A Christmas Charade (12 page)

Leaving Nicholas and George openmouthed and his uncle protesting that he had never claimed friendship with the “gentlemen,” Clive strode off to the stables.

Lying in bed, warm flannel-wrapped bricks all around her, Elizabeth called herself all kinds of fool. Clive—

Now, when had she started thinking of him as Clive?
Stenton
had said he’d go back to the estuary to take a look around. And like a ninny, she had done no more than beg him not to go. As if that would stop him!

On the other hand, telling him of her suspicion that the boat was a smuggling vessel would undoubtedly have sent him off in an even greater hurry.

So what should she have done? Turning onto her side, Elizabeth pulled a rueful face. Ten years as a companion to elderly ladies had left her woefully inexperienced in the management of a gentleman. Especially if that gentleman was as strong willed and forceful as she remembered Clive Rowland to be. And that he hadn’t changed was obvious from the way he had scooped her up and carried her, despite her protest.

She remembered the feel of his arms around her. Since he had given her his coat, he wore only a lawn shirt. But he was warm … and strong….

Her musings were interrupted by a knock. One of the maids, Mary, who had earlier assisted her with a bath, announced the arrival of Dr. Wimple, the physician from Seaford.

Dr. Wimple was a dour-faced small man with gentle hands who examined the bump on her head and made her swallow an evil-smelling concoction. He grumbled about visitors who didn’t know better than to go walking on the beach in winter or poking around places where they had no business being in the first place—which made her wonder what he had been told about her.

Then Dr. Wimple patted her shoulder and assured her she’d be shipshape by morning. “That’s supposing, of course, you didn’t contract an inflammation of the lungs and start running a fever.”

Elizabeth liked his brusque manner and smiled at him. “I’m not at all susceptible to chills and fevers, Dr. Wimple.”

“Hmph!” He closed his bag with a snap. “At least you don’t have a concussion. I should know. I’ve seen more head injuries than I ever hoped to see.” He gave her a stern look. “All contracted by fools climbing the cliffs or walking the beach at the wrong time.”

“I’ll choose a better time when I go again,” she promised.

“Go again?” His shrewd eyes rested on her for a moment. He shook his head in resignation and stalked off. At the door he stopped.

“Mary,” he said to the maid who had accompanied him to Elizabeth’s chamber, “see to it that the young lady stays in bed today. Let her sleep as much as she cares to. And if you have any sense at all, you’ll explain to her when is
not
a good time to go walking along the estuary.”

Without waiting for a reply, he addressed Elizabeth again. “Not that I think it’ll do any good. I suspect you already know what goes on. But Mary is from East Dean. Has lived here all her life. You could do worse than listen to her.”

“Dr. Wimple, believe me, I have no intention of interfering with free-traders,” said Elizabeth. “I grew up near Lydd. I know how excitable and dangerous the ‘gentlemen’ are.”

“Do you now?” Dr. Wimple gave a snort. “In that case, I’d have expected you to know better than to visit the beach early in the morning.”

“I know better
now
, and next time, I promise you, I’ll go in the afternoon. But I very much fear that his grace does not understand the ways of our men on the Channel coast, and he, I am told, is very much addicted to walking on the beach and along the estuary in the early morning hours and late at night.”

“So I have been given to understand. In fact, I planned to drop a word of warning in his ear.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wimple. That is exactly what I hoped—”

“Well, I cannot do that. Saw him ride off as I drove up. And come to think on it,
you
are in a much better position to tell him to stay off the beach.”

“
I?
” Elizabeth shot up so fast that her head started to throb again. “I have no authority, no right to tell him anything.”

The physician’s dour expression lightened. A generous-minded person might have considered the slight stretch of his mouth a smile. Elizabeth did not feel generous.

“My dear young lady,” he said, “you’ve as much as told me that the lump on your head won’t keep you from visiting the beach or the estuary again. You are a stubborn lady, and I have no doubt whatsoever that, authority or not, you’ll know exactly how to put the situation to his grace.”

And, to clinch the matter, Dr. Wimple whisked himself out of the room and shut the door.

Elizabeth sank back against the pillows. A sound, half moan, half chuckle, escaped her. Authority or not, she’d know exactly how to put the matter to his grace? Lud! Even if she was stubborn, that didn’t make her a managing, interfering female. What made the good doctor jump to that conclusion?

She became aware of Mary looking at her rather uncertainly.

“Would you bring me the hand mirror please, Mary? It should be on the dressing table. And if you don’t mind, let’s talk about the beach and smuggling and things some other time. I am a little tired.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary handed her the mirror. “I doubt not you’ll sleep for hours, ma’am. I know that bottle Dr. Wimple measured from. That syrup will put a horse to sleep.”

“Syrup of poppies. But it’s mixed with something else.” Elizabeth yawned. “Thank you, Mary. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to wake me in time to dress for dinner?”

The little maid said doubtfully, “Yes, ma’am. If it’s all right with Mrs. Rodwell, ma’am.”

Curtsying several times, Mary backed out of the room leaving Elizabeth to stare into her mirror.

Ma’am!
When had she ceased to be
miss?
A sixteen-year-old village girl might justifiably consider a woman a dozen years her senior as old. But even Stenton had called her ma’am during their first encounter. And Dr. Wimple might address her as
young lady
, yet he believed her capable of stopping the Duke of Stenton from walking on his own beach.

Even after an extended scrutiny of her face, Elizabeth could see no signs of a shrewish temperament that might have misled the physician and, with a little sniff of disgust at her vanity, set the mirror on the bedside table.

Yawning, she slid lower in the bed and pulled the cover up around her chin. She’d do all she could to convince Stenton that the beach and the estuary were best left alone … after she had slept a little.

Unbidden, the thought crept into her mind that, if she wanted to avoid being called an abominable little liar, she should keep away from the Duke of Stenton. It was a prospect she could not like at all, and she promptly dismissed the notion of avoiding his company.

Closing her eyes, Elizabeth yawned again. Suddenly, she tensed. She opened one eye, then quickly closed it again. Surely she could not be hearing someone softly clapping in applause? Not again!

Climbing the carriage track while supporting or carrying Elizabeth had taken half an hour or longer. On horseback, it was a matter of minutes before Clive reached the estuary bank.

At the landing stage, he dismounted. He had no qualms about leaving the roan untethered. Rambunctious was well trained; he would not startle and run at the screech of a seabird, nor would he wander off without his rider.

As soon as Clive set foot on the wooden planks, he knew that he had returned too late to retrieve the piece of oilcloth. Not only had the water risen sufficiently to cover the spot where Elizabeth had lain unconscious, but the leaf green cloak, which had been left behind in the bog, now hung over one of the posts of the landing stage.

His mouth tightened in irritation. Damn! If Decimus hadn’t stopped him—

No, he was being unfair. Even if Decimus had not delayed him, he would have been gone from the landing stage close to three-quarters of an hour. More than enough time for someone to collect the oilcloth or, if no one had come to retrieve it, for the tide to wash it away. But someone had been here. The tide had not draped the cloak over that post.

He picked up the cloak. It smelled marshy, but most of the mud stains were gone and the fabric was dripping as if it had been rinsed in the rolling, lapping waters of the estuary. He did not know whether a woolen garment would retain the smell of mud and rotting vegetation, and if it had been his own, he would have left it. But he had seen Elizabeth glance back at the cloak and wondered if she had regretted having to leave it behind.

With barely a moment’s hesitation, he took it with him. It had once been a good, serviceable piece of clothing, not as brilliant in color as Elizabeth’s eyes, but near enough to be called a match. No doubt, she had paid a handsome price for it and would not easily be able to purchase another.

Rambunctious snorted in disgust when Clive slung the soggy garment over the saddle and rivulets of water rolled down the horse’s smooth coat.

“Sorry, old boy.” Clasping the rein, Clive started to lead the roan. “I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer awhile. If I cannot have the oilcloth, I want at least to take a look at Decimus’s cave.”

Slowly, he made his way southward, the swollen estuary on his right, the castle atop the chalk cliffs on his left. Every now and again, he looked up, and when he judged he was about even with the big gate in the west wall, he once more left the roan to its own devices.

Clive patted the horse’s neck before leaving and ran a hand through the stiff mane. “Like Nick, you wouldn’t appreciate the rocks and loose stones where I’m going.”

It was indeed rough walking directly at the foot of the cliffs where giant fingers of chalk rock jutted from the ground. Undeterred by cuts and scrapes to his boots, by stubbed toes, by sharp stones that hurt the soles of his feet, Clive pressed on. He meant to find the cave.

Here, unlike on the Channel side, the cliffs presented a smooth, wall-like appearance, which was why he had not previously searched this area for a cave that could be used as a storage place by the smugglers. Or as a hiding place by French agents. But appearances could be deceiving. There might be an unsuspected crevice in the cliff wall, a narrow slit hidden by a boulder and widening into a cave deep inside the chalk rock.

So absorbed was he in the study of the cliff wall that he lost his footing and stumbled when he was addressed in a creaky, rusty old voice.

“Mornin’, yer grace.”

Regaining his balance, Clive faced an old man perched on a hunk of chalk rock less than five feet distant. The ancient’s head was covered with a knitted cap, bony shoulders supported a patched greatcoat that had been tailored for a much larger man, and on his feet he wore a pair of very muddy ankle boots.

“Good morning,” said Clive, his frame stiffening despite the old man’s harmless looks. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.”

The gaffer mulled over Clive’s words, then widened his mouth in a smile that revealed a gap where his front teeth should have been.

“Fancy talk,” he said. “Us folks hereabouts ain’t used to it no more since his grace, yer sainted pa, left. But I’m Will from East Dean, if that’s what ye was wishful of knowing. Used to work up at Stenton. Second undergardener I was.”

“My gardener is looking for help. You can apply to him if you’d like to work at Stenton again.”

“Ain’t no use.” Old Will stretched out hands covered by mittens, showing fingers as gnarled and twisted as the branches of an ancient apple tree. “Yer gardener says I’m too old.”

“I’ll speak to him.”

Saluting the ancient, Clive walked on. He would have passed the man, but Will tottered to his feet to stand squarely in his path.

“Ye’d best not go on, yer grace. Ain’t safe hereabouts, and Jed Beamish of the Crown an’ Anchor sent me to make sure no one comes to no harm. Jed says yer grace canna be ’xpected to know what’s safe and what ain’t.”

Clive could have brushed Will aside, but it went against the pluck to raise even a finger against a man so much older and weaker than he. Clive was also curious.

“The innkeeper sent you?” Now this was a bit of news to pass on to Chamberlain. “What is Jed Beamish’s interest in the estuary?”

Like Decimus, Will apparently heard only what he wanted to hear. At least, he answered only Clive’s first question.

“Aye, yer grace. Jed Beamish, he be the innkeeper
and
the mayor
and
the constable. Sent me and Ole Fergus to watch that no one from the castle comes to harm. Ole Fergus, he be sittin’ down at the mouth o’ the estuary.”

Thus cutting off the approach to the estuary from the cliff path.

“The devil you say! And undoubtedly Fergus is as young as you are.”

Will snickered. “I can give him a year or two.”

“Congratulations.”

Again, Clive dismissed the notion of overpowering the old man. All guards must change at some time. And if not this night, then the following night when the moon was dark and the clouds had disappeared, the village ancients would be replaced by sturdy men. Clive would have no compunction in knocking some burly lads’ hard heads together.

He scowled at Will. “If you were sent to watch over my safety and that of my guests, I wish you had been here earlier this morning. A young lady from the castle was knocked unconscious by one of your smug—” Recalling Decimus’s strictures, Clive corrected himself. “By one of your ‘gentlemen.’ ”

“We was here, yer grace.” The wrinkles in Will’s face deepened in distress. “We couldn’t do nothing. But I swear on me mother’s grave it weren’t one of our lads as hit the young lady. We don’t hold with no vi’lence, nor with no drownings.”

“That, I suppose,” Clive said cuttingly, “is why she was left on the estuary bank with the tide coming in?”

“We wouldn’t have let her drown, yer grace. But we couldn’t carry her, Fergus and me. That’s why we tried to make her head comf’table when she wouldn’t wake up. And when we heard ye come down the cliff path, we hid so
you
could find her.”

“Well, I’ll be—” Clive narrowed his eyes. “Then
who
, if it wasn’t one of the ‘gentleman’ traders, hit the young lady?”