CHAPTER EIGHT
A WEEK PASSED, one tense with watching, waiting. Chance had sent two messages to Becket Hall from his townhouse in London, neither one telling them much other than that, if Beales had indeed returned to the city, he was playing least-in-sight, not going into the thin society of the dwindling Little Season.
They'd had a small fright with Eleanor, who began to labor, but Odette gave her something vile to drink— this according to Cassandra, who seemed to be Odette's shadow these past days— and the pains stopped.
What never seemed to stop was the rain and wind coming in off the Channel. Damp days and gray skies and the enforced confinement were all combining to make the Beckets begin to chafe at that confinement, and at being in each other's presence, constantly.
Morgan, always restless, had been the first to grab a cloak and ride out onto the Marsh, Ethan following after her on his splendid white Andalusian stallion, the two of them returning some hours later, suspiciously smiling, the back of Morgan's cloak suspiciously littered with bits of straw. The two of them then disappeared into their bedchamber for the remainder of the day.
Neither Morgan and Ethan nor Rian and Lisette had come down to dinner, prompting Spencer to make a rather ribald joke about idle hands being the devil's workshop, a bit of silliness his dear wife tersely informed him had not been in the least bit amusing.
Then Spencer and Mariah disappeared to their own bedchamber immediately after dinner, leaving Cassandra to look at Courtland, who only shrugged, reddened a bit above his beard, and muttered something about heading over to the village to make certain the assigned patrol had returned without incident.
Cassandra had only nodded, telling him that she was going upstairs to check on Eleanor and Odette, and with that encouraging piece of news Courtland relaxed, said goodnight to Ainsley, then silently berated himself for being glad to be out of Cassandra's company.
Because he wasn't glad. He was confused, off-balance, constantly thinking about her, about the way her back had looked in the candlelight, bared to the waist, open to his touch. Constantly reliving those moments, as well as the moment she'd slapped him, and his world had seemed to tilt off-center, teeter on its axis.
She'd slapped him, and his reaction had bordered on the insane. He'd wanted to pull her into his arms, kiss her senseless, kiss her and hold her until the entire world melted away and there was only the two of them, with only each other to care for, to hold on to; to bury himself in her, disappear into her, live in her, be the man he longed to be.
But the world still lay on his shoulders. He believed himself responsible for every man, woman and child in his orbit, had always believed that, even once he understood that Isabella's last words to him, her example of self-sacrifice, had made a larger impression on him, on his life, than she could ever have imagined.
He pulled his cloak closer around him against the wind and rain and made his way to the village. The clock had yet to strike the hour of eight, and he faced another long, restless, unproductive night.
His brothers laughingly called him a dull stick, and he probably was. Even when he'd ridden out as the Black Ghost to protect the local smugglers on their runs, he had done so out of a sense of duty, not one of adventure.
Although he knew, in his heart of hearts, that donning Ainsley's black silk cape and mask, leading nearly one hundred men across the Marsh by moonlight had stirred his blood, in spite of himself.
Only five years or so Chance's junior, Courtland had stood on the shore when the
Black Ghost
and the
Silver Ghost
had sailed away from the island harbor, out to sea, out to adventure. He had envied Chance, who had commanded his own ship before the age of twenty, standing on the deck, a cutlass pushed into his waistband, his hands on his hips, his legs spread wide for balance, his long, blond hair whipping around his face in the stiff, tropical breeze.
Vibrant. Adventurous. A young, vital animal, that had been Chance all those years ago. Capable, and yet daring.
While he, Courtland, had been the plodder, the silent one, always careful not to bring attention to himself, because that attention had always come in the form of a fist, or a whip slicing through the air over his head, ready to strike.
So was he wrong now, was it wrong now, to be almost looking forward to the inevitable battle with Edmund Beales? Was it wrong for his blood to sing with anticipation of the final struggle, the final victory? Was it wrong to want to think as a man of action, even of daring, rather than the safe, stolid, boring man he'd forced himself to be all these years?
Cassandra had a lot to do with what he was thinking now, how he wanted to envision himself…as she had always envisioned him.
She believed in him, trusted in him, did not find him to be boring or dull or unexciting. Still, he was more a man of thought than of action. He knew that, he understood that. When the family needed flash and dash, then it was Chance who was called upon, and Spence, and even Rian. Never him.
No, he had always stayed in the background, inventing a knife holder concealed beneath a jacket for Spencer to activate with a few squeezes of his arm muscles, devising a one-handed bootstrap device for Rian, plotting a better placement of signal fires along the Marsh, spending long hours with Ainsley, talking strategies, planning contingencies.
He was, he knew, as exciting and, well, as romantic, as a potted plant.
If Cassandra were free to go to London for her Come-out, and she was put into the company of men like Chance, like Spence and Jack and Rian and Ethan and Valentine? Handsome men, smart, witty, perhaps rich and titled? Would she realize that what she felt for him was a childhood affection that had no place in her life now that she was a grown woman?
He should let her go,
make
her go, once the confrontation with Beales was over. And, until it was over, keep his distance.
He'd rather tear off his own left arm.
"Court!" Rian called to him from the large table in the rear of The Last Voyage. "We were just coming after you."
Courtland shook off his uncomfortable thoughts, that weren't really productive anyway, and crossed to the table to see Spencer and Ethan also sitting there. "Why? You have news?"
"Possibly," Ethan said, and for the first time Courtland noticed that the man was wet, very wet.
"I thought you were upstairs with…I thought you and Morgan were…oh, hell, what's going on?"
Ethan grinned. "Well, we were, earlier, but all good things must come to an end, sooner or later, or we'd both be dead by now."
Rian, still in the throes of his rather recent honeymoon, threw back his head and laughed heartily…and Courtland wished he didn't have such a damn tendency to blush.
Ethan leaned forward on his chair, his elbows on the table, looking less a peer of the realm than a naughty boy about to tell a secret. "Morgan and I stopped in at a small tavern this afternoon, The Oak and Grapes, and the innkeeper pulled me aside, told me someone had been asking about the big house on the coast."
"Jesus, Ethan, why didn't you— "
"Why didn't we tell everyone immediately? Simple, Court. Because the man was gone. But the innkeeper described him quite well, so Morgan and I spent the rest of the afternoon searching for him, without luck. Tonight? Tonight, while all the rest of you were having dinner, I got luckier. Some of the gold pieces I spread around earlier today came back to me at The Oak and Grapes with the information I wanted."
"He's staying just this side of Dymchurch, at the Ship Inn," Rian added, and Courtland mentally measured the distance from Becket Hall to Dymchurch, deciding that, if they rode hard, they could be there in a little over an hour.
"We were just planning strategy," Spencer said, looking at Courtland. "What do you suggest we do? Rian's all for breaking down the man's door and hauling him out— but then Rian is always breaking down doors, isn't he? I said we should wait until morning, wait for him to leave the inn, so that we're not seen taking him. And Ethan? You agree, don't you?
Courtland rubbed at his short beard. "Do we tell Ainsley?"
"Not yet," Ethan said. "There's always the chance someone just wanted the promise of another gold coin, and gave us incorrect information. I think we have to go to the inn, see for ourselves, and then decide."
"We have to consider this man, whoever he is, to be one of Beales's men. If we don't, if we don't act sure, confident, he may be able to convince us of his innocence. No matter what the man says, we act as though we
know
he reports to Beales." Courtland got to his feet. "Are you ready?"
"
You're
going?" Spencer stood up, looked at his brother. "We thought…well, we thought you'd want to stay here. Somebody should stay here, don't you think, what with Jack always staying upstairs with Elly these days?"
"Fine. Rian, you're in charge here at Becket Hall."
"Now just wait a minute, Court," Rian said hotly. "Just because I have only the one arm is no reason to— "
"This has nothing to do with your arm, Rian," Courtland told him quickly. "I'm being entirely selfish here. You've all had…adventures. I've got lists of stores, and more lists of patrol schedules, and then more lists of— Hell, I'm not a shopkeeper. I'm going."
"He's right, Rian," Spencer said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "It's probably time Court went out to play again. It's been a while since the Black Ghost was taken out for an airing."
"Exactly so," Courtland said, already turning over an idea in his head. "Now, here's what we'll do…"
* * *
CASSANDRA CAME DOWN the servant staircase, carefully balancing a small tray against her hip, and turned toward the study, thinking to ask her father if he'd like her to fetch him a pot of tea as long as she was heading to the kitchens with dirty dishes she'd taken from Eleanor's bedchamber.
It was already past midnight, but she knew her father never went to his bed before two.
She had her hand on the door latch when she heard voices coming from inside the room, and hesitated, as the door was already open a crack. If her papa and Jacko were having a private discussion, she wouldn't want to disturb them.
But it wasn't Jacko's voice she heard, or even her father's. It was Spencer's, and he sounded excited.
"It was all I could do not to laugh," he was saying, "even with a situation this serious. Court's a bloody genius."
"And with a career on the stage, if he wants it," Ethan added, and Cassandra pushed the door open just a little bit more, in order to see into the room.
Spencer was standing in front of her papa's desk, Ethan beside him, as her father sat behind that desk, looking at them, his expression unreadable. But where was Courtland?
Ah, there he was, sitting at his ease on the burgundy leather couch, one leg bent and propped on the other, dressed all in black from head-to-toe, and with something black tossed on the couch beside him. Was that…yes, it was. It was the cape he'd used to ride out as the Black Ghost. What on earth?
"How did you get the man out of the inn?" Ainsley asked, and Cassandra frowned, for the question made no sense to her.
"Easily enough, sir," Ethan explained. "We, um, we
borrowed
two of the uniforms you've so cleverly amassed. I presented myelf as Lieutenant Ethan of the Waterguard, and I had some questions about the man's whereabouts the previous evening, when a large cargo of brandy and tea had supposedly been landed only a mile from the inn. He blustered, he denied, but then became cooperative."
"Because I'd leveled my rifle at him," Spencer said, and Cassandra belatedly realized that both men had uniform jackets folded over their arms. "We marched him outside and into the dark, and Courtland took over."
"Courtland?" Ainsley inquired, raising one expressive eyebrow. "You'll explain?"
"There's really nothing much to explain, sir," Courtland said quietly. "What's more important is what he said once we'd convinced him to talk to us."
"Oh, no. No, no, no, Court, we're not skipping over the best part," Spencer said, crossing to the drinks table and pouring himself a glass of wine. "It was wonderful. Court was wonderful, just splendid. Comes out of the dark, all mysterious in the cloak, the mask, the slouch hat— all of it. Orders us to take the man inland, to the cliffs of Marshborough."
"I beg your pardon?" Ainsley asked. "And where, pray tell, are the cliffs of Marshborough? Indeed, where is Marshborough?"
"In Court's amazing imagination, sir, I think you'd have to say," Ethan said, accepting a glass of wine from Spencer. "We blindfolded the man, marched him about a mile, I would think, to a place Court knows, and started asking him questions. He wouldn't answer, not a word. Claimed not to know what we were asking him."
"So Court orders us to untie his hands and lower him over the cliff," Spencer said, then shook his head, laughed. "The fellow starts in to screaming,
