Chapter 6
Wes reached for her hand and drew her to a halt, turning her towards him. “I’m surrounded by strong women, you see. That’s one of the reasons I find you so attractive, Miss Dunsford. Sybil. Besides the fact you’re a bang-up good-looking girl…”
She’d gone very still. Maybe he was talking too much. But he had more to say, and he might not be alone on a dark road with her again. He’d like to steal another kiss—a whole cartload of kisses.
She was quiet so long, he began to worry.
What did Sybil really want?
One thing he’d learned from his stepmother—not every lady craved jewels and finery.
What could he offer Sybil?
“My father,” he said, “was wild for dogs. Prime hunters. While one doesn’t really need more than a half dozen, he kept scores of them.”
Braying and barking all night sometimes, and his father’s favorites allowed into the house to climb all over the furniture. Being used to it, Wes hadn’t really minded, but it was a wonder his stepmother had not poisoned the lot. “When he died, we sold all but a pair for breeding.”
He took in a breath and squeezed her hand. “Those empty kennels might do for your little black and white pigs.”
* * *
Sybil felt heat rising into her cheeks. From the brandy surely, though she couldn’t deny that the firm clasp of his long fingers was sending some of the warmth.
This wouldn’t do. She had a farm to run. And she had the boys to look after. Lang had only just reached his majority. And the twins… She couldn’t run off with Sir Westcott, no matter how well he kissed.
She glanced both ways on the road. They were completely alone, swathed in the damp fog. Neither of them had moved, but she felt herself being drawn to him, and him to her.
Mustering a breath, she said, “I can sell you some piglets to take home with you and breed.”
His lips quirked and moved close to hers. “Will you come along too and show me how the breeding is done?”
She gasped, a giggle bubbling up within her. “I ought to slap…”
The touch of his lips silenced her. Her response came as naturally as the dawn would come in a few hours. Softly, he kissed her, and she went along willingly, warmth fizzing inside her, melting away the cold and the loneliness and the fear.
He angled his head and took the kiss deeper, and on a shocked murmur she felt the touch of his tongue to hers. The soft kiss soon became hotter, more intense, passion building as she pressed herself closer, a deeper awareness blooming within her.
“What’s all this?”
A man on horseback blocked their way, looking down at them, and another, barely visible through the fog, had stopped behind him.
She would have sprung back, but Sir Westcott’s arms held her tightly.
“Reggie?” Sir Westcott said. “Is that you?”
The second rider moved up closer. “Why, it’s Sir Westcott. Why are you kissing that fellow, sirrah? Didn’t take you for—”
“Hello, Quinton,” Sir Westcott said. “I was, uh, merely… That is, this is not…”
“I’m not a fellow,” Sybil said.
She might as well spare them both further embarrassments. Quinton was a gossip, but perhaps Reggie could persuade him to keep his mouth shut for the sake of his friend avoiding the parson’s trap.
A knot of worry formed in her belly. “Why are you here?” She nudged Sir Westcott away. “What’s happened?”
Were her brothers all right? What if Crofton had been set free and gone straight to the Grange?
“We’re hunting, Wes,” Reggie said. “One moment we were talking, the next we noticed he’d scampered. Dozed off, we did.” He laughed. “Shall I do the pretty, Syb, and plant him a facer, since Lang’s not here?”
“Is that Sybil Dunsford?”
The speaker, a third rider, nudged his way between the other two horses, and her heart pounded. She recognized Eddy Simpson, the ne’er-do-well brother of her neighbors. Eddy held a regular bench at the Duck and Spoon and staggered from there at closing to wherever else he could continue drinking.
He was a worse gossip than Reggie’s uncle and with a far broader audience. She was done for.
Eddie leaned in, wobbling in his saddle. “And dressed as a boy?”
“A lost pig,” Sir Westcott said. “She couldn’t very well go searching in long skirts. I came across her while I was, er, taking a walk.”
“That so?” She could hear the amusement in Reggie’s voice. “Did you find this little oinker?”
“Miss Dunsford twisted her ankle. I was, er, helping her to her feet.”
Reggie hopped down. “Come on, Syb. I’ll put you up. The lane to the Keep is right here. We’ll let our housekeeper have a look at your ankle.”
Blasted Sir Westcott. He’d chosen the wrong lie, and Reggie would choose this moment to play the gentleman.
“No.” She made a shooing motion. “I’m fine. Reggie, you’re foxed. Go home and take Sir Westcott with you. I’ll make my own way home before my brothers start worrying.”
Reggie laughed. “As if they would.”
“What of your missing swine?” Quinton asked.
And that was another problem with lying. One was always forced to dig in deeper.
“I’ll send Emmet to look tomorrow.”
“Loan me your mount, Reggie,” Sir Westcott said. “I’ll take Miss Dunsford home.”
Reggie and Sir Westcott exchanged a look like the ones her brothers’ often shared—a whole wordless conversation.
“We’ll both go,” Reggie said. “Too many goings-on in the Dyke tonight. Brought my pistols, just in case. Uncle Quinton, off you go. Past your bedtime.”
Quinton lifted his chin and sent Reggie a haughty gaze. “Of course, I’m coming along with you, ready to offer my sword, Miss Dunsford. It’s been many years since I’ve assisted a damsel in distress, and never a damsel as becoming as you are even in trousers. One might say, especially in trousers.”
She rolled her eyes. “Foxed,” she muttered.
“Cut the flirting, uncle. Eddy, you can go on home to your bed. All’s well, that ends well.”
Eddy swayed in his saddle, tipped his hat to them and rode past.
“He’ll blab,” Reggie said, watching the other man disappear into the fog. “Good thing he was too far back to see you, er, helping our Syb with the cut on her lips.”
“Stow it, Reggie,” Sybil said.
“With luck,” Quinton said, “he’s so bosky he won’t remember a scene of romance on a dark country road.”
Sybil had had enough for one night. “There’s no romance. Nor will anyone care.”
Except possibly Crofton. That thought sent a shiver of fear through her. What would he do after his minions came along and released him?
She must get to the safety of home.
She stepped out briskly, but Sir Westcott took her arm, scooped a hand under her bottom, and plopped her onto Reggie’s mount.
“You’re not walking home alone. What are the odds you’ll have someone waiting for you there? We might need Reggie’s fists and his pistols.”
“A mill?” Reggie said. “Capital.”
* * *
“What really happened?” Reggie asked, riding next to Wes.
They’d seen Sybil safely home and turned her over to Cass, who’d greeted them with an old-fashioned blunderbuss in hand. Lang was still out with the revenuers. Wes had promised to call the next day and waited while she locked all the doors before retrieving his horse where he’d left it.
For all that Reggie acted the dunderhead, he sensed he could trust his friend’s discretion. He wasn’t sure about Quinton, so he kept his voice low and told him about the night’s events.
“Knew that pig story was a bouncer,” Reggie said. “Going to marry her?”
Wes grinned. “If she’ll say yes.”
Reggie grunted. “Could do much worse than our Syb. Have to deal with Crofton. I can tell him it was me came along and let you out.”
“I won’t pull you in any deeper,” Wes said, thinking. “Didn’t Captain Moonlight rob Crofton last night? Who’s to say he wasn’t following him again and wanted to put another spoke in his wheel?”
“He might think you’re Captain Moonlight.”
“How could I be?” Wes said. “I just arrived here. Plus, no one thinks I’m clever enough to be a highwayman.”
“Shhh.” Reggie reined up and signaled to them to do the same and then drew the pistol from under his coat.
A group of riders appeared out of the fog.
“Who’s there?” one called.
The lead rider, in uniform, saw the pistol. “Put that away, Dalrymple.”
“Ah, Miles. Caught anyone tonight?”
“It was a wild goose chase.”
Wes brought his mount closer. “Is Lang Picard still with you?”
“I’m here, Twisden.” Lang made introductions.
“Why are you out tonight?” Lieutenant Miles asked.
“Wes here wants to run into Captain Moonlight,” Reggie said.
“Any luck?”
“No,” Wes said. “But here’s something: I heard a couple of fellows in an old granary not far from here talking about a load of casks coming up tonight from Beachy Head.”
Miles and Lang Picard exchanged a look.
“I know that place,” Lang said.
“We stopped by Devil’s Dyke Grange to tell you,” Wes said. “Your brother met me with a blunderbuss, and your sister wasn’t happy about being woken up.”
Lang gave him a long look, nodded, and rode off with the others.
“You didn’t tell me about a load from Beachy Head,” Reggie said. “Is that true?”
“It’s what we heard.”
“Good thinking,” Reggie said. “Didn’t know you had it in you. If it wasn’t for Uncle Quinton here, I’d offer to go with them.”
He’d been thinking about what Sybil had said about Crofton’s new home. “Quinton,” Wes called. “What sort of document do you suppose Crofton has that makes these swindling mortgages legal?”
The old man had claimed he once worked with a solicitor for a time and was happy to impart more knowledge than Wes cared to know.
When they reached the gate where they’d set the horses loose, he reined up.
“That’s the Lewis farm,” Reggie said. “Crofton’s moved in here.”
“I’m going to pay the farmhouse a visit,” Wes said. “Care to loan me your pistol?”
“Nah.” Reggie laughed. “I’m comin’ with you. Wait here, Uncle Quinton, and you can raise the alarm.”
“Housebreaking,” Quinton said. “I can deduce what you’re looking for. I’m coming, too.”
* * *
A few days later
Only a few locals sat drinking in the tap room of the Duck and Spoon when Wes entered and found a table. He ordered a pint for himself and drinks all around, and was surprised by the friendly greetings of the men gathered there.
Crofton had been arrested, along with Butley and some men from Hastings, and no one seemed to mind. The free trade was important here, but Crofton’s swindling had been widespread.
Wes had received the news in Brighton, where he’d gone the day after Sybil’s adventure. He’d only just settled Gus and his stepmother at Highcross Keep and arranged this meeting.
A tall dark-haired fellow in uniform entered and looked around. The presence of Lang Picard brought a pause, and then the conversations resumed.
Wes called him over and shook hands. “Thank you for meeting me,” Wes said.
The younger man’s eyes twinkled, despite the obvious fatigue shadowing them. “Your tip the other night has kept us busy,” he said in a low voice. “But I found time to stop by the farm and get what you asked for.”
He pulled a paper from his coat.
Wes unfolded the document, Sybil’s copy of the promissory note signed by her father.
“It’s a fake,” Wes said. “The original that Crofton bought out showed a debt less by a factor of ten.”
Picard frowned. “And you know this how?”
“I saw it.”
“Will you take it to Sir Peter?”
Wes tugged at his neckcloth. “He’ll want to know how I came by it.”
“Well then,” Picard raised his glass, “here’s to putting his swindle to an end.”
“Sybil has paid that debt in full and then some.”
“Sybil, is it?” He lowered his voice again. “Cass told me she went out that night and that you escorted her home. What else happened?”
Wes pressed his lips together. Picard wasn’t asking about shifting casks or escaping the granary. Like any good brother, he wanted to know about the kissing. “Nothing. That is… I’d like to… to court her. And she told me quite firmly I’m not to ask your permission.”
“That sounds like Syb. She’s been bossing us around since the first day I met her.”
“She’s spirited.”
“She won’t give you any peace.”
Wes laughed. “Wouldn’t want a boring girl.”
“You won’t have that. The truth is, we’d like to see her married to someone deserving.
I have plans that will take me away from Brighton, as does Cass.
He wants to go to sea, and he can go as a cabin boy now, if we can find him a spot.
Paul’s the studious one. He’d like to go on to Oxford, or failing that, to clerk for a solicitor or banker. ”
Picard called for another round. “So, tell me the whole story. What happened that night?”
Before Wes could answer, the door slapped open and Sybil stomped in.
“You,” she said, wagging a finger at her brother, and then she spotted the mortgage document. She looked from the paper to Wes, her eyes spitting blue fire.
“Sir Westcott wanted to see it.”
“You had no right to go through my things, Lang. And you, Sir Westcott… I am perfectly competent to handle my own business. You can take yourself away and go back north and stop meddling.”
“Look here,” a man cried, his voice foggy with drink, “Ish a loversh’ tiff.”
* * *
Sybil froze. The taproom had gone still as death, the eager eyes of Normanton’s worst idlers and gossips trained on her. And Eddy Simpson was here.
Her cheeks heated with embarrassment and fury.
“Haven’t shaid a word ’bout her shpending the night with thish foreigner.”
“I did not…” She spluttered, too mortified to go on.
“Sorry, Sybil,” another man said. “Been running his mouth about catching you and Twisden kissing.”
“Well,” Eddy staggered to his feet, “What’d ye expect? After she’d been making free with Crof—”
“Enough.” Sir Westcott shoved chairs aside and slammed his fist into Eddy’s jaw. Another customer took umbrage and punched Sir Westcott.
“No one talks about my sister like that,” Lang said, jumping into the fray.
Sybil froze, horrified, while the tavern maid ran to fetch help.
Remembering the promissory note, she grabbed it and, holding her head high, walked past the curious bystanders and left.