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Диксон Хелен
A Traitor's Touch
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Chapter One
1745
Baron Charles Lucas and his wife Dorothy had embraced Henrietta in her hour of need and taken her into their lives and their home with the kind of easy, unconscious goodness that was born of good breeding and a happy life.
And now they were both dead. Along with their coachman, they had sustained fatal injuries in a carriage accident when they were travelling home from the theatre. Within the space of twenty-four hours, Henrietta was forced to grow up quickly and keep herself in control for the sake of the grieving servants. But beneath her calm exterior she endured a sickening and inevitable turmoil over the loss of the two people who had given her a sense of worth and for whom she had borne a real and unselfish love.
She closed her eyes as the enormity of their loss made her realise how alone she was and she knew she would have to consider wisely how to make the best of her circumstances and to think about her future. After considering the advantages his niece would reap in London, including learning everything a young lady should be cognizant of, Uncle Matthew had placed her in the hands of Baron Lucas and his wife Dorothy, her mother’s dearest friend. They had been delighted to become Henrietta’s legal guardians. She was the apple of their eye, the child they had never had.
Uncle Matthew was the only family Henrietta had. As a youth and being a scholar with much intelligence and curiosity, he had sought to quench his thirst for knowledge and had gone abroad to enrich his education. He had been gone some time. When he came home, expecting to be welcomed by his brother, he had found unexpected tragedy. Never having married and seeming to have a dislike for all society following the terrible circumstances of his adored brother’s brutal death, he’d acquired a crofter’s cottage close to Inverness and, surrounded by his precious books, become something of a recluse. Henrietta knew she could be sure of a warm welcome there.
But maybe she wouldn’t have to leave London. Dorothy had assured her that she would be well provided for. Henrietta remembered how the dear lady, who’d insisted she call her aunt, had smiled and said that Henrietta’s mother had been a good friend to her—as close as sisters they had been—and that she honoured her memory in the best way she knew by honouring and taking care of her daughter to the best of her ability.
Remembering this, Henrietta swallowed and set her jaw.
Hearing carriage wheels on the gravel drive, she glanced out of the window. Her heart sank. It was dark, but she could see by the carriage lamps that her guardians’ nephew, Jeremy Lucas, had arrived at Whitegates to claim his inheritance. Followed by his wife, Claudia, he breezed through the great entrance hall and into the salon where Henrietta was sifting through some correspondence, mainly letters of condolence from friends of the elderly couple.
The moment Jeremy entered the room with his wife flouncing after him the atmosphere thickened with tension. Tall and lanky and fashionably attired without prudence, he walked with a swagger as if he owned the world. He was a popular, much sought-after figure about town and could be charming when the occasion demanded it, but Henrietta had seen the cold, cunning heart behind the charm. He was inclined to call at the house unannounced. The last time had been the day after the accident. He hadn’t seen fit to turn up for the funeral which had been a mere twenty-four hours ago.
Henrietta rose, smoothing down her black skirts as she turned to face him. Jeremy felt a deep resentment towards her and had never made any attempt to disguise the fact.
‘Jeremy! You were not expected. However, you are welcome.’
While his mind noted the young woman’s perfunctory courtesy to him, his mind catalogued the valuables in the room. ‘I should damned well think so since it’s my house.’ His eyes gleamed overbright as he strutted like a well-preened rooster on the oriental carpet, eyeing and fingering precious heirlooms he had coveted for years.
Henrietta’s face tightened with the effort of holding back a sarcastic rejoinder. She braced herself for what was to come, for after her dealings with this man in the past she knew it was not going to be pleasant. She glanced at Rose hovering in the doorway, a pensive look creasing her round face.
‘Is everything all right, Miss Brody?’ she enquired, glancing nervously at the visitors.
‘Yes, thank you, Rose.’
Rose stepped back, but was not out of sight. Her faithfulness to her mistress remained as strong as the time when she had come to live with Baron Lucas and she had long ago proven her confidante in the most troubling times.
‘Bring us some refreshment, will you, Rose?’
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away.
Henrietta and Jeremy Lucas were isolated enough that they could converse in private in the salon, yet the servants were still close enough that Henrietta did not feel as if she was under any threat. It was indicative of her mistrust of Jeremy that she even thought of such things—that she was actually considering herself to be in possible danger in her own home.
‘The servants are disrespectful,’ Jeremy informed her as he sat down heavily on a chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, unconcealed malevolence in his pale blue eyes as they swept insolently over her. ‘But no matter. I have not come here to discuss something that can be replaced.’
Henrietta stiffened, all her senses alert. ‘Replaced? What are you talking about?’
‘Servants are two a penny.
‘Quite right, Jeremy,’ Claudia piped up in her shrill voice. ‘You show them how you mean to go on from the start and that you’ll stand for no interference from them.’
Henrietta looked at Jeremy’s wife. During several visits, Henrietta’s red-gold tresses had incensed the hard-faced virago, causing Claudia to berate the whole Scottish race as being slow-witted and to demean Henrietta as a heathen, a derogatory appellation many an English Protestant was wont to lay on the Roman Catholics.
True to form, Claudia was gaudily attired, her generous assets amply displayed. She wore too much powder and paint for good taste. Her dark hair was piled high on her head and a black patch dotted her cheekbone. With her nose tipped disdainfully high, her hazel eyes hostile, Claudia gave her a haughty smile as she doffed her gloves and tossed them aside. Prowling slowly about the room, her skirts swishing in her wake, she trailed well-manicured fingers across polished surfaces, lingering on a valuable figurine while eyeing other knick-knacks as if to assess their value.
‘If you have come to discuss the will, Jeremy,’ Henrietta said, trying to hide her aversion to the man, ‘the solicitor is coming tomorrow.’
‘I am aware of the contents, Henrietta. I called on Braithwaite earlier. As you know, Braithwaite has had the honour of being the family solicitor for the past ten years—’
‘Who has been absent—America, I believe—for the past two years,’ Henrietta pointed out.
‘I am aware of that, but he has recently returned,’ Jeremy retorted, irritated by her interruption. ‘He made up my uncle’s last will and testament.’
‘Which you are telling me he has made privy to you. Clearly there has been some mistake and your uncle had not informed you—’
‘Be quiet,’ Jeremy snapped, shoving himself out of the chair and glaring down at her, his long, ungainly body quivering like a snake about to strike. ‘I’m not interested in what you have to say. My uncle kept a copy of the will, which I will find in his study when I go through his papers—and which I intend doing this very night. But understand this, Henrietta Brody. Everything has been left to me. The house, the money—everything—and I aim to take immediate possession.’
A feeling of alarm began to creep through Henrietta. She had never discussed such matters with her guardians. Indeed, there had been no reason to do so. But she knew they had cared for her and would not have been so unconcerned for her that in the event of their demise they would have failed to make provision for her future. She had certainly not expected much, but she could not believe they would have overlooked the matter.
‘You were not included,’ Jeremy went on. ‘But then why you should think my aunt and uncle should have left you anything at all defeats me. You were not a relative. You were nothing to them.’
‘Jeremy’s right,’ Claudia’s shrill voice piped up. Catching Henrietta’s look of disdain, she bristled. ‘And don’t look at me like that. Jeremy will wipe that smirk off your face when he sends you packing. You think you’re better than me, don’t you, you stuck-up Scottish witch—you and your high-handed ways. Well, you’re wrong. You’re not fit to clean my shoes.’
Even after enduring the loss of her guardians and Jeremy’s cruel words, Henrietta refused to yield to Claudia that very thing she craved most—an undeniable feeling of superiority. Highly offended by his words, though her anger and animosity rose up within her, she forced herself to remain calm. ‘I do not believe that and I was certainly not expecting anything of value. Having lost both my parents and being alone in the world, I was extremely grateful when they welcomed me into their home. I was deeply devoted to your aunt and uncle and I know that over the years they grew attached to me. Your uncle was a methodical man about his affairs and I cannot believe that when the situation changed and my own uncle made him my legal guardian he would not have made provision for me—at the very least to give me time to vacate the house when you took possession.’
Jeremy smirked. ‘Well, he didn’t,’ he bit back, thoroughly enjoying putting her in her place. ‘I expect they were fed up with you mooning about the house and hoped to marry you off before their demise. Just who do you think you are? A lady?’
‘If you knew your aunt and uncle at all, you would not have said that. They were good, kind people and would not brush people off so easily—especially those they cared about.
’Jeremy reached out and jerked Henrietta’s face around, his long, clawlike fingers bruising her tender flesh. ‘Where you are concerned they appear to have done just that. I own this house now. I am master here and as soon as the will has been read I want you out of it.’ Removing his hand, he thrust her away.
Henrietta stared at him. She was now certain that he was not aware that his uncle had executed a new will, let alone changed his solicitor. It didn’t augur well for the future. Displeased with the way Mr Braithwaite conducted his business—he was not a man noted for his discretion—both his uncle and aunt agreed that Mr Goodwin, a barrister in the city, was a man of probity, wisdom and common sense in equal proportions. She was surprised that Mr Braithwaite, who was a close friend of Jeremy’s, had failed to mention it. Although why on earth he should not have done when he had nothing to gain by not doing so she could not imagine. She was on the point of informing Jeremy herself but when he began bearing down on her once more, his cold eyes conveying to her that if he became vexed or angry enough he would have her forcibly removed, her mouth went dry.
Recognising her fear, Jeremy felt a surge of power. He laughed, a thin, cruel laugh that chilled Henrietta. ‘You, Miss Henrietta Brody, have been a drain on this family for too long, playing on my aunt and uncle’s goodwill when they took you in, living in the grand manner you think is your due. You have got above yourself. Enough is enough, I say, so pack your bags and be ready to leave as soon as Braithwaite has read the will.’
‘That’s right, Jeremy. You tell her straight,’ Claudia quipped while running her fingers appreciatively down the thick damask curtains and eyeing the crystal chandelier and Turkish carpet beneath her feet. ‘Nothing but a beggar—an upstart she was. She doesn’t belong here—never did. It’s time she was put in her place.’
Henrietta thought that was comical coming from her. Hadn’t Jeremy plucked her off the stage in Drury Lane? She would have laughed out loud had the situation not been so serious.
‘She will be, my love. I guarantee it.’ Jeremy looked Henrietta over, noting her trim figure, with its tiny waist, her prim beauty, the red-gold of her hair and softly rounded curves beneath her mourning dress. As much as he had intended exacting revenge on his uncle’s ward, with her proud head elevated to a lofty angle and her eyes blazing defiance, as much as he might have wished otherwise, it was blatantly obvious that Claudia suffered badly in comparison.
‘You cannot do this,’ Henrietta said. ‘I beg you to reconsider.’
‘I suppose I could—for a price.’
‘Now don’t you go making any bargains with her, Jeremy,’ his wife chided. ‘She’s going and that’s final.’
‘I suppose something could be worked out between us,’ Jeremy said, his gaze dwelling on a rounded breast, giving no indication that he had even heard his wife.
Henrietta shrank as she felt the weight of his stare. She could feel his eyes burning into her flesh through the fabric of her dress. Her heart pounded and she looked up at him, suddenly wary. His eyes held a hard, predatory gleam and a confident smile stretched his thin lips that made her skin crawl. His thoughts were the kind a decent young lady would not invite.
‘Of course there is the matter of your guardianship to consider, Henrietta. It cannot be overlooked. As the legal ward of my late uncle, I expect the responsibility has fallen on me. In which case I have legal ownership of you. You must obey me. Obviously you have not yet come of age whereby you can make lawful decisions on your own. I am duty-bound to provide for you.’
It was the smugness of his expression which finally brought Henrietta’s senses to life. ‘I am not your ward,’ she retorted, seething at his arrogant assertion. ‘I do not believe there is the mention of any guardianship being transferred to you in any will. A moment ago you were prepared to throw me out on the street. That was hardly an act of solicitude.’
Jeremy’s eyes became less threatening. ‘I acted a tad hastily, I admit. As I said, I will allow you to remain for the time being—’
‘But for a price,’ Henrietta said, cutting him short, incensed by what he was suggesting. ‘How dare you insult me so? To have made such suggestions at all is disgusting, but to make them in the presence of your wife is doubly so. How dare you come here prancing about like some arrogant lord, you graceless fop? I would rather take my chances on the streets than remain here with you and your wife. I would rot first.’
Jeremy’s eyes flared as her insults hit their mark. His face darkened to a motley red. ‘And you will. I’ll see to that, I promise you,’ he flared, his whole body shaking with rage. ‘Now go to your room and don’t come down again until I give you permission.’
There was a warning in his voice which sent a shiver of fear through Henrietta. She backed away. ‘Most willingly.’
She turned on her heel, leaving the room as two maids came in carrying trays laden with a silver tea service, fine china and a plate of sweet delicacies to tempt the palate.
She was halfway up the stairs when, having second thoughts, she decided to return to try again to inform Jeremy about his uncle’s change of solicitor. The door was ajar and she paused, steeling her nerves for further confrontation, but on hearing Claudia’s shrill voice she remained where she was.
‘I thank the Lord she’s going. She couldn’t continue living here.’
‘Don’t worry, my love,’ Jeremy said, biting into one of cook’s delicious iced cakes, scattering crumbs down his fine silk waistcoat. ‘You won’t have to put up with her for long. Henrietta Brody no longer has any place here and, as soon as the will is read, one way or another she will cease to exist.’
‘It’s a pity we failed to get rid of her along with the old fools. But then we must be thankful that everything went off as we hoped, better even since they had the sense to die and leave you everything.’
‘It had to be done. I couldn’t wait any longer. With creditors baying at the door, it was either that or the debtors’ prison.’ A sudden vision of himself locked in a filthy prison cell at the mercy of other prisoners and the guards flashed into Jeremy’s mind’s eye. It was a vision that had haunted him too much of late for comfort. ‘It’s not too late for Henrietta Brody. I vow I’ll see her hanged before I let her touch an object or a penny of what’s mine.’
Henrietta listened in amazement and shock to this eruption of venom. Horrified, she saw at last the cynical calculation of these two, who had coolly set about playing on her guardians’ goodness and her own innocence. Even more than their revelation was the contemptuous way this creature who was Jeremy’s wife dared to speak of her guardians’ memory that roused her anger.
‘Not only that, the girl’s a papist, isn’t she?’ Claudia added with scorn. ‘They’re likely to stab one in one’s bed with the smallest hint of an uprising. Don’t forget what happened to her father.’
Having heard enough and horrified at what their words implied—that they had been responsible for the death of her guardians and that she would have suffered the same fate had she not pleaded the onset of a cold, which had prevented her attending the theatre that night—Henrietta backed away from the door and, turning quietly, made her way to the baron’s study. The desk where he kept his private papers was locked, the key kept in a drawer in a separate bureau, although the deeds to the house and other important papers he kept with Mr Goodwin.
Opening each drawer in the desk in turn, she sifted through some household accounts until she found what she was looking for. Jeremy was right. There was a copy of the will, but it was the recent will drawn up by Mr Goodwin. Hearing Jeremy leave the morning room and cross the hall to the kitchen where he proceeded to bark orders at the staff, clutching the will in her trembling hand, gingerly she closed the study door. Afraid of making a sound, stealthily she tiptoed across the hall and flitted up the stairs to her room.
With shaking hands she opened the copy of the will and scanned what was written. She read enough to know that if she valued her life she must get away immediately. As Baron Lucas’s sole heir it was natural that Jeremy would expect to inherit his entire estate, but he had excluded Jeremy in favour of her.
Caught in a nightmare, she realised she was completely alone, at the mercy of demons that were intent upon destroying her. Who was to know what Jeremy would be tempted to do if he found out she had knowledge of the terrible crime he’d committed, one he would hang for? And on the morrow when he discovered his uncle had changed his solicitor and made a new will, leaving her everything, the knowledge would elicit terrible repercussions from Jeremy and she was not strong enough to stand against him.
Briefly she considered throwing herself on the mercy of her guardians’ friends, but dismissed this immediately. Jeremy had always been a golden boy and, because of the shocking events in her family’s background, they had quietly resented the position she had acquired in the Lucas household. No one would believe the conversation she had overheard between Jeremy and his wife and that he had murdered his uncle and aunt to get his hands on their money to keep him out of debtors’ prison. It would be her word against his, and were she to seek out Mr Goodwin, he would ensure the inheritance came to her, but he would never believe she was under threat from Jeremy.
So, with no one to whom she could turn to for help and with only herself to rely on, knowing that if she was to save her neck she had to do something, she acted on pure instinct. She would not be beaten. She would not sit and wait for Jeremy to destroy her with the same vicious cunning as he had his aunt and uncle. She had to get away and get away with all speed.
A concerned Rose followed her into her room, where Henrietta lost no time in telling her what had occurred and that she must leave the house with all haste. That Jeremy and his wife had admitted to killing her guardians she kept to herself. The fact that Jeremy could have done something so horrendous was difficult for her to take in, but if he could take the lives of his own flesh and blood without a qualm, he would not turn a hair in getting rid of her.
Sending Rose to find her some clothes suitable for riding a long distance, preferably male attire since she didn’t want to attract attention to herself and her very gender rendered such an undertaking dangerous, she also asked her to instruct Robbie to saddle her horse and bring it into the yard at the back of the house, and not to say a word to anyone. When Rose had disappeared to do her bidding she snatched up some small items she would need—the copy of the will, a purse containing several coins and some of her jewels, so that she could sell them if it became necessary. She also had the presence of mind to arm herself with a small dagger to defend herself from vagabonds and highwaymen. It had belonged to her father and she prayed she would not have occasion to use it. Rose returned with some clothes she’d commandeered from the young groom.
‘Robbie won’t miss these,’ she said, handing her the breeches.
They were ill-fitting and stained with saddle oil and other distasteful substances, but they would serve their purpose. The shirt, which came down to her knees, she tucked into her breeches, and her youthful breasts she bound flat with a snug-fitting chemise. Shoving her arms into the sleeves of one of her old jackets, she thought she was beginning to look the part, but how Lady Lucas would have admonished her ward for riding in such an immodest and unladylike style.
Glancing in the mirror, she considered her features for the hazard they might pose. Was there something that might betray her: the pert nose, the large green eyes that slanted upwards, her long silky black lashes and the soft, too-pink and delicate mouth? Small and slender, she would have no trouble passing herself off as a youth—not even Jeremy would recognise her dressed like this, but she would have to do something about her hair. The long, soft, curling tresses would become a liability she could ill afford.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Rose said, deeply concerned for her safety.
‘I don’t, Rose,’ Henrietta said, handing her the scissors. ‘All I know is that I cannot stay here with Jeremy. What I heard tonight gives me reason to fear for my life. I have to get away and it’s imperative that I look the part, which is why I want you to cut my hair.’
Rose was appalled at what she was being asked to do. ‘But—your lovely hair? I can’t do that.’
‘Yes, you can. It’s necessary. This is a time for survival, Rose, not girlish longings. It will soon grow again. Now hurry. I have to leave before Jeremy comes looking for me.’
* * *
When Rose had completed her task and disposed of the shorn hair, Henrietta heard Jeremy down below, his voice raised in anger. Hearing the noise of the study door banging shut, the noise reverberating through the house, she trembled with fear.
‘Where is she, damn you?’ he shouted to a terrified servant, having decided to take a look at his uncle’s documents and being unable to find the key to his desk. ‘In her room, is she? Get her. She will not hide from me.’
Suddenly Henrietta felt Rose’s arms around her. A sudden tug of emotion made her hug Rose in return. Before the feeling could turn to tears, she pulled away and stood upright like a soldier.
‘This is just terrible,’ a tearful Rose said, wiping her wet cheeks. ‘That you are being forced to leave your own home without a place to go. Where will you go?’
In her present terrible plight, there was only one place Henrietta could go, only one person who could help and advise her—her uncle—and he was hundreds of miles away in the wilds of Scotland. She was in no doubt that it would be a monumental undertaking for her to get there safely. Fearing that Jeremy would interrogate Rose and demand to know her whereabouts, Henrietta considered she was better off not knowing. ‘I can’t tell you that, Rose, but I mean to leave London. I’ll write to you when I reach my destination. I promise. Wish me luck, Rose.’
‘I always do, miss. God keep you safe,’ Rose whispered. ‘I will be praying for you.’
Shrouded in a black woollen cloak, her cropped red-gold hair dulled with a smidgen of soot and hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, hearing Jeremy’s loud, harsh tones, with hate beating a bitter note in her breast, Henrietta hurried out of a back door to her waiting horse. She shivered as the reality of what she was planning to undertake hit her. It would be wiser to wait until morning, to set out on her journey in the light rather than in the dark, but she could not wait. Without a backward glance, like a shadow she slipped away on to Hampstead Heath without encountering a living soul.
* * *
As she rode on to the heath, Henrietta looked around with renewed spirit and saw that no black clouds hung in the sky to mar her plans. There was no hampering wind, either, and, since it was late August, the air was warm. Fortunately for her, she knew the heath well and there was no lane or byway with which she was not familiar. It was a rambling, hilly place embracing ponds and ancient woodlands. Unfortunately Hampstead Heath had a sinister reputation for criminals. There was no doubt that there were major hazards to crossing it at night and that ordinary dangers were compounded by those threatened by highwaymen.
Driven by some compelling need to put as much distance as she could between her and the threat Jeremy Lucas posed, digging in her heels she rode off at a gallop, the horse’s hooves thudding over the turf. Approaching woodland, fearing she might be knocked from her horse by low branches, she slowed her horse to a walk and entered the interior. Every now and then she paused to listen, straining her ears for every sound. All was silent in the darkness. The moon and stars were hidden behind thick cloud.
She picked her way through the undergrowth and stopped when she came to a clearing, staring at the dark silhouette which was the tumbled ruin of a cottage. There were no lights showing. Intending to ride on by, she looked ahead. As she did so, something flashed in the corner of her eye. She swung about—a lantern had been put out and she realised there was someone outside the building. Afraid that if she rode on whoever it was that lurked there would come after her, dismounting, she tethered her horse to a branch. With her heart thudding in her chest, she crept forward and ran the last few paces, crouching against a side wall and creeping towards the corner of the building. Pressing herself against the wall, she realised only then that her legs were shaking beneath her. For a panic-filled moment, the mere awareness of her fear threatened to collapse her self-control, but she pressed trembling fingers to her lips, resolving to overcome her trepidations by her own will and fortitude. Though the full moon gleamed brightly overhead and cast a strip of moonlight over the ruin, deep in the shadows along the walls the blackness was almost palpable.
Holding her breath, she peered around the corner, seeing that she was several feet from what had once been the door. A man was skulking in the gloom, long and dark like the shadows. She waited until her heart had slowed and her breathing had steadied. Somewhere on the heath she heard an owl calling, the haunting sound echoing in the silence. Hardly breathing, soundlessly she pressed herself against the wall and waited.
Suddenly she heard the sound of horses, the thump of their hooves on the ground and the clink of their harnesses. Retreating along the wall, she stood in the shadows. Three men rode up and halted in front of the building. They slid to the ground and the man in the shadows stepped forward to greet them.
Her curiosity getting the better of her, Henrietta crept forward once more to observe them more closely, straining her eyes in the darkness as she wondered at the reason for them meeting so furtively. She could see the outline of the horses and the shape of the men. They stood close together, murmuring in consultation. Two of them broke away and walked in her direction, pausing to converse. Straining her ears, she was just able to hear what they said.
‘Good to see you, Jack,’ the man who had been waiting said.
‘Have you been waiting long, Simon?’ asked Jack.
‘About half an hour,’ Simon replied in low tones.
‘You have come from Dover?’
‘I met with the agent. He’s a reliable source—a Frenchman and a friend. He deals in commodities and is of great use to us.’
‘Just one of our brave liaisons. You’ve a long ride ahead of you before you reach Edinburgh.’
‘Aye, but a necessary one. I mean to stop at my home over the border. I have arrangements to make should things not turn out as we hope. I’ve one or two loose ends to tie up here in London, but I hope to be heading north long before dawn. It appears Prince Charles has arrived in Scotland with only a handful of men. It will be common knowledge soon. Convinced the English Jacobites will stage an uprising, he is already planning to invade England. I mean to ride north to assess the situation.’
‘I’m loyal to the cause, but planning a rising to put his father on the throne is foolish in my opinion.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Simon said, ‘but he had his head set on it. The proclamation states that by the ordination of Almighty God, King James, VIII of Scotland and III of England and Ireland, asserts his just rights to claim the throne of three kingdoms, and to acknowledge the support of these divine rights by the chieftains of the Highland clans and Jacobite lords—and various other such loyal subjects of His Majesty King James. We need soldiers, weapons and money, which we don’t have.’
‘Then he will fail. We need the French to succeed.’
‘If we wait for the French to help us, we’ll be waiting a long time. But then again, with the British at war with France and all the armies fighting in Europe, perhaps now is the time to act.’
Simon shook his head. ‘I have my doubts. I fear support in Scotland may be lacking. Some clan chieftains will rally to the call. Others who are loyal to the British government will not. There are many who consider it a better place since the Stuarts left. It has become a proud nation—united with England. The people have grown richer, more powerful and more respected throughout the world. They fear the return of the Stuarts will bring fresh misery and have no stomach for war. What of you, Jack? Are you afraid to continue? Does he have your support?’
‘Certainly. We’ve come too far to retreat. I will inform our men here in London of events. To bring about the change there is nothing that I would not do on behalf of Charles Stuart. If he succeeds, I will know I played my part. Few men will be able to claim as much. What do you think, Simon?’
‘I agree, but it would be better if King George could be removed by diplomatic coercion.’
‘That won’t happen. The part you play in this drama is great and heroic. You are to be just one of our liaisons in the north. We could not have chosen a man who knows that part of the world better.’
‘True, I know it well enough. But if the rebellion is to succeed, there are grave times ahead. Those who support Prince Charles will be branded as rebels and as traitors to the English Crown.’
‘It will be nothing to what our fellow Catholics have already endured. If they have been safe for a time, it is only because they—we—have learned to be silent. You, Simon, rebel in the name of the Stuarts, I in the name of the Catholic martyrs. We have suffered for over two hundred years. This will be just one more test of our resolve—I pray it will be the last.’
‘I agree, but I cannot imagine that Prince Charles’s arrival after so many years of darkness and despair for the Jacobites is about to allow the sun to break through the clouds.’
Realising her curiosity had unwittingly placed her in danger, Henrietta followed this exchange with amazed disbelief. Beyond a doubt, everything that had happened to her in the past few hours had the incoherence of a bad dream. She was shaken, for in this day of Jacobites, of plots and counterplots, imprisonment and treason, it would seem she had stumbled across a nest of Jacobite conspirators. Somewhere in the dark chambers of her mind a memory stirred—not a pleasant memory—and her father’s tortured face flickered for a moment in her mind’s eye, which she quickly shoved away. A cold shiver travelled down her spine.
As a Catholic, she had followed the Jacobite cause with reluctant interest. James Stuart’s court, the exiled king of Scotland—or the Pretender to the throne, depending on one’s loyalties—was in Rome. He had mounted an abortive attempt to regain his throne in 1715 and had failed through lack of support. Since then he had worked ceaselessly at trying to gain support from fellow monarchs, reiterating his son Charles’s legitimacy to the throne of Scotland and England.
What she had just overheard suggested that Charles Edward Stuart had come to claim his father’s throne, prepared to resort to armed rebellion to restore the Stuart monarchy. As she adjusted her position her cloak brushed against the wall, dislodging a loose stone, which fell at her feet with a soft thud. It alerted the men and they fell silent. She stood stock-still, her heart drumming in her chest, and cold sweat trickled along the side of her face and down her spine. She knew that her breathing must be deafening—she was certain that she could be seen and heard in spite of the darkness.
A long moment passed. Hearing the men exhaling ragged oaths, she also heard footsteps coming closer. She shuddered and swayed slightly to keep her balance. She was sure that they would find her. She had to get away. Cautiously she began to retreat backwards. A man stepped round the corner of the building—a formidable silhouette bent on bloody murder. He stood motionless, staring at her. The moon chose that moment to slip from behind a cloud, haloing his tall, powerfully muscled form with its brilliance. His hat was slung low over his face, shadowing his features, but she thought she saw his eyes, and ironic ones they were. His gauntlets were made of fine leather, with gold thread trimming the edges. While she wore one of her old cloaks, this man wore a cloak of fine black cloth interfaced in gold. He said not a word as their eyes clashed across the distance.
Like the prey entranced by the predator, Henrietta was momentarily transfixed. She remembered then of the harm he might do to her. He did not speak, but the second he moved towards her, she whirled around and fled in the direction of her horse. She raced with all the stealth at her command, but when her foot caught in a hole she nearly tumbled headlong. Recovering her balance, she rushed on. She could sense the man coming after her, feel him gaining on her, and then he reached for her, but in the blink of an eye, she ducked under his arm and fled.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he growled. Pivoting round, he reached out and grabbed her, wrenching her arm up her back. ‘I wouldn’t struggle, if I were you, boy. Stay put,’ he coolly ordered.
Letting out a cry Henrietta struggled to free herself, but she was no match for his strength. With one hand he grasped her arm, and with the other resting on the hilt of his sword he hauled her back to the others.
‘Keep still, you little savage. It will do you no good. Lower your weapons,’ he said to his comrades. ‘’Tis naught but a youth.’
The sound of his voice sent a thrill down Henrietta’s spine, and she trembled for some unknown reason. Glancing at the men, the one called Jack brandishing a dagger, told Henrietta that they wanted blood. Suffering the painful grip, she began to fear for her life. When she had come to live on the edge of the heath, one of the old grooms, who loved to tell stories, had told her a host of gruesome tales about the fearsome things that had happened to people who had been on the heath after dark. She would never have believed that such things could happen to her. But one cannot be confronted by four dangerous men and not fear for one’s life.
Little by little, she was learning the hard way that most cruel of all lessons—that if she were to survive, she would have to use all her wits to do so. But she guessed she was not going to be good at deception. It did not come naturally to her. She had no experience of it and had never had reason to resort to dishonesty.
Though she held her chin high and glared in a show of grand defiance, she knew she was defenceless. But when she glanced at her captor, big, black and fierce and for all the world like some fearsome being from Hades itself, a strange, murderously tranquil smile on his face, she blanched and, when he released his hold on her arm, she spun around, seeking any escape route. Unable to see a way past the men who had formed a ring around her, there was nowhere to flee. Her heart pounded. The man called Jack reached out to try to grab her, and Henrietta reacted in self-defence, reaching for the knife in her belt, the blade flashing wickedly in the moonlight. Jack fell back with a garbled curse.
‘Why, you young pup, I’ll gut you for that.’
‘Try it if you want my blade in your own,’ she replied with admirable self-possession, pitching her voice low, while inside she was trembling with terror, knowing she would never have the courage to use the weapon.
Simon looked her over. It was clear the lad could take care of himself, but he was insane if he thought he could take on the lot of them. He held out his hand. ‘That’s a nasty blade you have there, lad. Hand it over.’
Henrietta’s eyes were wide, filled with fright. She swept the surrounding men with a nervous glance. ‘And get myself killed?’
‘You’re already in trouble and you can see you can’t escape. Don’t make this any worse for yourself than it already is.’
She wetted her lips with a nervous flick of her tongue and again eyed the men. ‘But they—’
‘I’m the one you’d better worry about,’ he warned in a low voice. ‘Give me the knife,’ he coolly ordered. ‘And do that very slowly, for I am not at all amused.’
Henrietta grimaced at the man’s unintentional pun, but she did not relinquish her weapon.
He waited immovably, the men looking on in palpable tension as the fierce youth dared refuse Simon’s order.
Simon flicked his fingers impatiently, beckoning her to hand the knife over—he stretched out his waiting palm, watching her intently. ‘Hand it over,’ he said in a hard tone. ‘You’ve got no choice.’
Henrietta agonised over the decision, the war of emotions transparent on her face, but after a long moment, she slowly yielded, handing it over.
Simon clasped the weapon and thrust it into his belt. ‘There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Take my advice, my fine bandit, and study your craft more. You are a most inferior footpad.’
Henrietta found herself meeting dark eyes set in a face of leanly fleshed cheekbones. There was a cleft in his strong chin, his nose was thin and well formed, slightly aquiline, and beneath it were generous, but at the moment unsmiling, lips. There was an air of the professional soldier about him, a quality that displayed itself in his crisp manner and rather austere mien. The handsome features bore the look of good breeding and those eyes, glinting with a sardonic expression and blue, she thought, seemed capable of piercing to her innermost secrets, causing a chill of fear to go through her.
‘For pity’s sake! Do not kill me,’ she pleaded, having no idea of the kind of men she was dealing with.
An evil laugh was the answer. ‘No witness—that’s the first rule in this business.’
‘Who—who are you?’ Henrietta demanded, feeling most uneasy.
Simon raised his eyebrows at her question. ‘Who am I? I might ask the same question of you—and with considerably more justification.’ He looked the youth over disapprovingly, taking in every detail of his clothes. His eyes quickened as he studied him with the keen glance of a man accustomed to noting the minutest detail around him. The lad was no country boy, though he might dress like one. His voice gave him away. Simon was secretly intrigued. ‘Explain what you’re doing here, lad. Why the devil are you wandering about the countryside by yourself?’
‘That’s my business.’
Simon’s eyes gleamed coldly in the darkness. ‘Not any more.’ The hard line of his mouth tightened and the crease at the corner grew deeper. ‘The person who sent you cannot have done so merely for the pleasure of visiting the heath after dark.’
‘Why should you think anyone sent me?’
He stared at her intently. ‘If you are indeed here on a mission, the most likely supposition is that you’re an agent. But whose? Did you follow us here?’
‘No, I swear I didn’t. I—I saw the light and I was curious.’
‘Perhaps you are on a mission, which argues a high devotion to duty, and I must congratulate whomever employs you on their ability to inspire it.’
Henrietta stared at him, beginning to realise what he was implying and that he was accusing her of spying on them. ‘No one employs me. I work for no one.’
‘And we are to believe that?’ Jack grumbled. ‘What are you running away from, lad? Maybe the law, eh? Likely you’re a thief, I shouldn’t wonder.’
To hear herself accused of theft was more than Henrietta could bear. ‘I am no thief,’ she retorted fiercely with a fine and cultured accent, ‘and I forbid you to insult me!’
‘Forbid? Listen to me, laddie, you’re in no position to forbid anything. I’d watch that tongue of yours if I were you. There’s nothing to stop me taking you by the scruff and tossing you in the river.’
Henrietta was too angry to be frightened. ‘If you wish to throw me in the river, feel free to do so. You will be doing me a service. I regret that I was mistaken in you. I took you for a spy. It seems, however, that you are a murderer!’
‘Hell and damnation!’ Jack, seething with fury, was about to throw himself at the insolent young pup, but Simon cast himself bodily between them and thrust him back.
‘Let it be, Jack. Can’t you see he’s only a lad? He’s scarce out of breeches.’ He turned to Henrietta and gradually his stern visage softened as he stared at the worried figure. When a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, he quelled it as quickly as it came. ‘I’m sorry, lad. My friends are a long way from home. I fear their manners need as much improvement as their judgement. How old are you?’
‘Old enough to know what’s what,’ she replied sullenly. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern. I have not asked you questions—but after what I overheard, I imagine there are people who would be extremely interested in what you are about. Unpatriotic activities, they would say, of which gathering support for Prince Charles Edward Stuart, Young Pretender to the throne, is one.’
Simon nodded slightly. ‘You heard right. We meet in secret. ’Tis dangerous for us to meet like this.’ He glanced at his silent friends who remained motionless. ‘You must understand,’ he went on, ‘that if you fear for your skin, you will keep your mouth shut.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Anger glinted for a moment in Simon’s eyes, then receded. ‘It would be a dirty deed I would have to undertake—regrettable since you are but a lad—on that you must accept my word. What have you to say?’
Henrietta bit her lip, the words sticking in her throat. The men gathered before her, silent and antagonistic as they awaited her response.
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