Page 3 of The Lady’s No Angel

Mercy Pike kept to the shadows as she watched the girl hurry back down the alley. A fine lady, Miss Everdene—leastways, that was how she acted. Mercy knew better. Angelica Everdene was no better than she was.

Mercy had heard all the stories about the notorious pirate Black Jack Baxter. Her father had loved telling the stories he’d heard, not that he’d ever got off his arse long enough to do anything so daring. But he and his cronies loved tales of infamous men, pirates and highwaymen, and villains of all sorts. He’d once spent a night carousing with a comrade of Black Jack’s, a fellow called Deadlight. Deadlight had seemed to hold a grudge and had told her Pa tales about how Black Jack had disappeared and taken his vast fortune with him. He’d also talked about a special treasure Black Jack had kept, one he meant to give to his lady love only to find his lady was dead. That had made her Pa laugh.

Mercy wasn’t laughing.

If he’d not given it to the woman he’d loved, where had it gone?

When she’d seen the little notice in the paper of Jack Baxter’s passing, she doubted anyone else had remarked it, but Mercy had. To think Black Jack had been living so close to her all these years and she’d never known. Since then, she’d made it her business to discover all she could about the family who lived at the big, fancy house named the Crow’s Nest. No one knew much about the old man, the servants barely saw him, yet they all knew how they doted on his little granddaughter.

Mercy had held a glimmer of doubt, for of course Jack Baxter wasn’t such an unusual name, perhaps this was another man, until she’d seen her. In all the stories, Jack Baxter had hair black as a crow’s wing and eyes to match, just like Angelica Everdene.

Somehow, Black Jack had contrived to marry his only daughter to a fine gentleman. Now his granddaughter walked about like she owned the place. Mercy had another way of living, lifting her skirts or her fists to keep herself fed.

Her Pa had been certain Black Jack would take his sweetheart’s treasure to his grave. Mercy reckoned a clever fellow knew better. No use for coin in the hereafter, was there?

No. More likely he’d leave it to the pretty little chit he doted on and spoiled. Her Pa had never doted on anything, save a full bottle of rum, and the only spoiling he’d done was with his fists. Mercy had learned from him how to be quick and vicious. No one crossed Mercy Pike and lived to tell the tale. Not even her Pa in the end.

The chit would not be a problem. Mercy only needed patience. She had been watching Miss Everdene ever since the death notice appeared and it seemed to her the girl was up to something. At first, she’d just thought to kidnap her and hold her for ransom, but now she suspected something far more interesting was afoot.

To most, Jack Baxter’s passing would mean nothing.

But to Mercy, it was a call to arms.

The Crow’s Nest, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 4th April 1816

On Tuesday morning, as the church bells rang five, Angel quietly closed the door to her parents’ house and hurried down the cobbled street to the waiting gig. Toby had done well. The gig was old, the black paint worn and chipped, but in good order. The hood was weatherproof and would keep off the worst of the rain and wind.

A stout cob stood patiently, his ears pricking up as Angel hurried towards the little group who stood shivering in the dark.

“All set?” Angel said, trying to sound excited and full of confidence, when her stomach was a knot of anxiety and indecision.

Milly eyed the gig sceptically. “You’re sure you can handle this, Miss Angelica?”

“Oh, yes.”

Of this, at least, Angel had no qualms. She could not ride, her father never being generous enough to buy her a pony of her own. Her constant harping at him had worn his nerves down far enough to allow her to learn to drive his gig, however. She did not dare take that smart equipage—he’d mourn the loss of it more than his daughter, she was certain—but this would do very well.

Angel handed her carpet bag to Toby, who stowed it in the box behind with his own and Milly’s meagre belongings. Climbing onto it, he wrapped the huge oilskin that had once been his father’s about him and nodded. Angel climbed up then, offering her hand to help Milly, who sat beside her.

“Last chance to change your mind,” Angel said, her heart thudding wildly as she stared into Milly’s wan, worried face. The girl put up her chin.

“I ain’t afeared,” she lied, glancing at Angel. “Much.”

Angel laughed and reached over, patting her hand. “I shan’t ever forget this, Milly, and I’ll see you right. Once I have my inheritance, we’ll live in fine style, you’ll see.”

With the promise of that future dancing behind her eyes, Angel gave the pony leave to walk on, and they set off, leaving Little Valentine behind.

The Mermaid’s Tale, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 6th April 1816

On Saturday morning, Leo Cleveland, the Marquess of Hartwell, stared glumly at his empty plate. His head throbbed, a forceful reminder that he’d celebrated his friend’s nuptials as thoroughly as he did everything. Hart did nothing by halves.

Out the window of the very fine bedchamber he’d taken in the pretty town, the sea, iron grey and thrashing, seemed to reflect his mood. Behind him, Hart heard his travelling trunk closing with a quiet thunk. In his agitated state of mind, it sounded like a death knell.

“Well, that’s everything packed. I’ll just go down and ensure the carriage is loaded as it ought to be and we’ll be off,” said his valet with evident satisfaction.

“You’re in a mighty hurry,” Hart groused, setting down his knife and fork and regarding the man with a reproachful air.

Edwin Blake was a thin fellow with a permanently worried expression that might have been tattooed to his brow. Hart could not remember if it had been there before coming into his employ, but he suspected not.