A Christmas Charade (23 page)

“They said there was some jewelry the first fourth duchess had bequeathed to
them!
”

“How can that be?” Margaret handed cups of tea to Lady Astley, Juliette, Fanny, and Elizabeth. “The duchess didn’t leave a will, did she?”

“I don’t know.” Fanny looked at Juliette. “Did you ever hear of a will?”

“I never even heard of the treasure until you mentioned it the other night.”

Fanny cast a quick look over her shoulder. The four gentlemen standing at the credenza could not possibly hear what was said among the ladies at the opposite side of the room; nor would they be interested in the talk since they were happily occupied sampling the smuggled cognac. Decimus had boasted it was the smoothest cognac he ever got his tongue around, and, naturally, the pronouncement had to be verified.

Nevertheless, Fanny lowered her voice. “George says I’m silly. But I suspect Flora and Amelia intend to make off with
all
the jewels when they find them.”

Juliette uttered a protest, but Fanny ignored her.

“I think we should go ahead with the treasure hunt I suggested on Friday. Remember, it’s a small chest we’re looking for, a miniature sea chest about fifteen inches long and ten inches high. The lid is inlaid with marquetry work. We ought to be able to find it. And then we can give it to Clive as a Christmas present!”

“Pardon me, Lady Fanny,” said Elizabeth. “I was under the impression that there is no treasure. That a servant made off with the jewels after the fire.”

“And I don’t believe Cousin Flora and Cousin Amelia would cheat Clive.” Juliette reached for a mincemeat tart. “They may be crotchety and as poor as church mice, but they are not
grasping
.”

“Be that as it may,”—Fanny directed her reply at both Elizabeth and Juliette—“but Amelia and Flora were here at the time of the tragedy. If
they
believe the jewels are at Stenton, it’s a guinea to a gooseberry that they are. And if Flora and Amelia don’t mean to pocket the jewels, why sneak into my room—the first fourth duchess’s room—behind my back?”

“Like you, they may wish to make a Christmas gift of the jewels to Clive,” Lady Astley suggested gently.

Fanny was too polite to pooh-pooh the older woman’s suggestion but managed to convey her doubts by maintaining a discreet silence.

“Lady Fanny,” said Elizabeth. “Does Stenton know about his cousins’ … odd behavior?”

“Why don’t you say snooping?” Fanny’s smile made Elizabeth feel a part of the family. “Yes, I told him. And typically Clive, he had other, more important business to attend than the recovery of a treasure that could make him a rich man.”

As Fanny had done earlier, Juliette glanced at the gentlemen. Her gaze lingered for an instant on Stewart, in animated conversation with his father.

“Where
is
Clive?” she asked. “And Lord Nicholas?”

“Engaged in Clive’s infernal
business
,” Fanny said bitterly. “He warned me they may not even be in for dinner.”

Since Miss Whitlock and Mr. Ponsonby chose this moment to usher the twins into the drawing room, no one noticed that Elizabeth’s hand started to shake and that a few drops of tea spilled into her saucer.

A scarce two minutes later, Miss Flora, dressed in a flounced and ruffled gown of pink silk that would have better suited a young girl, tripped into the drawing room. Sharp on her heels trod Miss Amelia in a severely cut gown of dark gray wool.

Taking advantage of the confusion caused by Grace, who caught a foot in one of Miss Flora’s many trailing scarves, Elizabeth left the Crimson Drawing Room.

Stenton had important business to attend. And he might not be in for dinner. To her mind, there was no might be about it. He would be on the beach when his guests sat down at the table.

She pressed her hands together in an attempt to still the trembling. So silly of her to be upset. She had known that he would try to stop the free-traders. Not for a moment had she believed him when he said he had no interest in the smuggling.

She glanced down the hall at the kitchen door. Her cloak …

But what if Stenton had left orders not to give it to her? He had made it quite clear he did not want
her
on the beach. He might even have warned Mrs. Rodwell not to let her borrow a cloak from one of the maids.

Elizabeth’s mouth tightened. Chin and nose assumed a determined tilt. Without a second glance at the kitchen wing, she hurried to her room.

Flinging open the wardrobe doors, she dragged out a walking dress of thick wool, a pair of sturdy boots, and the jacket of her riding habit.

“Annie! If you’re here, speak up.”

There was a whisper of a sound, a breathless little laugh. “Goodness me! Aren’t you in a pelter? I had a hard time keeping up with you.”

“Did you?” Elizabeth’s voice was muffled by folds of fabric as she changed gowns. “Were you looking for me, then?”

“I thought you might like to know that the duke and his friend just left for the estuary.”

“I suspected that much.”

A part of Elizabeth’s mind registered the fact that she had totally accepted the presence of a ghost, that she was talking to her as though it were an everyday occurrence. The other part was busy sorting the most pertinent questions from those that could wait.

“Annie, what do you know about the smugglers?” Buttoning the bodice of the walking dress, she turned toward the dresser, near which Annie had spoken. “Will they be setting sail from here, or is a boat expected to land?”

“From what I’ve heard, I expect they’ll be crossing to France,” said Annie from the bed.

Elizabeth swung around. “Pray don’t change places. It’s very confusing.”

“Sorry. Miss Elizabeth, there’s a lot of whispering among the local girls today. I think it’s something his grace should know about. Only he left before I could get to him.”

Elizabeth stared harder at the bed. Was that a shadow, the outline of a human shape, she saw?

“Annie, why can Lord Decimus see you when I cannot?”

“I don’t know.” Annie sounded wistful. “Can you not see me at all?”

“A moment ago, I thought I saw a shadow.” Elizabeth sat on a chair to button her boots. “But, I daresay it was my imagination. Tell me what it is you heard.”

“There’s a gentleman arrived at the Crown and Anchor. And he plans to kill the French spy.”

Elizabeth had half risen, but, at Annie’s words, sank back onto the chair.

“The French spy,” she repeated numbly.

“Aye, the spy his grace is planning to catch.”

“So that’s it! Heavens, what a goose I’ve been!”

Elizabeth bustled into action. She forced the tight riding jacket over the thick walking dress, snatched a pair of lined gloves from a drawer, and, after a slight hesitation, draped an old knitted shawl around her head.

It did not matter that she cut a fine figure of fun. This was not the time to think of her appearance. Besides, it was dark. No one would recognize her. And the important thing was to make sure Stenton did not get hurt. And, of course, Lord Nicholas.

When Lady Fanny mentioned Stenton’s “business,” Elizabeth had only had a vague notion of preventing his getting hit over the head by the smugglers as she had been. Annie’s news about the spy put the matter in a totally different perspective. A spy encountering someone bent on catching him did not hesitate to stab or shoot that someone dead.

Despite the double layer of thick outdoor clothing, Elizabeth shivered. There was also the gentleman at the Crown and Anchor Annie had mentioned. He planned to kill the spy, but in the dark it was easy to mistake one’s man.

Facing the bed, she vaguely noted the shadow again. “Quickly, Annie. Tell me everything you know.”

Clive knew that Chamberlain would be following the smugglers from the Crown and Anchor, where the men from East and West Dean and from Seaford gathered before a trip across the Channel. They would approach the estuary by way of the narrow strip of beach along the Channel coast.

Nicholas had gone down the carriage track. He was bringing Rambunctious and two fast mares, their hooves muffled with sacking. The horses were a precaution—just in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

Clive himself used the cliff path to approach the estuary. It was dusk when he and Nick had seen Chamberlain’s signal, two short flashes of light and two long, repeated twice. By the time they had collected the horses from Sam Nutley, darkness had fallen swiftly and suddenly. But it didn’t bother him to negotiate the cliff path in the dark. He was familiar with every step of the way.

Still, he went slowly. He had plenty of time before the smugglers would get here, and in the meantime all that mattered was not to alert the guard stationed somewhere below.

He thought of old Will and his comrades and hoped that the ancients had been replaced by men with a few years less in their dish.

When he reached the bottom of the path, he stretched out behind a large boulder of chalk rock. This was the difficult part. The waiting. It was cold, icy cold. But Chamberlain had provided thick knitted caps like those worn by the smugglers. Also smocks to hide their coats when they must mingle with the men from East and West Dean.

They were as certain as could be that a boat—the sloop Elizabeth had seen anchored at the landing stage—would leave that night. This did not exclude the possibility that a second craft was crossing from France, but with the wind blowing offshore, no vessel would land before morning.

For the time being, they were concerned only with a departure, with the spy who would embark and carry with him copies of documents pilfered from the Whitehall offices. Clive was willing to wager next year’s crop that the spy had been hiding in the cave these past two days. There could be no other reason for the attack on Elizabeth and for the guards when, during the previous days exploration, no one had tried to stop him.

The plan he and Chamberlain had hatched was simple—and safer than forging into the cave and getting shot by the spy who, if he knew his business, must have made preparations to defend the entrance.

They would simply meld with the band of smugglers as they approached the estuary, then seize the man who would be waiting there. The smugglers, once they understood that Clive, Chamberlain, and Nick were not revenue officers, wouldn’t lift a hand for the Frenchman who had terrified even Jed Beamish, the powerful landlord of the Crown and Anchor.

Pushing the knitted cap off one ear, Clive raised his head. He thought he had heard something, some small sound that had not been made by the wind or by the choppy waters of the Channel.

It was too soon for the smugglers. Every sense alert, every muscle taut, he strained to hear a repetition of the sound. And there it was. He heard it clearly this time, a scrape and then the spatter of gravel. And it came from the cliff path rising steeply behind him.

Biting down an oath, he got to his feet. It must be Nicholas. Something had gone wrong on the carriage track. But Nick, the indolent fellow who had refused to practice a stealthy descent on the cliff path, would have the guard on them in no time at all if he didn’t proceed more cautiously.

Swift and soft-footed as a cat, Clive started to climb. He had gone almost a third of the way when he saw a dark shape ahead, a black shadow against the gray of the chalk cliffs. He heard a small piece of rock trundle down the path toward him and knew that the shadow was indeed his clumsy friend, Lord Nicholas Mackay.

Nick, apparently, saw him too. He stopped.

Before Clive could feel relief at his friend’s good sense, Nick turned and started back to the top of the cliffs, this time with even less regard for stealth than before.

Again, Clive bit down an oath. Increasing his pace, he caught up with Nick in a few steps, but just as he gripped his quarry by the coat, Nicholas turned and planted him a facer that made his jaw crack and his ears ring.

“Nick, you blasted idiot!”

Even as he ground out the low-pitched curse, he realized that he was not dealing with Lord Nicholas. His friend would have worn over his tight-fitting coat the short, voluminous smock supplied by Chamberlain. And he’d have had on a knitted cap, not what appeared to be a scarf wound around his head.

“Stenton?” whispered an incredulous female voice.

A second knock to the jaw could not have hit him harder.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” Elizabeth whispered. “I thought you were one of the smugglers. That cap you’re wearing, and that bulky blouse …”

She faltered as he tightened his grip on her jacket and pulled her closer until they stood breast to breast, nose to nose, on the steep, narrow path.

“What the
devil
are you doing here, Elizabeth?”

Perhaps it was because he spoke in an even lower voice than she had done that his tone hit her as particularly menacing. Perhaps it was relief making her heart pound. Relief that it was he and not a smuggler she had encountered on the path. And then again, it could simply be his presence alone that had this curious effect on her.

The treacherous soles of her boots began to slide on the slippery rock. She put out a hand, bracing herself against his shoulder.

“For goodness’ sake, Stenton! Let’s go down before the matter is taken out of our hands and we end up tumbling down like two kegs of wine.”

He scarcely hesitated. “Grip my arm.”

She did, feeling his muscles like bands of corded steel. Slowly but surely, he guided her downward.

He had no choice but to take her. The distance to the top of the cliffs was twice that to the beach. He could not let her go alone in the dark, and by the time he had accompanied her
and
returned to his hiding place behind the boulder, the smugglers might have passed.

Damn! He hated having his hand forced. He did not doubt that she had what
she
considered a perfectly good reason for being here. Neither did he doubt that when everything was over he would wring the neck she was risking so foolishly.

They did not speak until they reached the boulder.

“Lie down.” He pulled her with him as he stretched out, stomach down, on the damp sand.

She followed his example without protest but wriggled and squirmed in a manner that reminded him of Grace at her most restless.