Chapter 5
Sybil’s race through so many topics set Wes’s head spinning. His attention had stalled at the notion that she’d never been kissed. And she thought she had kissed him first. And wasn’t sorry about it.
He took a step closer.
“You’ve never been kissed? I’ve been wanting to do that since the first day I saw you. I thought we would be standing up, though.”
It had been heaps more compelling lying down. Yes, he preferred that.
“What?” A long pause followed. “Ah,” she said finally, her voice shaky, “forget about the kissing.”
“I don’t want to. How could I?”
She stepped into a faint beam of light and his gaze followed hers up to the window. The fog had shifted again and the night sky appeared brighter.
How long had it been since they were locked in? He’d best get his brain back to working out how they could escape. The high window seemed more and more unlikely.
“Sir Westcott, did you not hear anything I said?”
“Vermin,” he said. “Rats. You’re right, I haven’t heard any scurrying, or smelled them for that matter. Could there be a trap door somewhere to let out the grain?”
“We can look for one while we’re looking for loose planks or holes in the wall that we can widen.”
“The bungaroosh walls I saw in Brighton looked awfully sturdy.” Bungaroosh was the curious name for a kind of cement being used in the buildings going up like wildfire in the fashionable seaside town.
“This building is much older. And the walls have more bungaroosh than stone.”
“Well then,” he said, gathering up the fallen rope. “Let’s find that lantern and relight it.”
* * *
A surprisingly short time later, Sybil held her breath and wriggled through a gap made by prying up two wide planks with the crowbar they’d found in a dark corner.
Sir Westcott wanted the honors, in case there were dangers outside, he said. She convinced him that for his shoulders to fit, they’d have to spend precious time loosening the next board.
There might not have been vermin inside the storehouse, but something had nested between the floorboards and the damp ground.
The sound of scattering feet sent chills up her spine, and the smell of scat and algae made her stomach twist. Dampness slicked her back and belly and then her knees as she scooted and then crawled down the slope.
The wind soughed through the nearby trees, and somewhere below water trickled. Easing herself out from the narrow space, she set her aching legs into motion and made her way up the slope and around to the door.
The heavy bar resisted. She shook out her sore arms and with one frantic heave, lifted the bar out of the way, and stepped aside.
The door opened and Sir Westcott peered out, looking around, his head cocked.
He stepped out and handed over her hat. “I hear something.”
Tilting her head, she strained her ears, but all she heard was her own heavy breathing and the sound of the door closing and the heavy bar falling back into place.
“It may be your man,” he said.
He meant Crofton. “He’s not my man.”
He shushed her and took her hand, leading her to a nearby clump of yew and beech trees.
As his greatcoat came around her, she heard it—the clops of horses on the gravel road.
“It might be the revenuers, or maybe Robin Somerville again.” She spoke softly, mindful that sound carried more in the fog.
“That was Somerville you met on the road?” He whispered the words into her ear, sending a wave of trembling down her spine.
He took her hand again. She was damp from her crawl under the granary. With the fog lying heavy and wet, he would soon be as wet and cold as she was, from the top of his hat to the soles of his boots.
“Planks are back in place.” His breath tickled her ear again. “Brought this too.” Reaching around he brought out the crowbar.
He helped her slip her arms through the sleeves of the greatcoat and then handed her the heavy tool.
Two riders broke through the fog and dismounted. Crofton and Butley.
Heart pounding, she watched the two men approach the brush where she and Sir Westcott were hiding. When they tied their mounts to a sapling and stepped away, her breath returned.
“No sound from inside,” Butley said. “Might be sleeping.” He laughed. “Or going at it. Think she untied him?”
“Without a doubt,” Crofton said. “But that namby-pamby wouldn’t know what to do with a woman.”
“What’re we going to do with him?” Butley asked. “I know your plans for her. Serve her right, but we don’t want him talking, do we? Mayhap, have it look like that highwayman—”
“Shut your trap and light a lantern,” Crofton said.
Shaking with anger, she gripped the crowbar. There’d be no rape tonight, but there might be a murder or two, and not Sir Westcott’s. They could blame those on Captain Moonlight.
“Bring that rope,” Crofton said. “Tie him and take him out while I have private words with her. Plenty of time before those casks come up from Beachy Head.”
She squeezed Sir Westcott’s hand. No wonder Crofton had needed extra men. He was bringing up a new load from east of Brighton.
They needed to get out of here. When dawn broke, there’d be no good place to hide themselves.
While Butley fumbled with the lantern and Crofton cursed the man’s clumsiness, Sir Westcott leaned close.
“Let’s detain them.”
She took in a sharp breath and then huffed out a silent laugh. Of course. It was a prank worthy of the Picard boys.
And a perfect payback.
She nodded and moved into a crouch.
The door opened, the two men disappeared inside, and she followed Sir Westcott on silent feet watching the lantern light bob further into the darkness.
“Too quiet in here,” Butley said.
“Come out now, Sybil, there’s a good girl,” Crofton called.
“Oof,” Butley cursed. “Reckon that ghost might—”
“Shut up, you fool. There’s no ghost. Keep an eye on that do—”
Sybil pushed the door closed and Sir Westcott slammed the heavy bar into place.
Shouting and curses erupted, spurring a gleeful panic in her and setting her feet into motion.
A long, mournful, masculine wail behind her, a ghostly wail, made her pause.
The shouting inside turned into worried whispers.
Grinning, Sir Westcott grabbed her hand and pulled her back to the sapling and the waiting horses. “We’ll just borrow these,” he whispered.
Smuggling, and now stealing horses?
“I never believed that ghost story.” He freed the reins, threw her up on one of the horses, and mounted the other.
They picked their way carefully across a field until they reached a clump of trees before halting.
“Thank heavens the war with France is over,” she said.
“What?” Sir Westcott asked. “Why?”
“I’ll have to flee there when Crofton sends the constable to arrest me for horse theft.”
He chuckled. “Gus and my stepmama went to France for their honeymoon. I’ll flee with you.”
She scoffed. “Sir Westcott…”
“Sybil, I have an idea,” he said, going on as if he hadn’t just offered… What had he offered? He was only flirting again. He didn’t mean any of it.
“Crofton has land near you, doesn’t he?” he asked. “We’ll take these fellows home. Let him think they slipped their tethers and found their way there on their own.”
He threw back his head and sent up the same ghostly wail, and then laughed so hard and so contagiously that she found herself joining in.
* * *
“So, Crofton lives here?” Wes asked as they stopped at a gate. Crofton’s farm house wasn’t visible from this far field, but all seemed quiet.
“He does now.”
“Who’s there with him? His wife? Children? Servants?”
“His wife is in Tunbridge Wells with her brother. No children. He has a woman come in during the day. The only servant I know of is Butley.”
“You’ve made a study of this.”
“He’s holding my loan papers somewhere. Mine and other people’s. Come on, let’s open this gate.” She slid from the horse. “It’s been a long night.”
“Which way to Devil’s Dyke Grange?” Wes said a few minutes later, closing the gate. They watched the horses trot off to look for grazing on their home ground.
She was right. It had been a very long night. It was all well and good to be a gentleman—Sybil still had his greatcoat, and he was glad of that—but the damp chill had penetrated all the way to his shirt. He’d relish a chance to sit by a warm fire.
“Not far,” she said.
No mincing miss was Sybil Dunsford, nor did she need to be constantly engaged in polite conversation. He liked that about her.
He stepped up beside her on the road. “My stomach’s been rumbling for the past hour. Let’s stop for a moment. I have a flask in one of those pockets.”
She paused and began shrugging out of his greatcoat.
“No, no.” He tucked the coat back around her. “Stand there and I’ll find it.”
The search gave him an opportunity to move closer, to delve into pockets, and to feel her warm breath touching his cheeks. He’d like to delve under the layers of coats and feel more than wet wool and steal another kiss. She hadn’t seemed to mind the first one.
He retrieved the flask, opened it, and passed it to her. After one sip, she spluttered and coughed.
“I’m not used to spirits.”
Wes chuckled and accepted the flask back. When he’d tossed back a drink, she offered another flask.
“Will you have some?” she offered. “My brother insisted I take it. He said it’s good gin.”
He took a taste of the drink and then a longer draught. “Not rotgut,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Lang has good taste.”
“That was Cass’s. He’s too young, I know. He’s… he’s incorrigible.”
She dug into another one of her own pockets and brought out a cloth-wrapped package. “I’ve a sandwich too. You may have it.”
His stomach rumbled again. “You must be peckish as well. Maybe more so after carting out all those crates.”
She shook her head. “No. Or, after a night like this, I don’t know whether I’m hungry or not. Maybe I am.” She laughed, but there was no humor in her voice. “Shall we share it?”
She was done in. And she ought to be. This night’s activities had been dangerous, and with a man like Crofton, if he’d been released, there might be more danger awaiting her at home.
“I’ll take but a bite or two, and thank you,” he said. “Miss Dunsford, I don’t want to say it but—"
“Then don’t, Sir Westcott. Don’t tell me how foolish this night’s work was.”
He took a bite and chewed, calming the temptation to scold, putting his brain to work on a better approach. He wouldn’t want his wife to go haring off with a passel of smugglers.
On the other hand, he’d always said he wanted a lady with spirit, one who would stand up for her children like Sybil stood up for her brothers.
“You did this for your brothers, didn’t you?”
She shrugged.
“And Crofton bought your mortgage when the bank failed.”
“Yes. And I’ve kept up with the payments.”
And probably struggled to do so after the last year’s terrible harvest.
“But he, what? Threatened to call in the whole loan? Is that what he did to your neighbor?”
“Mr. Lewis lost his wife, and then his children, one after the other. He gave up. I’m not giving up.” She took a swig of the gin and coughed. “Finish this.”
She handed him the rest of the sandwich and tucked away the cloth it had been wrapped in.
Wes devoured the remains of the food and dusted off his hands. “What time do you suppose it is?”
The fog wasn’t as dark as it had been.
“Not sunrise yet. I’d say, maybe three, or four. I’m weary enough for it to be that late. Or early. It’s not far to the Grange. If you want to go on to Highcross Keep, I’ll be fine. We’re coming to that turning in a moment.”
“I’m going to escort you all the way home,” Wes said as he fell into step with her, determined to make conversation. “Do you know Reggie well?”
“As children, we played together before he went away to school. But seldom after that; never after he went into the army. Were you at school with him?”
Wes laughed and told her about his introduction to Reggie at Tattersall’s.
“My grandmother is a friend of his mother. Gran got me to escort her to London with a view to Reggie’s mother playing matchmaker for me.”
She glanced at him. “And?”
“I’m, as you see, still a bachelor.”
She looked over at him again. “Do you truly want to marry now? How old are you?”
“I’ve reached my majority, Miss Dunsford. How old are you?”
He saw the glint of a smile. “I’m four and twenty.”
“Will it bother you that I’m a year younger?”
“What a widgeon you are,” she said. “Why should I care?”
“Good,” he said, and told her about his sojourn in York in the spring; about the beauty of the nearby Lake District; and more about his stepmother whom he’d just lost to a marriage he’d never expected.
“My gran lives at Twisden Manor, but she’s often gone for weeks at a time to one spa or another taking the waters. She’s in London now, but I don’t doubt that she’ll want to go north to the borders with Stepmama and Gus for a time.”
And he would be alone, just him and the servants.
He’d be comfortable, it was true, but he’d tried abiding at home last spring after his stepmother went down to York.
Restless, after meeting his distant cousin Gus at a horse fair, he’d persuaded Gus to come along with him to York for the races there.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” she asked.
“I had a half-sister. A sweet little thing. She died as a child.”
She went quiet for a time and then raised the topic of his estate. He’d told her about it in the afternoon in her parlor, but she had more questions.
And he found he was able to answer them, telling her about the crops, the livestock, the tenants.
“How can you afford to remain away so long?” she asked.
“Our man is competent and trustworthy, and he sends me regular reports. When Reggie invited me down here, I thought, why not see Brighton and wait for my stepmother when she returns from her honeymoon? She’s with child, you know.”
“With child? Ah. You mentioned that at the assembly.”
“Shocking, isn’t it? She’s not so old—not yet forty. A bang-up great lady. She wrote to tell me they’d met one of Gus’s friends in Palermo and will be sailing with him straight to Brighton, arriving any day now. I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
A stunned silence followed, and they entered a portion of the lane that had high hedges on each side and no verge. If a wagon came along, they’d be done for.
On the other hand, the hedges gave an even deeper feeling of privacy than the fog alone provided.