“Mrs. Sue?” gasped Montclair, flabbergasted.
Susan had suffered through the most miserable day of her life, capped by a hideous encounter with an unseen and nightmarish creature whose great paws had seized her up as though she were a doll. Convinced she was about to be murdered, she’d been too terrified to give vent to the shrieks that had welled in her throat, and then someone else had struck her a cruel blow that had plunged her into unconsciousness. Now, to see Valentine’s battered but beloved face quite overpowered her resolution, and she reached out to him, whimpering, “V-Val…? Oh—is it—is it really you?”
She looked like a frightened little girl, lying there with her arms outstretched, her dark hair straying in wild strands from beneath that ridiculous stocking cap. Struck to the heart, he threw the pistol aside and clawed his way to her, holding her close as she flung herself into his arms and clung to him, weeping hysterically.
He cradled her clumsily in his right arm and pulled off the stocking cap, stroking back her hair and murmuring soothingly that it was “all right now,” while she sobbed and gulped out tearful little incoherencies.
In a little while her panic eased, and she was quieter. Montclair’s befuddled head was beginning to function, and inevitably and inexorably came the questions.
“Val,” gulped Susan. “What w-was it? That—that awful thing?”
Inestimably relieved that his first question had been answered without the need to have asked it, he managed to give her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her tears. “I think,” he said, “it was the same man who threw me into the Folly.”
She gave a gasp and pulled back to look up at him. A cut on his cheekbone had sent a crimson trail down to his chin and stained his cravat; his hair was wildly dishevelled, and the shoulder of his coat was ripped.
“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, wiping the blood from his cheek. “Did it—he—come inside the house searching for you, then?”
“I don’t know. I thought— Sue—what are you doing down here at this hour, and wearing those—those breeches?”
She realized belatedly how absurd she must look. “I sometimes disguise myself as a man, if I sail with Andy. I can’t help with the boat otherwise. And today he needed help with the cargo, so—” She saw shock in his face and changed the subject hurriedly. “Oh, never mind all that. Val, your leg isn’t—”
“Broken again? No, I thank God.” Remembering how the intruder had hurled him across the steps, he could only marvel that he hadn’t broken his neck. “I thought you’d gone up to bed. Have you been down here working all these hours?”
“I stayed to lock up. Andy and the men were absolutely exhausted. And—and I thought I heard Welcome in the lower cellar. I went down there, but couldn’t find him, and—and I began to have the most ghastly feeling that there was someone—something else down there … in the dark … w-with me!” She put her hands over her face, and Valentine pulled her to him again. Shuddering, she gulped, “And then I—I heard someone creeping down the steps, and I was terribly … frightened. So I blew out my candle and waited.
“Poor girl. Don’t think about it. Come”—he smiled down into her grubby, tearful face—“can you stand?”
Susan peered tremblingly into the shadows. “You—you don’t think it—he—is still—”
“No, no. I heard him run off.”
She stood, retrieved the crutch, and helped him up. He moved with slow caution, and she said with ready sympathy, “I wonder you were not killed. Valentine! Whatever were you doing down here?”
The sudden suspicion in her voice reminded him of just why he had ventured those cellar steps. “I heard someone creeping about,” he said in a half truth. “I’d a notion your prized vagrants were down here robbing you blind, so I decided to catch them in the act.” He gave a wry smile. “I got rather more than I bargained for.”
“Do you say that—with only one usable arm and your leg broken—you came down here all alone—to fight for our sake?”
The look of awed wonderment in her eyes was making him feel about an inch tall. He said gruffly, “Not—entirely. You see … I thought … Well, I was afraid—” And in a rush he said, “Monteil’s a very slippery customer, Susan. I feared he was very likely using you to store cargo that—well, that wasn’t what you believed it to be.”
Susan’s heart sank, but she still thought it the most courageous act she’d ever heard of, and thus her voice was kinder than it might have been when she said, “So you came down in the middle of the night, when you thought we were all asleep, to find out—is that it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if that sounds deplorable. At all events, I didn’t have time to spy. That great brute came roaring and snuffling after me, and I was too dashed busy to—”
Susan closed her eyes, shuddering. “Don’t! Don’t!”
“You are overwrought—small wonder. And your poor face is so bruised! Gad, what a villain I am! But I’d never have done it had I known it was—”
She jerked her eyes open and stared at him. “You struck me?”
“I didn’t mean to. It was so dark. And I thought you were some rascally smuggler.”
She shrank away from him, her expression one of pure horror.
And suddenly, he knew. He gasped, “My God! You are a smuggler!”
How appalled he looked; how stunned. Perversely, she felt as if a weight was gone from her shoulders, and with a small sigh, she said, “Yes. I can imagine how that must appall you. But it is one of the reasons why we wanted Highperch. The proximity to the river, our own private dock, and so far from prying eyes.” She smiled tremulously. “Or so we thought.”
Valentine’s physical distress was as nothing to the searing rage that possessed him. ‘“So you thought,’ is it?” he snarled. “Say rather, ‘So you did not think’! Good Lord above! Where were Lyddford’s wits gone jauntering that he would involve you in such—”
“My brother only went into this for my sake!” she said defensively. “We were left all but destitute after my husband’s death. Andy loves Priscilla and me, and—”
“And his love for you sanctions that you should lower yourself to wear breeches? He sees no objection to putting you in danger of being exposed to fire from a Revenue cutter? Or have you already had a Navy sloop put a shot across your bows? Dammitall! The man must be mad to—”
“To try to keep us from going hungry? To be without a roof over our heads? Much you know of such horrors, Mr. Montclair, coddled and pampered all your days and—”
“Don’t attack me, so as to defend him! Did neither of you idiots give a thought to Priscilla? What the devil do you think would become of her if you were thrown in Newgate? Did you plan to take her with you into that hellhole?”
The very thought made her feel sick. Tears came into her eyes again, and she began to shake inside. “I—We— She would be—provided for,” she gulped.
“Would she now?” he said jeeringly. “By whom? Your devoted admirer, Monteil? Is that the hold he has over you? Is that why you let him paw you and—”
Wrath blazed through her. Before she could stop herself her hand shot out and slapped his face hard.
Taken off balance, Valentine staggered.
With a sob of remorse, Susan flew to put her own dirty hand over his gripping fingers, and look tearfully up into his strained face. “Oh, Val! Why must we always quarrel? I am so sorry!”
Looking down into her woebegone face, his frown faded. “And I’m a proper fool,” he groaned. “Of all the times to take you to task when you’ve had such a dreadful time and are likely feeling poorly.”
Her lips trembled. “Only that—my head does ache so,” she quavered.
“Of course it does, poor sweet. Gad, what a brute I am!” Bracing himself, he lifted her hand and pressed his lips not onto the fingers but into the warm palm.
A tremor raced through Susan. Her headache was forgotten and her heart began to thunder. What a magic this man wielded over her, even at a moment like this. Mesmerized, she gazed up into his lean bruised face, the dark eyes, now as soft as velvet, the smile of such tenderness that hovered about his lips. He bent to her, and she made no attempt to evade his questing mouth, but raised her face eagerly. Her eyes closed as their lips touched. A flame seemed to enfold her. He pulled her closer. Who would dream the invalid still had such power? Who would dream a kiss could be so sweet, so fiery, so all-consuming? He kissed her again, and again, and joying in his caresses she felt dazed and weak and enraptured, and saw the same emotions in his eyes. But she saw also how pale he was, and when he tried to kiss her again, she pulled back and said breathlessly, “No, sir. You think me—shameless, I do not doubt, but—I’d not have you think me heartless as well. Come. You must get to your bed.”
Valentine took a deep, steadying breath. “No. Susan, my lovely Free Trader, so long as we’re down here, there’s something I must do.”
“But you are so very tired.”
“And what of you?” He touched her cheek. “How indomitable you are, my dearest. Humour me on this one last point. What do you really ship for Imre Monteil?”
At once she stiffened again. “What would you expect?”
“No—pray do not go into the boughs. I don’t ask out of jealousy or vindictiveness. I’ve told you my feelings where he is concerned. I’d trust him as far as I could throw this house. Have you ever seen what is inside his bales and boxes?”
Frowning and reluctant, she said a curt “No.”
“Where are they stored?”
“Mostly in the lower cellar. But some”—she gestured to the far wall—“over there.” She caught Valentine’s arm as he started toward the piled boxes. “What do you mean to do?”
“Have a look.”
“No! You must not! Val—he has been so kind. So helpful. It would be very wrong to interfere with his goods.”
“It was very wrong for him to store ’em in my house!”
She argued, but he was adamant, and at length she watched helplessly while he sat on one box and began to struggle with the ropes that contained another. She was sure he wouldn’t be able to manage with just one hand, and refused him any aid in what she said was a “dishonourable enterprise.” Welcome had no such compunction and came to pounce with great ferocity at the jerking ropes and generally impede Valentine’s progress. The strength of his long fingers stood him in good stead, however, and after a tussle he at last pulled the rope away, the cat dangling determinedly from the end.
Despite her aversion to this, Susan’s curiosity got the best of her, and she stepped closer. Montclair gave an astounded exclamation when he opened the lid. For a moment Susan thought the dimness deceived her, but then she gave a little cry of astonishment.
“Bricks!” gasped Montclair. “Nothing but—bricks and old sacking! What the deuce…? Sue—let’s have a look in another.”
This time she did not refuse him, and together they opened two more boxes, one of which was nailed shut so that she had to search around for a suitable tool, finally locating a screwdriver with which to pry the top up. The result was the same.
On her knees, Susan stared in bewilderment into the third box. “Small wonder they were so heavy.”
“But why on earth would he hire you to haul such a nonsensical cargo? Unless…” He took the screwdriver and chipped off a corner of one of the bricks, then scowled at it.
“No gold?” said Susan with a tired smile. “Does it not strike you that there might be a perfectly simple answer to all this, Valentine?”
His scowl deepened. “I am very dense, I fear. What is your simple answer? That the Swiss gentleman is a philanthropist and invents cargoes only to throw some income in Lyddford’s way?”
She nodded. “I can think of nothing else. And how very kind that he would—”
“Kind, my Aunt Maria! If Imre Monteil ever did one thing in his life but what there was some ulterior motive, I wish I may learn of it!”
He looked so fierce. She smiled a faint inner smile and, infuriatingly, did not argue.
* * *
“No, I do not understand,” said Lyddford angrily, turning from the sunny withdrawing room windows to face his sister. “You should have awoken me at once! A fine thing to have murderers popping in and out of the house at all hours of the night! And furthermore, I’d like to know—”
“But I did waken Starry. And she and Deemer searched the whole house and secured all the locks. You were so tired, and—”
“And I suppose you were not!” He eyed her pale face and shadowed eyes, inwardly amazed by her courage, but fuming none the less. “A fine night you had, and me snoring like any dullard through the whole! Dammit! If I lay my hands on the man who dared put that bruise on your face, I’ll—”
“I reckon as we all feel the same, Mr. Andy,” Bo’sun Dodman put in, his ruddy face grim and set. “When we find him there’ll be one less murderer roving England’s by-ways. The thing is—what was he doing here?”
“Looking for Montclair, I suppose,” said Mrs. Starr, seated beside Susan at this morning council of war.
Lyddford ran an impatient hand through his dark locks. “I don’t see that. If he meant to put a period to Montclair, why was he lurking about in the cellar? He certainly didn’t expect to find him sleeping down there!”
“I thought the same,” said Susan. “Unless perhaps he broke into the house and then decided to steal something from the cargo.”
“He’d have had to know we’ve been off-loading cargo,” said the Bo’sun thoughtfully. “Could have, I suppose. But why would anyone want to steal a brick?”
Mrs. Starr observed, “Now there’s something makes no sense whatsoever.”
“Chess,” Angelo de Ferdinand agreed from the windowseat. “Monsieur theses bricks he’s is wantings, whys it?”
Susan said, “I believe he may have done it out of kindness.”
“The devil!” snapped her brother, a flush staining his cheeks. “D’you mean ‘charity’ by any chance? I comprehend he has a tendre for you, but I’ll not stand still for that sort of flummery! You may be sure I’ll tax him with it!”
“Can’t do that, Mr. Andy,” the Bo’sun pointed out gravely. “Not unless you’re willing to own that we poked our noses in his boxes.”
There was a chorus of agreement, and Lyddford muttered that he’d have to think about how to broach the matter. “Meanwhile,” he added, “what I’d like to know, Mrs. H., is how you and Valentine Montclair came to be down in the cellar together in the first place.”
Susan felt every eye turn to her, and knew her face was scarlet. “We weren’t,” she said. “Not exactly. I had intended to follow you straight up to bed, Andy, but I sat down to pull my boots off, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was past midnight, and I thought I heard someone in the cellar.”
“So you went tripping down there, all alone, and unarmed. Famous behaviour, upon my word! I never fancied you short of a sheet, Susan.”
“I thought it was Welcome,” she said simply.
“Lucky you came out alive,” grunted Lyddford. “Both of you. The fact remains that if that murdering hound has taken to coming into Highperch after Montclair, something must be done. And the easiest solution is for our noble guest to go back to his great Manor. No, Sue, don’t argue. I’ll not have you and Priscilla—or any of us—put at risk here. Montclair can hire an army to defend himself if he chooses. We can’t.”
Before anyone could respond, Martha came into the room and stood twisting the hem of her apron and looking at Susan in a troubled way.
“Yes, Martha?” said Susan.
“I know as you’re all talking, Mrs. Sue,” said the girl hesitantly. “But I thought I better come and tell you, just in case.”
“Tell us what? Is it about Miss Priscilla?”
“No, ma’am. But she heard it, too. She’s outside now, playing with Wolfgang, but—”
“What did she hear?” asked Mrs. Starr patiently.
“Why—the crash. We was in what used to be the study, only it’s your sewing room now, you know, Mrs. Sue. And that’s right under your bedroom—only it’s Mr. Valentine’s room now, and—”
Susan tensed. “And you heard a crash, you said?”
“Yes, Mrs. Sue. It sounded like something heavy had been dropped. Or like someone had fallen down, or—”
Lyddford and Susan were already running.
* * *
Montclair slept late, awakening to find Deemer opening the window curtains. He felt bruised from head to toe, and by the time, with the butler’s help, he was shaved and dressed, he had found ample evidence of the power of the intruder. Martha fetched his breakfast tray, and he ate at the small table before the windows. It was a beautiful morning, a slight haze draping an ethereal veil over the river and the distant hills, but he scarcely saw the loved prospect. He could see instead the glow in Susan’s bruised face as she lifted it to his kiss; feel again the softness and warmth of her lovely body pressed against his. Since leaving Cambridge he’d been too occupied with his music and his endless fight to guard Longhills to have much time for women. When Mrs. Susan Henley had come uninvited into his life she had seemed only a further complication to his already difficult existence. Now, not only was he deeply indebted to her, but if he thought of her as a complication, it was as a most delectable one.
She was very far from being his ideal. That often dreamed-of lady was a soft-voiced, sweetly natured creature with shining golden curls, eyes of cornflower blue, and a rosebud mouth. A delicate and gentle lady who never spoke in anger, or argued with him, but would adoringly agree with any opinion he voiced. Certainly she would not dream of striking him with a dustpan brush! Always, she was impeccably and elegantly gowned. And would faint at the very thought of a lady wearing breeches! She moved with grace and propriety. (And the man who lay in helpless agony at the bottom of a Folly waiting for her to find the gumption to climb down and help him, would die alone!) His ideal was, in short, a lovely dimwit without flesh and blood and human failings, who would bore him to death in a week.
He chuckled, banished his ‘ideal lady’ forever, and put on her vacant pedestal a tall, willowy young woman with candid grey eyes, a resolute mouth, and long, very straight dark hair that gleamed silkily—when it wasn’t tucked under a stocking cap. He smiled again, remembering her face last night, but the smile died abruptly as he recalled the bruise he had put there. It had been unintentional, of course, and she’d understood. Still—it should never have happened. He frowned uneasily. He had criticized Lyddford for exposing his sister to danger, but he himself was no less guilty. If his presence here constituted a menace to Susan and the rest of them, he must leave. The thought of a return to life with the Trents was not enticing, but it was, he knew, past time that he went home. Certainly, little Barbara had stood in need of him, and Lord only knows what Uncle Selby had been about during his absence.
Sighing, he reached for the last crumpet. His outstretched hand checked, and shock was like a physical blow. He had stretched out his right hand unthinkingly, and his fingers had moved a little! Hope made his pulses race. Perhaps his hand was not permanently damaged after all! Jupiter—he was almost well! He snatched up his crutch, eager to test his leg. He found he was able to lower his left foot to the floor and stand straight without the crutch, and with only a little discomfort. Leaning on the crutch very slightly, he crossed the big room and limped into the dressing room. It was an ungainly hobble, admittedly, but it was a great improvement!
Elated, he swung around, so eager to find Susan and share his triumph with her, that he forgot the need for caution and the crutch pulled the rug into a fold. Thrown off balance, he staggered, and flung his left arm out instinctively. His fingers closed around the handle of a cupboard which was always kept locked. Unhappily, his weight was too much. The handle broke off; he went down, still clutching it, and the warped cupboard door flew off its rusted hinges and crashed down also. He jerked his head away and threw up his arm to protect himself from several cascading bottles.
When the shower ceased, he sat there taking stock of things. Luckily, he appeared to have sustained no hurt, and none of the bottles had smashed. He began to gather them up. There were six, uniformly filled with a dark brown liquid that looked vaguely familiar. Idly, he glanced at the label:
“For Valentine Montclair, Esquire.
Give one teaspoonful three times per day.
Dr. K. R. Sheswell.”
A numbness came over him, and he leaned back against the lower cupboard, staring blankly at the bottle in his hand, and trying to fight away the insidious suspicion that was creeping into his mind. He had improved to the point the medicine was no longer needed, that was all. Only—if it was no longer needed, why had old Sheswell kept sending it? For how long had it been withheld? His glance flashed to the cupboard. Suddenly very cold, he could see that there were more bottles still on the shelf. All apparently untouched.
His aunt’s voice seemed to scream in his ears: “… If my suspicions are correct, Dr. Sheswell’s instructions have been poorly kept. Why, he thought you would be better in no time…” He had not got better “in no time.” He had come very close to turning up his toes, and it had been a long and slow recovery. But—surely the brave and beautiful Susan had not schemed to— He threw his left hand across his eyes, whispering an agonized, “No! Oh, God! Please—no!”
But doubt came to whisper slyly that his uncle had said Susan had profited handsomely. Later, when he’d asked her, she’d admitted that the Trents had made financial provision …
His aunt’s voice again: “… That sly widow saw her chance … She would nurse you back to health and so win your affections that you would give her the house … Never say you have fallen into the hussy’s toils…? I’ll not believe you could be so gullible…”
He ducked his head and instinctively put both hands over his ears, fighting to shut out that shrill vindictiveness. “I won’t believe it of her! I won’t!”
In his misery he hadn’t realized he spoke aloud. Nor had he heard the door open, and he was startled when Susan said quietly, “What won’t you believe, sir?”
His eyes lifted to hers. She stood very straight, very white, looking down at him with cold hauteur.
It made no sense, he thought in desperation. It could not make sense! And then, with perverse and shattering clarity, memory supplied the scene it had denied him until now. The night he’d lain half asleep during the early part of his recovery, and had heard Susan whispering with Mrs. Starr. Starry had said they should never have done something. Susan, obviously irked, had argued that nothing could be proven. And then Starry had moaned, “… the Runners can be clever. If they should even suspect— Suppose his family should put two and two together? It is such a dreadful thing to do! I never dreamed you capable of such ruthless—” He had dismissed it as a dream, but with a terrible ache of grief he knew now that it hadn’t been a dream. He could even hear Susan’s final words: “Stop being so melodramatic! And keep your voice down, do. He might hear us!”
It was the withholding of his medicine that had so distressed Starry and made her accuse Susan of ruthlessness. Ruthlessness, indeed! It sounded the death-knell to his hopes, and he was so distraught that for a moment he could neither move nor speak.
Lyddford ran in. “Gad, what a mess! You all right, Montclair?” He stepped over the debris and assisted Montclair to his feet. “Why the deuce have you been flinging all these bottles about?”
“Mr. Montclair found it necessary to break open the cupboard,” said Susan, her lip curling contemptuously.
“Break … open…” gasped Lyddford.
“I didn’t break it open, Susan,” said Montclair. “I was—”
“Dear me,” she sneered. “I’d not dreamed there were exploding cupboards in this house. Just what did you expect to find, that you must resort to such methods, sir?”
Sick at heart, he answered, “Not what I did find, certainly. But I’m sure there is a very logical explanation.” His eyes pleaded. “Isn’t there?”
“Explanation—for what?” said Lyddford, bewildered. “What the deuce is all this stuff?”
“Oh, it is no use your taking that tone, Andy,” Susan gave a brittle mirthless little laugh. “Mr. Montclair will never believe you don’t know about it.”
“By the Lord Harry! Know about—what?”
“The medicine,” she said, so hurt and angry that she had to fight for self-control. “Mr. Montclair believes we deliberately withheld it so as to delay his recovery.”
“What?” roared Lyddford, his face reddening.
“I didn’t say that,” said Montclair. “If you would just—”
“It was exceeding obvious what you thought,” she flashed.
“Why—why, you ingrate,” Lyddford howled. “You damned—dog! I—”
“Be quiet!” snapped Montclair. “Sue—for the love of God! I fell and the cupboard door broke when I grabbed at it to steady—”
“Like hell!” shouted Lyddford.
Montclair rounded on him furiously. “Will you be quiet! Susan—please—I know that even now my stupid head is—is confused sometimes. When all the medicine bottles fell out—”
“You put two and two together, and we came up wanting,” she said. “La, sir, but your feelings change so rapidly! And how exceeding convenient that you—ah—‘fell’ against that particular cupboard!” Her brows drew down. She said with biting scorn, “For shame that you should be so quick to believe the worst!”
She turned to leave, but he caught her wrist. “No! I don’t believe it! That is—I do, but—but I know you must have had some reason. If you will only tell me—”
“Not a word, Sue! Not one blasted word to the carrion!” Lyddford sprang to wrench Montclair’s hand away, sending him staggering back to the wall. Through his teeth, he said, “Mrs. H., you will please to leave us. At once! Send Deemer and the Bo’sun up here!”
Susan hesitated, glancing from his livid face to Montclair’s haggard one. “Andy—you won’t…”
“If he was a whole man—by God, I think I’d strangle him with my bare hands! But he’ll answer to me, I promise you! Now—go!”
She turned and went out.
Montclair watched her in helpless misery. She had offered no excuse. No denial. The cupboard had been locked. His medicine had been withheld. But he wanted so desperately to disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes. He said, “Lyddford, you must—”
Almost incoherent with rage, Lyddford snarled, “I take leave to tell you that you are a damned cad and an ugly-minded— You are no gentleman! When I think—When I— My challenge to you stands, Montclair! As soon as you put off those splints, my seconds will call on you.”
Montclair sighed drearily, “I cannot fight you.”
“You will, damn you! As soon as you’re well, I’ll haunt you! I’ll shame you until you’ve no choice! I don’t want to see your face until then—or until we meet in court!”
Montclair reached for his crutch. “There will be no need for courts. I told your sister I will not contest your claim to Highperch.”
Lyddford sprang forward and seized him by the neckcloth, thrusting his inflamed countenance forward. “Do not be offering us your damned charity, Mr. High-in-the-Instep aristocrat! If it was only me you insulted, I’d likely simply cut out your liver! But—that you should dare to think evil of my sister—! We will defeat you in the courts, sir! Legally! And then— By God, but I can scarce wait to get you before the sights of my pistol!”
Montclair knocked his hand away. “Meanwhile, you might try to keep your so beloved sister from getting herself taken up for a smuggler.”
All the colour left Lyddford’s face. In a controlled voice far more deadly than his loud fury, he said, “Now—if I thought you meant to betray us like the worthless hound you are—I’d make sure you never reached Longhills alive.”
Valentine’s mouth hardened. He said bitterly, “I wonder why I should only now recall that you once told me that so long as I was recuperating here, I could not very well have you thrown out.”
Lyddford swore ringingly, and his open hand flew at Montclair’s face.
It was caught in a grip of steel, the wrist twisted so sharply that he could scarcely keep back a gasp of pain.
His voice cold, Montclair continued. “Which very likely means that I may be the world’s most stupid slow-top. But I swear on my honour I shall never betray you—any of you.” He flung Lyddford’s hand down, took up his crutch, and hobbled into the bedroom.
Holding his wrist in a cherishing clasp, Lyddford stared after him for a moment. Then he kicked the nearest bottle savagely across the floor and stamped, swearing, into the hall.