Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark (27 page)

***

Anne drifted near sleep, gently lulled by the rocking motion of the carriage. They had been traveling for three days already, with a day-long stop for the holy day, Good Friday, and were almost at their destination, just in time for Easter service the next day.

“The sea!” Robbie cried, bouncing up and down on his seat.

Anne, jolted into complete awareness, sat up. “It’s not as if you haven’t seen the ocean before, Robbie,” she said with an indulgent smile and wink at Mary, who was knitting a muffler for her son.

“But this be different from Kent, milady!” he shouted, peering out the glass.

Anne glanced out. It was a lovely scene, she thought, staring out the glass. This was Cornwall, and the high bluff which the road traveled told her they were almost to their destination, St. Wyllow, a village near Hell’s Mouth on the north coast of Cornwall. The blue sea sparkled in the late-day sunshine. Sanderson turned the carriage around a bend in the road, angling away from the bluff, and within twenty minutes, they pulled up a lane to a manor house that was tranquil in the Cornish sunlight.

“Here, at last!” she said as Sanderson opened the carriage door and she climbed down to stretch her legs. Two days before, from a Shropshire inn, Anne had sent a note to her friend, Miss Pamela St. James, by Royal Mail, to say she was accepting Pamela’s long-standing open invitation and coming for a visit. She needed a change in scene after her upsetting time in Yorkshire. Home at Kent with her father did not beckon, nor did Bath and the company of her mother and grandmother. But Pamela, as sensible as she, if many times prettier and a complete contrast to Lydia, was the kind of companionship for which she longed.

The front door of the gray stucco manor house opened, and Pamela emerged into the brilliant sunshine, accompanied by a smartly dressed gentleman.

“Pamela! St. James!” Anne cried as she swept up the steps. Her friend embraced her as her friend’s dashing brother bowed, but then he, too, took her in his arms for a long hug.

“How good to see you, my lady!” he cried, holding her by the shoulders and examining her. “What a dashing bonnet! At long last, someone worthy of my expert flirtation.”

Anne smiled and laughed.

“Ah, and so lovely, pink cheeks, eyes sparkling… you have been flirting with someone,” he accused. “Nothing like admiration to improve a lady’s color. I’m deathly jealous! Whom shall I challenge, my dearest lady?”

Oh yes, this was just the place to forget dark, thrilling Yorkshire and dark, thrilling Lord Darkefell, as well as his insulting, sublimely strange proposal and the events of the last week. Cornwall, serene and sunny, with her dear friend Pamela and St. James, a notorious but engaging flirt, who had an entertaining line of patter guaranteed to lift her spirits. “Shut up, St. James—you get more ridiculous with each passing year. Pamela, I hope you don’t mind my descending upon you for a long visit.”

“Not at all. We have all kinds of things to keep you busy,” she said, “for with St. James’s regiment billeted in St. Ives, there are assemblies, balls, picnics, strawberry-picking, parties… oh, we shall have a gay time, indeed.”

Anne sighed. This was far from her preferred studious and calm life, but it would take from her mind the sensations she so desperately needed to forget: Darkefell’s kisses, his powerful arms about her, and the thought that marriage to him still sounded like an adventure. She must put it all out of her mind.

She draped her arm over Pamela’s shoulders and squeezed as they entered the house, followed by Irusan, who had exited the carriage and was nudging St. James’s legs as he followed. St. James was a favorite of Irusan’s for some reason; Anne thought the officer bribed him with treats. “You’re just what I need, Pam. And you, St. James,” she threw back over her shoulder, “are what
else
I need.” She laughed. “So bring on your officer friends—I shall flirt and break all of their hearts,” she finished with facetious sarcasm.

She sighed. One thing she could guarantee; not one of those officers would make her tremble with yearning. Thank heavens.

The End

Dear Reader,

I believe that most readers of historical novels, whether the books be mystery, romance, or straight fiction, are interested in the historical basis of the plot. With that in mind, I’d like to offer some pertinent information to those interested in knowing if there is any fact behind
Lady Anne and the Howl in the Dark.

First: though the characters in this book are wholly constructed out of my imagination, the tale Mr. Osei Boatin tells Lady Anne about his experience on a slave ship has a factual, historical counterpart. The Zong was a slave ship owned by a Liverpool slave-trading firm. It sailed from Africa in September of 1781 overloaded with slaves. Malnutrition and illness had already claimed quite a few lives when the captain decided to cut his losses and toss the rest of the sick Africans into the ocean to drown, keeping only the still healthy on board.

Shockingly, this was not an illegal act, nor was it considered murder; the slaves were chattel, and in court proceedings later it was pointed out that this was no different than throwing horses overboard. The only illegal act was when the shipping company attempted to collect insurance money for the losses. Insurance would not cover those lost to disease, malnutrition, or suicide, nor did it cover the slaves thrown overboard. However, the ship owners argued the slaves
had
to be killed, as there was not enough water on board for everyone; that exigency would have made it an insured loss. The claim of inadequate water was proved to be wholly false; they had plenty for everyone.

The Zong Massacre became a rallying point for abolitionists in their attempt to put an end to slavery and the slave trade. It took many more years to achieve that goal.

Second: Hiram Grover’s repeated mention of the Curse of Ham or Curse of Canaan is also inspired by real historical perspective. Misinterpretation of an Old Testament tale of Noah and Ham, his son, gave rise to belief in the so-called “curse” that some used to justify the African slave trade and racial segregation.

An Internet search of the keywords “The Zong Massacre” and the “Curse of Canaan” or “Curse of Ham” will turn up a wealth of information for those wanting to know more, or your local library will have informative books providing a more detailed relation of these subjects.

Fond regards,

Donna Lea Simpson

Read on for a preview of

Lady Anne

and the

Ghost’s

Revenge

Available from Sourcebooks Casablanca in August 2009

“What does Darkefell mean by following me to Cornwall, Mary? Why is he plaguing me so?” Anne, pacing the length of her small room in the upper reaches of Cliff House, Pamela and Marcus St. James’ rented house, did not need to tell her maid what she meant, for they had already spoken of the Marquess of Darkefell at some length.

As she put away some sheets of paper into Anne’s traveling desk and closed the lid, Mary gently said, “A man in love will do many a strange thing, milady.”

“He’s not in love with me,” Anne declared, contemptuously, though the woman’s words sent an odd thrill through her. “He doesn’t even know me, and a man in love would not promptly try to change everything about the object of his affections, as Darkefell is trying to do to me.”

Mary paused in her tidying. She hesitated for a long moment, but then said, watching Anne, “I think it would be well for you, milady, to lairn more about the man, before tossing him aside. P’raps he’s just such a one as you
should
marry.”

Anne gave a snort of derision, but a sound outside drew her attention; she leaned on the windowsill and stared out into the darkness. From her window she could only see a small portion of the back garden, and none of the sea. A moving shadow angled across Pamela’s terrace. “Who is that?” she gasped. “And what are they up to, creeping around outside the house like that?”

With the imperious marquess’s commands fresh in her mind and heart, Anne impetuously decided to do the opposite of everything he said. Even as she made the quick decision, she felt how foolish it was to be guided by negation, but an anxious trembling within her would not let her stay still. She did not want to think of what Mary had just said, that she should give serious thought to marrying Darkefell.

“I want to know what, or who, that is,” Anne said, retrieving her cape, and heading for the bedroom door.

“You’ll not go without me, milady,” Mary said as she followed, throwing a shawl over her shoulders.

As Anne unlatched the garden door, feeling the rush of cool sea air on her face, she murmured, “Cliff House is certainly easier to leave than Ivy Lodge was.” She referred to the dower house of the marquess’s Yorkshire estate, where she had stayed while visiting Lydia; it was a much larger house with a regiment of servants and variety of locked doors.

She led the way out onto the terrace and paused, glancing around, her heart pounding in agitation. Whatever or whomever the shadow belonged to, it was gone now. Who could it have been? “Stay here, Mary,” she whispered, putting out one hand and touching her maid’s cloaked arm. “I’m just going up to the cliff to see if anything is going on.”

“I’m not letting you go alone,” Mary insisted, following her.

Anne crept down the garden in the moonlight, through the rickety gate and up the grassy slope to the bluff, huffing and puffing by the time she got there. She crouched and urged Mary to do the same, as they crept closer to the edge, near a stunted and twisted tree that clung to the edge of the cliff and shadowed the lip. It was too dark to see anything other than an impression of movement below. But when a lantern flashed for a moment, Anne could see that the beach was full of men.

But seconds later both Anne and Mary reared back in amazement as, out of the murky void on the cloudy night, a figure rose from beyond the edge of the cliff. It was the Barbary Ghost, so close they could almost reach out and touch it, if it truly was a substantial being! Mary shrieked in terror and started up. The Ghost whirled, howled in rage and drifted closer to them, the air between them lit up with fireworks, smoke, and flame blazing.

Mary grabbed Anne’s arm and yanked her back from the cliff edge, but Anne pulled away and strode closer, just in time to see the ghost flailing, men below on the beach scuttling away from a rowboat, as on the cliff opposite Anne and Mary—the bluff that topped the other side of the deep cut—men rose from the shadowy murk and swarmed down toward the beach.

“Milady, come away, please!” cried Mary, her voice a thin wail of terror.

“No, I have to see—” Anne’s words were drowned out by a burst of gunfire, then more fireworks. She tottered close to the edge, but the ghost was gone, disappeared in the drift of smoke that the sea breeze tugged and pulled, this way and that, particles glinting in the faint moonlight that peeped from behind a cloud.

“No more, milady,” Mary gasped, as some more shots rang out, and shouting alerted them to a tussle on the beach. “We’ve got to go back. Please!”

“Where did that ghost go? Did you see anything?”

“Nooo!” Mary wailed. “Please, milady, come away!”

At the bottom of the cut, Darkefell had been lurking in the shadows of the scrubby shrubs at the base of the cliff. Above him explosions crackled, echoing off the cliff face, while beyond him, in the open, the smugglers beetled up the shore, abandoning wooden crates, dumping whatever they carried in their haste to get away.

He had followed Johnny Quintrell as the young man snuck from the Barbary Ghost Inn that night, and this was his destination, directly below the St. James’s rented house, if he judged correctly. That answered Joseph’s questions about his son’s involvement. Darkefell was looking for an opportunity to snatch the boy back before the revenue men, who swarmed out of the cut, got to him, and arrested him.

But shots rang out again, and when he looked up in a flash of light from some explosive, it was to see Anne—
his
Anne—tottering on the edge of the cliff! After he had told her to stay out of it! That made his decision simple. Johnny would have to fend for himself; Darkefell was for rescuing Anne.

He slunk into the shadows and up the jagged cut, struggling against the wet sand, willing himself to not break out into the open. He was aware of men just to his left who were working their way down, likely the revenue men in a pitched battle with the smugglers. Shouts and confusion surrounded him, but he went unnoticed in the fray. There was only one direction for him, and that was up, toward Anne.

He finally topped the cliff face, and saw Anne, not alone, he was happy to see, but with her faithful maid, Mary. He raced to her, pulling her down. “What the devil are you doing out here?” he growled.

“Darkefell?” she cried.

He put his hand over her mouth, “For God’s sake, madam, keep your voice down. Mary, go back to the house,” he said, for in the ghostly light of the rising moon that slanted its pearly rays across the surface of the ocean, he could see that the Scottish maid was frightened out of her wits.

“Aye, milord,” she said, and scuttled away. But then she paused, looked back and said, “Take care of her, milord, please!”

“You know I will.” Once Mary was gone, he pulled Anne down to the ground, and whispered in her ear. “I’m going to let go of your mouth, but keep quiet!” He took his hand away.

“If I didn’t know better,” she hissed, gulping in air, “I would think you were trying to smother me.”

In answer, he pulled her toward him and fastened his mouth over hers, grimly determined to silence her. He half expected her to bite his lip—she had done
that
before—but instead she returned the kiss, pushing him onto his back. The dormant sensuality he kept ruthlessly subdued roared to life as he felt her long hair streaming about him, and her warm, soft body covering his hard angularity. The sensation of her full lips pressed to his raised his heart rate to pounding. Hungry for more, he grabbed her hips and pulled her close, but she resisted.

“Happy?” she gasped. “Now,
let me go.
” She pushed out of his grasp and rolled away from him, then slithered to the edge of the cliff on her elbows and knees.

He rolled onto his side and cupped himself, adjusting, trying to make himself more comfortable, but to no avail. He would just have to let his turgidity subside naturally. Trying to ignore the physical discomfort her passionate kisses and voluptuous body had ignited, he crept to her side and collapsed.

“Darkefell, I saw it again, the Barbary ghost,” she muttered. “Then Mary shrieked, and I swear, the ghost stared right at us and howled!”

The scramble below was dissipating, but a shot rang out, and Darkefell pulled Anne back from the lip of the cliff. Holding her close, he murmured, “Do you think Mary’s scream alerted the smugglers to the revenue men?”

“I don’t know,” Anne whispered, in his ear.

His eyes rolled back at the intimate feel of her warm breath on his neck and ear, the murmur of her beautiful voice, and he supposed he unconsciously dug his fingers into her arm; she protested. He forced himself to relax. “I… I beg your pardon, my dearest Anne.” He nuzzled her thick veil of hair. “I had no idea your hair was so long,” he whispered, tangling his fingers in it, his voice oddly gruff. “And it smells so lovely.” He put his hand on her back and stroked, down to her bottom.

“Darkefell!” she said, swatting at his hand. “Stop being an idiot. What are you doing here, anyhow?”

He rolled away from her, cleared his throat and summoned coolness. “I was down on the beach watching the smugglers,” he said, deciding not divulge his reason for being there yet. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked over the cliff edge. The beach below appeared deserted, from what could be sensed with the wan moonlight. There could be a battalion of men hugging the cliff, in the shadows, though. “Then I heard an altercation,” he whispered, “then the fireworks, and the excise men came swarming down from the cliff opposite here, on the other side of the cut. I saw you flailing about on the cliff’s edge, and began up the cut, staying in the shadows.”

“I wondered where you came from.”

“You were tottering about on the edge of the cliff, so I came up to make you heed common sense.”

He thought she would retort angrily, but her tone was thoughtful, when she said, “I hope no one was hurt.”

He remembered Johnny Quintrell, and fervently said, “I hope that too. But what the devil were you doing out? I specifically told you to
stay in.
” Even as he said it, he knew it was wrong; would he never learn that to command her was to alienate her? Or did he just enjoy being censured by her?

But again, she reacted coolly. “And I told you I had no intention of being bullied into doing what you think is suitable. Are you going to help me discover what this ghost is all about, or not?”

He made a quick decision. “I am indeed going to help you.”
To stay out of trouble,
he finished in his mind.

“But we can do nothing right now,” she said. She peered over the edge of the cliff. “All’s quiet. They’re gone, I think, but it’s too dark right now to detect. I do hope no one was hurt.” Anne got to her feet and dusted off her dress. “Come back tomorrow, Darkefell. I want to have a look at this cliff side, and figure out how the ghost does his disappearing act. Then I want to find out what—or who—it is, and what his game is.”

“Kiss me,” the marquess said, taking her arm, “and I will agree to anything.”

So she did.