A Christmas Charade (10 page)

But he had supposed the men were helping only to land the cargo, and that was clearly not the case. If some of the men could not work at the castle until the end of the following week, it indicated that they expected to be gone for several days. The question was, would they be carrying a French agent back to France when they sailed, or would they bring an agent across on their return?

Lost in thought, Clive crossed the wide courtyard and approached the west wall, against which a coach house, the stables, and two barns were built. The large gate set in the wall between the coach house and the stables stood open, but he passed it by without a second glance.

His response to stable lads muttering a greeting was polite if distracted. He was bent on reaching the small, arched doorway beyond the last barn, the postern gate that opened onto the cliff path. But when his head groom came out of the stables and hurried toward him, he felt obliged to stop.

“Your grace!” Sam Nutley’s weatherbeaten face was set in grim, rigid lines. “If ye’re headed for the beach, ye might want to look out for the young lady as went down there. Against my advice, I might add.”

Clive narrowed his eyes. There was only one young female whose name Sam might not yet know. The young lady who had arrived the previous day and pretended she hadn’t met the Duke of Stenton before.

“Devil a bit! What is Miss Gore-Langton doing on the beach? In winter!”

“Just what I asked her. And I told her I don’t hold with young ladies scrambling down steep, slippery cliffs. Told her she’d end up breaking a leg, or worse, her neck. And how did she expect us to bring her up on a hurdle on that path?”

“And still she left?” Clive raised a quizzing brow. “You surprise me, Sam. When you disapprove of something, your scowl intimidates even me.”

“Which is just as it should be,” Sam Nutley said repressively. He had taught his grace to ride his first pony thirty years ago, and he could still teach him a trick or two.

Recalling the matter at hand, Sam scowled. “The young lady wouldn’t listen to no remonstrations. Only smiled and said thank you. Ever so polite she was, telling me not to worry.”

“Don’t, then. I’ll keep an eye out for her.”

Clive turned to leave, but the head groom fell into step beside him.

“Said she was familiar with chalk cliffs, and off she goes, cool as a cucumber, out the small gate.”

Clive could not like it either that Miss Gore-Langton had ventured down the cliff path, yet he could not quite suppress a grin. If Sam Nutley disliked something, it was having his warnings and prophecies disregarded, and Miss Gore-Langton had properly set up the groom’s back.

Come to think of it, he wouldn’t have expected her to show pluck. Nothing in her demeanor, either yesterday morning when he encountered her on his doorstep or last night in the drawing room, had led him to believe that she might be strong willed and courageous. And it did take courage to venture down the cliff path. It seemed that Lady Astley’s shy companion was made of sterner stuff than he had supposed.

“Said she wouldn’t be gone above an hour.” Sam gave him a look that showed exasperation as much as concern. “But it’s going on nine o’clock, and she left not much after seven.”

“Seven!” This bit of news brought Clive up sharply. “It was barely light then.”

Without giving Sam a chance to say anything else, he strode off, leaving the groom behind. In a few moments, he had rounded the last barn and lifted the latch of the postern gate. He ducked his head as he passed through the opening. Bitter experience had taught him that the gate had not been built for a man topping six feet.

He stood atop the mighty chalk cliffs that supported Stenton Castle close to one hundred feet above the Channel. To his right, rocky ground stretched as far as the eye could see. Barely discernible were wheel tracks made by carts and carriages that, in the past, were sent on a roundabout way to fetch visitors who arrived by yacht and anchored in the estuary. To his left, a scarce fifteen feet away, began the steep drop to the beach.

By now, Clive was familiar with every inch of the narrow path. He knew where the rock was crumbly and might start to slide under a careless step; he knew the handholds on a particularly steep stretch.

As always when he went down the path, the strength of the wind surprised him. It was by no means calm at the higher elevation around the castle, but the lower he climbed the sharper the gusts blowing off the Channel tugged at his coat and tried to press him against the rock.

Every now and then, he stopped to scan the stretch of beach visible below on his left. It was a fairly wide stretch at present, for the tide was only beginning to come in. But there was no sign of a solitary figure walking, or gathering shells, or whatever it was that Miss Gore-Langton had planned to do.

Thus, he did not waste time pacing the beach but turned right, where the shoreline made a sharp jog inland and formed the east side of the estuary where the Cuckmere River emptied into the Channel.

Here the sandy beach soon changed to marshy ground. Even in December, reeds and some spiky shrub made walking difficult, but if one followed the estuary northward, one met up eventually with the carriage track leading to the castle.

And this, Clive thought, was exactly what Miss Gore-Langton must have done. Having climbed down the slippery cliff path, she had shied away from returning by the same difficult route and had decided to follow the river inland, then turn east toward the castle where the approach would be less steep.

Still, he could not deny concern for the young lady. He called out her name every twenty paces or so even though he realized that he must see her if she were in the vicinity, since none of the plant growth was tall enough to obscure his view.

He had walked about five hundred feet and had reached the place where, on his first day’s exploration, he discovered the old private harbor for Stenton Castle. Some of the piling was still intact, as was a landing stage raised on thick posts where the ground sloped downward near the water.

“Miss Gore-Langton!” he shouted again, then, growing tired of the long name, “Elizabeth!”

Only a sea gull answered his call.

He looked at the castle, perched high above him on his right. He was about even with the northeast tower, and if Miss Gore-Langton had come this way—and if she had any sense at all—she would have walked on a few paces and seen the carriage track winding its gradual way up to Stenton.

He took a step or two toward the track, then turned back and followed the well-trodden path to the landing stage. He didn’t think he’d find Miss Gore-Langton there—unless she had fallen asleep among the reeds—but the path, so well defined among the growth, fascinated him. He was prepared to wager a plum that the smugglers used the old landing stage for their own sinister purposes.

Although the planks looked solid enough—too solid for wood that must have been laid down more than forty years ago—he stepped warily.

Later, he was to thank the stars that he had been cautious. Otherwise, he surely would have toppled into the estuary when he reached the end of the landing stage and saw on his left, among the reeds, the leaf green cloak worn the day before by Miss Gore-Langton. A second look disclosed a pair of dainty brown boots poking out from beneath the cloak.

Stifling an oath, Clive lowered himself onto the marshy ground. Immediately, his boots were covered by an inch of soft mud. And no wonder; the area around the landing stage stood under water at high tide.

It was only a few steps to the still form in the green cloak, but those steps were not easy to accomplish and only the excellent fit of his boots saved him from a walk in stockinged feet.

“Miss Gore-Langton! Elizabeth!”

As he reached her side, he finally saw her face and drew in his breath sharply. She was pale, her lips bloodless.

Abandoning all caution, he dropped to his knees beside her. He saw a dab of blood matting the dark brown hair above her right ear, and, incongruously, her head rested on a folded panel of oilcloth. Probing the bloodied area on her head, he discovered a lump the size of a guinea piece.

He clasped one of her hands, chafing it gently. It was cold and muddied. Lud! How long had she been lying here? Her cloak was soaked through; the only dry part of her seemed to be her hair, protected from the wet marsh by the piece of oilcloth.

He could not feel a pulse in her wrist and she had not moved, yet he did not doubt that she was alive. If he could not rouse her, he’d have to carry her to the landing stage—a difficult feat over boggy ground, but not impossible.

He chafed and kneaded her hand more vigorously. “Elizabeth!” he said sharply, trying to penetrate her unconsciousness. “Wake up! We must get you home. Do you hear me, Elizabeth? Wake up.”

She gave a soft moan and thrust about with her free hand as if to hit him. He caught it, holding it tightly.

“Elizabeth, it’s Stenton. Wake up! I want to take you home.”

To his relief, her eyes opened. Again he was struck by their unusual color, an emerald green, darkened now in confusion and fear. She started to struggle.

He spoke soothingly. “You’re safe, Elizabeth. Don’t fight. You know me. I’m Stenton. You’re staying in my house, remember?”

She lay still, looking at him rather hazily. After a moment, her gaze cleared and she nodded.

“Yes, I know you.” Incredibly, a mischievous smile flickered across the pale features. “Indeed, I know you very well.”

“Indeed.”

The casual tone of his voice hid a sudden alertness, a sense of unease. Perhaps she was still confused and did not know what she was saying. But there had been that flicker of a smile. What could she be playing at, this young woman who denied having met him before and who had gotten into trouble in a spot that was obviously a smugglers’ haven?

He said, “You’ll have to explain that cryptic remark. But not now. My first objective is to get you home.”

A frown gathered in her eyes as she glanced about her. “What happened?”

“I hoped
you
would be able to tell me.” He eased one knee out of the bog. “Your head appears to have sustained some slight injury. Are you hurt anywhere else, or do you think you can get up if I help you?”

“I can get up.”

She winced when she raised her head. Cautiously, she put a hand on the bloodied spot, feeling the lump.

“Now I remember.” Indignation drove color into her cheeks. “I was hit!”

“You shall tell me all about it presently. But first let me get you to your feet and out of this morass.”

Crouching behind her, he anchored his hands beneath her arms and helped her into a sitting position.

“Make sure your boots are not entangled in your cloak,” he ordered.

She felt a bit dizzy, but his voice, clear and crisp, had a bracing effect. Without ceremony, she drew cloak and gown up to her calves.

“We had better hurry, your grace. With my weight centered on a certain part of my anatomy, I can feel myself sinking. In a few more minutes, you’ll need a dozen men to pull me out.”

He was startled into a crack of laughter. “I cannot believe you’re the same young lady I met yesterday.”

She could not blame him. Yesterday, she had blushed and stammered in his presence. But she would have cut off her tongue rather than confess that their encounter had rendered her as shy and insecure as the seventeen-year-old Elizabeth had been when they were introduced over a decade ago. A night’s repose and a stern talk she’d had with herself during the solitary walk along the beach had quite restored her natural ebullience. She had never been a coward and would not be one now.

Elizabeth started to rise, and he quickly and deftly assisted her. She stood for a moment, swaying a little, grateful that the strong hands under her arms were not immediately withdrawn.

“I’m sorry.” The rock-solid body behind her gave her strength. “It’s my head and, I think, the ground, which seems to shift beneath my feet. I don’t know how I came to be here. I remember being hit, but that was on the landing stage.”

“We’ll talk about it later. Let me help you remove your cloak. It must weigh a ton with all that water it soaked up.”

She had felt the cold when he roused her, but when the heavy, wet cloak came off her shoulders, the wind bit through the soft wool of her gown and chilled her to the bone. She started to shake.

“Here, take this.”

Planting his feet apart for better balance, he shrugged out of his coat, helped her into the sleeves, then, with an arm wound firmly around her waist, propelled her toward the landing stage.

His body heat stored in the garment revived her, but it seemed an eternity before they reached the wooden platform. Each time she pulled a foot out of the bog and moved it a step forward, a stab of pain shot through her head. And when they finally reached their goal, she could only stare helplessly at the raised planks. They were no more than waist high, but she did not have the strength to draw herself up.

“Turn around,” said Clive and, when she did so, he lifted her and set her down on the landing stage, then swung himself up beside her.

“This was the easy part.” He gave her a searching look. “How do you feel?”

“Well enough to go on. So don’t even think of leaving me here while you get help.”

A corner of his mouth twitched upward, and she thought that he had not changed very much. He still had that lopsided grin that could make a female heart flutter alarmingly.

Of course,
she
did not have to worry about a flutter of the heart. She had just recovered from a hit on the head, then had to trudge through a quagmire. Any irregularity of heartbeat must be directly attributed to her travail.

He pulled her to her feet. “We had better go, then, before my groom sends his men with
two
hurdles.”

Standing made her feel dizzy again, even a little sick in the stomach. But she forced herself to smile. “He told you he tried to stop me? Then, I suppose, you came looking for me.”

“I did.” Again he caught her around the waist. “But, to tell the truth, I didn’t expect to find you. I believed you must have returned to the castle by way of the carriage track.”