Chapter 1
“Wherein our heroine loses a handkerchief and gains more than she bargained for.”
Henrietta Morton followed the gaze of her maid as she stared out of the shop window and was unsurprised to see her attention had been taken by a strutting, preening flock of red jackets.
Tutting with impatience, she rolled her eyes. Annie’s attention span was limited at the best of times but get her within eyelash-batting distance of a handsome man and you’d lose her entirely.
Though Henri had to admit there was an air of excitement about the men this morning.
They seemed alert and full of enthusiasm for something, with the officers shouting orders and the men running to obey them with alacrity.
She wondered if the gentlemen, as they called the smugglers involved in the free trade that was so rife in the area, had been at work last night.
Everyone knew to draw their curtains and look the other way when a run was in progress. She prayed that no one got caught. Life was desperately hard here in Cornwall, and it was no wonder people turned to smuggling.
She pursed her lips as Annie fussed with her own mousy brown hair, pinched her already pink cheeks and surreptitiously adjusted her pale, freckled bosoms to greater advantage, obviously hopeful that the men would still be there on their way back home.
Ignoring her maid’s wistful sigh with a frown, Henri returned her own gaze to the shopkeeper’s offerings.
Mr Warren had been most attentive this morning, far more so than ever before, she thought, failing to keep the scowl from her face.
He was usually rather short with her, and anxious to get back to his other customers - the ones who paid.
The only reason she dared show her face here now was because her father had finally made good on his outstanding bill.
The reason why that bill had been paid was also the reason for her visit, and her unhappiness.
Mr Warren came back again, this time with white silk gloves.
The man had been scurrying back and forth with every item and scrap of material he thought might please her for the past hour.
She had inspected the finest cloth, sprigged muslin, spotted muslin, striped, checked and embroidered muslin; cambric and kerseymere and enough silk to rig a Man o War.
But in fact, nothing could please her, and the acres of white lace laid out before her only filled her with dismay.
She had tried with all her strength not to feel bitter about the situation she now found herself in, but all her hopes and dreams for the future had been shattered, and there was nothing she could do about it.
“Lawd,” said her maid with another sigh of longing. “Ain’t they pretty?”
Henri tutted and returned her attention to the redcoats, under no illusion that the woman had been speaking of the lace. “Do you think you could keep your mind on the job for just a moment?” she said, looking around and hoping no one else was watching Annie, whose tongue was practically lolling.
“Not while them tight breeches is in full view, no, miss, don’t reckon I can.”
Henri rolled her eyes and cursed her father. Cursing her father was becoming a daily ritual.
Lord John Morton was an amiable fellow, beloved by all, except those with outstanding bills and currently his daughter. Henri spent most of her time trying to fend off the bailiffs.
It was her father who had engaged Annie Tripp, a woman of questionable morals and background, to be Henri’s lady’s maid.
At the impressionable age of thirteen and after the death of her mother, she had been introduced to a far wider world than she had ever imagined by the lurid tales of the woman at her side.
Annie had been found in London in the service of one of Lord Morton’s friends.
Her native London accent and vocabulary was coarse and colourful and spoke vividly of Cheapside where it appeared she had lived since a child.
Any further background was vague at best. Rather than bestir himself to find a more suitable prospect for his only child, Lord Morton found Annie was available - her previous charge having been recently married - and instantly engaged her as abigail to Henrietta.
Her suitability or otherwise for such a position seemed not to have troubled him unduly, further than the fact she seemed kind and wouldn’t scold Henri too harshly.
Of course, it wasn’t that her father was uncaring or indeed an unloving parent, in fact he doted on his daughter.
He was, however, oblivious to the dangers of the world at large, and specifically those pertaining to a young girl.
Henri had, in fact, navigated those last five years with no visible damage, and would even go so far as to believe Annie had done her much good, opening her eyes to the ways of the world and men in particular.
In this at least her father had been forgiven.
But she was now to be married to pay his debts, to a man who was considered by her own acquaintances to be the devil himself.
This man was possibly even responsible for the death of his own brother; and that she was finding harder to forgive.
She bit her tongue against the barrage of angry words that seemed to be forever crowded in her mouth these past days and tried to find some enthusiasm for the intricate detail on the Honiton lace she held in her hands.
It was incredibly fine, with a motif of honey bees dotted around the edges.
Wasps would have been more appropriate. She grimaced at the thought and then chided herself for her bitterness.
Except it wasn’t fair, it was her father’s fault they were facing ruin.
It was he who had gambled away what little fortune they’d had, and now she was to be sold off to the highest bidder.
She closed her eyes against the prickle of tears that gathered and walked away to the back of the shop on the pretext of looking at the ribbons, leaving Annie to enjoy the view until Henri could regain her composure.
She wiped her eyes on her handkerchief and sniffed, allowing herself to indulge in a rare moment of pity.
The shop’s back door beckoned. It led out onto the proprietor’s garden, and she spent a moment looking out at a rather wonderful view of her own, this time over the fields and countryside and out to the sea.
Far more exposed than the southern coast of Cornwall, here on the north coast the little villages huddled against the cliff for protection.
The place had a wild and untamed nature that suited Henri who would often escape for long walks as close to the sheer cliffs as she dared.
She would stand for hours with the wind whipping her hair about her face, staring off into the distance and wondering what life might hold on the other side of the world.
Annie, always more practical and less romantic, had a different view about these walks, and most especially the shocking state of her petticoats by the time she got home.
But on days like today, she wanted to escape more than ever, perhaps even to run away and not come back.
The sea was calm and glittering, the sky a bright and cheerful blue that tempted you into believing spring was just around the corner, though everyone knew well it was far off yet.
As always, though, the sea calmed her heart a little and it was with a resigned sigh she turned back, intending to return to Annie and the blasted lace for her veil.
But the sudden crash of a door opening and shutting with some force had her spinning around in alarm.
The sight that greeted her did nothing to calm her.
It was a man though he seemed to share little resemblance to the fine peacocks parading at the front of the shop.
The look of this man spoke of a fierce and wild life, of violence and adventure, and the taking of anything he wanted, when he wanted it.
A single, terrifying word screamed in her head the moment she set eyes on him: pirate!
For a moment she was perfectly certain her heart stopped in her chest, only to restart with a crash as a pair of impossibly blue eyes met hers.
He was a large and imposing presence. Tall and broad-shouldered, her eyes fell to take in strong, powerful legs encased in high leather boots.
His hair was long and black and fell unruly and untamed around a square jaw.
Hooped gold earrings glittered against the thick, dark locks, but it was the black mask painted in a thin band across his eyes that made fear prickle over her skin.
The mask was disturbing, pagan somehow, making his eyes glitter with an intensity that would have been unsettling enough in ordinary circumstances.
Another crash of a door sounded from the front of the shop, accompanied by gasps and remonstrations from the clientele as the five-armed militia men that Annie had been admiring entered the small shop.
Henri turned with her heart in her throat to see the flash of another red coat heading up through the back garden towards the door.
The pirate cursed though quietly, and she could only admire his calm in the circumstances.
If he truly was a pirate, he would surely hang.
He looked back to her, and she knew this was the moment she should scream. She should shout out to the redcoats that their man was here and to come and get him. He was watching her, those fierce eyes remarkably placid, though it was plain he was waiting for her to react as she should.