A Christmas Charade (24 page)

He put an arm across her shoulders. “Dash it, Elizabeth! Can you not be still?”

“Not until I’m more comfortable. There’s a piece of driftwood digging into my waist, and the sand has mounds where it should have hollows to fit my anatomy.”

This time, instead of an oath, he had to bite down laughter. Why had he ever thought of her as timid or shy? And he should have known it would take more than the lack of a cloak to keep her off the beach. The cut of her mouth and chin had told him she could be willful, and she had made it clear she believed the smugglers too dangerous for him to handle alone. It was foolish of her to have come, but it was also touching.

Gone was his anger. He had to force a note of sternness into his voice. “Let this be understood, Elizabeth! No matter what happens, no matter where I go,
you
will stay here until I come for you.”

She finally lay still. His order hung between them, but she was reluctant to make a promise she might not want to keep.

“Is it safe to speak?” she asked softly. “Are you certain no one can hear us?”

“The smugglers have a guard posted at the mouth of the estuary. But the breakers are noisy, and if we keep our voices low we should be safe.”

“I daresay you’re right.” She raised her head a little, listening. “The tide’s in, isn’t it? The waves crashing ashore sound very close.”

“Elizabeth.”

She heard the softer note in his voice and was immediately, disquietingly aware of certain circumstances she had tried hard to ignore: the arm across her shoulders and the length of muscled leg pressed against hers.

“Why are you here, Elizabeth?”

Lud! She must be mad to allow herself to be distracted by his touch. She had a reason for lying beside him in this intimate way, and it was not a romantic reason.

“I came to warn you, Stenton. There’s a man, bound and determined to shoot the spy you want to deliver to Whitehall.”

He was silent. Even though it was a moonless night, the light of the stars was sufficient to show her the sudden tightening of his mouth, the crease between the dark brows.

“How did you find out about the spy, Elizabeth?”

She stared at him helplessly.

“Say something,” he said gruffly, angrily. “Dammit, Elizabeth! Can you not understand that I don’t want to be suspicious of you again?”

“Hush!” Distracted by some faint noise, she raised her head higher. “What is that sound I hear?”

He briefly put his ear to the ground.

“The smugglers are coming.”

“What are you going to do, Stenton?”

His hand gripped her shoulder. “Elizabeth! How did you know about the spy?”

He sounded so grim, clearly the truth alone would serve.

“Annie told me. The ghost at Stenton. She knew you had come here to catch the spy and take him to Whitehall. And she heard the maids—local girls—talking about a gentleman stopping at the Crown and Anchor. He has come to
kill
the spy.”

She had no notion how he would react to her news. When he remained silent, she steeled herself against another of his quick bursts of anger. She was quite unprepared for a chuckle.

Even less did she expect the swift movement of his hands, which suddenly cupped her face. His mouth brushed hers. Then, just as swiftly as he had taken hold of her, he released her.

It hadn’t been a kiss, not the kind of kiss Elizabeth dreamed of as a young girl. But whatever it had been, it left a warmth that the coldest gust of wind could not extinguish.

“And what was that all about?” she asked in a voice that was not quite steady.

She caught Stenton’s grin, wide and boyish.

“A ghost,” he murmured. “It’s madness to believe in ghosts, but it’s a madness I’ll gladly share with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

He placed a fingertip against her mouth, silencing her. “I cannot explain in a few words,” he said, his voice a mere breath. “But, remember! Whatever I do,
you
stay here.”

He rose to his knees and crouched thus, a shoulder pressed against the chalk rock.

And suddenly the smugglers were there, dark shadows in the gray night, their footsteps muffled by the sand and the wind and the smacking of the breakers.

One of the men spoke. Elizabeth could not make out the words, tossed about in the wind and carried seaward. But they all stopped, at least two dozen men, and huddled briefly in one great black knot. The knot dissolved into shadows once more. They moved on, swiftly and silently.

She felt a stir beside her, the touch of a hand on her shoulder. Then Stenton was gone, one more shadow blending with the others.

She lay motionless. Did she imagine it, or had the night grown darker, the wind fiercer, the crashing of the waves louder? Without Stenton’s warm body beside her, she felt the dampness of the sand. It seeped through the thick, coarse wool of her skirt and even penetrated the stiff material of her riding jacket.

As Stenton had done earlier, she crouched behind the rock. She’d wait a few moments, but then she’d follow him. She would not stay here—alone, prey to the elements and her imagination.

And a good thing it was that she had waited, for out of the dark materialized two more shadowy figures from the direction of East Dean. Straggling smugglers, she believed them at first. But as they passed her hiding place, she knew herself mistaken.

The one closest to her wheezed alarmingly with every step he took, which was not surprising since he was nearly as stout as he was tall. Definitely not a smuggler. And his companion, all but hidden by his bulk, wore a hooded cloak—a woman’s garment.

Heart pounding, Elizabeth followed at a short distance. That the stout one was the man who wanted to kill the spy, she did not doubt. No one without a serious purpose would be out on the beach on this bone-chilling, dark night. But Annie had not said a word about a female accompanying the man.

The two stopped suddenly, turning toward each other. If they turned just a bit more, they must see her. Without hesitation, she dropped full-length onto the sand.

She did not hear what they said, but that they spoke—indeed, argued—was clear from the woman’s expressive gestures. Perhaps she wanted the man to turn back, forget about killing the spy. And perhaps she was trying to hurry him on. If only the wind and the breakers weren’t so noisy!

When the stout man began to gesticulate as well, Elizabeth crawled closer. The two were so involved with each other, they wouldn’t see or hear an elephant approach.

Suddenly she stopped. She was no more than six paces distant from the couple, and she saw that what she had taken for a misshapen hand on the stout man was, in fact, a pistol. A short, snub-nosed pistol that could be hidden in a coat pocket or in the top of a boot. And it looked as if he was threatening his companion with the deadly toy.

Lud, what a bumble-broth! She could understand that he wanted to shoot a spy. Many Englishmen, including good-natured Sir John Astley, had very strong views on spies and French agents. But shoot his companion merely because they had a falling-out?

Her fingers dug into the sand. Most likely, she quite misunderstood the situation. But if she did not? Confound it! She couldn’t just do nothing. She might be a bloody fool, confronting an irate man armed with a pistol. But at least she would not, later, have to face that, but for a want of pluck and determination, she might have saved the woman’s life.

“Stop it!”

She had not shouted. Indeed, she had not spoken above a loud, urgent whisper. But the two swung around as though a cannon ball had exploded at their feet.

With sublime disregard for the pistol that now pointed its nose at her, Elizabeth scrambled to her feet.

“Sir, you mustn’t shoot now!”

“Hell and damnation!” He had a deep, cultured voice. “Where the deuce did you spring from?”

Clutching the skirt of her gown, she hurried toward him. She must keep talking. And it didn’t matter whether she made sense or not as long as she could distract him.

“Sir, the smugglers! They’d overpower you before you had time to reload. And then where would you be when the spy turns up?”

Breathing noisily, he positioned himself in front of his companion.

“Who the devil are you?”

“I’m Elizabeth Gore-Langton. And I strongly advise you to put away that pistol. You’d go to the gallows for sure if you were to shoot two women.”

“He will not shoot
me
.” The woman’s voice, low and angry, had a curious inflection. “But if you do not leave this very instant, it will be
you
—”

“Hush, Gabrielle!”

“No, my friend, I will not hush. It is my fault that we find ourselves in a situation most awkward. Had I not raised this great big argument about staying behind, she would not have caught us. So, naturally, it is
I
who must make her go away.”

Elizabeth had listened to the impassioned speech with some interest. As soon as Gabrielle—the name had already given her a clue—paused for breath, she said, “You’re French. But not, I take it, the spy.”

“Go away!” Stepping around the stout man who tried in vain to silence her, Gabrielle advanced on Elizabeth. “You are quite mad with all that talk about spies. And you are very much in the way, let me tell you! We have come on an errand that is most important.”

“I know,” Elizabeth said placidly. The longer she kept the pair talking, the more time Stenton would have to do his duty by the spy. “And, like you, I have the greatest dislike of being told to stay behind.”

“Ah, that is something I understand well.”

Elizabeth wished she could see Gabrielle. The voice was that of a young lady of good family, one who had lived in England for a long time. An
émigrée
who hated Bonaparte? That would explain why she was with an Englishman determined to kill one of Bonaparte’s agents.

Gabrielle faced the stout man. “My friend, if she won’t go away, this Elizabeth Gore-Langton, she will have to come with us.”

Even the sweeping gusts of wind could not drown the ominous click that told Elizabeth the pistol was now cocked.

“Just what I was thinking, my dear.” The man drew a wheezing breath. “Come along, Miss Gore-Langton.”

He sounded more resigned than menacing, but Elizabeth decided not to take chances. Besides, if she could not keep the pair away from the spy, she might as well go with them. For where the spy was, there, too, would be Stenton. And Stenton, Annie had assured her, needed the spy alive.

Walking ahead with Gabrielle, she heard the stout man mutter, “Had it all planned, down to the smallest detail. Where the devil did I go wrong?

One of the smugglers in front of Clive gave him a hard stare over his shoulder. After a moment, he stopped and bent, fiddling with his boot until Clive caught up, then, quite naturally, fell into step beside him. It was Chamberlain.

“What’s going on?” asked Clive. “Far too many hands to man one sloop.”

“Can’t figure it out,” Chamberlain said grimly. “Half of the men are land-smugglers, yet no cargo is expected. That much I did learn, but no more. They’re as close as oysters about tonight.”

“At least it won’t immediately be obvious that their number has increased by two.”

“Hmm,” Chamberlain said absently. “What I don’t like is that Beamish is here. The way I understand it, he never comes down to the beach. Directs every operation from the Crown and Anchor.”

“Is his unexpected guest here as well?”

“The fat man whose coach broke down? No. What makes you ask?”

“Elizabeth warned me that the gentleman at the inn plans to kill our man.”

Chamberlain stared. “What the devil does
she
know about the business?”

There was no time for long explanations. The ground was subtly changing and the gale, instead of blowing from the right, hit them full in the face. They had made the turn north along the estuary. He and Chamberlain must soon split up to be certain they’d catch the spy as he joined the smugglers gang.

So he said only, “The maids, the local wenches, were gossiping.”

“The deuce! A dead spy cannot talk. If it’s true—” Chamberlain contemplated the implications in silence. “Beamish bedamned! He had me convinced the gent was too stout to walk from his chamber to the common room.”

“Which one is Beamish?”

“The tall one in front.”

“Do you join him, then. That way, you’ll see our man first if he’s already at the landing stage, and you can drop a word of caution in the innkeeper’s ear. I’ll walk on the right flank, in case the Frenchie is coming from the cave.”

“Aye. We’ll just have to play our cards as they’re dealt.”

Clive waited until Chamberlain had made his way to the front of the band before he edged to the right, toward the cliffs. What a mission this had turned out to be! He did not know whether to curse or to laugh.

His plan had called for two experienced agents to catch the spy: himself and Chamberlain. It should have been simple and straightforward. They had done it often enough.

But before they ever reached Stenton, Nick had demanded his share in the “adventure,” as he called it. And just when Clive believed Elizabeth safely out of the way, she must needs thrust her pert nose into the business once more—on the instigation of a
ghost!

Then there was the man who, if the ghost could be believed, planned to kill the agent. Clive did not like to engage in idle speculation, but two possibilities came to mind without any effort on his part. The man could be an assassin employed by the smugglers, or the traitor at Whitehall had gotten wind of the operation and decided to eliminate the French agent who could point a finger at him.

Whichever was the case, he and Chamberlain would do their damnedest to keep the blasted spy alive until—

He was brought up short by a shout from the front.

“Beamish,
mon ami!
I did not expect you, but since you ’ave come all the way from your so ’ospitable inn, tell me if this man is a friend of yours.”

The smugglers had all come to a stop. No one spoke, but Clive felt unease and tension surrounding him like some tangible matter. Pushing past a dozen or more of the free-traders, he saw Nicholas, hands raised high, facing them. Behind Nick, barely visible since he was clad all in black, stood the man who had challenged the innkeeper.