She was exceedingly disappointed therefore when she discovered on entering the breakfast room, that the Reverend had chosen to take his breakfast in bed. ‘Deuced chucklehead,’ she muttered as she helped herself to bacon and eggs. As she sat down at the table though, she had a sudden thought. What if he really was indisposed? Climbing trees in the middle of the night was not the kind of activity a gentleman of his age would be inclined to indulge in. She put down her knife and fork, feeling a sudden onset of panic. There was no sign of Percy either, which was a good sign, but everyone else was here. Prudence and Anthony were arguing over the last piece of toast, Grace was helping Jennifer peel an apple and Nicholas was closeted behind his newssheet, clearly hoping to avoid any further discussions about his upcoming meeting with the Earl of Cottesmore.
She was just about to excuse herself when all of a sudden, the front doorbell rang. Everyone looked over at the door in surprise, and the table fell silent. A social call this early in the morning was highly unlikely. The Duke lowered his newspaper as a knock sounded on the breakfast room door, opening a second later to reveal the stooped form of Bailey.
‘You have a visitor, your graces,’ he intoned formally. Before Grace could ask who it was, a slight figure stepped around the elderly butler with a broad smile.
‘Felicity!’ exclaimed Grace, jumping to her feet in pleasure. ‘We weren’t expecting you until the end of the month. She hurried over to her friend, and abandoning formality, threw her arms around the matron in delight. Laughing, Felicity Beaumont returned the Duchess’s hug. ‘It’s good to see you too, your grace,’ she responded when Grace finally let her go.
‘You know better than that, dearest friend,’ Grace said reproachfully at Felicity’s use of her title. Please, join us, Bailey will see to your luggage.’ She looked over at the butler with a grateful smile. He nodded and bowed his head before withdrawing.
‘How are you, Miss Beaumont,’ Nicholas asked with a warm smile, his affection for his wife’s former tutor genuine.
‘I am well, thank you,’ she responded, smiling in thank you as the maid brought her a dish of tea.
‘Whilst we are eternally grateful for your early arrival,’ the Duke went on drily, ‘given that as usual, things are going rapidly to hell in a handcart in your absence, may I ask what brings you to us a month earlier than planned?’
Felicity gave a small rueful chuckle. ‘In truth, I’m not sure, your grace. I woke yesterday and simply felt that I should come.’ She paused, then added, ‘I have learned not to ignore my intuition.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing you’re here, Miss Beaumont,’ Prudence declared matter-of-factly. ‘Chastity’s well and truly tied her garter in public, so she’s going to have to marry either the Earl of Cottesmore who murders people with a knife, or Viscount Trebworthy who murders people with his breath.’
∞∞∞
27thJune 1798
When Christian came to, he was locked in the brig. Wincing, he felt the top of his head, feeling an egg-shaped lump crusted with dried blood. What the devil had happened? Why the bloody hell was he locked up? Groaning, he staggered to his feet and limped towards the front of the cell. Pressing his face against the bars, he realised he was back on HMSPhoenix.The inside of his mouth felt as though something had died in it. A wave of nausea rocked him, and he felt inside his pocket for his flask of grog. Unsurprisingly, it was gone. Closing his eyes, he gripped the metal and waited for the sickness to pass.
Feverishly, he thought back to the last thing he could remember. There was a body in the hold. Barnet. The sudden shock of recollection sent him to his knees. Groaning, he crawled to the brig wall and collapsed with his back to the damp wood.
Ignoring the pounding of his head, Stanhope sought to retrace his steps. He’d spied the Third Lieutenant going down the main hatch. After ten minutes, when Barnet didn’t come up again, he’d decided to investigate. After ordering his men to carry on, he made his way down the hatch. At first, it had seemed as though Barnet had vanished, but after hearing a sudden thud aft, he made his way towards the hold.
The last thing he remembered was pushing open the door and seeing Barnet’s lifeless body. He crouched down, and then … nothing.
Christian put his head in his hands. He felt as though his brain contained nothing but fog. He couldn’t think straight. Creasing his brow, he fought the urge to cast his account and strained to remember. There had been a knife wound in the middle of the third lieutenant’s back, but no knife… No, that wasn’t right. There had been a clasp knife on the floor about a foot away from the dead man. The blade had been covered in blood. He began to sweat as the pain in his head reached a crescendo. A noise. Someone behind him. Still crouched beside the body, he’d started to turn… He remembered the sight of a raised hand followed by a blinding pain in his head.
Abruptly, Stanhope leaned forward and threw up. Dear God, was he having a seizure? That was his last thought as he slumped to the side and passed out.
∞∞∞
Present day
Lizzy Fletcher stared out at the driving rain. The weather for January had been unusually wet, even for south Devonshire. She supposed it indicated that further north they were knee deep in snow. Shivering, she pulled her woollen shawl tighter and huddled next to the fire. She bloody hated the rain. If she’d had any sense, she’d have taken herself nearer to London. Definitely dryer up there, and nearer to her brother. Useless good-for-nothing bastard he might be, but he was the only flesh and blood she had left.
Her husband gone these two years and no children–at least none that had survived long enough to walk, she didn’t know why she was still here.
It had been Charlie’s idea to come to Blackmore. He said the new Duke of Blackmore was the finest man he’d ever served under. He’d promised to let no man starve, even if he only had one arm. So they’d come to Devonshire, with nothing but the clothes on their back. And true to his word, the Duke had made sure they had employment. Rented them a small cottage on the edge of the village. They scraped by, although there wasn’t much call for sailmakers, especially those missing an arm. But her Charlie was quick-witted, and still handy with a needle. They’d taken in sewing, mending and the like. From the big house and from those in the village who could afford it.
Then one morning, he announced he was off to London. Said he had to see a cull about some money he was owed. She never saw him again.
And now all she had left of him was his gold tooth. Charlie had pried it from his mouth just before he left. If something happened to him, he said she was to keep it for a rainy day.
Lizzy gave a dark chuckle. If ever there was a bloody day wet enough, today was it.
Her thoughts turned to Percy Noon. Gawky, thin as a bleeding rake, but still, there was something about him. She thought perhaps it was his kindness. It certainly wasn’t his looks. But then, she was no bloody oil painting, and at nearly six feet, she towered over most men, including her Charlie.
The curate had taken to popping in on his parish rounds, and they’d share a glass of milk and talk. They talked about anything and everything. He was used to hobnobbing with his betters, and at first, she was flattered he seemed to like talking to her. But gradually, she began to hope there might be something more.
She still didn’t know why she’d shown him the tooth. Looking back, it had been a bird-witted thing to do. What man would want to be shown another man’s tooth, especially one still stained bloody from where he’d pulled it from his mouth?
She thought perhaps she’d wanted to show him she wasn’t a woman without means, and there was a fair bit of gold in Charlie’s tooth.
