A Taste of Miss Honey (The Venturesome Ladies of Little Valentine #6)

Prologue

Blood Oath

Izzy stood with her arms folded across her chest, squinting into the glare until her eyes watered.

Beside her, Izzy’s best friend, Angel, mirrored her pose as they gazed with critical eyes at their splendid sandcastle.

At eight years of age, they were old enough to come to the beach alone now, providing they behaved like young ladies—ah well, at least no one had seen them.

Their dresses and pinafores were all in disorder despite their best efforts, having been cast aside in crumpled heaps whilst they swam.

Their sunhats, stockings, and shoes still lay abandoned.

They’d come a long way up the beach, far from the town so no one could see their antics and had helped each other dress with varying degrees of success.

Izzy only hoped she could creep into the vicarage without Mrs Adie noticing.

Behind them soft waves lapped at the shore, scattering small pebbles and shells over the sand and leaving foamy trails as it retreated.

The sea was the most astonishing blue, the vast expanse sparkling against the horizon.

It made Izzy think of stories set in warmer places, where people ate oranges in the sun and never wore wool in the summer.

It was hard to believe it was not the Mediterranean, but its chillier cousin, the North Sea.

However, the summer had been long and spectacular, and Izzy had made the most of it.

The impressive structure that had been the focus of their tireless efforts for the past two hours was supposed to be Winsham Castle, the long-abandoned leviathan that glowered down on the pretty village of Little Valentine. The castle had been the subject of many of their imaginary adventures.

“The north tower is wonky,” Miss Isabelle Honeywell observed, pushing her spectacles up her nose. Her blonde hair had dried in a salty mermaid tangle of knots over her shoulders and curls stuck out at odd angles.

“Like the real thing, then.”

Her companion grinned at her, and Izzy turned, regarding her best friend, Miss Angelica Everdene.

Reminding herself sternly that envy was a sin, she tried not to notice that Angel’s black hair was still glossy and tumbling in thick, luxuriant tresses despite having played in the waves as vigorously as Izzy had.

Her skin had the faintest glimmer of gold after a summer spent mostly outside, whereas Izzy’s nose was peeling.

If she wasn’t such a lovely girl and a terrific sport, Izzy would loathe her.

As it was, Angel was the best thing that had ever happened to Izzy, a girl who dreamed of adventure and excitement and wanted to climb trees and get into as much mischief as any boy.

They both looked up as the church bell sounded three o’clock.

Angel scowled, crinkling her pretty nose. “Bother it. I must go home.”

“Already?” Izzy protested, although they’d been here for hours. “Why? We’ve not even filled the moat yet.”

“Winsham Castle doesn’t have a moat.”

Izzy shrugged. Pouring water into the moat seemed the best reason for making a sandcastle, so why spoil it with reality? “Who cares? Why must you leave so early?”

Angel laughed. “Well, I don’t care, but I must go all the same.”

She hadn’t answered the question, but Izzy accepted the inevitable. It wouldn’t be the same filling the moat without her friend. Giving the castle one last regretful glance, she nodded, and the two girls gathered their things.

“Does your mama want you home, then?” Izzy slanted a look at Angel, who had seemed strangely reluctant to reveal the reason for leaving early.

Angel walked on, frowning, her dark brows pinched together as she appeared to think very hard about something. Turning to Izzy, she took a deep breath and then let it out slowly.

“If I tell you a secret, do you swear never, ever to tell another soul? Cross your heart and hope to die? For if you speak a word, I shan’t be your friend ever again.”

Izzy’s eyes widened with alarm at this rather dramatic ultimatum, but she nodded at once. “Of course I will. Well, assuming no one is going to be murdered. If it’s anything like that, I should have to tell.”

Angel snorted. “No, of course not, but someone I love might die if you tattle on me. I’m not playing, Izzy. This is deadly serious.”

She was serious, that much Izzy knew. Angel’s beautiful dark eyes were solemn, the laughter and devilry that always lurked there entirely gone. Izzy placed her hand over her heart. “I swear to you, Angelica Everdene, I shall never betray your secret, may God strike me dead if I do.”

Izzy waited as Angel considered her oath, swallowing in trepidation when the girl reached up and unfastened a pretty pin from her bonnet.

Angel loved furbishing up bonnets and had affixed three pink silk roses to the pin.

Now she handed it to Izzy, her expression intent.

Taking a deep breath, Izzy pressed the tip of the pin to her thumb, pushing it against the skin until a drop of blood welled.

Taking back the pin, Angel solemnly repeated the process, wincing as the pin pricked her skin.

The two girls pressed their thumbs together, sealing their oath forevermore. The ritual complete, Angel stuck the pin haphazardly back into her bonnet and flashed a grin. She reached out and grasped Izzy’s hand tightly. “Come on, then. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The Crow’s Nest, Little Valentine, 5th August 1805

The Crow’s Nest was one of the newest houses in the town, and one of the grandest. Izzy remembered it being built, having made friends with the builders by supplying them with biscuits, softening them up so she might wheedle them into giving her a tour before it was entirely finished.

It had worked, too. That had been over a year ago, and the moment the new owners had moved in, and she had met their only child, Angelica, they had been thick as thieves.

From local gossip, Izzy had gained the impression that Angel’s parents were social climbers and less than pleased at spending so much time in a little hole-in-the-wall town like Little Valentine, which begged the question of why they had built such a fancy house here.

They tolerated Angel’s friendship with Izzy, as there were no other girls of superior class in the town, but it was clear they regretted the fact that the young duke was no longer to be found strolling the streets as he had done as a boy.

“Mama and Papa have gone to Tunbridge Wells and won’t be back until tomorrow,” Angel said, breathless after running up the hill to her home. “So there are only our servants, you see. That’s why I had to come back. I must take Grandpapa his tea or he’ll be ever so cross.”

“Your grandfather?” Izzy looked at her in surprise. Angel had never said her grandfather had come to stay.

Angel nodded. “This is the secret. No one must know he’s here.

The servants think he’s father’s old uncle, and that he’s quite mad, which is why they must stay away.

But it’s all a hum. Mama is his daughter, and this is his house, you see.

He built it and lives in it, and all the money we have came from him, but you must never tell. ”

Rather stunned by this odd explanation, Izzy followed as Angel ran to the front door and pushed it open, letting them inside.

Izzy blinked as her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside to the cool shadows of the elegant entrance hall.

It smelled of lemon polish and vinegar, and she could hear the faint ticking of a clock coming from somewhere.

“Why?” she whispered, finding the sophistication of the fashionable furnishings and décor rather intimidating.

It wasn’t cosy like the vicarage, with all its worn rugs and overstuffed furniture.

Her home always smelled of cakes and, in the summer, a pleasantly sooty smell drifted from the unused chimneys.

Angel stepped closer, cupping her hand about Izzy’s ear. Her breath tickled Izzy’s neck as she spoke, the words low and intense. “Because my grandpapa is Black Jack Baxter, the most notorious pirate that ever lived, and there’s still a warrant for his arrest.”

Izzy squealed, clapping a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. When she could trust herself not to scream with delight, she removed her hand. “A real-life pirate?” Her voice trembled with excitement and Angel nodded, her eyes alight with pride.

“But if you tell, they’ll take him to Execution Dock and hang him with a shortened rope. It’s called the Marshal’s Dance, and he won’t die quickly. It will take a long, long time.”

Izzy’s hand circled her throat as Angel spoke, the horrifying words making her stomach churn.

Angel carried on, her voice oddly intent, making the hair on the back of Izzy’s neck stand on end.

“They do it just beyond the low tide mark and wait until at least three tides have washed over the bodies. Black Jack was so notorious they’d probably tar his body and leave it hanging in chains for years and years. ”

By now, Angel’s eyes were wet with emotion, her thick black lashes spiky with tears.

Izzy swallowed, awed by the enormity of the trust Angel had put in her. “I won’t ever tell, Angel. No matter what.”

Angel let out an uneven breath and grasped Izzy’s hand, heading for the stairs. “Come along, then, Izzy. Come and meet my pops.”

Black Jack Baxter had once been a large, handsome man.

His face was heavily lined, the skin weathered and hardened by decades at sea in all climates.

Yet even now, with his hands gnarled and twisted with arthritis and shoulders bent with age, there was a magnetic quality to him.

His eyes, like those of his granddaughters, were dark, almost black, and sparkled with interest as they settled upon Izzy.

Angel hurried up to him, giving Izzy a silent instruction to stay where she was.

“Pops, this is the girl I told you about, Miss Isabelle Honeywell. Izzy, this is my pops.”

Izzy, a little uncertain of the protocol required for an introduction to a notorious pirate, bobbed a curtsey. “I am very glad to meet you, sir.”

The old man regarded her, his expression serious. “Reckon ye can trust her, Angel? She won’t be wantin’ to get old Jack strung up and collect the reward?”

“Oh, no, Pops!” Angel reached out, resting her slender hand upon her grandfather’s shoulder. “I trust Izzy more than anyone else in the world, except you.”

He sat back, an expression of satisfaction settling upon his hard mouth. He regarded Izzy with interest.

“Know how to play cards, do ye?”

Izzy nodded eagerly, her salt stiff curls brushing against her sunburned cheeks. “Oh, of course, sir.”

He slid a glance at Angel, who shook her head. “She knows how, Pops, but… but not properly. Not like we play.”

Izzy bit back the desire to refute this claim. After all, a pirate probably knew many interesting things she did not. Black Jack regarded her still, his expression considering.

“And can she load and fire a pistol?”

Izzy gaped, her heart thudding. Load and fire a pistol? “No, sir, but I should like to learn above all things.”

The old man gave a bark of laughter, throwing his head back and guffawing until he coughed and coughed, and Angel was obliged to hand him a glass of water.

“Reckon you was right, Angel, my sweet. She’s a good ’un. Not some prissy milk-and-water miss like your mama.”

“Oh, no, sir, indeed I am not,” Izzy said, swelling with pride at his estimation of her character.

She had always known she was destined for adventure, that life must hold more for her than growing up, marrying, and having babies.

Not that she didn’t want that too, she liked babies, but she wanted to do something marvellous and worthy of a heroine in a scandalous novel, like the kind her sisters hid under their pillows.

The old man grinned, devilry shining in his eyes. “Call me Jack. Now, missy, sit yourself down there, and old Black Jack and my pretty Angel will teach ye a trick or two.”