Devonshire: Richard and Rose, Book 2 Page 7

  Mr. Claverton studied him carefully, his clever eyes assessing. “I do not think he would be suitable for church office, sir, especially in the light of recent events.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Richard agreed promptly. “I keep him under observation, and if he makes a move in that direction, I’ll let you know. If he asks you for any favours, please contact me, and I’ll deal with it if you wish.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Mr. Claverton.

  It was the first I had heard of it, that Richard was having Steven watched.

  “You mean he might try to continue his career in the church?” Knowing what I did about Steven, the thought appalled me. Not all churchmen were suitable for the office they occupied, but if I stood by and let Steven Drury apply for a bishopric, I would be the worst kind of villain. The one who stood back and did nothing.

  I’d hoped Steven was out of our lives, but if Julia Drury’s father had allowed her back into his affections, it gave Steven a way back to society. Unconsciously I moved closer to Richard. He put his free hand over mine. “You know some bishops and other churchmen?”

  “We have a clutch of ‘em in the family,” Richard replied, his voice firm. “I’ll certainly write to them.”

  “Steven has a vicious nature.” My voice wasn’t entirely steady, and Mr. Claverton turned a curious gaze on to me.

  Richard pressed my hand and released it. “He will not approach you.” I believed him.

  Martha stopped us before we entered the carriage. “I wonder if you could visit poor Mrs. Hoarty again. She didn’t seem at all well in church this morning, and I couldn’t get close enough to her to ask.”

  “Yes of course,” I said. Mrs. Hoarty lived close to the church, and it would be a short walk to her house. Richard offered to accompany me.

  “I’ll send the carriage for you in an hour,” Martha said.

  “We could walk home.” It was an opportunity to spend some precious time alone with Richard.

  Martha was firm in her refusal. “I’ll send the coach.”

  We had an hour then, half an hour’s courtesy visit to Mrs. Hoarty and half an hour for ourselves.

  We watched the coach leave and Mr. Claverton go back into the church, then we turned to walk along the secluded path from the church to Mrs. Hoarty’s house. Nobody else was walking that way and high hedges protected anyone from looking over into the houses beyond.

  I laid my hand on Richard’s arm, and walked sedately down the path with him until we were out of the cleric’s sight. As soon as I was sure we couldn’t be seen, I turned to him and at once he put his arms around me. Dragging me close he kissed me, his mouth hungry on mine, and I knew he had missed me, perhaps as much as I’d missed him. I pressed myself to him, felt his body hard and comforting at the same time, and I knew I would only find my solace in him.

  “I don’t know which is worse,” he murmured, his lips against mine. “To be apart, or to have you near me, and not hold you like this.”

  “Soon,” I breathed.

  “Three weeks.” He sighed. “Knowing what I know, having tasted what I have, makes this waiting time so much longer.”

  “Yes.” But I would never regret what we had done.

  He laughed. “I feel like a small boy with his nose pressed up against the sweet shop window and no money in his pocket.”

  “You don’t look like one.”

  “I did once.”

  “You? I can’t believe it.” I ran my hand up the cloth of his impeccable red coat.

  He tilted my chin with one curled finger and kissed me again, long and lingering. “Believe it,” he said, his lips next to mine. He took my mouth again, taking his time, showing me his need in heated passion, firing me to respond with passion to match his own. He kissed me again, small, nibbling kisses on my throat and up to my forehead. I responded, pressing myself to him.

  Eventually he loosened his hold. “I fear we must continue on our errand. If we’re caught here, like two children experimenting, we’ll lose all credibility.”

  I looked up at his face so dear, so desirable. Anything less like a child was hard to imagine.

  I put my hand through the crook of his arm, and we strolled along the lane. “Will you play the harpsichord for me today?” he asked.

  The idea was scandalous. “Richard, it’s Sunday. There would be more scandal from that than if we were caught a moment ago. I’ll play for you tomorrow.”

  “The provincial mind! It’s as if the Puritans never lost control. I always thought music was a gift from God, so wouldn’t it be appropriate on a Sunday? Still, I’ll be satisfied if you’ll promise to play tomorrow. It’s an extra gift, my love, that you play so well.”

  “I may lose the gift, if I don’t practice.”

  “Then I’ll try to ensure there’s a keyboard of sorts wherever we are. I’d hate to see such a gift die from thirst.”

  I found it hard to explain what music meant to me, but I had to try, for him. “When I practice, it’s almost as if I’m on my own. It gives me a kind of solitude, even when there are other people in the room.”

  He paused and pressed his lips to my forehead. “The more I learn of you, the more there is to love.” I glowed, basking in happiness.

  We strolled in companionable silence, before I remembered something he had said to the vicar. “Richard?”

  “Yes, my sweet?”

  “You said back at the church you were watching Steven. You didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t want to bring his name up, since it upsets you, but I said at the time I wouldn’t allow him to hurt you any more. I’ve indicated that in the future we’ll accept no invitations if they are present, and most people know I disapprove of him. It won’t stop everyone, but it will mean we won’t meet.”

  “How are you having him watched?”

  “I would say, ‘my secret’, but lamentably, I fear that won’t stop you.”

  He didn’t sound upset, so I persisted in my questions. “No, it won’t. Richard.” I stopped, and made him turn to face me. “I don’t want any secrets between us. Will you promise me?”

  He stared at me. “None at all?” He sounded appalled, his voice rising slightly at the end of the sentence.

  “No important ones. If you have a mistress, I want to know about it from you. If you have any other secrets, I want to know.” The thought of Richard taking a mistress after our marriage sometimes haunted me at night. “I can make the same promise in return.” I put my hand up to his cheek.

  His stricken expression reminded me he’d never trusted anyone else in his adult life. Since Gervase had gone abroad, he’d kept his own counsel. It might be too much for me to ask.

  I let my hand fall, turning to continue to walk. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. It doesn’t matter.”

  He laid a hand on my arm and drew me back. “You have every right. I promise. No secrets.” He drew me to him and kissed me, softly, the sealing of our bargain, and we walked on together to Mrs. Hoarty’s door.

  We found both Mrs. Hoarty and her only son at home.

  Mr. Hoarty spent most of the week in Exeter, where he was a well-to-do lawyer. He probably knew all the skeletons in the closets of the more prominent families in the district. He was five and forty, and had the confident demeanour of a man who knew his world and was content in it. Now he was past the first flush of youth, his figure had filled out and he had taken to wearing bob-wigs, as a reflection of his trade and station in life, instead of the elegant queued wigs Richard and his friends preferred.

  A maid brought tea and small cakes in to us, and we sat in Mrs. Hoarty’s comfortably upholstered chairs. Mrs. Hoarty’s parlour wasn’t the most fashionable I had ever been in, but it was one of the more pleasant ones. The furniture was unassuming, the fire blazing generously.

  I hadn’t seen Mr. Hoarty for a while, and his presence today unwittingly reminded me of something. I caught myself up on a laugh and blushed when they all looked at me. “Oh, I beg yo
ur pardon, but when I saw you again, sir, it reminded me of the time you caught us in your orchard. Tom Skerrit and me, do you remember?”

  “I remember only too well,” the gentleman replied gravely, but with a gleam in his eye. “I dragged you both indoors, and I found your pockets full of our apples.”

  I laughed when I remembered. “We were always hungry in those days. And your orchard was easier to scrump in than others, because it wasn’t overlooked.” It seemed so long ago now.

  “Always hungry?” repeated Richard. “I wasn’t aware your family kept you hungry.”

  I laughed. “Martha would be appalled if she thought that. It was only the natural hunger of childhood. And stolen apples always tasted so much better.”

  Mr. Hoarty chuckled. “Especially ours. But that was the last time you tried it, I believe.”

  “We were getting too old for such things.” I met Richard’s astonished blue gaze and burst into laughter. “I’m sorry, but you look so shocked. Did you never steal apples when you were young?”

  “I can’t say I did. Did I miss something?”

  Mr. Hoarty smiled, his stern face relaxing. “I should think so. But those two were the best. They were the scourge of all orchards hereabouts until that day.”

  “Mr. Hoarty took us home,” I told my astonished love. “And my father beat me and locked me in my room for a few days. Tom got the same treatment from his father. After that, we reasoned the punishment wasn’t worth it, and we asked for our apples afterwards.”

  Richard laughed, too. “I said I was marrying a hoyden. Madam, will you never cease to surprise me?”

  I was pleased to see Mrs. Hoarty had cheered up, as she thought of past times. She was in almost constant pain these days, and I was happy to bring her pleasure.

  Richard sat facing the large sash windows at the front of the house. “You must see everything from here, ma’am.”

  “It helps on the days when I can’t go out,” she said. “To see other people as they go about their business. Sometimes, though I see too much.”

  “Oh?” Richard’s ready curiosity was aroused by her words. He sat back at his ease, and watched the lady closely. “Does this have anything to do with free traders? I was at a dinner last week where someone mentioned there had been a run recently. Do you find a barrel of brandy by your back door occasionally?”

  Mr. Hoarty gave a snort. “It sounds romantic, doesn’t it, my lord? No, we don’t find brandy by our door, because the community knows I don’t approve.”

  “You’re a rare lawyer indeed, sir, if you seek to uphold the law.”

  Mr. Hoarty shot Richard a sharp look, but it was apparent from his serious expression that he wasn’t joking. “That’s as may be, my lord. And I can’t say everyone in my profession is a model of propriety, but that isn’t the reason I oppose them. Smugglers are not groups of freethinking individuals as they would have people believe. They are oppressive, violent gangs who wield far too much influence in districts such as ours. They weaken the government and make a travesty of the law. They don’t merrily import a few barrels of French brandy; smuggling is big business. There’s a great deal of profit to be made, and when that is the case, inevitably the most ruthless rise to the top. They terrify many people hereabouts. It has undoubtedly worsened recently.”

  I remained quiet. I knew something about the trade, but like most of the families here, I’d chosen to stop my eyes and ears to it where Mr. Hoarty, to his credit, obviously had not.

  He stood, and went over to the window. “Most people don’t live as close as this to Darkwater, they don’t see some of the things we’ve seen. They hold this village in thrall.” He gazed out the large window at the front of the pleasant room. “Nothing goes on here without their permission.”

  “Who are ‘they’?” Richard asked. Mr. Hoarty had gained his interest where many could not.

  “There are groups of people up and down the coast who run the gangs,” Mr. Hoarty said, his attention on something outside. “Here, it’s a family called Cawnton. They organise all the runs in these parts, and recruit from the villages from here to the coast. If they’re refused, they exert pressure. I’ve seen women and children with missing fingers, or with an eye put out by these villains in an attempt to pressure the men of the family to help in the runs. And the level of violence has worsened in the last few years. The Cawntons always used to run their activities like a business. Their threats and violence were restricted. I assumed it was because of the example of other gangs. If their violence becomes impossible for the authorities to ignore, then they finally do something about it. The Cawntons didn’t want to damage their lucrative business by drawing attention to it.” His voice was bitter.

  Richard was interested now; his relaxed pose was no indication of the tension I sensed beneath. I felt it like an added presence. “I had no idea. I was brought up in Derbyshire, not a county renowned for its smuggling activities. I should have realised, after some of the other things I’ve seen, but I’m afraid I looked on it as a kind of pastime, except in London. Aware of the damage smuggling does to the economy, but not really aware of what it does to everyday life. Can the authorities do nothing?”

  “They haven’t enough money, nor enough men.” Mr. Hoarty turned to one side, so he could still keep an eye on whatever was happening outside, but politely face his mother’s guests. “We thought, with the cessation of the war, they might send troops to help, but we’ve seen nothing.”

  “The war hasn’t ceased,” Richard said. “It has merely paused while the sides regroup.”

  Mr. Hoarty nodded, and glanced out of the window again. The war in Europe was much further away than this, the war on our doorstep. His voice sharpened. “Lord Strang, look at this.”

  Swiftly, Richard went over to the window, and stared out of it. “My God!”

  “Two of Cawnton’s people,” said Mr. Hoarty.

  I stood and would have gone to the window, but Richard spun around, his expression grim. “I will not stand by and witness this.” He wrenched open the door and went out.

  Mr. Hoarty ran after him. “My lord, don’t do this, they’ll likely kill you! They’re no respecters of rank or privilege.” The front door slammed and I ran to the window in time to see Richard stride up the village street towards the trouble.

  Mrs. Hoarty joined me and not thinking what I was doing, I took her hand for comfort. I held my breath in fear.

  Two men stood in the street, and with no attempt at subterfuge, viciously kicked a bundle on the floor, a bundle that writhed and tried to get out of the way of the booted feet. The attackers were tall and strong and they would hurt anyone who interfered with their business. Mr. Hoarty hurried after my lord, but he couldn’t catch up with him.

  Richard ripped off his coat as he went, and threw it carelessly over one arm. The street appeared to be deserted, but shadowy faces lurked at all the windows, if you looked closely at all the cottages fronting it.

  From hearing about previous encounters, I knew no one would interfere, and if they were asked, no one would have seen anything.

  Fear clutched at me. Richard, like most of his sort could probably use a sword, but only in the courtly, skillful way prescribed by his world. As usual, he wore his dress sword, which he’d left at the church door and retrieved after the service. He put his hand on the hilt as he strode up the street towards the bullies.

  The men turned to stare at him, no alarm at all in their reactions, but perhaps a little surprise. One of them looked him up and down and laughed in derision. At least they stopped kicking the poor man on the ground.

  Richard snapped something, curtly. We couldn’t hear any sound through the window, but it was obvious he demanded they leave their victim alone. The second man stared at him, shrugged, and, without taking his eyes off Richard’s face, kicked his prey once more, casually, as if his victim was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. The man crumpled in pain.

  I couldn’t see any expression on Richard’s fac
e, but in one sweeping movement, he drew his sword. I clutched Mrs. Hoarty’s crippled hand and she gasped, but I didn’t let go, forgetting the poor lady’s pain in my fear. I was so agitated about the scene outside I didn’t even notice, though I remembered the gasp later and was deeply ashamed I had caused it.

  I thought Richard might assume the pose I’d seen fencers use—slightly crouched, one foot in front of the other, but he didn’t bother. He stood still, holding his sword pointed at the ground in front of him, and said something. The man spat at his feet.

  Without a pause Richard lifted his sword and drew it down the smuggler’s arm. He didn’t appear to use any force.

  The weapon must have been sharp, for it went through the heavy coat and the shirt of his victim, and drew blood with little effort. It couldn’t be a serious wound, but the man clapped a hand to the wound and let forth what I confidently assumed to be a stream of invective. Blood trickled down his arm. Now the other man made his move.

  From Richard’s other side, the bully lunged to Richard’s left, away from the sharp sword. In a blink Richard threw his coat at him. The blanket of scarlet temporarily blinded and confused the man. I gasped again when Richard seemed to lose his balance, falling down on one knee and dropping his sword in the dust.

  The first man came forward, on the attack again. Terrified, I watched from my station by the window. Mr. Hoarty stood by the fracas, shouting. Perhaps he was telling them the identity of this stranger, his rank. I knew it would do Richard no good. The smugglers could simply disappear if they killed him, evade justice by joining another gang further up the coast, or by going to ground in one of their many hideaways.

  They were going to kill my love. I would have to watch him die, unable to prevent it. A moan escaped me and this time Mrs. Hoarty tightened her grip on my hand.

  Something gleamed wickedly in Richard’s left hand, the one he’d used to throw his coat. He tossed the object from his left hand to his right. The knife glittered in the pale sunshine. He sprang to his feet, kicking out with his left leg, and at the same time swept the new weapon in front of him. All gentility had gone. Only a fighter, strong and supple, remained.