Chapter Twenty-Six

Kit

The mail coach and all its discomforts, barely more than a week after his last journey, was not pleasing Kit greatly. Neither was having to share the return journey to Cornwall with his cousin, who had appeared at the inn just as the coach arrived, heavy eyed and hungover from the night before. And especially not as the other two inside seats were occupied by an enormously fat parson and his sour faced daughter who appeared to be going all the way to Exeter.

"What a surprise to find you also on your way to Cornwall," the captain said, raising his elegant eyebrows at Kit. "You seem unable to keep away from it, even with the temptations of Miss Lucas to keep you at Ormonde." His knowing smile, as though perhaps he'd been spying on Kit when he'd been alone on the terrace with Morvoren, brought heat to Kit's cheeks. "But you were always like that as a boy, if I remember rightly. Cornwall, Cornwall, Cornwall. All you'd ever talk about at school. So very dull."

Kit grunted a reply and settled back in his seat with his eyes firmly closed. If sleep wouldn't come, he'd pretend it had.

At every stop for a change of horses, Kit availed himself of the chance to get out and stretch his legs, glad to breathe in some air not tainted with the strong odor of hot bodies that pervaded in the coach. Only the fact that he could try to sleep off his own exhaustion prevented him from opting to ride on the top of the vehicle in the fresh air with the two gentlemen already seated with the guard and driver.

The captain made no further attempts to involve him in conversation but settled back in his own corner, legs outstretched, annoyingly able to sleep like the proverbial baby. But then, he probably wasn't troubled by thoughts of Morvoren the way Kit was. Thoughts that every time he began to doze off resurfaced in alluring images that danced before his eyes.

At last, however, the coach rumbled into Exeter and drew up in the square outside the same inn Kit had caught it from just over a week ago. With mixed feelings, he descended from the coach and joined the captain and the fat parson and his daughter in walking into the inn.

It being evening, and with the driver of the Penzance coach already ensconced in the room the coaching company commanded for him, he had a room of his own to book. The coach would be heading west first thing in the morning.

Luckily, the landlord had rooms enough for all the travelers.

"And make sure the bed has been properly aired," Kit said, fixing the landlord with a fierce glare. "And that the sheets were clean on today." He paid out some coin. "And I'll take supper in my room."

Two hours later, he was in his room taking off his clothes to get into a bed that had indeed been fully aired by the landlord's buxom daughter with a warming pan. She'd also brought him his supper and a bottle of brandy that he doubted any excise duty had been paid on, and given him a come-to-bed wink he'd ignored.

Good thing too. The brandy, not the come-to-bed wink. He liked to believe that the little he was doing on the tip of Cornwall was generating extra income for his local villagers, who regularly risked their lives to bring in the contraband goods and distribute them. And if contraband brandy, whoever had brought it in and wherever it had come ashore, was getting as far east as Exeter, that could only be of profit for the people of Nanpean.

He sighed. He liked to tell himself that the reason he took part in Jago's smuggling activities was to help the poverty he'd been seeing since he was a boy. However, a sneaking part of him might just be forced to admit that he also did it for the adventure. That he liked from time to time to sail over to France or the Channel Islands and select goods himself, or to bring back someone escaping Boney's bloody regime.

In his time, Jago had brought back a fair few Frenchies, and as a boy, Kit had accompanied him on many trips. Although some time had now passed since either of them had been called upon to repeat their rescue missions. Kit had more than an inkling that his mother suspected him of clandestine activities. After all, she'd grown up in the household of smugglers. Had his father known? Most likely. But he couldn't ask him now, and he certainly wasn't going to ask his mother.

Kicking off his boots, and still in his shirt and breeches, he threw himself down on his bed, which set his candle guttering, and put his hands behind his head. And, of course, the first thing that jumped into his mind was the one thing he didn't want to think of. Morvoren.

Despite a battle to exclude her, she'd been haunting his thoughts throughout every waking moment of the journey, and her face had populated what dreams he'd snatched. Her face, her lips, her hands in his hair. Her tongue on his, the way she'd pulled him against her, making it impossible for him to hide his body's reaction to hers. How it hadn't shocked her at all. How she'd slid her hands inside his coat, the touch of her fingers through the thin linen of his shirt like tendrils of fire.

And now, with those disturbing memories, his breeches were uncomfortable again. He made an unhelpful effort to readjust himself and closed his eyes. He needed to rest. In the last thirty-six hours he'd had about three hours of sleep and none of it had been more than a half-hour nap at a time. He was exhausted, but Morvoren refused to leave him. What wouldn't he give to have her open the door right now and come into his room? She'd sit on the edge of his bed and bend over and…

This was no good, he'd never get to sleep this way. He had to put her out of his mind. She wasn't for him. With what he was doing so regularly now, and the dangers it entailed, he couldn't afford to get involved with any woman. It was too much to ask of a young lady to accept a man like him, a man who was breaking the laws of the land on a regular basis. Who risked execution if caught. He had to forget about her and pray she'd forget about him.

He rolled onto his side and blew out his candle, but the darkness didn't dispel his disquiet. Oh, how he wanted that girl, with a longing that refused to be ignored. His body ached for her, and so did his heart. She was so refreshingly different—unlike any other girl he'd ever met. And that only made him want her all the more.

No. He had to put her out of his mind and leave his mother and Ysella to take care of her. He'd left a note for his mother explaining that he'd needed to go back and deal with business he'd had to leave unfinished at Carlyon Court when he'd brought Morvoren to Ormonde. He'd written that he'd be away at least another month, and asked her to take care of Morvoren and see if she could locate some family or friends for her.

Or a husband.

It had been painful to write that. So much so, his hand had shaken, and he'd badly blotted the paper. With any luck she'd be gone by the time he returned to Ormonde. Only that thought didn't make him happy either.

With an angry huff, he rolled onto his front. Big mistake. Even more uncomfortable. He returned to lying on his back again and did some more breeches readjustment. Better.

And now he really did need to get to sleep. If she'd let him…

*

Morvoren

Ysella and Morvorentiptoed downstairs carrying their valises. A moment of inspiration on Ysella's part had been to inform their two maids that they would be staying with Miss Caroline Fairchild whose own maid would be taking care of them, so neither Loveday nor Martha was needed. They'd already dispatched Martha to order four horses to be harnessed to the carriage they'd travelled to the ball in. It was only when they reached the foot of the stairs that something important dawned on Morvoren. "We don't have any money."

Ysella turned wide eyes on her, one hand to her mouth. "You're right. We don't. And we're going to need some, I'm certain. What are we going to do?"

Morvoren had stopped dead. "We won't get far if we can't buy food along the way. It's going to be a long journey, and we'll need changes of horses just like the mail coach does. That won't be free."

"And for tollgates and things like that," Ysella said with a groan. "Why didn't I think of that before now?" She gazed around the hallway as though one of the paintings on the walls might give her inspiration.

"We'll have to ask Sam," Morvoren said. "He was in the office earlier, and he'll have access to money. We'll get him to give us some. How much do you think we'll need?"

Ysella shrugged, and hefting her valise set off toward the office without another word.

Sam was still there, head bent over the ledgers, but he looked up when they came in and, rising to his feet, bowed first to Ysella and then to Morvoren. "Good morning, Miss Ysella, Miss Morvoren." A very formal young man.

Ysella didn't beat about the bush. "We need money, Sam. How much have you got?"

Sam blinked a couple of times, no doubt at the abruptness of her question. "I do have money in the strong box," he said, sounding cautious, "for the staff wages next week. I can advance you a pound or two of pin money from that if you wish to drive into Marlborough for some shopping." He didn't sound all that confident. Had he guessed they had an ulterior motive?

"That won't be enough," Ysella said. "And we don't want it for shopping."

Morvoren kicked her.

She flashed a scowl. "We're going to Caroline Fairchild's for a few days and will need to…" she hesitated, "…to tip her servants and buy her some presents. And… and go to the theatre." She must be trawling for the most expensive activities she could think of.

How unlikely did that sound, though?

Sam clearly thought so as well. "I'm afraid I can't let you have more than a pound or two. Not with Kit away. He's very exacting about the allowance he gives you, Miss Ysella, and I'm not allowed to give you more than a pound or two in excess of it. Plus, there'd be mutiny below stairs if I were to let you spend the staff's wages on fripperies."

"Don't tell him," Morvoren whispered to Ysella.

Ysella ignored her. "It's a matter of life and death. We're not really going to Caro's. We have to follow Kit down to Cornwall immediately, or he'll be in the worst possible deadly danger. The worst you can imagine. It's up to us to rescue him."

Sam's sandy brows shot up. "I don't understand. What deadly danger can Kit be in? He's only gone down to Carlyon Court. There's nothing dangerous there."

Luckily, he hadn't yet latched onto the fact that they were planning a journey by themselves in pursuit of his employer.

Ysella sighed and glanced at Morvoren. "I'll have to tell him," she said, with a martyred air. "He won't help us unless I do, and we can't go alone with no money."

"He won't believe us," Morvoren hissed, turning away in the faint hope that Sam wouldn't hear her. "He'll think I'm mad. He'll have me locked up."

"What won't I believe?" Sam asked.

Ysella ignored him and shook her head. "Nonsense. I don't think you're mad, so he won't. We have to tell him, Morvoren. Or who knows what's going to happen to Kit."

Morvoren sighed. "All right, but it's against my better judgement and if he locks us in our rooms afterwards and sends for the doctor, don't be surprised."

So they told him. Coming from both of them at the same time, the tale took a lot longer to tell than when Morvoren had recounted it to Ysella. With that young lady's constant tangential contributions to the story, poor Sam had a job getting the facts straight in his head. She would keep interrupting, usually at the wrong point with something irrelevant. But at last, Sam had the full story.

He looked Morvoren up and down, an incredulous expression on his face, then back at Ysella. "You want me to believe this fairy story?"

"I told you so," Morvoren snapped at Ysella. What were they going to do now? Any second he'd be sending for the doctor who'd prescribe bleeding and something to cool their nerves.

"It's all perfectly true," Ysella pleaded. "And the painting of Kit proves it. Morvoren saw it in the museum before she came here. She recognized Kit from it and then the painting itself when she saw it in the hall. How could she have done that if it weren't true?"

"Lots of ways," Sam said, brow furrowing. "She could have made it up, for a start." He shook his head. "And how ridiculous is it to accuse Kit, Lord Ormonde, of being hand in glove with a bunch of smugglers. That in itself proves this is a faradiddle."

"It's not a faradiddle," Morvoren said, having decided that now they'd told Sam it was up to her to convince him. No going back. She couldn't sit in a straitjacket while Kit was in danger, which was where she'd be if she didn't find a way to win Sam to their side. "Because I've seen the smugglers at Nanpean, at Jago's farm. The night I had to spend there, strange noises woke me up. I looked out of the window and saw a column of pack ponies coming up from the beach. They came right into the farmyard and were met by Kit and Jago. They were expecting them, I think. Either that or they both came up from the beach along with the smugglers. I couldn't tell."

"Your imagination. A dream." Sam shook his head and put a hand to one of his temples. "You hallucinated. You're a hysterical woman."

Morvoren put her hands on her hips. "I did not, and I am not." Although she would be in a minute if he didn't see reason. "Kit was out there with them as were Jenifry and Loveday. While I was peering out, he glanced up at my window. I thought he'd seen me. I ran back to bed and pretended to be asleep. Just as well, because he came upstairs and opened my bedroom door. I was terrified. But he just stood for a while looking down at me." She paused for effect. "I thought he was going to kill me."

Ysella let out a gasp, as she well might, because Morvoren hadn't told her this part of the story and was only telling Sam in an effort to convince him.

Sam bit his lip.

Had she succeeded? She waited.

He heaved a heartfelt sigh, his shoulders sagging. "You can't go alone."

"Of course we can," retorted Ysella. "We'll have our driver and we'll take another of the servants with us, armed with muskets or pistols or some such from the gun room. We'll be quite safe, but we do need some money or we won't be able to pay the tollgates, nor buy food, nor if we have to stop, acquire a room for the night. We could trade on Kit's good name and offer to leave a promissory note, but I fear not all innkeepers will be willing to accept one."

"No, you can't." Sam folded his arms across his chest. "Not two women on your own. I'll have to come with you. As your escort. Are you taking your maids?"

Morvoren and Ysella shook their heads in unison. "We're going to be maids for each other," Morvoren said. "We didn't want to involve too many servants."

"And besides, Martha's such a tattletale, she would've gone straight to tell Mama," Ysella put in. "I'm leaving a note to say we've gone to Caro's. Just as we told you we were doing. A fib, I know, but one made out of necessity as Mama would undoubtedly not believe us and refuse to allow us to go."

"Your brother is quite correct when he calls you a minx," Sam said. "Is the carriage being prepared?"

Morvoren nodded. "We just need the money for the journey—and you, as you've so kindly said you'd accompany us."

He got up from the table, closing the ledger as he did. "Very well. Go down to the stable courtyard and load your valises onto the carriage and I'll throw a few things into a bag—including the money—and meet you down there in ten minutes. Quickly now. If Miss Morvoren is correct, we may have no time to lose."

Heaving a heartfelt sigh, Morvoren grabbed Ysella's hand and together they hurried to the stable yard to see if James the coachman had the carriage ready. He and another two lads were busy harnessing the horses.

Ysella pulled James to one side. "We are not going to Miss Fairchild's," she hissed. "We're following Kit to Cornwall, so make sure you have your travelling things with you. And send one of those lads to the gunroom to fetch Mr. Beauchamp some pistols. Loaded ones. We shall need to be able to defend ourselves. And we'll take one of the grooms with us, so tell whichever you choose to arm you and himself as well."

At precisely two o'clock, the striking of the stable yard clock marked their departure, as the carriage bearing Ysella, Morvoren, and a still dubious Sam rolled out through the stable archway. High on the driver's seat, James, the coachman, sat resplendent in his livery, with an armed guard, not nearly so smartly outfitted, beside him. They were off at last.

Oh, for a fast car. Or a motorbike. Or a train. Their progress was from the start annoyingly slow. They might have good horses, but that didn't mean they would make as good progress as the mail coach, which Sam said could manage a lightning ten miles per hour. What speed. Not.

And they were handicapped by a driver who cared about his horses. Unlike the mail coach drivers, who knew they would be getting replacements every ten miles and were driven by the need to get from A to B inside a certain time. Not so their driver, no matter how much Ysella exhorted him to go faster.

In the end, when they stopped at an inn for their first drop of sustenance, James took the opportunity to point out the facts to Ysella. "These're good horses, Miss Ysella, belonging to his lordship. I won't hammer'em. He wouldn't thank me for doin' it, an' he'd be mad with you for makin' me. You want to get there, don't you? Well, let me drive 'em at a pace they can keep to. We'll have to get a change of horses at some point, but the longer these can keep going, the better, because they're good horses. Anythin' we change 'em for won't be near such good quality."

So, Morvoren and Ysella had to control their impatience and sit back inside the carriage as first the Wiltshire, and then at last the Somerset, countryside crawled past.

As the evening sun sank toward the hills, Morvoren could only worry about how much faster Kit's mail coach must be going. By now, he must already be in Exeter and perhaps even on the coach back to Penzance. It might at this moment be carrying him inexorably on to Nanpean and the looming threat of danger. Maybe Ysella and Sam had the same thoughts, but they didn't share them. A frustrated silence fell between the passengers.

Night had fallen by the time they trotted into a little town Sam said was Yeovil. The Yeovil of 1811 was tiny, although in possession of a fine coaching inn. With all of them, including the horses, exhausted, Sam insisted they should stop for the night.

"You ladies had no sleep last night and barely any rest this morning," he pointed out. "And neither of you has managed to sleep in the carriage, so don't tell me you're able to keep going because you're not. And neither are our horses. Everyone needs a night's rest."

Against her better judgement, but barely able to keep her eyes open, Morvoren agreed. For all she knew, no smuggling was planned until the next moonless night, and Kit was safer than they were. Surely a night's sleep would do no harm? So, after a meal of boiled beef and over-cooked vegetables that she could barely nibble, Ysella and Morvoren stripped each other to their shifts, dabbed cold water on their hot bits and flopped into the narrow and lumpy double bed that had been provided. Morvoren was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.