swung back to scowl at Deborah. ‘You see what you’ve done, Miss Woodville? In jeopardising me you’ve risked the lives of those servants as well.’
‘None of us will tell we’ve seen you,’ Deborah cried immediately. In consternation she watched the Frenchman start to lash Mick Pinner to the chair upon which he’d crumpled. The idea that she had caused death sentences to be passed on three other people made bile rise in her throat. ‘Just go now, please; you and your French accomplice can get away. Your other colleagues are sure to be defeated and captured by the dragoons,’ she argued in a desperately convincing tone. ‘Why put your life at risk for Ned and the Luckhursts?’
‘Why?’ Susanna parroted nastily. She pivoted about and approached Deborah to jab a finger on her shoulder. ‘The Luckhursts are of no importance. But I risk my life for Ned for the same reason you have tonight risked yours for Chadwicke.’
‘You are in love with him?’ Deborah gaped at the woman, but remembered Harriet had obliquely hinted that she suspected Susanna was cuckolding Gerard. ‘You don’t have a brother, do you?’ Deborah accused. ‘When you say you’re going to nurse your sick brother in Devon you’re really going there to see Ned.’ Deborah paused, tried to marshal her chaotic thoughts. ‘Why on earth concoct such a deceit? Surely it would be simpler to stay there with him and conduct your evil trade from Devon instead of Sussex.’
‘Hah!’ Susanna snorted. ‘You know nothing! I never go as far as Devon. I might just as well say I am going to Derby as Devon. I have no use for either place. Ned Swin-ton is very much alive, as you have seen, and remains in self-imposed exile in France. But he comes often across the Channel to visit me.’
‘He ca
me over on the night of the party at the vicarage, didn’t he?’ Deborah stated in dawning comprehension. ‘He wanted to be spotted by someone so you’d know he’d arrived.’
‘Exactly right, Miss Woodville,’ Susanna sourly praised. ‘Once you’d all gone, and the coast was clear, I sneaked out to see him.’ She threw back her head and chuckled raucously. ‘As you can tell, Noose-head Ned is useful not only to frighten people away from the beach when our boats come ashore.’ She smiled girlishly, shook back her knotted locks from features now softened by romantic memories. ‘When Ned wants a little privacy for us at Pump Cottage, he first dons his eerie disguise and rides about in the vicinity. Sometimes we use the church for our trysts, and he makes sure ghosts roam the graveyard that night.’ She laughed at Deborah’s disgust. A moment later her face was again set in hard lines. ‘You’d like us out of the way, wouldn’t you, so you can steal what’s rightfully ours and share it with your lover.’
‘What?’ Deborah shook her head to display her utter lack of comprehension.
‘Don’t pretend you’re unaware of a valuable cargo coming ashore,’ Susanna spat. ‘All the locals are talking about the free-traders anchored at sea. We’d known for months that a competitor was on his way to try to oust us from Sussex.’ Her mouth had flattened to a thin line. ‘As soon as I saw Chadwicke at the vicarage I knew he was the one. Handsome, isn’t he?’ She smirked. ‘I’d have liked to get him alone and tease a few bits of information from him,’ she murmured suggestively.
‘He would never have fallen for your tricks,’ Deborah contemptuously cried. ‘He’s too shrewd to be charmed by such as you.’
‘You think so?’ Susanna purred, but her features had tightened at the insult. ‘Perhaps I might prove you wrong, Miss Woodville. If he escapes our ambush and returns for you, I might take him upstairs before I kill him.’
