Chapter 14

Delays have dangerous ends.

—Shakespeare

Louisa dallied along the pebbled path, pausing for a moment by a wildflower to stroke its petals, then hurrying along as she glanced apprehensively up at the stormy clouds, then stopping to gaze unseeingly across the moors engrossed in a daydream, the overhanging clouds forgotten in her reverie.

David Friday was avoiding her. He never attempted to see her anymore. He had always seemed to be there before. Every time she turned around, he was there, and she was not blind to the admiring glances she received from him either. But now he was never to be seen; except maybe at a distance, when she caught glimpses of his retreating back, and by the time she reached the spot where she'd seen him—he'd disappeared.

She could not understand it. David had changed from that quiet and attentive young sailor with whom she'd fallen in love, into a preoccupied and stand-offish stranger who acted as if she bored him. What had occurred to cause this change in attitude? She had not changed. She was still the same. She was so confused. She thought she finally had found someone who loved her—and she loved him—yet now it all seemed to be crumbling away.

Louisa sighed dejectedly. Even if David had asked her to marry him it would have been to no avail. She could imagine her parents' reaction to an out-of-work, penniless sailor daring to ask for their daughter's hand in marriage—a daughter for whom they wished to make an advantageous match .

That was another thing that was puzzling her. Her parents still acted as if she would marry the marquis—even though he was recently wed—and to someone as beautiful and kind as Elysia. How could anyone but a crazed person imagine that the marquis would desire anyone else; especially someone as nondescript as herself?

But it was indeed an odd situation at Blackmore. Papa was grumpy and cross, drinking heavily, and Mama, edgy and fretful, refusing to leave her room for hours at a time.

Sometimes she felt as if they were strangers to her. Indeed, she had never been close to them. They never displayed any affection for her—she was merely a means to achieve their desires. She was only necessary and important to them as a pawn, to maneuver into a propitious marriage.

Louisa sighed, for she was afraid her parents were bound to be disappointed in that respect. But then, that would be nothing new. She was already a disappointment to them. She was ordinary; a plain and simple girl, with no ambitions to achieve prominence in London society. She was contented to stay in Cornwall. All she ever had hoped for was to fall in love with a respectable man and raise a family, but her parents had always looked higher for her in their grand scheme. Sometimes they frightened her by their single-mindedness—their relentless pursuit of wealth and position. She knew that she would never understand them, nor them her. They were worlds apart in their beliefs and desires. If only…

Louisa's attention was distracted from her thoughts as she saw a rider approach the summer house in the distance. She made a moue of distaste. She had never liked the Chinese-style pagoda; it seemed so incongruous and ridiculous to be squatting in the English countryside.

As the rider came closer, Louisa saw that it was Lady Elysia, and she was in a great hurry. Louisa hurried along, anxious to know what was amiss in their pagoda. Elysia had disappeared around the side of the building towards the entrance by the time Louisa reached it, out of breath from her exertions. She paused a moment, leaning against the red, grilled ironwork decorously shielding the opened windows, and was trying to catch her breath when she heard voices from within. Louisa pressed her face against the interwoven, vine-like designs curiously, peering into the shadowy room.

Two men were just leaving it through a door set into a panelled wall—a door that shouldn't lead anywhere except outside—but they were going down a stairway that led into the ground.

"We're to get rid o' her ladyship and dump the body into the sea."

The ominous words spoken by one of the men drifted through the grilling. The door closed behind them, the panel sliding closed, leaving a dreadful silence in the empty room.

Had they meant Lady Elysia? Where was Elysia? Louisa had seen her enter the pagoda not more than fifteen minutes ago. She gave a muted cry and ran back the way she'd come, stopping as she looked for Elysia's mount. He was still there tethered to a branch.

Elysia had not left. She must be down in that ghastly place where the stairs led to—wherever that was.

Oh, dear God. what was she to do? She must get help, but she had no horse, and it would take ages to walk back to the stables—and besides, hadn't Papa said at luncheon that he would probably be gone until late evening. Oh, what was she to do?

Ariel neighed nervously, eyeing the small person making its way determinedly towards him.

There was only one course of action open for her: she must somehow manage to ride that monstrous horse. "Ariel, boy. You must let me ride you," Louisa pleaded softly, stretching out a timid hand to grasp the reins. "Your mistress is in danger. You must help me."

Ariel shied back nervously, nipping at her hand with his big teeth.

"Damn you, that hurt," Louisa swore for the first time in her life, before breaking down, tears cascading down her cheeks as she cried in frustration and disgust at her failure. Why must she be so weak? So helpless that she could not save the only friend she had ever known. Her thin shoulders were shaking when she felt something push her, and Louisa turned around quickly as Ariel nuzzled her neck.

Louisa stared in disbelief, afraid to move as he snorted, not in a threatening manner—but out of curiosity.

"Oh, Ariel. You do understand," Louisa whispered as she once again made to grasp his reins, only this time the big horse made no effort to interfere. Shaking in relief and fright Louisa led him to a fallen log and mounted, not daring to breathe. She urged him forward and before she could catch her breath he was off like a bird taking flight. Louisa swallowed convulsively as she held on for dear life, her chip straw bonnet with its bunch of red cherries bobbing precariously on her brown curls. Louisa was beyond noticing that her blue dress was pulled up above her knees, revealing two stockinged legs and dainty red slippers, as she wondered if this had been a wise plan after all. She had almost decided to brave the hidden stairs and the two murderers when Ariel had consented to allow her to ride him. Now, as she was perched dangerously on his back, she wondered if the other idea would not have been safer.

Louisa had never traveled so fast in her life; the landscape was an indistinct blur in her eyes. Her main problem now was how she could stop him. Ariel was streaking in a direct line for Westerly and his stable, when Louisa saw three riders coming swiftly toward her.

"Please help me!" Louisa screamed, her cry for help capriciously blown back behind her by the wind. She did not think she could hold on a moment longer.

The rider on the larger of the three horses forced Ariel to veer off, and then crowding him as he rode alongside at a swifter pace, the rider leaned across Louisa and pulled the reins from her lifeless fingers. Asserting his authority and strength he gently slowed the two horses down until they were brought to a standstill.

Louisa pushed her bonnet back from where it had fallen over her eyes with a hand that shook, seeing for the first time the face of her rescuer.

"Trevegne!" she cried thankfully, never so glad as now at seeing his dark, arrogant features. "Oh, thank God you're here. "

"What in blazes are you doing on this horse, Louisa?" Alex demanded as he soothed Ariel with a gentle hand as the big horse pulled impatiently at his bit.

"Where is Elysia?" Peter asked, riding up beside them with Jims close behind, and then staring incredulously at little Louisa Blackmore sitting on Ariel's back.

"They're going to kill her, and I didn't know what to do. I was so frightened," she sobbed incoherently.

"Kill her," Alex repeated, looking astonished. "What the devil are you jabbering about?" First, he had been ridden down by Peter and Jims who were looking for Elysia, who was out riding in this thickening fog—and without a groom. With Peter babbling like a fool, he'd thought, as he caught a whiff of brandy on his breath. Jims was grumbling about trouble and treason, and now Louisa Blackmore riding on Ariel, a horse that even he could not mount, was hysterically crying that Elysia was going to be murdered. He must be losing his senses.

He placed a firm hand on her shaking shoulders to calm her. "Answer me. What is this about murder?" But Louisa continued to shake uncontrollably. Alex lost patience and slapped her lightly across the cheek several times, a sudden move that caught the others off guard.

"Good God, Alex. What the devil—" Peter began.

"This is no time for hysterics, or a fit of the vapors. My God, what if she is telling the truth?" Alex looked at Peter's expression of horror that mirrored his own. "Now," he told a somewhat calmed down Louisa, "tell me exactly what is amiss."

"It's Elysia," she sniffed, looking at them with tear-filled eyes. "I saw her go into the pagoda—" she stopped, as Jims gasped loudly, swallowing the wad of tobacco he had been chewing, his face turning red as he choked on it.

Alex shot him a penetrating glance that caught the sudden look of fear in his eyes at Louisa's words, "—and what then," he urged Louisa on.

"She seemed very agitated about something, for she was running, and so I followed her, but I was walking and quite a distance, and it took me ten minutes or more to get there, a-and…" she paused in remembrance as the threatening tears overflowed her eyes.

"And…come on, Louisa…you can tell me," Alex prodded gently, but persistently, determined to get the answers he needed.

"And then," Louisa continued, calmed by the marquis's composure. "I heard those horrible-looking men say they were going to kill her." She paled as she watched Trevegne's eyes darken and his lips tighten and draw back in what looked like a snarl.

"She be in real trouble, yer lordship," Jims said, his voice trembling.

"Come, we must go at once," Peter said urgently, making to move off.

Alex stared at Jims, knowing that he knew something but that he could not spend the time to find out what. "Dismount, and await us here, Louisa, it is too dangerous for you to try and handle Ariel any further. It's a miracle you've even mounted him at all," Alex added, as he leaned forward to lift her down.

"But they aren't there anymore. They went down the secret passage."

Alex looked dismayed. "Secret passage? Where is it? Quickly! Time is wasting."

"Behind a panel in the pagoda wall."

"Then you will have to accompany us to show us this panel." He lifted her swiftly in front of him and held her tightly in the circle of his arms as they raced back the way she'd come.

"I hope we are not too late," Louisa cried nervously as the ground sped past her frightened eyes. "I-I don't know how to open it, either."

"We will succeed…and I pray to God we are in time—for more reasons than you could understand," Louisa heard the marquis say fervently, as she looked up into his set face; a face that had seemed to age within minutes with an expression of dread foreboding.

* * *

"Lieutenant Hargrave reporting, sir," the young lieutenant saluted smartly as he greeted his superior.

"Lieutenant," Ian returned the salute. "Glad to see you and your men." He watched as they beached their boat, stowing their oars and sliding the boat up onto the rocky beach in a well-trained, coordinated movement.

"The admiral's compliments, sir. We spotted the French warship at noon, lying off the point. Just waiting to slip in under this fog, sir," the lieutenant reported with rising excitement at the thought of a fight.

"Have they put to shore yet?"

"The Valor will signal, sir, when they do—and we shall be waiting," he explained with anticipation.

"Be sure to conceal the boat," Ian cautioned as he watched every movement with critical eyes. "Yes, we shall indeed be waiting, but now we must act," Ian said—all business as he moved into action. "Get your men under cover—we want our fish well into the net—we don't want any to get back out to sea, nor…" he paused, sending a speculative look up the narrow ravine, "like a rabbit into its bolt-hole at the scent of danger. And, Lieutenant," Ian added, "unless the villagers shoot at you, don't shoot them—we don't want them harmed."

The beach looked deserted as the loaded boat rode the waves into shore, the rocks and crushed shells grating noisily against its hull as it was pulled ashore, the gentle lapping of the waves washing about the struggling men's ankles.

Ian and his men, concealed behind the rocks, stiffened as they heard an owl hoot, and breathlessly watched the emergence of a pack train from the mouth of the ravine where it had awaited the all-clear signal and the beaching of the boat.

"Give your men the word," Ian whispered to the young lieutenant who was crouched down beside him. "At my signal we move."

Lieutenant Hargrave passed the word along to the anxiously waiting marines stationed in key positions along the beach as the pack train laboriously passed by them, heading for the boat where the two parties converged into one .

Ian waited—and then whistled piercingly, the shrill notes activating the men into immediate action.

They formed a circle about the smugglers, making it smaller and smaller, as they closed in upon the astonished French sailors and frightened villagers. Chaos broke loose as the sailors tried to push their beached boat back into the surf, but it was still heavy with its cargo of unloaded contraband, and slow to respond to their futile heavings. The villagers made a break for safety, abandoning the determined efforts of their compatriots, and ran splashing through the shallows, their trouser legs flapping wetly about their heavy shoes as they attempted to flee with a squad of marines in hot pursuit.

Shots rang out from under cover of the bow of the stranded boat as the French sailors saw the hopelessness of their attempt to escape.

Ian hit the soft sand in a single flying leap, his pistol drawn and primed, but the French were outflanked as the circle closed and surrounded them. Naked to the fire from the right and left of them, they surrendered—leaving several fallen and wounded comrades moaning in the sand.

Ian handed over command to the lieutenant, whose eyes were shining brightly out of his dirtied face, his once immaculate uniform torn and soiled. Ian looked over the prisoners. He cared little for these French sailors, or for the sullen, frightened villagers being herded back to the boat under guard.

He had not, as yet, found his spy—or the dispatch. He had watched carefully as the pack train of mules and men approached the boat, looking for the count and squire among them—but they had not been present. Only the usual village men who unloaded the cargo and transported it up the cliffs to the numerous hiding places that were there.

But he was worried—the count and the squire should have been here. This had been a special trip for the count, specifically. Usually the French would not venture so close to British guns, but they were taking no chances with the count—and his information. However, with both parties concerned so greedy, they had slowed themselves down by bringing in an extra cargo for the squire, a bonus for services rendered, perhaps. Surely, he would have been here, ready to receive his extra booty, and the count prepared to board at a moment's notice.

Ian swore, and was looking about him in a perplexed and thoughtful manner when he caught a furtive movement along the cliff face.

"Here, you men, follow me," he ordered a group of heavily armed men, standing idle now that the fight was over. Ian raced toward the cliff, his eyes trained upon the quickly disappearing figure high up on the cliff.

"Search for a concealed path."

They hurriedly searched the rocks and scrub for the path by which their quarry was fleeing, disappearing into the fog that was shrouding everything within sight in a veil of white. He would not lose them—not after coming this close, Ian thought savagely.

"Here! I've found it, sir," a voice called out of the mist.

The path was cleverly concealed between two boulders set back beneath an overhang of the cliff, and winding up through a hollowed-out portion of rock, only to emerge again on another side of the cliff—concealed, from above and below at its entrance, from curious eyes.

Ian and his men moved slowly along the narrow path, the fog hiding the sheer drop over the edge, and the uneven footing of the path. But if it slowed their progress, it also slowed down the fleeing figures up ahead, of which they occasionally caught a glimpse in the blowing fog that swirled about them, hampering each step they took. Ian fired a warning shot above their heads at the next sight of them. One of the figures halted, momentarily with indecision, then turned and continued on.

"The next shot will not be a warning shot," Ian directed his men who had drawn their pistols in preparation.

The fog drifted about in eddies, fooling and teasing them with false glimpses ahead of the figures.

"Stop, or we shoot!" Ian yelled out as the fleeing figures became visible once again—but they continued, heedless of his warning. "Fire!" Ian ordered, as the fog moved across the figures, shrouding them in whiteness as the round of shots cut through it blindly. "Damn," Ian muttered as they once more went in pursuit of an enemy just out of reach. Their path was blocked up ahead by a boulder, its black shape sitting squarely in the middle, cutting them off.

Ian bent over it and then gasped in surprise—it was the squire. His black coat covering him like a tent. Ian carefully turned him. The squire was dead, shot through the head.

"Come on, we've more to do before this day is finished," Ian said grimly as he stepped over the dead body of Squire Blackmore, his sightless eyes staring heavenwards.