Spyfall

by Carter, Elizabeth Ellen

  Spyfall

  (The King’s Rogues Book 2)

  by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Kindle Edition

  Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author, Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Heart of the Corsairs Series

  Captive of the Corsairs

  Revenge of the Corsairs

  Shadow of the Corsairs

  King’s Rogues Series

  Live and Let Spy

  Spyfall

  Father’s Day (A Novella)

  Also from Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Dark Heart

  *** Please visit Dragonblade’s website for a full list of books and authors. Sign up for Dragonblade’s blog for sneak peeks, interviews, and more: ***

  www.dragonbladepublishing.com

  Amazon

  Dedication

  A huge thank you to the Dragonblade team: Kathryn, Scott, Kris and Shawn. Your support and encouragement keep me going. And thank you to my darling husband, Duncan. I couldn’t do this without you. I love you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Additional Dragonblade books by Author, Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.

  – Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Prologue

  May 1803

  Denge Marshes

  “Get back here!”

  She ignored his command and ran for her life. Her jaw ached from where he’d struck her. Her arms sported bruises from where she’d been grabbed and shaken.

  She watched the sandy path through the marshes carefully, the ebbing twilight making it more difficult to see her way at a run. She prayed she knew the treacherous landscape better than he, but still the man gained.

  And she dare not stop.

  The town of Lydd was two-and-a-half miles away by road, but only half the distance directly through the marsh. Only by going forward would she find safety. Going back would bring her death.

  She knew that with a certainty deep within her bones.

  “Bitch! I’ll cut your throat before I let you speak against me!”

  The woman choked back a sob, knowing that to give voice to her terror would rob her of the air her lungs cried out for. Her running footsteps splashed up water, so she corrected her course, lest she stray too far and be dragged into the silty bog to drown.

  All too soon, her pursuer was in reach. He grabbed her, tearing the sleeve from her gown. She screamed and pulled away, stumbling as she went, but it was enough for him to yank her arm and throw her to the ground.

  “I’ll have you then cut your heart out, slut,” he spat.

  He reeked of booze, as he so often did. Too often in their seven years of marriage, she’d borne his assaults soundlessly, saving her tears until he left or fell into alcohol-fueled unconsciousness.

  The sky had changed from a lilac hue to a deepening lavender. His face was in shadow but she did not need to see it to know his murderous intent was real this time.

  He had threatened to kill her before, but the color of his rage was different tonight. All the maidservants in the house fled to the kitchen. The manservants, who were little more than lads, stood by impotently, powerless to act against their brutal master.

  As mistress of the house, it had been up to her to try to calm him down.

  To no avail.

  And now they were here.

  Made clumsy by the knife in one hand, he had only just slipped the second button of his breeches when she sprang to her feet and ran again.

  The square, castellated tower of All Saint’s Church stood out as a beacon against the darkening sky. The water that lay between the grasses turned silver as the remaining landscape around it became grey.

  And yet she ran through it, resigned to the fact this night would be her last.

  If she were to die, it would be better to drown while fleeing this brute she called husband, rather than have him kill her. It would be just one thing in her control, at least.

  With little light and few features in the landscape to guide her way, she hurried as fast as she could, letting instinct and fear drive her forward. She zigged and zagged, somehow finding a path through the wetlands.

  She chanced a glance back. He was slower, lumbering, hindered by his loose breeches – she should have let him get more buttons undone! – but he eroded the distance between them. She zagged left, running as hard as she could at an angle that should take her to the road and one of the cottages where she might find protection.

  He swore an ever-increasing string of vile and terrible curses from behind, and cut at an angle also, intending to head her off. She heard the splashing caused by his heavy footfalls.

  A sudden yelp of surprise was followed by bigger splashes.

  Then his yells became screams.

  She slowed, gasping for breath, the stitch in her side now agonizing. She ventured a few feet back to where she could now see her pursuer in chest-deep water.

  Absently, she pushed the ruined sleeve of her gown up onto her shoulder but it fell down her arm again.

  “Help me!” he yelled. “Don’t just stand there like an imbecile. Help me, you stupid bitch. Pull me out!”

  She started forward, her arm extended, then halted.

  “What are you waiting for, you idiot?”

  If she waded in, she might drown.

  If she waded in, he might kill them both.

  She took a step back.

  If she waded in, he would kill her.

  Seeing she would draw no closer, he growled and surged forward.

  Suddenly, he disappeared below the surface.

  She held back a scream as the water covered the top of his head.

  A moment later, his face emerged and she imagined she saw through the darkness that his rage had turned to fear. There began a furious thrashing and grunting that seemed to last an eternity. She clutched her arms about herself tightly and watched, unable to move even if she had wanted to.

  The grunts became screams and the screams became higher in pitch. Then they became gurgles.

  The last of the light faded, luring the moon from its place low on the horizon.

  The thrashing in the water slowed to a weak, listless str
uggling that barely made a sound.

  Then it stopped, leaving only the soft cries of the water rails and the low croaks of the marsh frogs.

  Chapter One

  October 1804

  St. Sennen

  Cornwall

  Susannah Moorcroft brought the wagon to a halt in front of the three-story square building and chanced a glance at the passenger beside her, waiting for the woman’s reaction to the structure.

  She knew what she saw when she looked at it – an overgrown, neglected, isolated inn. No wonder it had been for sale so cheap. Had she been too hasty in signing the contracts on the dilapidated estate?

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  The housekeeper, older than her mistress by ten years or so, held on to her straw hat and looked up.

  Susannah watched Peggy’s sharply angled features in profile with some trepidation as her gaze seemed to fix on the metal straps shaped like the letter “x” over the grey stone. There were two of those cross shapes between the second and third stories. And she knew what they were for.

  They were anchors for the iron rods which ran right through the building to keep it square. Lines of rust stains running down the wall offered mute testament to how long the repair had been there.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the silence any longer. “This will be your home, as well as mine. I’d rather have your honest opinion than not.”

  Her companion offered her a game smile. “Perhaps it won’t be too bad inside.”

  Susannah inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. She had come to rely on Peggy’s uncommon good sense following the dark days of her marriage – and its aftermath.

  “Well, go take a look inside,” Susannah offered. “Then you can give me your final verdict.”

  Peggy held her hand out for the key, trying – and failing – to keep a skeptical expression from her face as she clambered down from the wagon. Susannah also climbed down and took hold of the horse’s bridle to bring it closer the hitching post.

  She didn’t join Peggy inside the inn.

  Better to let her explore the place on her own without having to worry about saying nice things she did not believe just to please her mistress.

  When Susannah came here to look at the inn three months ago, the deceased estate seemed an answer to a prayer. It was quiet, a quarter of mile away from the main road that led into the nearest habitation, the village of St. Sennen.

  The inn came with a liquor license, three acres of land, a small stable block, and even a small boathouse out the back beside one of the tributaries off the River Pengellan that ran into the sea just a half a mile to the west.

  St. Sennen itself was only a mile and a half away in total. It was a pretty little fishing village set on the mouth of the Pengellan, the estuary protected from the Irish Sea by two large rocky headlands.

  It was peaceful here, silent but for the rustling of the leaves in the wind and the squeak of the inn’s naively painted sign swaying on a high whitewashed post by the corner of the building. The sign depicted a woman in Tudor dress carrying her head under her arm. The block lettering gave the inn’s name.

  The Queen’s Head.

  Named for Anne Boleyn, executed for betraying her husband, Susannah recalled. That she should now be the owner of a place so named struck her as macabre but apt.

  She stepped inside the dusty, neglected building and listened to Peggy upstairs, opening and closing doors, no doubt giving the inn’s six letting rooms a thorough going over.

  Susannah decided to remain on the ground floor and let Peggy explore in peace.

  Opposite the front door was the bar. On the floor behind the bar was a hatch that led down to the cellar.

  Around the bar to the right, past the staircase, was the dining room. It could seat thirty guests at a squeeze. The bar and dining room each had an entrance into the kitchen.

  To the left of the front door was a short wall with another door which led to two more rooms. The first served as a private parlor. Leading from that room was a bedroom.

  Peggy returned downstairs. Susannah listened to the squeaks and groans of the worn risers and treads while she ran an idle hand over the bar’s countertop, polished smooth by many hands over the years.

  “I haven’t made a ghastly mistake have I, Peg?”

  “Don’t be worrying yourself, Duchess,” the woman said with genuine affection. “You know, with a bit of work this place’ll come up all right.”

  Susannah allowed herself an audible sigh of relief.

  Peggy picked up on her mistress’ expression. Grey eyes sparkled. “And, if it’s all the same to you, Duch, I’ll claim the big attic room for myself. With a clean-up and a lick of whitewash, I’ll have a cozy little nest of my own with a bird’s eye view down to the sea.”

  “Of course! It’s yours, anything you wish.” She couldn’t keep the gratitude from her voice.

  Peggy walked to the bar to join her.

  “Well, go on, show me the kitchen. That ought to be the first thing we set up, eh?”

  The two women shared a smile. One of reassurance, the other of thankfulness.

  “It’s just through here.” Susannah pushed the dining room door open and they peered into the musty room together.

  “I’ll go see to old Sid and start unloading the cart.”

  Peggy’s face dropped. “You shouldn’t be doing that.”

  “Come now, I thought we agreed. I’m no longer the lady of the house and you’re no longer a servant. We’re equals, companions. Friends, I hope… and, as of today, business partners.”

  Susannah caught the open-mouthed look of surprise for a scant second before Peggy threw herself into Susannah’s arms.

  “Oh, Madam! Thank you!”

  Susannah returned the embrace and wished her declaration was made from kind-heartedness and friendship alone. But it wasn’t.

  If she were to pay wages to Peggy as her housekeeper, she would be out of funds within three months and Peggy would be out of a job. But if they worked together and split the income, Susannah was sure they might manage.

  She squeezed Peggy once more and pulled away. “You go and set the fire. I found a trolley around the back. I think it’s for moving kegs of beer and such. I can use it to bring in the barrels and tea chests.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Susannah’s mock stern look saw Peggy return one of her own.

  “Well, I can’t call you by your Christian name. That just wouldn’t be right,” she retorted. “And I can hardly be calling you Duchess, it wouldn’t be respectful.”

  Susannah sighed. “Well, never call me Mrs. Moorcroft, not under any circumstances.”

  Peggy balled her fists and placed them on her hips.

  “It’s been over a year now!”

  One year or twenty, it wouldn’t make a difference. She would never feel safe as long as she carried that name. The sound of it said aloud still had the power to frighten her.

  “I can’t take any chances, you know that,” she answered softly.

  Peggy regarded her with great sympathy.

  “If we’re going to make a new life here, I’ve got to call you something,” she said. “I mean, people are going to want to know your name, like. What about your maiden name?”

  Susannah shook her head immediately. “That’s on the church records. It wouldn’t take too much effort for an associate of Jack’s to work out what name I went by. No, it has to be something different.”

  She cocked her head and thought a moment. When was the last time she felt safe?

  Back home with her late father at the vicarage, in a sweet little cottage called Linwood House in Buckinghamshire.

  Yes, that would do. Especially since the marriage registry listed her place of birth as Essex…

  “I’ll use the name Linwood, originally from Buckinghamshire.”

  “Susannah Linwood.” Peggy’s brows furrowed, processing the name, sounding it silently, then sounding it aloud once more. She nodded he
r head in approval. “I think that suits you right well. Will you be a Miss or a Mrs.?”

  “We’ll stick close to the truth. It’s easier if our story is more-or-less true. I am a widow who has bought The Queen’s Head and I live here with my friend and companion, Peggy Smith.”

  “Linwood…” Peggy pretended to mull it over a moment before offering an exaggerated shrug. “If I forget, I’ll just call you Duchess like I usually do.”

  Susannah laughed, leaving Peggy to attend the hearth.

  Duchess…

  Susannah shook her head. She hadn’t even known the servants had given her a nickname until after her husband was dead.

  She worried when she first heard it, fearing the servants thought she put on airs and graces rather than the truth, that she was just naturally reserved.

  However, Peggy had reassured her the name came from a place of true affection.

  How naïve she had been when she married Jack. He was thirty-five. She had only just turned eighteen. She knew little about being a wife or even running a sizable household. Even now, the truth of the matter was she needed Peggy’s practical skills.

  She regarded their old horse and cart. Sid was only burdened with items of necessity – linens, crockery, kitchenware – everything contained in four barrels, three tea chests and two large trunks. They brought few bits of furniture and finally, their personal belongings.

  The Queen’s Head had been sold lock, stock, and barrel so Susannah had been able to sell furniture that she no longer needed. She was grateful for the extra coin.

  She led the horse across the courtyard to the separate stable building which, in turn, opened out onto a fenced paddock bounded to the north by the watercourse. Attached to the stable was an open-sided lean-to. She urged Sid along until the wagon was under its shelter.

  She unbuckled the grey gelding from his harness.

  He didn’t seem in a hurry to leave the shaft. Susannah slapped his rump to encourage him to take in his new surroundings while she did the same.