Pride in Regency Society: Wicked Captain, Wayward Wife / The Earl's Runaway Bride

‘I will not see him!’ she said aloud. ‘He has treated me abominably. I shall not see him.’

She walked over to the main door and bolted it. There was a wooden peg on the door to the servants’ stairs and she used it to secure the latch. She gave a long, deep sigh. There, it was done. Slowly she removed her pelisse, folded it neatly and placed it upon her trunk before returning to the table and picking up her glass of wine. The storm had passed and there was a stillness about the room. No noise filtered through to her from below and the air seemed to settle around her, calm and tranquil, in complete contrast to her own nerves, which were stretched tight as a bowstring. Let him knock. Let him hammer on the door, she would not admit him.

She stood in the middle of the room, facing the door, straining to hear the slightest sound. Clutching at her wineglass, she silently berated herself for her anxiety. No one could surprise her, the room was secure. Or was it? The scrape of wood on wood made her spin around in time to see one of the panels beside the fireplace swing open and Nick Wylder step into the room. He still wore the frieze coat, but instead of the tattered coloured shirt he now wore a fresh white one, fastened with a froth of white lace at his throat, and a black ribbon at the nape of his neck confined his black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. The baggy sailor’s trousers and worn shoes had been replaced by buckskins and topboots. With the skirts of his coat swinging around him the inconsequential thought came to her that he looked every inch a pirate. Nick gestured towards the panel.

‘The stair leads up directly from the alley. You need not be alarmed; I have bolted the door at the foot of the stairs; no one else can come in that way.’

He stood, feet slightly apart, hands at his sides, watching her. Like a cat, she thought. Alert, wary. Eve’s heart had misssed a beat but now it was thudding painfully against her ribs. She did not know whether she was going to laugh or cry, to be thankful or furious.

‘You did not drown,’ she said at last.

‘No. Sweetheart, I am so sorry I was not there to help you when Sir Benjamin died.’

‘You lied to me.’

‘Evelina, I—’

A red mist descended over Eve, blotting out reason. The wineglass flew from her hand, its contents leaving a dark trail across the floor. Nick side-stepped neatly and the glass sailed past him to smash against the wall.

‘How dare you!’

‘Sweetheart, listen to me—’ He ducked as she snatched up the second glass and hurled it towards him. ‘Eve, I am sorry. Let me explain—’

His words were lost as the glass shattered on the panelling and fell in tinkling shards to the floor. With a shriek of rage Eve picked up the carving knife and advanced upon him.

‘I hate you, Nick Wylder!’

As she hurled herself at him he caught her arm, holding the lethal blade away. ‘Eve, I had no choice.’

Unable to plunge the knife into his heart, Eve brought up her other hand, her fingers curled ready to scratch his eyes out. With an oath Nick caught at her arm, easily overpowering her.

‘I know you are angry, my love, but I am not going to let you kill me.’ His fingers tightened on her wrist; her grip loosened and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. ‘That’s better.’ He grinned and released her. ‘No wonder my father said never trust the carving to a woman!’

‘Are you never serious?’ She gave a sob of frustration and began to beat at his chest with her fists.

Nick reached out and put his arms about her, pulling her closer. ‘I know,’ he said quietly as she continued to pound him. ‘I know I was a monster for doing this to you.’

She hammered her fists against his hard, unyielding body until there was no strength left in her arms. Then, as her anger evaporated, it was replaced by tears. She found herself crying; huge, gulping sobs that could not be controlled. She did not resist as Nick pulled her closer, stroking her head and murmuring softly. He continued to hold her while she cried herself out and at last she collapsed against him, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He reached into one of the capacious pockets of the old coat and pulled out a clean handkerchief.

‘I thought this might be needed,’ he murmured, pressing it into her hand. ‘I had no idea my wife had such a temper.’

‘Nor I,’ mumbled Eve from beneath the handkerchief.

He touched his lips to her hair. ‘Now will you listen to me? Will you let me try to explain?’ He guided her across to the sofa and they sat down together, Nick keeping one arm firmly around her shoulders. ‘I did not plan this, Eve. Believe me.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Angrily she shrugged off his arm and sat up very straight while she wiped her eyes. ‘You have lied to me from the beginning. You married me to gain control of Monkhurst, did you not?’

‘Richard told me you had gone there. Yes, it is true that I wanted access to Monkhurst. Marrying you was one way to get that.’

Misery clutched at her heart. ‘You are despicable!’

He sighed. ‘Perhaps I am, but I never meant to hurt you. I admit I went to Tunbridge Wells in search of your grandfather, knowing he owned Monkhurst. I soon learned that the property was part of your marriage settlement and that Sir Benjamin was looking for a husband for you.’ The irrepressible smile tugged at his mouth. ‘It all fitted neatly with my plan—and my family have been nagging me for years to settle down so I knew I would be pleasing them, too. So I accepted Sir Benjamin’s invitation to visit you at Makerham. What I had not anticipated was finding such an adorable young lady waiting to meet me.’

Evelina stifled the traitorous surge of pleasure she felt at his words. She dare not consider them or her brittle self-control might shatter. She injected a touch of impatience into her voice. ‘And just what were your plans? Why did you need Monkhurst?’

‘I suspected Monkhurst was being used by smugglers.’

‘Very likely.’ She shrugged. ‘Nearly every house in the area would be the same.’

‘Yes, I know that, but—I think I should go back to the beginning.’ He paused and Eve waited, pulling his handkerchief through her restless fingers. ‘My—ah—adventurous career in the navy brought me to the attention of the Admiralty, and since returning to England I have been working for them, investigating certain…activities.’

‘Smuggling. You have said that.’

‘Yes, but not the innocuous practice carried out by Silas and his friends, a few barrels of French brandy and bundles of Brussels lace. The villains I seek are involved in a much bigger enterprise. Not only are they depriving the government of duty—and before you interrupt me let me say that I have heard all the arguments that the duty is too high! The people I seek are flooding the country with a tea that is, at best, illegal and at worst, poisonous.

‘They call it smouch. It is made from leaves gathered from the English hedgerows and mixed with chamber-lye, green vitriol and other choice ingredients, including, very often, sheep’s dung. Then it is baked and rubbed to a black dust. Quite,’ he said, observing her look of horror. ‘I traced the most recent consignments to this coast. It is being shipped to Boulogne, then sold to our—er—freetraders.’

‘But they wouldn’t,’ she exclaimed. ‘Silas would never carry such a cargo.’

‘Not knowingly, but he has been duped into bringing it ashore. Did you not think it odd that Mrs Brattee had no tea in her store cupboard when you arrived at Monkhurst? Now Silas knows the truth he will not trust any tea coming from the Continent.’

Eve’s eyes darkened. ‘It is some horrid French plot to poison us!’

Nick shook his head. ‘I wish I could say that was it; the evidence points to it being made in this country, and in this area.’

‘And you suspected Monkhurst? My house?’

‘One of the cargoes we intercepted contained a fragment of a letter. Monkhurst was mentioned in it. Silas swore there was no connection, but I wanted to see for myself.’

‘So you married me to gain access to my house.’

‘Yes.’

She threw him another savage look. ‘You do not apologise for it.’

He smiled. ‘I am not sorry I married you, Evelina. I never could be.’

Her skin tingled when saw the glint in his blue eyes. It was difficult to remain angry when he smiled at her like that. She reminded herself that his smiles meant nothing. They were as worthless as his honeyed words. She looked away, scowling. ‘Go on.’

‘Once Silas was persuaded to let me into the house we searched it thoroughly. There are extensive cellars, and a very interesting underground passage leading to the boathouse on Monkhurst Drain, but no sign that it has been used in recent years.’

‘Well there is nothing secret about that! Mama showed me the tunnel when I was a child. She told me her grandfather had built it so that the family need not get wet walking to the boathouse on rainy days, but if that was the case why does it come up into the kitchen? And why is the entrance hidden behind the panelling at the back of the boathouse? From the outside the tunnel is well hidden; it appears that the boathouse is built into the bank.’ Eve shook her head. ‘I always believed it was built for smuggling goods into the house, but Mama would never admit it.’ She forgot her anger as a half-forgotten memory surfaced. ‘I remember having nightmares about people stealing into the house through the tunnel, so Papa took me down there. He showed me the iron grating at the far end. It had a big lock and the key was kept on a hook in the tunnel, so that anyone from the house could get out, but no one could get in.’

‘That is still the case, Eve, so you may still rest easy. But the boathouse is in a sad state of repair.’

‘When Mama and Papa died the boats were sold. Grandpapa kept the house in order, but we only visited Monkhurst once or twice after that.’

Nick had stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. His fingers were playing with one of the curls at her neck. It was a great temptation to turn her head and rest her cheek against his hand, but she resisted it.