Silver Angel (2 page)

Ellen Burke lowered the letter to her lap and rubbed her eyes. It was so tedious, reading one of Marge Creagh’s letters. Ellen didn’t know how the woman managed to write ten to twelve pages of pure nonsense, but she did it every time. And to think that one year of school, shared twenty-five years ago, could account for one of these gossipy letters every few months. But she had to read them. You never knew when Marge might impart some useful bit of information.

She skimmed through several pages until the underlined
they
caught her eye. Ellen supposed she should never have said her American cousins were upstarts, at least not to Marge Creagh. Now Marge felt perfectly free to ridicule the American Burkes at every opportunity. Not that Ellen didn’t agree with every word, but it was not for Marge Creagh to say them.

Ellen crumpled the letter in a rare burst of anger and threw it in the wastebasket beside her chair. So it was true, what she had long suspected. Charles Burke was not only a neglectful guardian, he was also a thief. No wonder he hadn’t answered her letters. He didn’t dare.

Good Lord, what were they to do? What could they do? Until Chantelle married or reached her majority, cousin Charles had control of her inheritance, and control of her. And since she wouldn’t be twenty-one for another two years, nor could she marry without Charles’ permission, there was every
likelihood that there would be little or nothing left of the modest fortune that Chantelle’s father had left her. Even her home had been taken over. Instead of residing in Sackville and the small estate of the baronetcy there, Charles had moved his large family into the more impressive Burke mansion in Dover, which was unentailed and so belonged to Chantelle now.

Fortunately, Chantelle had not yet suggested that she go home, for Ellen had to wonder if she would find a welcome in Dover now. She had come to stay with Ellen when her father died, before his only living male relative had descended on England with his American family. They had come to visit once, when Chantelle was still too overcome with grief to take much notice of them, but they had not suggested she return home either.

Apparently Charles thought the present arrangement ideal. And of course he would, since he was not supplying any money toward Chantelle’s support, any of
her own
money. He had obviously thought Ellen was well enough situated to support them both, or he simply didn’t care. She had had to disabuse him of that notion finally. Pride was pride, but it didn’t put food on the table. Her own inheritance from her father had long ago been reduced to a very modest income, adequate only for one. But several months had passed and Charles still had not answered her letters. And now he was in London again, squandering Chantelle’s money on his own family while Ellen pinched pennies and sold heirlooms to keep Chantelle from discovering the truth about the appalling predicament her father had bequeathed her.

No, to be fair, Ellen thought, it wasn’t her brother’s
fault. When his heir, their older cousin, had died, Oliver had made every effort to discover the whereabouts of the younger cousin, who was by default his new heir to the baronetcy. That Oliver had died, too, before Charles was found could not have been foreseen. Nor could Oliver have known what a wastrel Charles was, or he would have made suitable arrangements for Chantelle instead of leaving no stipulation at all—which left Charles, as her only male relative, her lawful guardian.

At least Chantelle had Ellen. With the twenty years’ difference in their age, Chantelle was more like a daughter, though Ellen had not helped to raise her. She had always been traveling during Chantelle’s younger years, and when she did finally settle down, it was not to come home to live with her brother and his family. She was too independent for that. She had bought this cottage in Norfolk, where she had lived these past ten years, alone. It was how she liked it, though she hadn’t minded at all Chantelle’s coming to stay with her when Oliver died. She loved the girl dearly.

Ellen had no children of her own, which was perhaps why she felt so close to her brother’s only child. By her own choice, she had never married. She was a plain-looking woman of thirty-nine, with light brown hair and blue eyes that were her best feature. She had been asked to marry. She had even had several love affairs that she remembered fondly, so it wasn’t that she didn’t like men. She just didn’t want to live with one. She liked her independence too much.

Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to keep Chantelle with her for the past year and a half. Chantelle had learned to be independent as well. That was fine
for a woman who didn’t plan to marry, but Chantelle would marry.

Unlike Ellen, who had the unremarkable Burke looks, Chantelle was the lone flower in the weed patch who took after her mother’s French side of the family. Oliver had always claimed she was the image of her maternal grandmother, who was reputed to have been the mistress of kings, a rare beauty in the French court. Chantelle was even named after her. And it was true she looked nothing like a Burke with her platinum-blond hair and striking eyes the color of spring violets. She might not be small and delicate, but she wasn’t too tall at five and a half feet either. She was too lovely by half, actually, certainly too lovely for men to ignore. She would be able to have her pick of beaux. She would be able to marry well—if she ever got the chance with Charles Burke as her guardian.

Ellen sighed. If that man didn’t answer her letter soon, she would have to think seriously about taking Chantelle to London herself. She deserved to have her season, to be brought out in a style befitting her means and station. If Charles tried to deny her that, as it seemed he was doing with his lack of communication, he would have a fight on his hands. Ellen still had enough friends and influence in London to make things very unpleasant for her American cousin if he didn’t own up to his responsibilities.

“Aunt Ellen, I’m back!” Chantelle called suddenly from the kitchen, and a moment later stepped into the parlor. “I found a nice chunk of beef for dinner and some kidneys for breakfast. Oh, and Mrs. Smith told me to tell you
again
”—she rolled her eyes—“that if
you keep sending me to market, she’ll soon be ruined.”

“Is that why you’re smiling?”

Chantelle grinned cheekily. “Last week I was giving her headaches. This week I’m ruining her. I wonder what I’ll be responsible for next week.”

“Insomnia? She’s used that one on me before.”

Chantelle laughed. “She’s wonderful. I’ve never met anyone who gets so much pleasure out of haggling.”

“Yourself, perhaps?”

“Well, it
is
fun,” Chantelle said defensively, ignoring the fact that her throat was slightly sore from spending an hour whittling down the price of one piece of meat. But it had become a sort of challenge, getting the very best prices at the market, better prices than the regulars who had haggling down to a fine art. “And besides, look how much I saved today.”

Ellen closed her eyes briefly. So Chantelle did know that Ellen had been reduced to pinching pennies. Damn Charles Burke.

“I’m sorry, dear—”

“Don’t be silly, Aunt Ellen. As soon as Charles sends the money I’ve requested, I’ll make it up to you.”

“You wrote him?”

“Of course. I would have done so sooner if I’d realized—well, at any rate, I’ll soon set things right. Was there a letter today, by chance?”

“No, not today,” Ellen replied, feeling a certain uneasiness at Chantelle’s show of initiative. How would Charles react to demands from them both?

“Well, there will be one soon,” Chantelle said with
cheery confidence. “He can’t very well ignore me, now, can he?”

He couldn’t? He had certainly done an excellent job of it so far. And both women were about to regret that he didn’t continue to ignore them.

T
hey had locked her in her room, but Chantelle wasn’t worried, not yet. It wouldn’t be the first time she had gone out through the window, though many years had passed since she had last left the house that way. But it could be done. She did have that option. She just wasn’t ready to go yet. She had to wait for the house to quiet, gather a few things, form a plan—but mainly she had to calm down, for at the moment she was so angry she felt she could actually kill Charles Burke.

She had arrived home only that afternoon, but it seemed she had been angry for the past week, ever since Charles’ letter had come. Instead of the money she was expecting, she had received an order to return immediately to Dover, and that high-handed idiot hadn’t even included the wherewithal for the journey. Ellen had to sell another piece of jewelry, which had really been the last straw.

Chantelle was so furious she hadn’t even waited for her aunt to close up the cottage to accompany her. Against Ellen’s protests, she had left the very next day. She was going to show cousin Charles that she wasn’t some silly twit who could be treated this way. He had a lot to answer for, especially his leaving her dependent on her aunt when Ellen couldn’t afford it. She had planned to have it out with him. But that wasn’t how it had turned out.

She had been shown into the parlor as if she were a guest in her own house. The butler was new. The
carpeting, the furniture, were new. She
felt
like a guest. And the entire clan had been there.

Chantelle remembered them all from their one visit to her in Norfolk, soon after their arrival in England. And the difference between then and now was not immediately noticeable. Before, they had been the poor relations from America come to offer their condolences, mindful that Chantelle was a lady born and bred, whereas not even Charles among them could claim nobility, until now, that is.

Charles was her father’s uncle’s second son, Charles’ own father having been no more than a carpenter’s apprentice. It had been Chantelle’s grandfather who had won the baronetcy from a grateful monarch, but he had been a rich man beforehand, and it was his wealth that had been left to Chantelle. Charles had in fact left England nearly thirty years ago, escaping debtors’ prison in the process.

You wouldn’t know it to look at him now. Big, pale, looking older than his forty-nine years, with the stamp of the Burkes on him in his brown hair and blue eyes. He was done up in the finest of fashions, as was his family. And they all exuded the confidence and condescension of the newly prosperous.

There was Charles’ red-haired wife, Alice, who, according to the tardy solicitor’s report, was the daughter of a tavern owner in Virginia, a tavern where Charles had been no more than an employee. Two of their daughters were present: Marsha, fourteen, and Jane, who was the same age as Chantelle, homely-looking girls with their mother’s red hair and hazel eyes not helping to improve their plain looks. There was an older, married daughter, too, but she had elected to remain in America with a new husband, her second, according to the solicitor’s report.
Charles’ son, Aaron, had brought his wife, Rebecca, and their two young children to England, and they were all present, too.

And to think if her aunt hadn’t lived near the ocean, Chantelle would have returned sooner to this bunch of interlopers who had taken over her home. She might even have come to like them, especially the younger children, who were rather awed by everything around them. She would have introduced them to the beach below Dover cliffs, which had been her playground as a child. Gathering shells, swimming, sailing with her father, exploring the caves, or just sitting on the cliffs, sometimes for hours at a time, waiting to sight a passing ship, had been the essence of her childhood years.

Yes, if the beach hadn’t been within walking distance of her aunt’s cottage, she would have missed it too much and come home, maybe before Charles got it into his head that he could marry her off to just anybody, and that
anybody
was Cyrus Wolrige, a man old enough to be her grandfather.

He
was present, too, an old lecher who leered at her throughout the entire interview. She knew him. He lived not a quarter mile away from her. She had seen him often in church, snoring through the sermons, ogling the young women afterward in the churchyard. Emmy, her maid, had always called him a dirty old man.

And here Charles’ very first words to her had been: “Ah, Chantelle, my dear. Meet your fiancé, Mr. Wolrige. You’ll be married in the morning.”

Chantelle’s reaction was to laugh at the absurdity of it. Cyrus Wolrige wasn’t offended, though. He just sat there smiling, supremely confident that by tomor
row she would be his bride. His look gave her the chills and sobered her instantly.

Chantelle rounded on her cousin, violet eyes impaling him. “You are joking, sir, and in bad taste.”

“I assure you the holy state of matrimony is nothing to joke about,” he told her.

She had gathered her breeding around her like a cloak to keep from shouting at him. “Then I assure you, sir, that I refuse Mr. Wolrige’s suit.”

“You can’t, my dear,” Charles replied with a tight smile and an apologetic nod to Mr. Wolrige. “I have already accepted for you.”

He went on to impress on her that she had no say in it, that they didn’t need her permission in order to see her married, that because she was underage, her guardian’s permission was all that was required.

It was too much. They all sat there staring at her in different degrees of gloating pleasure, except Aaron, who actually seemed resentful of the situation. And Chantelle found out why later from Emmy.

Emmy had originally accompanied her to Norfolk but had stayed no more than a month, returning to Dover when her mother took sick. And since Ellen’s cottage was really too small for three people, she had returned to work here later, tending to the new ladies of the house.

She brought Chantelle a dinner tray that night and stayed long enough to warn her that these Burkes were serious about seeing her married off. There had been a terrible row in the family because Aaron was already married. They seemed to think it would have been ideal if he could have been the one to wed Chantelle. There had even been talk of his divorcing his wife, who made a big stink about that, and things hadn’t been right between Aaron and Rebecca since.

But that news was nothing to Chantelle. It didn’t change the plans they had for her now. She was furious, and made no bones about it, but to no avail. In the end, she was still locked in her room, she would still be married to Wolrige in the morning—or so they thought. She wouldn’t be here, however. Where she would be she wasn’t exactly sure yet, but it wouldn’t be here.

It was midnight before Chantelle had calmed down enough to make some immediate plans, and several hours more before she was ready to leave. The main thing was to get out of the house and hide somewhere while she decided what to do next. And she knew the perfect place. The caves. Some of the things she had stashed there as a child might even still be there—blankets, kindling, dishes, her shell collection. Blankets were the important thing, for she intended to spend the rest of the night there, and all day tomorrow, while the Burkes futilely combed the countryside for her. Then tomorrow night she would leave Dover, destination still undecided. London, most likely, and a job, maybe with one of her aunt’s friends, where she could also get in touch with Ellen, who might have some other ideas. But the first place Charles would look for her would be in Norfolk, so she would have to be careful when contacting Ellen. In the meantime, she would definitely need some type of employment.

Chantelle grinned for the first time that day. Her stay with her aunt had been a training of sorts for which she could now be grateful. A year ago she might very well have accepted the fate Charles had planned for her, but not now.

Yet it was daunting. Pampered and adored all her life by her father, who had showered her with atten
tion to make up for the loss of her mother at an early age, Chantelle had never known hardship, had never had to make decisions on her own. Certainly she had done without the luxuries she was accustomed to while living with her aunt, but she didn’t consider that a hardship. Having no servants to wait on her, learning to cook, to clean, to go to market to buy her own food, had been an adventure, but only because she had shared the experience with her aunt. With anyone else she probably would have felt deprived. But Ellen was special and Chantelle loved her dearly. Her aunt had seen the world; she was independent; she wasn’t one to accept only the straight and narrow path, but considered all options, the good with the bad.

Oh, if only she’d listened and waited for Ellen to come to Dover with her, the older woman might have been able to do
something
. No, that wasn’t true. Chantelle wasn’t that ignorant of the law. No one could do anything if her guardian was adamant about her marrying old Wolrige. There was nothing for it. She had to disappear for two years until she reached her majority, and hope that Wolrige wouldn’t agree to a marriage with a missing bride.

If there was nothing left of her inheritance at that time, and her maid had told her how the Burkes had been spending her money as if spending were a new invention, that was the chance she had to take. Marrying Cyrus Wolrige was a worse choice, one to be avoided at all cost. But, by God, if there was nothing left when it was finally safe to show herself again, the Burkes would pay. They would pay anyway. For the first time in her life, Chantelle disliked someone enough to call the emotion hate. It wasn’t pleasant. It went against her natural tendencies. But for what they
had tried to do to her, what they were forcing her to do, she would get even somehow.

With several changes of clothes, a few personal items, and the last of the money her aunt had given her to get home all tied up in a bundle, Chantelle tossed it out the window, then climbed out on the ledge herself. She was fortunate that spring was already changing to summer so she could wear a thin muslin dress that was tied about her hips, making it possible for her to manage the climb down with ease. She was also fortunate that there was only a half-moon that offered a feeble light to help conceal her progress until she was off the grounds. It was nice to feel fortunate about
something
in this situation.

But she ran into her first obstacle almost immediately. She hadn’t counted on the passing of time and the growth of trees. Her tree, which had always been so easy to reach, was still there, but hardly recognizable. The branch that had touched the house and been so easy to climb over now hung far above her head. Even on tiptoes she couldn’t reach it. A lower branch would probably be in the right position in several more years, but now it was three feet below the ledge. If she was going to use that tree to get down, she would have to jump for it.

Ten years ago she wouldn’t have hesitated, but then children rarely think of the possible results of their adventures. Right now she was looking at a possible broken neck, broken bones at the least, if she missed the branch when she jumped. It was worth hesitating over, but only for a few moments. She still jumped. Yet she had no time to feel elated when she caught the branch, for she heard the crack as it broke with her weight, and she found herself hurtling straight for a collision with the wide tree trunk.

Before she could scream, she let go of the branch and dropped the last eight feet to the ground, rolling as she landed. She stayed there, unmoving, taking note of the aches and pains on different parts of her body, giving a little prayer that none would be serious. When she finally moved, it was with a sigh of relief. Nothing was broken, though she would have a few bad bruises on one knee and hip, and it took her a moment to steady herself when she stood up and untied her skirt.

She had done it, she was free, and she wasted not another moment in collecting her bundle and moving silently away from the house in the direction of the cliffs. This was familiar terrain. It could have been as black as pitch and she still would have found her way to the steep path that descended to the beach and the caves.

Hurrying, she reached the cliffs in five minutes, and then Chantelle was running down the path, safely out of sight of the house, smelling the warm salt in the air, hearing the waves breaking on the beach below. Her playground, and the last place anyone would look for her. Finally she felt she had come home, for that mansion from which she had just escaped was anything but home to her now.

Only this “home” was filled with interlopers, too, as she found to her chagrin when she reached the narrow strip of beach. Twenty yards ahead, a small boat was pulled ashore, and outlined around it, three men. Smugglers? Perhaps. With no lights in evidence, Chantelle doubted they were fishermen. But regardless of who they were, she preferred not to be seen and slowly backed up toward the cliff path, where there was enough bramble and knotty trees to
provide a temporary hiding place until the three men departed.

That plan would have worked out just fine, except there weren’t just three men, there were five. The other two had been sent down the beach in opposite directions to make sure their own nocturnal landing on the beach would go unnoticed, and Chantelle backed right into one of them.

She was simply startled at first, until a hand smelling of fish closed over her mouth, and then it was too late to scream, even if she were willing to risk it. Better to talk her way out of this so her plans could proceed, and with that thought in mind, she didn’t struggle unduly as she was dragged forward to the beached boat.

It seemed an ominous portent that the moon should disappear just as she was brought face-to-face with the other three men. In near total darkness, it was impossible for her to see if she might recognize any of them from the nearby village. And when the hand covering her mouth wasn’t lowered so she could speak, she began to feel her first inkling of uneasiness, which quickly increased when they all began to speak at once in some gibberish she couldn’t make heads or tails of. The laughter at the end she understood, though, and her uneasiness turned to fear.