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It was hardly the reception he’d expected, and Colter was furious when he stormed into the entrance hall at Harmony Hill, the door banging shut behind him.
“Renfroe!” he bellowed. The man came quickly even though he had no doubt already known of his lordship’s arrival from the moment he’d been seen cresting the hill.
“Yes, my lord?” Renfroe’s face was carefully impassive even in the teeth of Colter’s unusual anger. It was rare for his temper to be loosed, rarer still that it be loosed upon a servant.
“Was Easton here recently?” Colter was too angry to be heedful of the old man’s pride. “Did you allow him in this house without my permission, by God? You? I thought you more astute than that.”
“My lord, I did ask him to leave as soon as I learned of his presence, but he was here some half hour to an hour before I was informed.” He coughed nervously. “With only James and Smythe at their posts, it was difficult to know how to evict him if he refused again.”
“Did he refuse? Christ, all this time…He’s been coming here frequently, hasn’t he, and I haven’t known it. It’s what I deserve, I suppose, for being too involved with that other business.” He beckoned. “Come with me. I want to know every time he’s been here in the past year. If you can’t remember, ask Barbara or James or even one of the damned dogs, but I want it written down.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He should have anticipated something like this, especially after this past October when he’d found those chests hidden in the cave. And Mowry knew it, damn him, as well as Barclay, who had managed to run to earth the list of smuggled goods.
It was almost humorous. He’d been investigating his father for the suspicious disappearance of cargo and the fraudulent manifests, when all the time their own goods were being smuggled into England right under his very nose. No wonder his father had been so smug. He must know it, must have laughed to himself all the while he was insisting that it be investigated, that Philip was somehow involved.
Well, he was right enough about that. Philip was involved. The vindictive old bastard would be most pleased to see Philip charged with it, and still be able to piously claim that he’d had nothing to do with the losses or profits.
Easton was guilty, after all. And Colter knew damn good and well that he was the man behind the note sent to Santiago.
Aghast, the gypsy had paled when Colter arrived and asked for Celia.
“But she…is she not with you, my lord? Your letter to me was delivered by one of your stable boys.…I would never have let her leave if I was not certain you were the one who sent for her. I swear it!”
It all made more sense when Marita was questioned, though she tossed her hair and sullenly refused to answer any questions at first. Not until her father threatened to beat the truth out of her did she relent.
“Yes!” she spat. “I did take her with me, that pale-faced creature, like whey, she is, and so foolish. But I only did it because the man who is your friend said she was special to you, and must be tricked into joining you.” Tears were a silver sheen in her dark eyes as she stared up at him imploringly. “If I did not think it was what you wanted, I would never have tricked her. I swear it!”
Swearing softly, Colter’s hard gaze must have terrified her into a rambling recital of all she knew, for Marita told him the details of Easton’s approach to her, his sympathetic commiseration with her dislike of Celia and his suggestion that she be lured to the point where he would see her united with his nephew.
“He said it was only for a while, that you would soon tire of her as you always do, and then you would remember me and how good it was for us last summer. You do remember?”
“I remember,” he said coldly, “but I seem to remember it a little differently than you.” He turned to Santiago. “I would never dishonor you, old friend.”
Speaking in the same dialect, Santiago nodded and said, “My daughter has too much time to dream. Perhaps she should be married soon so her husband can fill her nights with something other than illusions. My regrets are endless.”
“It is not your fault. My seal was stolen. You could not have known.”
Philip Worth would know where to find the seal, just as he knew where to hide smuggled goods. It explained so much.
None of which mattered as much right now as getting to Celia. Marita, frightened by his anger and her father’s threats, had told them that Celia had been taken to a small house overlooking Dover. If he didn’t get there in time, it was likely Celia would vanish.
The road snaked along the rugged coast, white chalk slopes drizzling like a sticky paste from the recent rains. Dover sat in a tattered curve of the bay, and tides this time of year were roughly twelve hours apart, ships leaving on the high tide in late afternoon—or early evening. Christ, you’d think he could remember when it was so vital!
Dover Castle thrust forbidding walls into the low-lying clouds, undeterred by constant wind, looming over the town snugged against the harbor below. He was almost there. White cliffs were beacons in the lengthening shadows of dusk.
Even before he reached the town, he saw that he was too late, that ships had sailed on the high tide, canvas sails slapping against the wind, billowing out like the wings of falcons to ride the gray, tossed waves.
No one remembered a fair-haired woman of Celia’s height and appearance boarding a ship, nor did anyone recall Lord Easton. All that was left was to find the house Marita had described, and hope that Celia was still there.
He found the house, and only the muzzle of his pistol convinced the landlord to admit that there had, indeed, been a young lady there earlier.
“But she is gone now, with that man!” Shaking visibly, he quailed as the long barrel stroked along his jaw. “Gone,” he squeaked again, “and both men wi’ her!”
“Both? That’s enlightening. Come, give me descriptions of these men, and perhaps you’ll not only live, but have a coin or two for your trouble.”
It didn’t take much to deduce who was with Easton. The devil of it was that he’d suspected Harvey of being near desperation. Colter could have offered a loan, or lost a large sum to him at whist, but he’d decided it would only prolong the inevitable. Harvey was an inveterate gambler, not easily cured, a man who would lose his last shilling wagering on which side of the street a cat would choose. It wouldn’t have helped him for long.
