Dangerous Lord, Seductive Mistress. Mary Brendan
he couldn’t forget. The duty to his family and the Buckland reputation—what remained of it—must determine his decision and therefore there was only one answer to give to the proposition that had been laid before him. He limited his agreement to a curt nod, simply a tightening of his mouth indicating his resentment at having been backed in to a corner.
‘Do you want these?’
The Colonel opened a drawer in the desk to reveal some documents. ‘There are papers here that might be of considerable use—names…places—’
‘I need nothing,’ Lord Buckland brusquely interrupted. ‘I’ll find my own way.’
‘But…why? These may help.’
‘Who else knows what’s in that little lot?’
‘Only the most loyal and trustworthy individuals.’ Indignation brought ruddy colour in to the Colonel’s cheeks.
‘Tell that to the dragoon who last week had his head caved in on Hastings beach, betrayed, no doubt, by someone who had knowledge of what’s in documents such as those. The soldiers were ambushed.’
The Colonel coughed and loosened his neckcloth at that reminder of the recent injury sustained by an officer on the south coast. He frowned at the tall man lounging back against the window, blocking the light with the athletic breadth of his shoulders. ‘Are you saying you think we have a traitor in our midst?’
‘I’m saying I’ll trust no one, not even you, to protect me in this.’
‘I’ll report back that you’ll do it, shall I?’ The Colonel shoved the papers again out of sight.
‘You may tell his Majesty that I’ll need the wherewithal to get started,’ Lord Buckland bit back. ‘But then he knows I’m desperate for funds, doesn’t he, or he wouldn’t have me squirming beneath his thumb.’
Within a moment Lord Buckland was at the door and had jerked it open. ‘I’m staying at the White Hart in Lowestoft. You can get a message to me there. I’d like to journey south before the end of the week.’
Chapter One
‘Your anger is understandable in the circumstances, Miss Woodville, but you must understand that there is little I can do.’
Deborah Woodville cast a glinting blue eye on the fellow seated behind the desk. ‘I understand no such thing, sir,’ she responded crisply. ‘You are a local magistrate, are you not, and therefore responsible for upholding the law?’ she reminded him of his office, hoping it might shame him into offering to do something to punish the vicious bullies who had set about one of her servants earlier that afternoon. Frederick Cook drove her carriage and he’d been knocked unconscious by two louts simply for remonstrating with them for using disrespectful language in her vicinity. The worst thing was that she knew it was she whom they meant to hurt. But she was a Lady of Quality and so far had been protected by her gentility in this rural backwater in East Sussex. Today the despicable cowards had vented their spite and frustration on her loyal manservant. But danger was coming closer and Deborah feared it might not be long before the ruffians breached the final barrier and laid their horny hands on her.
‘I am privileged to hold the office of Justice of the Peace.’ Roderick Savidge acknowledged his authority with a stately dip of his auburn head. ‘But you must know how it is—the people hereabouts are close-lipped when questions are asked about their kith and kin. It would be impossible to get witnesses. Did you see it, Miss. Woodville?’
‘I did not; I have said I had gone in to the draper’s shop and came out to find Fred bleeding in the road. When he came to, he told me he’d been attacked by two men who’d spouted abuse about me.’
‘Can he describe his attackers?’
That was a tricky question to answer and her hesitation became more marked as blood seeped in to Deborah’s cheeks. She was quite sure that her driver could describe them. She’d go further and say she believed he knew their names, but he would not identify them. Frederick worked for her and her mother and lodged with them at Woodville Place, situated midway between Rye and Hastings. But his parents and siblings lived in a village close by. Fred wouldn’t want them to suffer the consequences should he stir an investigation into the villains who ruled the roost in this neighbourhood.
Mr Savidge gave a sigh that terminated in a sympathetic smile. ‘I know the difficulties, you see, Miss Woodville, and understand why your servant has chosen to keep quiet,’ he commiserated. ‘Decent people might want to eject these felons from their midst, but they fear reprisals if they speak out.’
‘But I do not fear reprisals, sir, and I shall say that I believe it was one or both of the Luckhurst brothers who beat Frederick. Will you apprehend them for questioning?’
‘If you will forgive me, your attitude towards your safety—and you risk your mother’s, too, of course—is not wise, Miss Woodville.’ Mr Savidge frowned. ‘As for apprehending likely suspects, it would be pointless issuing the warrants, my dear.’ A patronising smile writhed on his fleshy lips. ‘There is little chance of a conviction without a witness or even the victim’s testimony to rely on. You will simply stir more enmity towards yourself and your kin by persevering with this. Fred’s injuries will no doubt mend and perhaps he will in future think before he lets loose his tongue.’
‘The risk of becoming increasingly unpopular does not worry me,’ Deborah snapped, tilting up her shapely little chin in a way that denied the nausea rolling in her stomach. ‘Why should Fred not voice his disgust for such boorish behaviour?’ She knew she was dicing with danger, but she would not, could not, stand by and let bullies dictate her life or shape her character.
Mr Savidge picked up a little bell on his desk as though he would cover her complaints with its clatter. ‘You will take tea, Miss Woodville?’
‘No…thank you,’ Deborah refused immediately. ‘You have said you will not arrest the Luckhursts so I shall be on my way.’ The fellow’s eyes were lingering on her in a way she didn’t like. She found his pale blue regard unsettling and she did not want to tarry a moment longer than necessary in his company. It seemed he had no intention of sending out the dragoons to investigate the assault on Fred and bring the culprits to court, so it was pointless remaining. She stood up and gave a single nod in mute farewell.
‘You have done little to encourage the villagers to show good will towards your family, you know, Miss Woodville.’ Mr Savidge had gained his feet whilst speaking and carefully replaced the little brass bell on the desk.
Deborah turned, her hand still gripping the doorknob. A sparking sapphire gaze was levelled on his worship. ‘And I think you know, sir, why that is. We have endured much trouble and heartache at the hands of some of the locals. It is hard to like people who choose violence and lawlessness as a way of life.’
‘Indeed, it was shocking what happened to your fiancé. But some years have passed now and the fellow responsible got his just deserts.’
Deborah knew that he was referring to an individual who had been nicknamed Snowy on account of his prematurely white shock of hair. It was generally held that he’d been responsible for Edmund’s murder. The authorities had hunted the fellow but, before he could be captured and brought before a court, Snowy had been found dead in the lane. It had been murmured he’d come before another court: that of the smugglers themselves. They’d rid themselves of him rather than have the militia forcing entry to every house in the locality to discover if a neighbour was hiding him. No villager would want the authorities prying in cupboards and cellars for fear of what illicit goods they might find.
‘Smuggling is entrenched in the communities hereabouts,’ Mr Savidge began. ‘City people don’t always understand the ways and customs of coastal folk. Your late stepfather had a more…’ he hesitated as though seeking the right word and then pounced upon ‘…mellow outlook on free-trading. A lot of the gentry in the vicinity feel the same way. Live and let live is a sensible motto for outsiders who intend to stay a while