grimaced, a little pain in her heart as she imagined the downward turn of Gussie’s mouth. Harriette had learned, almost, to live with the constant displeasure. ‘I’d hoped Zan would be more discreet. Does Lady Augusta know I was on a run?’
‘Of course she does. Can’t keep it a secret, can you, when every man in the Old Wincomlee knows the identity of Captain Harry? At least they all have the good sense and loyalty to keep their mouths shut so the Preventives’ll never hear the truth from them. And Sir Wallace’ll never help the Preventives, even if he is a JP. He knows where his next barrel of fine brandy comes from! But as soon as he returns, he’ll be up here before you know it, demanding to know what you’re about. And why you’ve not returned to Whitescar Hall, to don a pretty dress and play the genteel young lady of taste and refinement.’
‘Because I would die of the tedium of it all if I did! If Wallace’s taken himself off to Lewes, let’s pray God he stays there overnight, and I’ll be undisturbed here for a while longer.’ Harriette’s eyes lit with mischief as she refused to let her spirits sink into her boots. ‘Even better, I’ll send a message that I’ve caught a chill—or a fever from France. That’ll keep them away. Wallace fears ill health like the plague, and Augusta won’t come here without him.’ She stretched her arms above her head, loosening tight muscles, then ran her fingers through her windblown and knotted hair. ‘I might even manage a week’s freedom. Wallace won’t come to see how I am if he thinks I’ll spread some noxious disease in his path—and foreign at that! An enemy disease!’
Meggie snorted a laugh, then quickly became serious. ‘But Lady Augusta’s not far from the truth, Miss Harriette. You should be wed. Not that I can think of any of your acquaintance worthy of you.’ She rapidly changed the subject with skill born of long practice as Harriette rounded on her, the light of battle in her eyes, in her face. ‘I’ve brought you some clothes, so that when Sir Wallace does arrive to blister your ears, he won’t be able to take exception to your appearance.’ She scowled at the salt-and-sand-encrusted smugglers’ garb, the scuffed boots. ‘What he would say at this moment, the Devil only knows….’
A tap came at the door. Jenny entered, curtsied and ignored her mistress’s unconventional attire. ‘The gentleman’s awake, Miss Harriette. I thought you would wish to know.’
‘Is he now? A stronger constitution than I thought. Then I’ll come.’
‘Not like that you won’t, Miss Harriette.’ Meggie grasped her wrist without ceremony as she would have followed the maid. ‘What would he think?’
‘I don’t care what he thinks.’ Or perhaps she did. She might have little care for her appearance in general, and none when engaged on a run, but would she really want this unknown gentleman to see and judge her in her present dishevelled and scruffy state? Would she want him to look at her, eyes widening in disgust of her unseemly attire? Sir Wallace’s disapproval meant nothing to her. But her captive spy…Shame tinted her cheeks a glorious pink at the thought that he would see and condemn her as being unredeemably outré. Still, if she were clad as a smuggler…‘Besides,’ she spoke her thoughts aloud, testing the idea, ‘our guest might speak more openly if…’
‘If what?’
‘Well, he won’t confess his devious crimes to a woman, will he? On the other hand, to a man…’Twisting it up with a careless hand, she stuffed her hair back under her cap, pulled it well down. ‘He might speak to a smuggler, mightn’t he? Two reprobates together. The smuggler and the spy, Meggie. Now there’s an unholy alliance, wouldn’t you say? Not much to choose between us, many would think. Behold, Harry Lydyard.’ She struck a pose again, the lawless smuggler in boots and breeches.
‘One day, all that will get you into trouble, my girl!’
‘But think how exciting it makes life, Meggie!’ Perhaps she was unaware of it, but a shadow crossed her face. A little melancholy, a little regretful. ‘Why would I want to be wife to one of Sir Wallace’s sad associates when I can sail Lydyard’s Ghost on a lively sea?’
Lucius Hallaston became aware first of a grinding headache, as if a band of iron were being tightened around his skull. And if that were not bad enough, his shoulder throbbed, as when he had once taken a heavy fall from his horse sufficient to crack his collarbone. At the same time his left arm screamed with a fierce burning pain. Was there any place in his body that did not hurt?
He struggled, trying to sit up, abandoning the attempt as his wits scattered. It was almost too much trouble to chase after them and reassemble them into some sort of order as the pain beat with the insistency of a military drum behind his eyes. Memory came back in patches, with disconcertingly looming gaps. Lucius shook his head as if to shake them into a recognisable pattern and wished he had not.
He opened his eyes cautiously. A gloomy room, dusty bed hangings, few meagre furnishings. The linen sheets that covered him were worn and smelt of must and mildew, although were clean enough. Where in heaven’s name was he? It was no inn that he recognised. A young girl, a servant from her clothing, sat beside the bed, head bent over a needle. Mending more sheets, he thought inconsequentially.
‘Where am I?’ he managed to croak through a throat as dry as a desert.
‘You’re awake, sir.’ The girl looked up, rose to her feet.
‘Yes.’ His voice sounded rusty to his ears. ‘Will you tell me…?’
But then she left him, so that he almost wondered if he had imagined her, and the darkness claimed him once more. When awareness returned, it was to a different voice. Feminine yet cool and calm, instructing him to open his mouth and drink. An arm was behind his head, lifting him, and the rim of a cup pressed against his lips. It was cold and refreshing, a sharp tang of lemons, balm to his dry throat. And from somewhere came the soothing drift of lavender. He tried to thank the girl, the maid, for surely it was she—or was it? The voice was different—but it was all too difficult to work out truth from imagination.
He gave up and slept again.
Gradually, when consciousness returned, so did his memories. He remembered being in a boat. Remembered being set upon in the little French port. Port St Martin, that was it. Remembered failing in his task, outwitted and outmanoeuvred by that villain Jean-Jacques Noir. He felt anger rise within him, and shame that he should have been so tricked, but he had not expected such underhand treachery. Obviously he had been too naïve. He thought he might have been shot. Certainly he remembered pain, then blackness….
He did not know who had rescued him. One moment, he was being attacked and beaten on the quay, the next he was in the bottom of a small boat with water lapping against his cheek and a queasy swell. He remembered demanding to be taken back to France, and then nothing.
So where was he now?
A movement by the door as it opened. He risked moving his head and could barely repress a groan at the leaping pain. A young man approached in the sea-faring gear of boots and wide breeches, a heavy tunic, all worn and saltstained. He took the seat vacated by the maid and leaned forward, arms on thighs.
Lucius found himself being appraised by a pair of cool eyes, as pale grey as to be almost silver.
‘You are awake.’
‘Yes. Where am I?’ He would try again.
‘Old Wincomlee, a fishing village in Sussex. You’ll not know it but it’s a mere handful of miles from Brighton. This is my home. Lydyard’s Pride.’ Stern, unsmiling but with a surprisingly
