Dangerous Lord, Seductive Miss. Mary Brendan

Deborah concluded damningly. With an angry frown creasing her ivory brow, she jerked open the door and exited the building.

      The most galling thought, she acknowledged as she emerged into the autumn sunlight, was that his worship’s attitude might be anathema to her, but it was undeniably logical. She should turn a blind eye, for she could no more stop the smugglers going about their business than she could control the tides that washed the shores they used for their illicit trade. But how could she forgive or forget when Edmund lay buried in St Andrew’s churchyard, run through simply for carrying out his army duties?

      ‘Debbie!’

      Roiling thoughts rendered Deborah deaf to her friend hailing her. A second summons brought her head up and she spun about. A smile immediately lightened her delicate, fair features as she spied Harriet Davenport hurrying towards her.

      Deborah clasped the gloved hands that Harriet had extended in greeting and the two ladies proceeded to walk arm in arm along Hastings Upper Street. The stiff breeze blowing off the seafront made them lower their bonnet peaks to protect their complexions from a briny buffeting.

      ‘I saw you coming out of the magistrate’s house,’ Harriet began. ‘Is Mr Savidge going to try to find those responsible for beating Fred?’

      ‘I’m afraid not. He says it would be a pointless exercise.’ Deborah sighed and tucked a wispy honey-coloured curl behind an ear. ‘Mr Savidge regrets he has no assistance to give, other than to issue his opinions.’

      ‘Which are?’ Harriet asked expectantly.

      ‘I should keep quiet and mind my own business.’ Deborah pursed her lips ruefully. ‘As I retired to bed last night I could see lights moving in the woods again. The smugglers were about their work.’

      As Harriet heard her friend’s comment, her teeth sank into her lower lip. ‘Mr Savidge has a point, you know, Debbie,’ she said carefully. ‘We all know it is not right, but it is best not to cross them.’

      ‘Indeed,’ Deborah agreed with a grimace. ‘What can be done if even the local magistrate is in cahoots with the felons?’

      ‘Do you think he is?’ Harriet gasped, her eyes widening.

      Deborah shrugged. ‘Actively? I doubt it. But I imagine he would describe his own attitude to those depriving his Majesty’s treasury of funds as mellow.’ She sighed. ‘I know from experience that even people who can afford to pay full price for their luxuries are not averse to buying them cheaply.’

      Indeed, she knew that very well; Woodville Place still had a residual amount of contraband stashed in its cellars and larders from her late stepfather’s days.

      After her father had died and her mother had married again, to a country squire, she had been loath to quit her fashionable Mayfair life at the age of nineteen and move permanently to a remote country house. She still would prefer to live in London, but over the years she’d grown to appreciate the natural beauty of her new surroundings. She’d become fond of her stepfather. George Woodville had been kind and generous to her and had been an amiable sort of chap. At first it would have been hard to find something in him to which she might object. But eventually she had.

      She could clearly recall her first sight of the smugglers at close quarters. It had been on a midsummer night of unbearable humidity when the twilight barely dwindled, but remained till dawn. She had risen from her bed and settled on the windowseat to get some air. For some minutes she’d sat quietly, her chin resting in her cupped palms, listening to a soothing sound of distant surf rushing on shingle. A few bobbing lights had drawn her attention and alerted her to people approaching in the early hours of that pale, misty morning. Then she’d spotted the shape of a donkey cart lumbering up the incline towards their door and in its wake two more beasts laden with a keg slung on each fat flank. She’d watched, agog with curiosity, as fellows unloaded and rolled barrels towards the side of the house where a cellar opened in the earth. She’d caught fragments of a furtive exchange that had taken place between Basham and a burly fellow holding a flare who’d pocketed the cash handed to him by their manservant.

      She had gone downstairs early to breakfast alone and her innocent questions had caused the serving girls to blush and giggle and scurry hither and thither with coffee and chocolate pots to avoid answering her. Basham had uncovered the dish of kedgeree for her with a flourish, then a wink and a tap at the side of his nose had warned her to ask no more. At nineteen she’d deemed herself a woman grown, not a child, and she had resented their attitude that it was some sort of secret from which she must be excluded. When she’d insisted on knowing what was going on, Basham had reported that back to the master of the house. Her stepfather had duly made a point of gently chiding her for her inquisitiveness about something that need not concern her. Bit by bit thereafter Deborah had pieced together the puzzle from overheard comments made by the servants and the locals. It became clear to her that not all thought it a shameful trade; a lot of people deemed the outlaws who ran contraband worthy of their pride and loyalty.

      Her stepfather might not have held those fellows in high esteem, but he obviously gave tacit permission for their booty to enter his house.

      That first introduction to the smugglers had been five years ago. Two and a half years later she’d become engaged to Edmund Green. It was to be a tragically brief betrothal. He had been killed within four months by one of the smugglers in an affray with the dragoons on coast watch.

      Her solemn musing was interrupted as she spied Harriet’s brother emerging from a large, elegant house set back from the road. Her expression turned wry as she saw he’d caught his vicar’s robe in the gate and was fighting to free it from the hinge. Having adjusted his dress, the Reverend Gerard Davenport banged shut the gate with discernible irritation.

      ‘Gerard seems to have finished his meeting with the bishop earlier than expected.’ Harriet had also caught sight of her brother and waved at him. ‘I hope he is going to take me to Rye market.’ She gave her friend a smile. ‘It is always nice when Susanna is from home,’ she said, referring to her sister-in-law with a frown. ‘It is like the old times when Gerard and I would go shopping or visiting without a sour puss sitting between us on the seat.’

      Gerard Davenport had married for the first time when he’d just turned forty. His wife, Susanna, was only a few years older than her sister-in-law. Harriet was twenty-eight but she had always got on very well with her older brother, and they had lived in peace and harmony at the vicarage until Gerard had decided it was time to get a wife and family.

      He’d found his wife too quickly, Harriet was wont to mutter. She knew very well that Susanna resented her presence in what she classed as her domain, but Gerard maintained his sister was welcome beneath his roof for as long as she wanted to remain there.

      ‘Why do you not come to Rye, too, and forget all this unpleasantness for a short while?’ Harriet suggested. ‘Perhaps Mrs Woodville might like an invitation. An outing will do you both good.’

      ‘I’d like to go with you,’ Deborah said wistfully. ‘But … Mama has been suffering with her heads recently. I sent Fred back with the trap.’ She sighed. ‘I told him to bathe his face and rest a while in case he again came over queer. I shall walk home …’ Her soft lips remained parted as though she had more to say, but had been distracted.

      Deborah had been intermittently flicking glances about at the street scene whilst conversing with her friend. She’d just noticed a gentleman emerge from the blacksmith’s doorway and she continued to gaze in his direction so steadily that Harriet frowned at her.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘I thought I recognised someone,’ Deborah said with a hollow little laugh. Her heart had ceased beating for those few seconds she’d stared and wondered if it could possibly be him. The man had again gone inside the forge, and she was no longer able to scrutinise him from a distance. Now, as her lurching stomach steadied, she realised just how silly she’d been to imagine that Randolph Chadwicke would be so far from home. His home now, to the best of her knowledge, was in the Indies and had been so for many years. If he were back in England on a