Rake Beyond Redemption

But her optimism had returned.

The sun was descending rapidly now towards the horizon, reminding Marie-Claude of the need to retrace her steps. She turned on her heel.

And froze with a little gasp of surprise. And trepidation. In front of her, between her feet and the cliff with its steep track, a fast-flowing channel of water had appeared. How careless she had been. Why had she not had the sense to take note of the path of the incoming sea? Any woman of wit would have done so! But it was no great matter after all. She spun round towards the village itself. So she would have to make her way up the inlet and into Old Wincomlee, past the old inn, the Silver Boat, then walk around the path on the top of the cliff. A long way, she sighed, but the evening was still fair, the light good.

Her optimism was short-lived. A thread of anxiety encircled her heart, and tightened at what she saw. An expanse of water, little waves chasing one after the other, stretched before her as well as at her side, fast running now, growing deeper by the second. Behind her the first little wave lapped at her boots.

Surrounded!

Mon Dieu! Marie-Claude took a breath and swallowed hard against the first leap of real fear. No point in being afraid. She’d lived through worse dangers than this in her life. She’d just have to brave the water. It wasn’t too deep yet. No point at all in standing here, frozen in indecision.

Closing the parasol with fingers that did not quite tremble and tucking it beneath her arm, Marie-Claude hitched her skirts and stepped into the water, pushing herself forwards as it suddenly grew far deeper than she could have imagined. For a moment she considered retreating to the little island of shingle, but she knew she must not. Summoning all her courage, she forced herself to take another step and then another. Around her the waves were swirling, overlapping each other. Her boots, her skirts and petticoats were soaked and heavy. The stones beneath her feet sucked and slid, making progress slow and difficult. How had the sunny evening suddenly become so menacing, so threatening? Grasping her skirts tighter, Marie-Claude had to fight to stop panic anchoring her in her tracks.

The cottages of Old Wincomlee and the roof of the Silver Boat suddenly seemed an impossibly long way distant.

Ellerdine Manor: a manor house on the cliff top, a mile west of the smuggling village of Old Wincomlee

A cold sensation trickled through his chest. Alexander Ellerdine, at some half-seen, half-heard command, raised his head, pushed himself upright, hands tightening over the carved arms of his chair, then, with an impatient shrug and a flex of his fingers, allowed himself to settle back. The spaniel at his side subsided with a sigh.

‘Just a goose walking over my grave, Bess.’ The gentleman’s voice was heavily sardonic as he stretched to run a light caress over the dog’s ears. ‘Nothing new in that!’

Shadows began to lengthen in the room as afternoon dipped into early evening. There were still long hours of daylight left to be enjoyed, but the corners of the shabby library in Ellerdine Manor where the sun no longer reached on this June evening were dark and sombre with neglect. Alexander Ellerdine sprawled in a well-worn Chippendale Windsor chair, booted feet crossed at the ankle on the desktop. Before him, leaving careless rings of liquid on a mess of scattered papers, stood a half-empty decanter of superior French brandy, courtesy of the Brotherhood of the Free Traders. In his hand was a half-empty glass of the deep amber liquor. Clearly the focus of his mind was far distant. He did not see the unkempt surroundings. The threadbare carpet, the faded curtains at the windows, the worn upholstery on a once-elegant set of spindle-legged chairs, the undusted leatherbound books that looked as if they had not been taken down from the shelves any time in the past decade—he did not notice them. Perhaps he was too used to the deficiencies of his library to note the depredations of time and lack of money. And of lack of interest.

Alexander Ellerdine. Gentleman, landowner, expert smuggler.

Wrecker.

A man with blood on his hands.

A man of ruthless energies and dangerous reputation.

Despite the dust and the worn furnishings, he made a striking impression. His home might be shabby, but he was not. Here was a man who had a care for appearances. His topboots were highly polished, his breeches well cut, his white shirt of good quality linen. If there was any carelessness it was the lack of a cravat, his shirt worn casually open at the neck to show his strong throat and the firm flesh of his chest. His hair, dark as to be almost black, was longer than was fashionable, curling against his collar, and disordered from the attentions of restless fingers. His eyes, set beneath similarly dark brows, were the deep blue of an angry, storm-whipped sea, hawk-like in their intensity. Even slouched as he was, it was clear that he was tall and rangy, not heavily built, but with a wiry athleticism that told of a life of action and strenuous activity. The hand gripped around the stem of the old glass was well moulded, fine-boned with long fingers, nails neatly pared. His face would have been formidably handsome, if it were not set in such sombre lines.

Suddenly, again, he turned his head, sharply, eyes and features arrested, at the echo of footsteps in the entrance hall. It was a breathtaking transformation. There was the dark glamour. The breathtaking allure of wild good looks fired with animation. But then the gleam of anticipation was quenched, hooded beneath heavy lids as the sounds died away. Only his housekeeper, Mrs Shaw…Not the man he was half-expecting, Rackham or one of the other vicious minions of Captain D’Acre, commander of the smuggling gang out of Rottingdean. Not one of the Fly-By-Nights whose hold on the Free Trade along the Sussex coast was becoming more brutal by the month.

Alexander Ellerdine reached for the decanter to refill the glass as the house settled heavily around him, silent except for the creak of old timbers and the rattle of a loose pane of glass in the stiff breeze off the sea. Except that something—that same something—no more than a shiver of awareness, but still impossible to ignore, traced an uneasy path down his spine.

Irritated, Alexander lifted the decanter to pour another glass.

And froze, perfectly still. Hand outstretched. Listening. All senses suddenly stretched. Almost sniffing the air. Or sifting through the vibrations of some…What was it? That same slither of cold, now from his chest into his belly. A warning? Some presentiment of danger? There was the finger again—now of ice—scratching between his shoulder blades so that he inhaled sharply.

The spaniel at his side sat up.

‘What is it, Bess?’

He stilled her with his hand, but the foreboding did not go away, rather an uncomfortable breath of misgiving tripped across his skin, settled in the marrow of his bones. As he would have been the first to admit, he was not a man given to anxieties over the unseen and the unknown. Alexander Ellerdine was not a superstitious man, but one who lived by his wits and his own resources. Confident and assured of his own skills, he had no truck with the smugglers’ fears of long-drowned sailors come back to haunt them or the ghosts of murdered excise-men roaming the cliffs. Captain Rodmell, the Preventives’ efficient and oh-so-capable Riding Officer and very much alive, was the greatest of his worries. But now in this empty room his flesh shivered. No idea what or why, Alexander tried to shrug it off, lifting the brandy to his lips.

But there was some thing that demanded his attention. Something was amiss. An urge to go and see for himself could not be shaken off and the longer he sat and debated, the stronger, more urgent the strange sense of fear grew…

That was it. Fear. A sense of mounting terror. As Alexander recognised the unusual emotion that jabbed beneath his ribs, he tossed back the rest of the brandy in the glass and pushed himself to his feet. Snatching up a well-cut riding-coat, he shrugged into it with casual but careless elegance. No doubt he was completely misguided and would find no reward for his efforts, but he’d saddle his mare and ride down to the harbour. Probably just a body of opportunistic excise-men lurking on the cliff on the unlikely off chance of tripping over a run of contraband. Alexander grinned with a feral show of teeth. No chance of that tonight, a night that would have a full moon and an abnormally high tide. Or perhaps Captain Rodmell of the Preventives was paying a passing visit to the inn, the Silver Boat, in Old Wincomlee. Nothing dangerous, nothing unusual in either occurrence. And yet…

He collected hat and riding whip, resigned to his journey. If there was nothing to warrant this irritating sense of danger, well, there was nothing lost, and besides…A faint smile curved his mouth. If he was in the mood he might chance a flirtation with Sally, who dispensed the ale with a provocative swing of her hips and a sharp tongue.

‘What do you think, Bess? Should I tempt Sal into parting with a kiss or two? She’s a lovely girl and not unwilling. And since no respectable woman would choose to tangle with the likes of me…’

The spaniel whined and licked his hand.

‘Quite right, Bess. I’m beyond redemption. And what use do I have for a respectable woman? I’ve a tarnished name, no legitimate money and no prospects but the hangman’s noose if I ever fall into Preventive Officer Rodmell’s clutches with a cutter-load of contraband in my hands. Let’s go and waste an hour looking for some danger that doesn’t exist. And if she’s of a mind, sample Sal’s pretty lips.’

But a ripple of unease stirred the hairs on his forearms and made him shiver. As if some invisible sword of Damocles hovered over his life.

Alexander pushed his mare into an energetic walk along the cliff top, curbing her playful habits but letting her have enough of her head to make good progress. Skittish she might be, as were all females in his opinion, but she was sure-footed, allowing him to scan the scene before him. No one on the cliff path. No excise-men in sight. He, the horse and dog and the gulls seemed to be the only living creatures.

Kicking the mare into a trot, Bess following at his heels, he was soon at the edge of the village and slowed to wind through the lanes between the cottages. Quiet here too. A few children playing, voices raised in shouts and laughter. George Gadie’s stout wife unpegging a line of washing. George, he presumed, with his son Gabriel, would be out with one of the fishing boats. He greeted Mistress Gadie with a lift of his hand and a preoccupied smile, but moved on. Dismounting in the courtyard, he looked in at the Silver Boat. Quiet as the grave. No one sampling the excellent stock of contraband. No Captain Rodmell sniffing out evidence of lawbreaking. Even Sam Babbercombe, the entirely sly and ruthless innkeeper who never passed up an opportunity to bring money into his pockets, was nowhere to be seen. Most likely sleeping off the effects of the last glass of brandy before emerging to fleece his evening customers.

Back outside, Alexander remounted. And frowned in indecision. There was nothing here to raise his hackles. So why did a hand still grip his heart? What made his belly churn, his throat dry? Clear sky, calm sea, the only boats in the bay the fishing smacks of the inhabitants of Old Wincomlee engaged in their legitimate business. Nothing to disturb him. No threat, no danger.

Down to the cove, the little harbour. There was Venmore’s Prize anchored in the bay, sails neatly rolled and stashed. His cousin Harriette’s vessel, not used as much now as she might once have been. A pity. A fine cutter even if not of the same quality as the ill-fated Lydyard’s Ghost, fired by the Preventives in revenge for a successful contraband run that they failed to apprehend. Five years ago now, a night he did not care to think about.

Alexander’s narrow-eyed scrutiny moved on. Next to the Prize was his own cutter. For a brief moment of sheer pleasure Alexander simply sat to admire her lines. The Black Spectre. Not the most cheerful of names, he thought with a wry amusement, but it had suited his mood at the time. She was a masterly vessel, riding the waves with spectacular ease, as swift and invisible on a dark night as the spectre he had named her. No outlay of money spared here, where a fast cutter to outrun the Preventives could be a matter of life or death.

He cast an experienced eye over the inlet and cove. High tide tonight, the water already racing in as it did through the deep channels worn over the years between the shingle. Not as an innocuous scene as might appear to the unwary or foolish who did not know they could be outflanked and surrounded within minutes. He looked lazily towards the distant headland where the first wave-edged inflow would now be showing.

And then he saw.

His heart gave a single heavy bound. His breath backed up in his lungs so that he had to drag in air.

A woman. Clearly in danger. Floundering through the water, skirts held ineffectually to try to prevent the drag of them in the rapidly rising swirl. She was already cut off from dry land. Soon she would be out of her depth entirely and overbalanced by the undertow. What the devil was she thinking? He cursed viciously, silently. This went far beyond foolish. This was suicidal!

Alexander did not hesitate. ‘Stay!’ he ordered the spaniel who promptly sank, chin to paws. And Alexander nudged the mare forwards into the water.

With hands and heels, keeping a tight hold on his own fear, Alexander persuaded the reluctant mare into the waves, urging her through the shallows, out on to the rapidly disappearing shingle until the water swirled knee-deep. The mare jibbed, but Alexander soothed with hands and voice, all the time keeping an eye on the floundering figure, skirts bunched in her hands, pressing determinedly forwards. She was not yet in any real danger, he estimated, but was having increasing difficulty in keeping her feet. Five minutes later and it would have been a different matter.

Not a woman, he decided as he took stock of the slight figure bracing herself against a larger wave. A mere girl, and a witless one at that! Didn’t she know any better? Chancy tides were a matter of course at this time of year with the June surge, filling deep troughs and channels, leaving islands of shingle cut off from the shore, to be inundated when the only chance to escape from them was to swim. He’d wager his gold hunter that the girl—some empty-headed town girl in her fashionable gown and ribboned bonnet, even a damned parasol tucked beneath her arm!—couldn’t swim.

Alexander drove the mare on. Not the best of animals for this—he’d rather have chosen one of his sturdy cobs—but she’d do the job well enough as long as the girl kept her nerve and didn’t panic. The knot of fear began to ease.

He saw the moment she became aware of him. The moment she began to strive towards him, his fears flared once again into life.

‘Stay there!’ he shouted above the hush and slither of the shingle. ‘Don’t move! There’s a deep channel in front of you. Just keep your footing. I’ll come and get you.’

She froze.

At least, he acknowledged caustically, she had the sense to obey him.

Taking the path he knew to avoid the channel, Alexander manoeuvred the mare, conscious all the time that the water was fast rising above the girl’s knees. Increasingly difficult to keep her footing, she swayed, almost overbalanced and in staggering abandoned the parasol, which was immediately swamped and sucked down into a watery grave. The seconds stretched out into what seemed endless minutes as the mare made headway. But then he was at her side—and not before time.

‘Take my hand.’ He leaned down, hand outstretched.