Izzy sat huddled on the window seat in her bedroom, the counterpane wrapped around her for warmth as she stared out into the darkness. She had extinguished the candle but could make out only vague shapes in the garden. Over there were the twisted branches of the old apple tree, to the left the faint glimmer of the path that led to the vegetable garden, and was that a fox? The small, sleek shape slid from the shadows and crossed the garden, disappearing once more into the darkness.
A shiver ran down Izzy’s back and she closed her eyes, repeating the silent prayer that had been circling her mind with increasing desperation ever since dusk had fallen. Perhaps Boreas would change his mind. Perhaps they’d move the goods another night.
A shot rang out and Izzy gasped, her heart thudding. She got to her knees and swung open the window, clutching the counterpane tighter. Her blood seemed to turn to ice in her veins as terror thrummed beneath her skin. The chill night air swirled around her as she listened, murmuring under her breath.
“Please be safe, please be safe.”
Another shot, then another, and the sound of men shouting echoed through the woodland. It sounded like they were in the woods behind the vicarage, close to Hatherley Hall.
No, no, no.
She could not just sit here and do nothing. Not when he was being hunted down by armed men. Boreas might well look like a fallen angel, and he might think himself immortal, but he was flesh and blood the same as any man, and she knew well how easily things could change. She had seen the devastation wrought upon Lord Stonehaven’s life when he’d been blinded in an attack. How much more damage could be done with pistols and shot?
Her decision made, she dressed hurriedly, throwing her warm winter cloak over her nightgown and shoving her feet into her walking boots. If Boreas was in danger, surely it was her Christian duty to save him and give him a place to hide? Her father would understand.
So with that certainty held close in her heart, Izzy slipped out into the night.
Hatherley Hall, Little Valentine, 21stJanuary 1816
Having avoided Hawkney all day, and his far too clever friend, Aubrey rather despised himself by dinner time. He would not hide in his room like a naughty boy, however. Much as he loathed arguing with anyone, let alone his cousin, he would not back down, and the sooner Hawk realised that the better. He had already sent a letter to the Bishop of Lewes asking for a common license. There was no way in hell they were waiting for the banns to be read with Hawkney breathing down their necks the whole time. Seven days was quite long enough.
So he dressed for dinner, making his way down the grand staircase with an air of determined cheer, as he did not wish for his grandmother to be distressed by an unpleasant scene. He had not informed her of his marriage yet and was uncertain how she would take it. She had, after all, championed Nat’s bride, though Meg had turned out to be respectable after all. Alice would not.
Hawkney and Sheringham appeared from the study just as a volley of gunshots sounded, shattering the peace. Aubrey froze on the stairs, listening. He could hear faint shouts that sounded like they came from Winsham Woods.
“Do you have very bold poachers in these parts, Hawk, or are we at war?” Sherry enquired placidly.
Hawk frowned, his expression darkening. “Neither. What the devil is going on? Howard, bring me a lantern and muster the footmen to patrol the grounds.”
“Yes, your grace,” the butler said, looking rather alarmed.
“Lord, Hawk, I was only jesting about being at war!” Sherry exclaimed.
“There’s a deal of smuggling in these parts,” Aubrey told him, following Hawkney to the front door.
“Yes, and our grandmother encourages them, blast her,” Hawkney said irritably. “I wonder if she’ll feel so fondly towards them if we’re all murdered in our beds.”
Aubrey rolled his eyes. “Oh, give it a rest, Hawk. They’d never lift a finger to hurt Gee-Gee, not when she does so much for the town.”
“Your grace, I really do not think it wise for you—” Howard began, the old fellow obviously appalled by the duke putting himself at risk. He was silenced by a look from Hawkney.
“Thank you, Howard. I am not planning to engage with anyone, but I would like to know what the bloody hell is going on. Ensure the house is secured and do not let the ladies out of your sight.”
The three men exited the house as the footmen streamed out in all directions, all armed with pistols and carrying lanterns.
Aubrey stood listening on the driveway. A shout from a footman sounded from the grounds, close to where he and Alfie had climbed the wall, which now seemed a lifetime ago. Hawk turned too, listening, but another gunshot came from outside the walls, near the gates. Aubrey walked down the driveway, an odd sense of foreboding making his muscles tense. He could hear men crashing through the woods, the sound distorted and seeming to come from everywhere at once. Though he didn’t know any of the smugglers, he wished none of them ill, yet he could not shake the feeling that something dreadful was about to happen.
With his heart thudding, he hurried towards the gates.
Winsham Woods, Little Valentine, 21stJanuary 1816
“Not the Seven Dials,” Alfie muttered under his breath, heart hammering. He deeply regretted having taken the path through the woods as it appeared he’d been caught in the middle of a war between the smugglers and the local militia. The bloody redcoats were not stealthy, crashing about through the trees and shouting at each other. Afraid of getting caught in the crossfire, Alfie shrank back against the trunk of an ancient oak and stayed perfectly still, waiting until they got ahead of him. As the shoutsreceded, he let out a breath, only to have his heart leap into his throat as a branch cracked somewhere close by.
Just a deer startled by all the noise, he reassured himself, turning and staring around him. He lifted the lamp he carried high, for there was no moon tonight. All was quiet. Letting out a sigh of relief, he hurried up the muddy path, his sturdy boots slipping on rotten leaves, and only too pleased to see the gates to Hatherley Hall ahead of him.
Another gunshot cracked, making his nerves leap, and Alfie glanced over his shoulder. The back of his neck prickled in warning. Suddenly he felt certain the smugglers were not the only ones being hunted. Turning back to the path, the breath left his lungs all at once as a figure detached itself from beneath the shadow of the trees, blocking the path.
“Going somewhere, Marwick?” The voice was low and guttural, heavy with the accent of the Dials and the promise of violence.
