Chasing the Heiress (15 page)

Chapter Twelve

The hunting lodge was more than three hundred years old, a survivor of the Catholic suppression. During the Commonwealth, the hereditary owners had been killed and the house seized by the government; during the Restoration it had been bestowed on one of the king's favorites, who had never taken up residence, and then passed through the hands of several of his heirs without one even investigating the property. Eventually, in the last generation, the father of one of Colin's associates had won it in a bet.

Lucy had suggested—and Fletcher and Bobby had agreed—that, for the porter's sake, she and Colin should pretend to be lovers, a man and his mistress, escaped to the country for a tryst. It was a situation entirely to his liking. He would have to—for the sake of the ruse—keep her close. And he already knew he couldn't get enough of her, of her bright mind or the feel of her lips.

Before they approached the caretaker's gate, Jennie moved back to the outside seat with Fletcher. Inside the carriage, they covered the sleeping infant's basket with a blanket.

Finally, he was alone with Lucy, but with no time to enjoy the privacy. “We need enough of a distraction that he lets us pass by quickly without discovering the child. Could you set the basket under your skirt a little to hide it from view?”

“Would this do?” She moved toward him, then crawled into his lap, her legs on either side of his hips. She pulled her skirt free so that it covered their legs, then undid the pins in her hair, so that it fell around her face in heavy curls.

He felt himself stiffen and hoped she would not notice. “I suppose we can make it work.” He cleared his throat. “But, when he stops us, turn your face away from his lamp, as if you wish not to be recognized. That will protect you from view.”

When the gatekeeper came to the carriage door, Lucy turned her face away, but began kissing his neck on the far side, mumbling in an accent he had not heard, but which sounded decidedly lower class. “Come on, guv, ya promised Ivy a bit o' fun.”

She began to unbutton his shirt, laughing as if she were drunk. He groaned without thinking.

The gatekeeper turned away quickly, opened the gate, and let them through.

Lucy looked up, smiling, then slid off his lap onto the seat beside him. “I doubt if he'll bother us now. Did you see the look of horror on his face?”

“I doubt if we will see him all week. And if we do, I find it hard to believe he will dare look either of us in the eye.”

“Perfect. Exactly what we wanted.”

* * *

They waited in the carriage while Fletcher and Bobby lit the lamps in the entry; then they hurried Jennie and William through the door. Colin was tired, but wished not to show it. The first priority was to settle the baby safely into his new lodgings.

In the middle of the house, hidden in the twists of the staircase, was a well-appointed priest hole, exceptional for its size. One entered a small room large enough for two men to sleep comfortably, and then climbed a ladder to a platform wide enough for a third man as well. With rock walls, the hiding place was silent, conveying sound neither from the house nor to it.

For security's sake, Colin decided that it would be best for Jennie and her charge to spend their nights secure in the hole, safe from any intruders. To enter the hole, one walked into the back of the large fireplace in the main hall. Once a fire was lit and the stones warmed with the heat, the hole was impossible to enter. A moderate fire gave the hiding priest warmth, but a larger fire or one maintained too long would suffocate anyone in the hiding place. Colin showed Jennie the escape route and made her practice the trick until Fletcher and Bobby returned from one of the bedrooms with several blankets to make a soft mattress. As soon as they set the blankets onto the platform, making Jennie and the baby a safe haven, Jennie climbed the ladder, and they passed William up to her. Fletcher and Bobby took the bottom portion of the room.

But that decision had pleasant consequences. Once the door was sealed behind their companions, Colin and Lucy would not be interrupted easily. Often, Colin and his men stayed in the two priest holes, invisible to anyone chancing on the lodge. But to give their story of being lovers credence, he'd decided to make use of the bedrooms.

With their companions settled for the night, Colin raised the lantern to show Lucy the way to their rooms on the second floor. The walk was dark, and she tucked herself under his arm, both to share the lantern and to give him more stability on the stairs. Somehow, she seemed to know when his side ached.

“I've chosen rooms at the end of this hall. They share an interior door, but as long as the porter stays in his lodge, we should have little need for additional subterfuge. But we should leave the inner door unlocked, in case you or I have need of the other.”

He opened the door and showed her the accommodations. A hearty fire—lit by Fletcher—burned warm in the gate. Lucy's bag sat on a low bench near the dressing table. The fire was the only light.

“Let me take off my overcoat, then I'll light your lanterns.” But as he reached his arm back to release it from the coat, his face—even in the near darkness of the room—blanched white.

“There's no need. Besides, you are in pain. Let me help you.” Lucy began to help him remove his coat, and his thoughts turned to the last time she had removed his clothes. “Let me care for you while we're here. A field nurse for a wounded soldier.”

“All this way, I was desperate to move, to get out of the carriage, but now, I find I'm already worn.” His voice carried his frustration. “Yet I have no desire for more sleep. All I've done for the last week is sleep.”

She looked around the room. “I have an idea. Rest here.” She pulled the chaise in front of the fire and led him to it. Following her instruction, he collapsed into the chaise.

She pulled an armchair to his side and took his hand in hers. They sat before the embers of the fire for some time, talking at first, but soon lapsing in a companionable silence. At some point, Lucy came to lie in front on him on the chaise. Her back against his chest, they lay next to one another watching the fire and commenting irregularly on their past lives. They focused primarily on their shared experiences on the Continent, not the war itself, but more human things, the taste of bread from the portable iron stoves, the color of the water in winter, the sound of the troops waking in the morning.

He'd wished to sleep, but he found himself unwilling to give up these moments of peace. He'd had so little peace since Brussels, but he pushed the thoughts aside. He would not let anything ruin this respite.

She had fallen asleep before him, and he lay behind her, smelling the hint of her soap, the scent of lemons, and he wondered how she found lemons out of season.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, he awoke when the sun was already high in the sky. Lucy had at some point covered him with a blanket and drawn the curtains tight, but he could see a strong line of bright sun on the floor beneath the curtains.

His side ached, but somewhat less than it had the day before. He moved gingerly, testing how far he could reach without pain. His shirt untucked, he adjusted his braces. The motion made his wound ache, but not with the breath-stealing pain as it had before. He regarded his coat but thought better of putting it or his boots on. Luckily, he still wore his socks—or his feet would simply have to be cold.

He knew the house well, so he could have found the kitchen without trouble. But the smell of bread baking led him easily on. He arrived in time to see Lucy, her hair tucked unsuccessfully into a maid's bonnet, using a peel to remove two loaves of bread from an oven built into the fireplace.

Fletcher and Bobby were seated at one end of a large harvest table, eating a small feast: eggs, a portion of ham, cheese, apples, and pears.

“Did we bring this much food with us? I would have expected the larders to be empty.”

“They were.” Lucy set the bread on the table. “When you said we'd be here for a day or two, I remembered how easy it was to miscalculate the length of a siege.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Lucy shrugged. “I asked Nell to include some staples.”

“What staples?”

She motioned at the smaller basket—“Flour, leavening, sugar, salt, coffee”—then at the larger—“fruit, eggs, milk, cheese, butter, ham, and beer.”

“I'm afraid to know how much my portion of the bill was. It was likely exorbitant.”

“Yes.” She smiled, a dazzling smile that caught his breath. “But we won't starve.”

Colin began to object, to say he hadn't brought her along to act the servant. But Fletcher interrupted him.

“You could do worse, sir. These are some of the best eggs I have had in some time.”

Bobby chimed in. “And the bread, sir. Have some of the bread. And Miss Lucy says there will be biscuits later—with red currants, oats, and walnuts. Never tasted such a thing, but if Miss Lucy bakes it . . .” The boy grinned at Lucy adoringly.

“You should be careful, Bobby. If Cook discovers you've been unfaithful to her cooking, you might lose your kitchen privileges.” Colin took an empty chair to Fletcher's right, as Lucy uncovered a plate set aside for him. “Where's Jennie?”

Fletcher answered first, “In the priest's hole with William. Girl says she feels safest there, a little warm cave of her own.”

“Bobby took her a tray about an hour ago,” Lucy added. “We decided you needed sleep more than food.”

Fletcher pushed the loaf of bread across the table. “And don't be worrying: the porter knows to guard the front gate now that you are having a ‘house party.'” Fletcher winked at Lucy, and she flung an apple at him, which he caught deftly. “And me and Bobby have been walking the back and side all morning.”

Colin took his first bite, then another. “If this is the sort of food you had during a siege, I wish I'd been with your regiment. Ours was hard tack and soda water.” He liked the flush at her cheeks each time they complimented her. Who had valued her so little that easy compliments had such an effect? “I'm thinking of a walk in the gardens this afternoon. Care to walk with me?”

Before Lucy could answer, Fletcher raised his voice two octaves, teasing Colin with glee. “Oh, my dear sir, however can I repay the compliment of your company? I would be delighted, just delighted to stroll through the garden, clinging to your strong powerful arm. Perhaps I might even trip a little over some small twig so that you might have to crush me to your manly chest to keep me from falling and doing myself harm.”

Lucy picked up another apple, letting it bounce in the palm of her hand threateningly.

“I don't mean you, miss. I'm only mimicking the young ladies ‘his lordship' seems to attract—empty-headed things not worth the cost of their clothing.”

Lucy leaned forward on the table, one arm bent forward in front of her body, the other holding the apple up to her mouth. She took a bite, the red flesh crunching beneath her teeth. Colin found himself unable to look away. “And does his lordship like such women?” She took another bite, meeting Colin's eyes as she ran her tongue across her lips to catch the juice of the apple.

Bobby answered quickly, “Only the pretty ones, miss. But none were as pretty as you, nor as smart.”

Neither Bobby nor Fletcher seemed aware of the sensual dance between her and Colin. She looked like the temptress Eve in the garden, and Colin wished to follow her into any sin. She took one last bite; then she tossed the half-eaten apple to him. He caught it easily, then met her eyes and, with deliberate care, finished it. She did not look away.

Chapter Fourteen

The man known in the underworld as Charters sat planning his next move, and the next, and the one after that—moves as far out as his mind could strategize them. It was a complicated game, like chess but with money, commodities, and people as his pieces. Pawns, all of them—even the queen. He laid it all out, strategies and tactics, but never tactics without strategy.

He'd suffered a setback in the Wilmot affair, but the papers he'd sought had not been found by anyone else either. He had to assume after so many months that he was safe, his secret covered by the blood of the men he had killed. Lady Wilmot was safe from him as well, her alliance with Forster too dangerous a challenge.

He rubbed a coin between his fingers, a commemorative medal recognizing participation in some charity benefit. This one had been his brother's. A medal for wasting the estate's money in some foolish scheme or other. The outlay would have been acceptable if it had led to something: a new ally, a perception of generosity that could be taken advantage of later. But no, his brother had smiled on everyone indiscriminately, calling it
noblesse oblige
.

He liked the feel of the edge of the medal against his fingers. It was a shame that the blood from his brother's body had long worn away. He'd enjoyed the reminder of how easily he'd deceived his family and the sheriff into believing his brother's death a tragic accident. He'd mourned well, he thought. Cain to his brother's Abel.

But for now, he waited. Over the last several weeks, his new crew of reprobates, thieves, and murderers had sold the forged banknotes they'd printed. His forging operation had allowed him to extend his reach into the deepest corners of the London hells. He could now count among his allies a range of criminals with skills he did not have himself. If he wished to manage the criminal world, he had made tremendous inroads.

With the money from his forging enterprise, he had generated enough capital to buy the shipping partnership he'd needed. Now, he—or rather, one of his identities—held controlling interest in a fine merchant fleet. He laughed to himself. Others might find it a bad time to go into shipping, but he'd found it a lucrative proposition. The time to advance was when all others were in retreat.

From his first attempt in shipping, he had garnered enough profit to open a tavern and a small gaming establishment for sailors and wharf men. He'd named it the Blue Heron. Run by his trusted lieutenant Flute and specializing in games of chance, the enterprise was already turning a nice profit.

He moved a nautical chart to the top of the papers in front of him. He'd drawn a line from London to Lisbon. A week ago, his favorite ship, the
Clytemnestra
, had left, carrying beads and textiles. Today or tomorrow, at Lisbon, his cargo would be moved from the British
Clytemnestra
to a ship with an indeterminate nationality. Some would call it a privateer, but he preferred to think of it as a ship of international trade.

He drew another line from Lisbon to Benguela, one of the states of Nouvelle-Guinèe on the southeastern coast of Africa. At Benguela, his beads and textiles would be sold to Portuguese slavers. Since the British had voted to abolish the slave trade a dozen years ago, he wouldn't risk being caught with human cargo. But no law kept him from providing the slavers with the goods they needed to purchase slaves in the African interior or prohibited him from buying goods produced by slaves. It was a precious distinction, he knew, but one that suited his moral code.

He drew another line, this time from Brazil, tracing the route of the Portuguese ships coming to meet his in Benguela. When the slavers arrived from Brazil, his captain would buy their goods: cocoa, sugar, and coffee. The British Navy loved cocoa, treating it as an alternative to rum.

While waiting for the Portuguese to arrive from Brazil, his captain had orders to buy other cargo: cannabis and opium. He looked to the right of Nouvelle-Guinèe to the country on its western border: Ethiopia. Comprising most of the center of the southern African continent and extending as far to the western coast, Ethiopia had proved the bane of Napoleon, tempting his soldiers with cannabis.

He drew a final line on the map, from Lisbon around the southern coast of England and Cornwall to Wales. The
Clytemnestra
would travel to the Welsh coast, where another of his identities had rented a rural estate with a fine isolated cove, protected from observation. There, he could move the cargo quietly.

But his lease was up at the end of the year—and he would need another secluded cove to land his goods.

Marner's land.

He needed to find the heiress, then find a way to end up with that piece of land. But he had three months yet to work it out.