The Least Likely Bride

Chapter Six

The cart with a sturdy cob between the traces was waiting at the head of the path. A lad of about twelve held the reins and jumped down from his perch as Olivia, following Mike, climbed the last steep stretch of the path to emerge on the clifftop.

“All well, Billy?” Mike called softly, crossing the springy turf towards him.

“Aye. Pa says as ‘ow yer to come ’ome tonight and drink wi‘ him.” The lad regarded Olivia curiously from beneath an unruly thatch of black hair. “If ’tis all right wi‘ the master.”

“Oh, aye. He’ll not be lookin‘ fer me back till the mornin’,” Mike responded easily. He turned to Olivia, offering her his hand. “Let me ‘elp ye up, miss. ’Tis probably a mite dirty,” he added with an apologetic smile. “Cart was used to take the chickens to market this mornin‘.”

“I don’t mind a few chicken feathers,” Olivia said, taking the proffered hand and climbing into the cart. It was fortunate she didn’t mind, since the floor was thick with feathers and there was a strong odor of livestock. “Smells more like pig to me,” she observed.

“Oh, aye. Ma’s piglets went off t‘ market this mornin’,” the lad said, brushing at the seat with his sleeve. “Got a good price she did fer ‘em, an’ all.”

Mike swung himself into the cart beside Olivia. “ ‘Tis not far, miss,” he offered.

“You’re taking me home?”

“Aye. Master says we’re to deliver ye to the door. He says we’re to say nowt. Ye’ll do the talkin‘.” He gave her a rather anxious look as he said this.

“Yes, that’s right,” Olivia reassured him. “I know just what to say.”

“That’s good, then. I’m not much fer words meself.” His relief was clear.

The lad clicked his tongue and the cob moved off slowly across the cliff and onto a narrow lane. Olivia had no idea where they’d landed or in what direction they were headed. The blindfold had disoriented her, and after five days of the gentle motion of the sea, the land felt hard, unyielding to her body as the cart jolted along the lane. She looked for the North Star but the clouds had come in from the sea and the sky was dark.

It wasn’t long, however, before they began to pass cottages along the way. “There’s the inn, miss.” Mike pointed ahead to the faint glimmer of a light some half mile away.

“The coaching inn in Chale?”

“Aye, miss. Reckon we’ll find Lord Granville’s place just past on the left.”

“You turn left at the crossroads,” Olivia said. Now she was so close to home, she couldn’t seem to think straight. Would her father be there? It would be so much easier if she had time to collect her thoughts, talk with Phoebe, before she had to face him.

She would have to tell Phoebe the truth, Olivia knew that now. It was not something she could keep to herself. But she would not, could not, tell Phoebe of what she had remembered.

Gales of laughter erupted from the open door of the coaching inn as they passed, and Mike glanced longingly towards the convivial light. Then they had passed and the lane was dark once more. At the crossroads, Billy turned the cob to the left. The hedgerows were high, the lane very narrow, but they reached the stone gateway leading to Lord Granville’s house in a very few minutes. The gates were locked for the night and Mike jumped down and pulled the bell.

The gatekeeper appeared at the door of his cottage, holding his lantern high. “Who goes there?”

“It’s me, Peter.” Olivia leaned over the side of the cart so that he could see her clearly. “Open the gate.”

“Well, I’ll be blowed,” the man muttered at the unmistakable voice. He raised his lantern higher, illuminating the speaker. “Well, I’ll be blowed,” he said again, louder this time, and ran to unlock the gates. He swung them open and Billy trotted the cob smartly through, giving the man a cheeky wave as he did so.

“Should us go to the front door, then?” Billy inquired as the lights of the house came into view.

“Of course, you dolt!” Mike said, cuffing him lightly. “Who d’ye think we got ‘ere?”

“Dunno. No one told me,” Billy muttered. “Jest ‘miss’ is all I ’eard.”

“Yeah, well that’s all ye need to know,” Mike stated, heedless of the contradiction.

“The front door is fine,” Olivia said hastily, although in her present state of stockingless dishabille she thought the kitchen door might be a more suitable point of entrance.

Billy halted the cob at the front door. There were lights in the windows but the thatch-roofed mansion had a rather desolate air, as if everyday life had been suspended. Mike jumped down and politely offered Olivia his hand.

She stepped to the gravel and stood for a second, hesitating. The prodigal returned was not an easy part to play. Then she lifted her chin and marched to the door. She raised the knocker and banged it with imperious firmness.

There were footsteps, the sound of the bolts being drawn back, then the door swung open. Bisset, the butler, stood outlined by the lamplight from the hall behind him. He stared at Olivia as if at some spirit.

“Yes, Bisset, it’s me.” Olivia stepped past him into the hall. “Where is Lady Granville?”

But she had no need to ask the question; Phoebe was coming down the stairs, her step impetuous, as she called, “Who is it? Who’s there, Bisset?”

“It’s me,” Olivia said, running to the stairs, needing now only the comfort of her friend’s arms, the security of home.

“Oh, Olivia! Where have you been? I’ve been frantic!” Phoebe wrapped her in her arms, tears of relief pouring down her cheeks. “What happened to you?”

Olivia clung to her. “Is my father back?”

“No, not yet.” Phoebe drew back slightly to look into Olivia’s eyes. “Where on earth have you been?”

Olivia remembered Mike and Billy. She remembered bitterly the pirate’s injunction that she reward them for their trouble, as if she didn’t know how to behave to those who served her.

“I’ll explain later, Phoebe, but I must show my gratitude to these people. They’ve been so kind to me.” She gestured to Mike, who had withdrawn from the doorway and stood hesitating in the shadows just beyond the shaft of lamplight.

Phoebe understood what was required immediately. She didn’t need reminders any more than Olivia of the lady of the manor’s obligations. She controlled her impatience with difficulty and went to the door. “Please, do come in for a minute.”

Bisset had the air of one whose breath had been knocked from his body, but he stepped aside to allow the reluctant Mike entrance to the hall.

Mike made a jerky bow. “Mike Barker, madam.”

Phoebe gave him a friendly welcoming nod and turned back to Olivia. She took the key to Cato’s strongbox from her pocket as she made for her husband’s study, Olivia on her heels.

“What should they have?” Phoebe asked as she opened the strongbox. “Since I don’t know what’s going on, how can I-”

“Five guineas.” Olivia interrupted Phoebe. She could hear the impatience rising in her friend’s voice and knew that Phoebe would not be able to restrain herself for much longer.

Phoebe handed five gold coins to Olivia, who took them without a word and returned to the hall.

“Mike, please thank your family for everything they’ve done for me. I know my father will be so grateful when he returns. But please give this to your mother. It will help pay for the medicines.”

“Oh, aye,” Mike muttered, staring at the winking riches on his palm. It seemed a generous sum for telling a tale and the loan of a cart. However, the master always paid for the favors he asked, and there were a great many mouths to feed at the family hearth. Mike slipped the coins into his pocket.

The lad Billy had ventured to the open door and now gazed wide-eyed at the square hall with its oak floor and gleaming brass and pewter. A massive fireplace stood in one wall, the grate filled with a jug of fragrant stocks and marigolds instead of winter logs. A wide staircase with an elaborately carved banister curved upward at the rear. Billy saw that the newel posts were carved into the shape of lions’ heads. His family’s entire farmhouse could fit into this one apartment, and yet there was no sign that this room, if such it could be called, served any useful domestic purpose. It was just wasted space. What it was to be rich, he thought with some disapproval mingled with envy.

He caught the eagle-eyed stare from the black-clad figure of the man who’d opened the door. Did the man think he was looking for something to steal? Billy put his thumb to his nose and grinned at the man’s thunderstruck expression.

“That’ll do, our Billy!” Mike turned sharply. He hadn’t seen the exchange but he knew his little brother. “We’ll be off now, miss.” He gave Olivia a nod, touched his forelock to Phoebe, and hastened away, sweeping Billy before him.

Phoebe turned to Olivia. For a moment concern took precedence over her desperate need to know what had happened. “You look exhausted,” she said.

“That’s hardly surprising.” Olivia offered a tired smile.

Phoebe spoke briskly to the butler. “Bisset, ask Mistress Bisset to prepare a sack posset and have it brought to Lady Olivia’s bedchamber. And then send someone to find Sergeant Crampton. He will need to know that Lady Olivia is returned safely.”

Bisset contented himself with a bow and turned to the kitchen regions, his step for once a little less measured. He was most anxious to get Mistress Bisset’s impression of this extraordinary business. Lady Olivia had looked like a scarecrow, half dressed it had seemed to the scandalized butler. And yet apart from looking rather heavy eyed, she showed no obvious ill effects from whatever had happened to her.

As Bisset departed, Phoebe took Olivia’s hand and almost dragged her abovestairs.

In Olivia’s bedchamber she closed the door and stood with her back to it, regarding her friend gravely. “Now, for God’s sake, Olivia, tell me what happened!”

Olivia sat on the bed and looked with a degree of surprise at her bare legs and stockingless feet. She’d forgotten in the flurry of return to this ordinary environment how disreputable she must look. “I was hurt. I fell off the c-cliff and for some time I didn’t know who I was. I hurt my head.” She touched the back of her head where there was still a residual tenderness. “Mike’s father found me and took me to his farm, and his wife nursed me until I remembered who I was… am.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” Phoebe demanded.

Olivia sighed. “Because it’s not all true.” She met her friend’s somewhat outraged gaze with an almost apologetic smile.

“I was trying it out on you,” Olivia continued. “It has to satisfy my father and Giles. You need to help me perfect the details.”

“Were you hurt?” First things first, Phoebe thought.

“Yes, that’s all true about falling off the cliff and losing consciousness and being ill. Except that I always knew who I was, just not what was happening. It was the drink… it made me c-confused…”

“Drink? A drug? Someone drugged you?” Horrified, Phoebe pressed her hands to her mouth.

“It was purely medicinal,” Olivia said slowly. “It made me very confused, though, and most of the time I didn’t know whether I was asleep or awake. But once he decided I didn’t need it anymore, he stopped giving it to me.”

“He? Who?” Phoebe flung her hands in the air in utter frustration. “Olivia, would you please start from the beginning before I go crazy.” She pushed herself away from the door and came over to the bed. She stood looking down at Olivia and felt a stab of fear, as strong as any she had felt during the dreadful days of Olivia’s disappearance. There was something badly wrong. It was as if the Olivia she knew had returned only in body. The spirit, the person, had been changed in some as yet indefinable way.

“What happened to you?” It was an anguished whisper.

Olivia looked up. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I feel like a changeling.”

“You seem like one,” Phoebe returned. “And you aren’t answering me.”

“Do you believe in enchantment, Phoebe?”

“No, I believe in medicines and physic, birth and death, sunrise and sunset,” Phoebe said bluntly. “There’s no room there for enchantment, superstition… don’t you remember what happened to Meg?”

Meg, the healer, their friend from the years they had spent in Oxford, had been taken up for a witch after the death of a child she had physicked. The memory of that dreadful day was indelible for both Olivia and Phoebe.

“I’m not talking about witchcraft,” Olivia said. “But you do believe in… in passion, in… in… attraction, the mystery of attraction?”

Phoebe did not immediately reply. She sat on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed. How could she not believe in those things? She herself had been conquered by love and lust, that devastating, unpredictable, mortifying pair. Against all reason, all logic, totally out of the blue, she had fallen in love and lust one winter morning with the marquis of Granville. And her life had been governed by them ever since.

“You met someone?” she asked, resigned now to hearing this story in a roundabout fashion. “Someone who attracted you… someone who…? Oh, Olivia, for pity’s sake, what are we talking about here? Just get to the point.”

“I’m trying,” Olivia said. For some reason she was finding it difficult to talk directly about Anthony. She had the feeling that anything she said would come out wrong, would either not do him justice or would make her seem like a passion-crazed loon. She wasn’t at all sure why she needed to do him justice, but… but it seemed that she did.

“I don’t know his surname. He wouldn’t give it to me.”

“Why not?” Phoebe asked sharply.

“Because he… well, he doesn’t live within the law,” Olivia replied. Then she shook her head dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never see him again.”

“It most certainly does matter!” Phoebe exclaimed. “You haven’t told me anything that makes sense yet.”

Of the three of them-herself, Portia, and Olivia-Olivia had always seemed the one least likely to succumb to the sensual temptations of the human condition. Those temptations had felled Olivia’s two friends while Olivia herself had found all she sought in scholarship.

Until now, it would seem, Phoebe thought-always assuming she was somehow grasping the right end of the stick.

Olivia kicked off her sandals and flexed her bare feet. She couldn’t blame Phoebe for being irritable. She wasn’t making much sense to herself. The reason why she would never see Anthony again had nothing whatsoever to do with his illegal activities. But maybe that was the issue she could focus on to explain things to Phoebe.

“Rufus was an outlaw when he and Portia first met,” Phoebe pointed out. “That didn’t stop either of them.”

It was true that Rufus Decatur, Earl of Rothbury, hadn’t always been a pillar of respectability.

“Portia wasn’t my father’s daughter,” Olivia said quietly. Portia and her wastrel father had always lived outside the rigid confines of society. It wasn’t until his death that she had come under Lord Granville’s protection.

Phoebe took Olivia’s point but she brushed it aside, demanding, “Tell me the whole, now!”

Olivia told her everything, except what Brian had done to her… of what she had allowed him to do to her. That was a private shame, one never to be revealed.

“And so, after he’d finished his piracy, he sailed the ship back to its anchorage and had me brought home,” she ended with a little shrug.

Phoebe listened in frowning astonishment. Olivia had always been so vociferous, so certain that she would never yield to the wiles of man. And yet she’d fallen into this passion seemingly without a murmur of protest.

“Maybe the drugs affected you,” Phoebe suggested. “It can happen with some of the more powerful simples. Do you know what he gave you?”

Olivia shook her head. She found that she didn’t care for Phoebe’s explanation for her entrancement. It negated so much of what she had actually felt, and perversely she didn’t want that to happen. Even while she was trying to forget it, while she shrank in revulsion from what it had thrown in her face, she seemed still to want to keep some of the golden aura of that adventure.

There was a knock at the door, and Mistress Bisset entered with the posset. She set it on the table and regarded Olivia gravely. “Should we send for the physician, Lady Granville? Lady Olivia looks right peaky.”

“No, she had a bad bump on the head, but I can take care of it myself, thank you,” Phoebe replied.

The housekeeper hesitated, but Lady Granville’s skills as a herbalist were well known. Her ladyship might not be adept at the running of a household, but no one denied her other talents.

“Very well, m’lady.”

“That will be all, then, Mistress Bisset,” Phoebe prompted when the lady still remained, her curiosity evident.

“Yes, madam.” The housekeeper curtsied and left.

Olivia couldn’t help a half smile. “A year ago you could never have routed Mistress Bisset like that. She never took any notice of you.”

“No,” Phoebe agreed, momentarily distracted from Olivia’s situation. “And she calls me Lady Granville now instead of just Lady Phoebe. I think I’ve acquired a deal of gravitas since the boys were born.”

That made Olivia laugh, for a moment banishing her melancholy.

But it was a short moment. Then she said seriously, “My father mustn’t know anything of this, Phoebe.”

“Good God, no!” Phoebe exclaimed. “It wouldn’t do him any good at all!” She eyed Olivia seriously. “Do you want to see this man again?”

“No!” Olivia shook her head vigorously. “It was… it was almost a fantasy, a dream. It’s over, Phoebe, and I don’t want to think about it anymore. The most important thing now is to manage to keep it from my father.”

Phoebe hesitated. Something about the denial didn’t quite ring true. But Olivia was exhausted and mustn’t be pressed further. Phoebe handed her the sack posset. “You need to sleep, Olivia. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“Yes.” Olivia returned Phoebe’s hug with sudden urgency. She wanted everything to be the way it used to be, and for a moment as they embraced she could almost imagine that it could be.

Phoebe went out and Olivia sat on the bed, sipping the sack posset. It was nursery comfort. She set the empty cup down and stood up to undress herself. As she took off the ruined dress she felt the bulge in the pocket. She took out the pirate’s kerchief and almost without thinking pushed it beneath her pillow, then she fell into bed and sought oblivion.

Godfrey, Lord Channing, entered the taproom of the Anchor in the little village of Niton, just above Puckaster Cove. He peered through the blue wreaths of pipe smoke at the taproom’s inhabitants and could see only locals nursing tankards, puffing pipes, for the most part in a silence that could have been morose, except that the island folk were not in general gregarious and spoke only when they had something they considered worth saying. This Friday evening it appeared that no one had anything of moment to impart.

Godfrey approached the bar counter. He leaned back against it on his elbows with the appearance of a man taking his ease and surveyed the room again. Was one of these taciturn villagers the man who would buy his culling? They all looked unlikely, not a man among them with the wherewithal to be a customer for Godfrey’s ill-gotten gains.

“Yes, sir?” The landlord spoke behind him and Godfrey jumped. He turned to front the bar counter.

George regarded him with a malicious eye. “What can I get ye, sir?”

“Who’s the man I’ve come to see?”

“Don’t know as yet,” the landlord said. “What can I get ye?”

“Porter.” Seemingly he had no choice but to play the man’s game.

The landlord reached for the leather flagon and filled a tankard. “Threepence.”

“Since when?” Godfrey demanded. “It’s always a penny three farthings.”

“Price ‘as gone up, sir. Supplies is short,” the landlord said meaningfully.

“You don’t order porter from me,” Godfrey snapped.

The landlord shrugged indifferently. “Supplies is powerful short when it comes to cognac.”

With difficulty Godfrey controlled a surge of rage. The man’s insolence was intolerable and yet Godfrey knew he had no suitable comeback. “I’m waiting for the ship,” he said, burying his nose in his tankard.

“A bit overdue, is it, then?”

“You know damn well it is!” His knuckles whitened around the tankard. The man knew he was desperate, knew he could needle him all he wanted. But Godfrey could see a way out now, a permanent solution to his financial needs. And then, oh, and then the landlord of the Anchor and his ilk would watch their manners.

“Then per’aps I should be lookin‘ to place me orders elsewhere, sir,” the landlord said. “But I’d need me earnest money back, o’ course.”

Godfrey ignored this. Deliberately he turned away again and resumed his examination of the taproom’s inhabitants. He was damned if he was going to ask for George’s help again.

“The one ye wants is sittin‘ in the corner, by the inglenook.”

George finally spoke into the studied silence. “Been waitin‘ fer ye close on an hour, I’d say.”

Godfrey shrugged with apparent indifference. He knew he’d have to pay for the information; George would have his price. But if tonight’s business went well, the price would be easy to find. He looked closely at the man George had indicated and was immediately disappointed. A villainous-looking customer in the rough garb of a fisherman with a lank, greasy mustache and a raddled countenance.

“Over there?” he demanded incredulously, finally stung into a response. The man didn’t look as if he had the price of his drink.

“Aye.”

“What’s his name? I’ll pay for his name.”

“ ‘Tis not one he gives to all who asks,” the landlord replied.

Godfrey pushed himself away from the counter, took up his tankard, and approached his would-be customer.

“Can I buy you another?” he offered.

The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and he grinned, revealing foully blackened teeth. “Lord bless ye, sir. That’s kind o‘ you. I’ll ’ave a drop o‘ brandy. Jest tell George to make sure it’s from the special cask. None of that thin piss he passes off to those what don’t know any better. You an’ me does, o‘ course.” He leered and offered a conspiratorial wink.

Godfrey shuddered but held his tongue. He could only guess what George would charge him for a drop of the best. However, with every appearance of good cheer, he called over to the counter, “Two cognacs, George. The best.”

“Well, sit ye down, sir.” The man gestured to a stool. “Can’t do business on yer feet.”

Godfrey hooked the stool over with his foot and sat down. The sawdust on the floor at his feet was clotted with spilled ale and other things that Godfrey didn’t want to consider. A mangy hound chewed a marrow bone and growled at him, hackles raised, when he inched his stool away from something particularly noxious-looking and came a little too close to the bone for the beast’s liking.

The landlord gave the animal a kick as he put the two pewter cups of cognac on the table between the two men. The hound sloped off, the bone gripped in his jaws.

“That’ll be a shillin‘ apiece, sir.”

“That’s daylight robbery!” Godfrey couldn’t contain himself.

“ ‘Tis in short supply, sir.” The landlord sung his tune again.

“Here, George.” Godfrey’s companion dug in his pocket and tossed a pair of silver coins on the table. “But we’ll ‘ave a free fill-up fer that.”

The landlord scooped up the coins and grinned. It was a genial grin, not an expression Godfrey had ever seen on his face.

“Right y’are, my friend.”

The other man nodded and tasted the cognac. It met with his approval and he gave another nod. The landlord returned to his counter.

“Now, young sir, to business. What d’ye ‘ave?”

Godfrey took a gulp of cognac, trying to think what it was about this unsavory character that was so unsettling. There was the most unlikely air of authority about him, and even though he sat slumped in his torn and grimy jerkin, he gave the impression of being completely in charge of the proceedings.

“Silks… some of them painted,” he said, tapping a finger on the stained table. “Velvets and lace from the Low Countries.”

“Silk and salt water don’t mix. As I understand it, they came from a wreck.” Something flickered in the deep-set gray eyes. Something cold and unpleasant.

“They were in chests,” Godfrey said, despising the defensive note and yet unable to prevent it. “Protected.”

The other man nodded. “An‘ pulled out in double quick time, I daresay.” Again there was that flicker in his eye and a note in his voice that sounded almost sardonic.

Once again Godfrey controlled his rage. For the moment, he was powerless, obliged to take what insults this disgusting, low-bred creature tossed at him. But that would change. “It’s the business,” he said coldly. “One you know yourself, I imagine.”

His companion made no reply. He drank again from his cognac and glanced towards the bar counter, raising a hand at George, who nodded and came over with the brandy bottle to refill the cups.

When he’d departed, Godfrey’s companion asked coolly, “So, what else beside stuff? D’ye have tea? Silver? Glassware? China? She was a merchantman, wasn’t she?”

“Aye.” Godfrey’s eyes sharpened. “Very rich. We had great good fortune.”

“That ye did,” the other man murmured. “Pity ‘tis that what’s good fortune for some should be the devil’s own luck fer others.”

It was almost too much. Godfrey half rose from his stool at this taunt. Then he sat back and shrugged. “I’m willing to share my good fortune, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“True enough, true enough, young sir,” the man said, his tone suddenly placatory, almost wheedling, so that Godfrey began to feel confused and as if he stood on shifting sands.

“So, I’d best take a look at the spoils,” the man continued. “I don’t buy sight unseen.”

“How much are you interested in buying?” Godfrey forgot confusion. His heart beat faster as he saw salvation.

The other man shrugged. “Depends what I see. I buys what I likes. If ye’ve goods that please me, then I might take the lot. As I say, it depends.”

“The full consignment…” Godfrey fought to conceal his jubilation. He said decisively, “For the full consignment I’ll be asking a thousand.”

The other man merely raised an eyebrow. “If ‘tis worth it, then I’ll pay it.”

Godfrey considered. Now he was unsure. How could this miserable-looking man have the means? Fear prickled his spine. Was it a trap?

“Don’t worry, my young lordling, ye’ll not be betrayed by me.” The voice was soft, indolent, and the eyes were suddenly clear and to Godfrey’s astonishment youthful.

And once again came the sense that all was not as it seemed.

“When do you wish to look at the consignment?” he asked, forcing himself to speak firmly and steadily.

“Tomorrow, at midnight. Meet me in Puckaster Cove.” The man stood up, pushing aside his stool. He stood for a minute, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his patched britches, looking down on Godfrey. “I’ll wait no more than a quarter hour. Come alone. Ye’ll find me alone.”

“How can I trust you?” Godfrey demanded.

The man shrugged. “Same way as I can trust you, I reckon.” Then he turned and strode from the inn.

Godfrey watched him go. He seemed to stoop but it did little to disguise his height and nothing to conceal the lithe, supple strength in his slender frame. Who was he? What was he? Not what he seemed, that was for sure.

Godfrey’s expression darkened. He hated mysteries and this one was a dangerous puzzle. If he didn’t know with whom he was dealing, if he underestimated him, it could bring utter ruin. He must control his impatience and tread carefully. He looked up and caught the landlord’s eye. Mine host was regarding Godfrey with an unholy gleam, as if he was reading his thoughts.

Deliberately Godfrey spat his indifference to the landlord’s challenge into the hearth before stalking from the inn. His horse was stabled at the rear. He retrieved it and rode back to Carisbrooke Castle, his mind in a ferment. That little glimpse at the man behind the unpromising exterior had convinced him that whoever his unpleasant and insolent customer was, he would be able to come up with the required funds. That was really all that mattered.

The guards at the gatehouse challenged him as he rode up the ramp to the arched entrance to the castle. They opened the gates and let him in and he went straight to his quarters in the governor’s mansion. His room lay beyond the guarded chamber in the north curtain wall that now housed the king.

The king’s three escape attempts had exhausted the patience of both the governor, Colonel Hammond, and Parliament. His Majesty had been moved from his commodious quarters in the Constable’s Lodgings to a more secure and easily guarded location. He continued, however, to conduct daily audiences in the great hall adjoining his previous bedchamber.

Godfrey, Lord Channing, was one of the governor’s equerries. A post that, while it brought little in the way of financial recompense, was prestigious, provided comfortable room and board for himself, and maintenance for his horses-a great drain on any nobleman’s purse.

Such considerations for the impoverished scion of a proud, ancient, but penniless family were not to be derided. They were not, however, sufficient for a young man of Godfrey’s personal ambitions. He was heavily in debt. The lifestyle he believed was due his family name and position was a hugely expensive one. Clothes alone cost him a small fortune, and while smuggling and wrecking offered some remedy for his financial ills, the trade and his own desperation put him at the mercy of men like the landlord of the Anchor and potential customers like the villain he’d had to placate this evening.

When he entered his chamber, he was still seething over the insolence he’d had to endure.

“You look as if you lost a sixpence and found a groat,” Brian Morse observed. He was sitting at the table in front of the fireplace, a sheet of parchment in front of him. He moved the candle so that it illuminated Godfrey’s face. “Did your business not prosper?”

Godfrey shrugged and filled a pewter goblet with wine from the leather flagon on the table. He noticed sourly that in his absence the flagon had become very light. Brian Morse had obviously had a thirst on him. “The man’s a villain,” he observed.

Brian chuckled softly. “Aren’t we all, my friend? Aren’t we all?” He drank from his own goblet. “I’ve been composing a letter for your potential father-in-law.” He indicated the parchment on the table. “You need the right words to get his attention. And when you meet my little sister, you’ll need to have something to offer her. A knowledge of the Greek poets might help… a talent for chess… a delight in Pythagorus’s theorems.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Godfrey sat down on a stool beside the fire, stretching his booted feet to the fender. “I’m a man of action,” he stated with a touch of complacency. “I have no scholarship… no time for it.”

“Well, you’d best cultivate some,” Brian said harshly. “Because I assure you, this particular little prize won’t fall to a man who rejoices in a lack of learning.”

Godfrey frowned. “If there’s one thing I detest, it’s a prating woman scholar.”

“This one is very rich, and quite tasty too, as I recall.” Brian’s thin lips flickered in a reminiscent smile. “Her nose is somewhat long-the Granville nose always is-and she has the devil’s own stammer. But a man can get used to anything with the right incentives.”

Godfrey regarded him sardonically in the candlelight. “And of course, once I’m wed to the heiress, I’ll be keeping you too in high style.”

“Well, you wouldn’t expect me to offer my help for nothing,” Brian said, clicking his tongue reprovingly. “This will suit me very well. I’m in need of a modest income, and in addition I have a private score to settle. Seeing Cato’s daughter married to a man of your… your unformed morality, shall we call it, will do just that.”

Brian got to his feet, pushing himself up against the edge of the table. He reached for his cane. “Read the letter, make changes if you wish, but keep to my gist. Believe me, I know the Granvilles very well. Write it in your hand and have it delivered.”

Godfrey said sharply, “My family, my lineage, are all worthy of a Granville.”

“Oh, yes, dear boy, no doubt about it. But you, my friend, are not.” Brian laughed and limped to the door. “I’ll see myself out. I’ll not show my face in the castle again. I’d hate to run into my adopted father. He thinks me dead and buried in Rotterdam. You’ll find me in Ventnor, putting up at the Gull. I’ll plot your campaign from there.”

Godfrey was too angry to bid his guest farewell. For two pins he would have told Brian Morse to go to the devil. But the man had offered a seductive pact, and one couldn’t always choose one’s partners.

Adam took one look at Anthony’s face as the master climbed from the dinghy onto the deck of Wind Dancer and decided to hold his tongue. Anthony was in a foul mood. It was not his habit to take his moods out on his men, but they all recognized the wisdom of steering clear of the master when his eyes were as cold and distant as they were this evening.

“Brandy, Adam,” he said shortly as he brushed past him on his way to the companionway.

“You want food?”

“No.”

Adam shrugged and went to find the bottle.

Anthony entered his cabin and stood for a minute in the pale wash of moonlight from the open window. He drew in a breath and thought he could scent Olivia.

Stupid! Sentimental nonsense! He snatched off the knit cap and threw it onto the window seat.

He went to the mirror and with a grimace peeled off the mustache. The pain made his eyes water but banished sentimentality. He dipped a cloth in water and then in the saucer of salt Adam had laid ready and cleaned the black off his teeth. He was starting to look like himself again. Soap and water took off the rouge.

He was throwing off his unsavory garments when Adam came in with a flask of brandy. “Sam says ye’ve a meetin‘ fixed fer tomorrow, then?”

“Aye. I’ll be taking Sam and one other to watch my back. Although I don’t think the bastard will try anything tomorrow; he needs me too much. He’s desperate as a starving rat, for all he tried to hide it.” He poured cognac into a glass and drained it, then refilled the glass.

“Left a bad taste in yer mouth, did ‘e?”

“Foul as a cesspit. I need to know who he is.”

“Reckon George at the Anchor’ll know?”

“I doubt it. The man’s desperate and a villain but not, I think, stupid.” Anthony paused, his eyes narrowing. “Dangerous yes, stupid no,” he mused. “He’d not broadcast his identity across the island. I’d lay odds he’s something to do with the castle. There was something of the courtier about him.” Anthony’s lip curled.

“Then ye’ll run into him,” Adam said matter-of-factly, picking up the discarded clothing, “when you go off to play courtier yerself.”

“Even more inducement to show myself in the king’s presence chamber at tomorrow’s little soiree,” Anthony declared. “Leave me now, Adam. I’m in a vile humor.”

Adam made no reply, but left immediately.

Anthony sat on the window seat and looked out at the sliver of moon on the narrow black water of the chine. Damn the woman!