Sandra Heath (20 page)

“Was it? I’ve only ever known her by her married name. Ah, the benefits of hindsight. Anyway, in him you have the source of the curare. It’s freely available in the Caribbean, and the
Légère
was certainly there.” Marcus laughed, and then added acidly, “So it’s sibling love that explains dear Amabel’s alacrity regarding helping the
Légère.
How touching.”

The sentiments of the angry ghosts at the foot of the cliffs were more or less the same as the gig nudged the rocks, and the
Légère’s
ruthless master leaped ashore to sweep his sister into his arms. But high on the cliff top, Marcus and Henrietta had been so intent, first upon their bitter argument and then upon events below, that they hadn’t heard the stealthy shuffle of many footsteps behind them. They knew nothing until a torch suddenly flared into life and a gruff Yorkshire voice shouted a blunt challenge. “Identify yourselves, or we’ll blast you full of ‘oles!” Henrietta and Marcus whirled about in dismay and saw a large party of armed men from Mulborough. The signals hadn’t passed unnoticed in the town.

The warning shout had rung loudly through the hitherto quiet night, and at the foot of the cliffs Amabel and her brother looked up in alarm. By the dancing torchlight far above, Amabel recognized Henrietta and Marcus, and realized she’d been discovered. She grabbed her brother’s arm, crying in French. “It’s over! They know! We must escape!”

Charles Lyons’ reaction was instinctive and cold blooded. He drew a pistol from inside his coat, took swift aim toward the cliff top, and fired. The ball whined through the air and would have struck Henrietta had not Marcus dragged her down into the snow the moment he saw the movement of the Frenchman’s hand.

Shocked, Henrietta pressed into the deep layer of white. She was glad of Marcus’ arm resting protectively around her, and wished fervently that it was love that made him shield her from a night that had suddenly become very frightening indeed.

Down in the inlet, the gig swayed violently as Amabel and her brother clambered in and the oars were shoved urgently against the rock. He hastily extinguished the lantern so that those on the cliffs had only shadows to aim at as the boat was rowed swiftly along the narrow inlet. In all too few moments the gig had drawn beyond the faint arc of light left by Amabel’s lantern, which still stood upon the rock. Soon there was only the creak of the rowlocks and the rhythmic splash of the oars.

Jane and Kit instinctively swept into action as they saw Amabel and her brother escaping without the punishment they were due. Using all their powers, the dismayed shades elevated pebbles and strands of seaweed, making them hurtle through the air to strike the gig and those inside. Amabel screamed as a pebble thudded painfully against her shoulder, and her brother stared in confusion at the missiles raining so mysteriously out of the darkness. He was certain he and his men would have heard if anyone had descended the path behind Amabel, which meant that someone must have been hiding among the rocks before she came down! What other explanation was there? Pebbles didn’t hurl themselves, nor did seaweed uproot and fly. But then the lantern Amabel had left on the rock was overturned as more seaweed ripped itself free. Flames flared briefly, revealing—no one.
“Dieu,”
the Frenchman whispered, crossing himself in fear.

The ghosts began to realize that their prey would soon be out of range, and in desperation Kit fixed his fearsome gaze upon the sea, in an effort to make it heave up into waves. But the almost smooth surface merely rippled a little, and under the cloak of darkness, the gig drew farther and farther away.

By now the dismayed Mulborough townsmen knew the extent of their mistake, and that far from apprehending French spies on the cliff, they’d inadvertently alerted the real conspirators at the landing below. But it was too late, and all they could do was stand by helplessly as the sound of moving pebbles and tearing seaweed drifted up through the darkness. More than one man thought of the bogle, and more than one fearful glance was cast toward the dark shadows of the churchyard.

Marcus scrambled to his feet and then pulled Henrietta up as well. “What in God’s name is going on down there?” he breathed, gazing over the edge of the cliff, but seeing nothing.

“I—I don’t know,” she replied, although having seen a cup of chocolate float through the air, she could guess. But right now it wasn’t the probable activity of ghosts that unnerved her, but the closeness of the shot Charles Lyons had fired. If Marcus hadn’t reacted as swiftly as he had, she would undoubtedly have been struck. Maybe even killed.

Marcus glanced at her face, and quickly slipped an arm around her waist. “It’s all right, you’re safe now,” he said gently.

“You saved my life.”

“Don’t feel obliged to thank me, for it was the least I could do after being so unbelievably unchivalrous a moment ago.”

Suddenly there was absolute silence, and icy fingers began to pass down the spines of the onlookers. Then, as one, the brave men of Mulborough look to their heels, leaving Henrietta and Marcus alone. Henrietta heard a stifled cry of terror from the bottom of the cliff. It was Jane.

Chapter Twenty-one

The reason for the sudden silence and Jane’s fear was very simple; the ghosts had themselves seen a ghost, and it was one that struck dread through them both.

They’d been continuing their onslaught of pebbles and seaweed against the retreating gig, when suddenly a glowing silver sloop with black masts glided across the entrance to the tiny inlet. The blue-and-gold banners of the Bourbons streamed from her masts, and her canvas billowed in a wind only she could feel. She heaved away from the inlet and suddenly her name came into view above the great cabin at the stern:
Basilic.
It was the privateer that had driven Jane and Kit’s merchantman, the
Wessex,
on to the Goodwins.

That was when Jane cried out, and the moment she did, the ghost ship disappeared. As darkness engulfed them again, Kit put his arms tightly around his love, pressing his lips to her hair. “It’s all right, my darling, it’s all right...” he whispered, trying to sound strong for her, although in truth he was shaken too.

“Why is the
Basilic
here? Has she come for us? Are we to go to Old Nick because we’ve failed?” Jane whispered, clinging fearfully to him.

Kit was afraid too as his glance moved up toward the cliff top. He hadn’t seen the townsfolk at all, but Henrietta was still there with Marcus. The wraith’s fear somersaulted into anger and accusation. Henrietta had promised to remain behind; instead she had not only followed, but had brought Marcus too, and they’d been stupid enough to call out, warning the French. It was
their
fault that Amabel and her vile brother had escaped, their fault that the
Légère
had not even come under threat. Maybe it was even their fault that the
Basilic
had appeared!

Henrietta looked frantically down through the gently falling snow. For once her psychic abilities had failed her, for although she had heard Jane’s cry, she hadn’t seen the phantom privateer. She wanted to call out to the ghosts, but couldn’t because of Marcus. What had happened? Were Jane and Kit all right?

Marcus gazed down as well, but sensed nothing at all. He listened carefully, but there was only the lap of the sea in the inlet. The French had escaped, and Amabel with them. It was time to return to the abbey to acquaint Russell and Charlotte with the night’s startling events. He took Henrietta’s arm to usher her away from the edge of the precipice, and after resisting for a second she allowed him to lead her back to the horses.

In Hades, Old Nick’s mood was mixed. He was ready to deal with what was to come, and had found it amusing to taunt the specters with the
Basilic,
but he was decidedly displeased with Amabel for not seeing through the ruse with the curare. He had looked after her thus far, but she had failed him once too often, and would now be abandoned to her fate.

Henrietta and Marcus hardly spoke as they rode back to the abbey through the snowy darkness, but the lack of communication was pensive and tired rather than antagonistic. As soon as they arrived, Russell and Charlotte were awoken and summoned down to the grand saloon, where Marcus had tossed a fresh log onto the dying fire. As the eager new flames hissed and spat, and sparks fled up the chimney to the snow-filled night, the story of the night’s events was related, Henrietta telling her version of how she’d found out about Amabel, and Marcus continuing the tale with events on the cliff.

Russell stood before the fire in his navy-blue paisley dressing gown, and tossed his nightcap aside in outrage as the full iniquitous truth about Amabel was revealed. Charlotte, who wore a peach robe trimmed with swansdown and was seated in a fireside chair opposite Henrietta, was aghast. “Oh, how right I was to despise and mistrust that vile creature! I was even right when I suggested in jest that she probably pushed you down the churchyard steps, Henrietta, but I did not for a single moment imagine she was capable of all
this!”

Russell placed a slippered foot on the polished brass fender and gazed into the fire. “It seems we have had the vilest of cuckoos in our nest,” he muttered.

Charlotte was distressed. “When I think back, there were so many clues. The mere fact she came here at all should have spoken volumes! She asked so many questions about the gold and the harbor.”

Russell sighed. “I fancy we need look no further for the cause of poor Renchester’s demise. I’ll warrant he was innocent of all charges. Curare will have disposed of him too. Tell me, Henrietta, exactly how did you say she administered it to you?”

As she began to answer, Jane and Kit appeared angrily beside her chair. For a moment her voice dried up completely, and Marcus, thinking she was overcome, hastened to pour her a fortifying glass of Cognac, which he pressed into her shaking hands. She gave a weak smile and battled on with what she’d been saying, even though at the same time she was on the receiving end of bitter ghostly recriminations for jeopardizing matters by leaving the abbey.

Kit had no compunction about laying the blame squarely at her feet. “It was ill done, madam! Just look what happened! It’s really too bad!”

Falteringly, Henrietta continued telling Russell about the curare.

Jane was now angry with her too. “Amabel has escaped scot-free, and the
Légère
is able to carry on as before! And it’s all your fault!”

Henrietta forgot herself. “It
isn’t
my fault! The signals had been seen in the town!” she countered defensively.

The odd exclamation filled Charlotte with concern and she hastened to reassure Henrietta. “You mustn’t blame yourself. No, of course it wasn’t your fault.”

Henrietta’s cheeks flamed. “I—I feel as if it is,” she said lamely, wishing the spirits would save their remonstrations for when she was alone. Maybe she
had
been in the wrong, but the men from Mulborough would have arrived anyway.

Kit hadn’t finished with her yet. “Have you any idea what you may have unleashed?” he demanded.

Her eyes flew inquiringly to his. What was he talking about?

He bent down to face her, his hands on the arms of her chair. “The
Basilic
appeared, and Jane fears she has come for us. I do not believe she would have appeared at all if you had not broken your promise to us. We risked breaking the rules in order to save you from Amabel, and in return you betrayed us!”

Henrietta stared up at him. The
Basilic!
Her thoughts whirled. Wasn’t that the name of the privateer that had chased Jane and Kit’s ship in 1714? Yes, it was!

Marcus looked curiously at her, but said nothing. Russell cleared his throat awkwardly, and Charlotte prompted her. “You were saying, Henrietta?”

Henrietta pulled herself sharply together and somehow managed to complete what she’d been telling them.

Russell glanced toward Marcus and then nodded at the Cognac. “I fancy a little liquid restoration would be in order for us all, mm? And it can be guaranteed free of curare, eh?” He smiled at Henrietta.

As Marcus went to pour generous measures, Kit went with him, peering longingly over his shoulder as the amber liquid splashed into the glasses. “Oh, tonight of all nights, what I’d give to down a measure or two of good Cognac,” the wraith muttered wistfully.

The ghostly yearning communicated a little, and Marcus turned sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

Everyone in the room looked curiously at him. Russell raised an eyebrow. “No one said a word, dear boy.”

Henrietta whispered to Jane. “Please go. If you must chastise me, do so later when I’m alone.”

Jane knew the request was justified. “Very well, but we’re very angry with you.”

“That is abundantly clear.”

Charlotte looked across. “Did you say something to me, Henrietta?”

“Oh, I was just thinking what a long night it’s been,” Henrietta replied, watching with relief as Jane took Kit’s hand and led him through the wall.

Marcus dealt out the Cognac, and Russell sipped his with relish before speaking again. “Right now I’m damned glad I had that gold moved. The icehouse was clever enough, but totally undefended.”

Marcus gave a wry smile. “To say nothing of the close proximity of the livery stables, with all those potential packhorses.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Charlotte sighed. “Right now I wish the wretched gold were elsewhere entirely.”

“It will be shortly, my love,” Russell reassured her. “The Treasury has been sitting on its hands thus far, but as soon as all this is told, swift action will follow.”

Marcus had been swirling his Cognac slowly. “I don’t wish to be alarmist, but there is the possibility that Charles Lyons and his merry men may try to catch us unawares by raiding Mulborough this very night, before we have the chance to do anything.”

Russell stared. “
Tonight?
But he’s already been once. Surely he won’t attempt anything again right away! Especially now we’ve been alerted.”

“He may anticipate our reaction to be just that. He’s bold and enterprising, so do not leave any chink in the armor. The most gaping hole is the smugglers’ path. My advice is to blow it up without further delay.”