The Least Likely Bride

Chapter Eleven

Ellen Leyland was working in her vegetable garden. She straightened from the asparagus bed she was weeding and mopped her damp brow just as the two men strolled into view around the bend in the narrow lane.

“Why, Anthony… Adam… what a lovely surprise.” She hurried down the path to open the gate. “I wasn’t expecting you. Do you have news, Anthony?”

“You think I only visit you when I have news?” he chided, bending to kiss her sun-browned cheek. “Am I so undutiful?”

“Oh, get along with you,” she said, giving him a little slap. “Adam, my dear, how goes it with you?”

“Well, I thankee, Ellen.” Adam beamed at her. Once, many years ago, they had shared a bed, when Adam had shared with her the parenting of Edward Caxton’s son.

Ellen had no time for the distinctions of social class, and in youth and robust middle age had taken both friends and lovers where she found them. But her interest in the hurly-burly of lovemaking had died in recent years, as her passion for the king’s cause had absorbed all her energies, both emotional and intellectual.

“Come in,” she said now, hurrying ahead of them up the path. “I’ve just taken a batch of bannocks out of the oven. And there’s a fine chicken pie.”

“And cognac, madeira, and a good burgundy to go with it,” Anthony said, setting his leather flagons on the scrubbed pine table. He looked fondly around the small kitchen that had been the scene of so many of his childhood joys and troubles. As usual, it was spotless, the china plates arrayed on the Welsh dresser, the copper pots glowing on their hooks.

“I expect Adam will prefer ale. Fetch a jug from the back, will you, Anthony?”

Anthony took a jug from the dresser and went into the back scullery, where Ellen did her brewing.

Ellen busied herself putting food on the table. “Sit ye down, Adam.”

Adam pulled out the bench at the table and sat down with a little sigh of relief. It had been a long sail. The wind had been against them and they’d had to tack across the Solent.

“Here you are, old man.” Anthony grinned as he set the jug of ale in front of Adam. “You’re getting right creaky these days.”

“Now, you watch your tongue, young Anthony,” Ellen scolded. “And open that burgundy.”

Anthony laughed and did as he was told. They ate and drank with the companionable ease of people who had sat at table together over many years. On board Wind Dancer, Adam would not have considered it appropriate to eat with the master, but in this kitchen there were no social distinctions.

Ellen waited until they’d finished before broaching the subject uppermost in her mind. “So, Anthony, have you seen the king?”

“Aye, last even.” He rested his forearms on the now cleared table, tapping his fingers lightly on the surface. “I managed to slip him the nitric acid so that he can cut through the window bars.”

Ellen nodded. The second time the king had tried to escape, no one had thought to check whether he could squeeze through the bars on his window. The bungled attempt had been a mortifying failure. On his third attempt, he had been given nitric acid to cut the bars, but so many people were part of the plan that all its details had inevitably come to the ears of Colonel Hammond.

This fourth attempt was being organized by a master. Anthony left nothing to chance. At Ellen’s behest he had been serving the king’s cause since the beginning of the war. He did what he did for Ellen and not for the king, for whom he had little regard. But Ellen’s loyalty to King Charles was all consuming, so for the last six years most of Anthony’s profits had gone to funding the Royalist armies, and now all the formidable skills he had acquired in planning his piracy and smuggling ventures were devoted to organizing the king’s escape to France.

“How did His Majesty seem?” Ellen asked anxiously. “Is he very dispirited?”

“Less than one might imagine.” Anthony took a sip of wine. “He’s still negotiating with the Scots through Livesay.” He shrugged. “And he still seems to think those negotiations are concealed from Parliament.”

“But you don’t think that’s so?”

“No. Forgive me, Ellen, but the king is deluded in this as in so many other areas.”

Ellen’s mouth tightened. “If you don’t wish to do this, Anthony, I’ll not blame you.”

He smiled then, absently moving his cup around the table. “Yes, you would. My feelings are irrelevant, Ellen. I do this for you. I have no particular interest in the outcome of this war, except that the sooner it’s over, the sooner a man will be able to resume the life that suits him.”

Ellen got up and went out to the scullery, returning in a few minutes with a bowl of stewed gooseberries and a jug of thick yellow cream. “I picked these this morning.”

Anthony accepted that his indifferent attitude troubled Ellen and that she had no desire to continue the conversation. He helped himself to fruit and cream. “Before we go back, I’ll nail the loose door on the goat shed. The next strong wind will tear it right off.”

“Thank you.” Ellen pushed the bowl across to Adam, who had taken little part in the discussion. He was accustomed to being an observer rather than a participant in such matters.

Anthony finished his gooseberries and with a word of excuse took himself outside. Soon the sounds of the hammer reached the kitchen.

“He’s so like his father in so many ways,” Ellen said. “I don’t understand how he can be so different in this one particular. Edward was full of passion and ideals, misplaced many of them, but he believed in so much. Anthony doesn’t seem to believe strongly in anything… Oh, nobody could be more loyal or a better friend,” she added, seeing Adam’s frown. “But in terms of conviction… he doesn’t seem to have any.”

“Reckon ‘e saw what conviction did fer ’is father,” Adam said. “And ‘twas conviction that led the Caxtons to cast off both Sir Edward an’ his son. A mere innocent babe, their own flesh and blood, cast out to die fer all they cared. A cruel thing is conviction if’n ye looks at it in a certain light.”

Ellen sighed. “I suppose that’s true. But sometimes when I look at him I see Edward so clearly it hurts. The same rakehell charm.” She sighed again.

“Aye, well that charm’s goin‘ to get ’im in trouble one o‘ these days. Shouldn’t wonder if it ’asn’t already done so,” Adam said darkly.

Ellen’s eyes sharpened. “Tell me.”

Adam told her in a very few words.

“Lord Granville’s daughter!” Ellen looked at him in horror. “But Granville’s utterly committed to Parliament. Anthony can’t possibly be involved with his daughter. She’ll betray him to her father.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.” Adam waved a forefinger. “First off, Anthony’ll never let ‘er in on ’is secrets. He’s far too canny an‘ careful.” He paused, frowning, then said, “Besides, this one’s not like ’is usual sport, Ellen.”

“How so?”

“Spirited kind of a lass,” Adam said. “I doubt she’ll fall fer ‘is line some’ow. One minute they’re all over each other, next she’s off with ’er nose in the air an‘ Anthony’s lookin’ black as a wet Monday.”

“Oh dear,” said Ellen helplessly. But she turned brightly at the sound of Anthony’s step in the scullery. “Thank you, my dear.”

“My pleasure.” Anthony stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, regarding them with a quizzical gleam. “I trust you’ve both enjoyed your little chat. Dissected the situation thoroughly, have you?”

“Oh dear,” said Ellen again. “Couldn’t you… well, couldn’t you find someone more suitable, Anthony?”

At that he laughed. “Suitability doesn’t come into it, dearest Ellen. But don’t fret, the lady’s not exactly falling over herself to get into my bed.” A shadow crossed his eyes as he said this, a shadow not missed by his companions.

He took his jacket off the hook where he’d hung it when they’d arrived and slung it over one shoulder. “Come, Adam, it’s time we were on our way.”

Ellen walked with them to the gate.

Anthony bent to kiss her and then came to the main point of this visit. “I’ve a considerable consignment of luxury goods to dispose of. Can you get word to our contact in Portsmouth? Wind Dancer will be in Portsmouth harbor the day after tomorrow and I’ll hold the auction the next day.”

“I’ll send the message this evening. Just have a care, my dear.”

Ellen watched them stroll off down the lane towards the river, then she hurried inside for her cloak and made her way to the vicarage to deliver her message.

“Beggin‘ yer pardon, m’lord.”

Cato looked up from his breakfast the following morning at Giles Crampton’s familiar portentous tones from the doorway. “What is it, Giles?”

“A letter from the colonel, m’lord.” Giles came into the room, dropping his head in the gesture of a bow to the three ladies at the table. “I think summat’s up,” he confided.

“Sit down, break your fast.” Cato waved to a chair as he took the letter.

Giles offered another nod of his head to the ladies as he took a seat at the table. He had known the three women for a long time, in Olivia’s case from early childhood, and while he offered a degree of social deference, he was perfectly at home in their company.

“Ham, Giles?” Olivia pushed the wooden carving board towards him.

“Thankee, Lady Olivia.” He speared ham, cut bread, helped himself to eggs, and settled into his meal.

Phoebe gestured to a servant to fill a tankard for the sergeant from the ale pitcher on the sideboard.

“Damn,” Cato muttered, his eyes on the letter.

“What is it?” Phoebe asked.

“A summons to London. I’m afraid your husband is needed too, Portia.” Cato glanced at his niece as he refolded the letter.

“Well, I shall stay here, if I’m welcome,” Portia said with a smile.

“You and your tribe.” Cato returned the smile. “We’ll be away a few days, not too long.” He pushed back his carved armchair.

Giles instantly set down his knife and rose too.

“No, no, Giles, finish your meal.” Cato waved him back. “I’ve some preparations to make. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes.”

Giles sat down again but it was clear to his breakfast companions that he was itching to leave and only his lord’s instructions kept him at the table.

“Deviled mushrooms, Giles?” Portia inquired, passing him a bowl. They had the most enticing aroma.

His hand reached for the spoon, hovered over it, then he said, “No, I thankee, Lady Rothbury. If ye’ll excuse me, Lady Granville.” He set down his knife, offered them his jerky little bow, and hastened from the room, his relief to be moving after his lord very obvious.

“Ah, Giles,” Portia said, remembering how he’d come to find her in Scotland after her father’s death. How his bluff manner to the scrawny barmaid she had then been had convinced her of the sincerity of her uncle’s offer of protection. “I wouldn’t be here without him.”

“I can’t imagine Cato without Giles; he’s somehow joined to him,” Phoebe said. “It annoys me sometimes that Cato always asks Giles’s opinion first on military matters, but I feel better when he has Giles riding beside him… I remember when the king escaped from the siege of Oxford and…” She stopped, following Portia’s gaze. Olivia, her expression as distanced as if she were deep in some unconstruable text, was repeatedly spreading butter on a piece of wheaten bread. The butter was now so thick it made a mountain.

“Olivia?”

“Mmm?” Olivia looked up, smoothing her butter mountain with the flat of her knife.

“We seem to have lost you, duckie.” Portia reached for the ale pitcher to refill her tankard.

“I have a chess game to play,” Olivia said. “With my father away, now seems the opportune moment.”

“You’re going to find the pirate,” Phoebe declared.

“Yes. I’ve promised him a return match.” Olivia smiled and took up her tankard. “Phoebe, don’t worry. If my father’s not here, you don’t have to concern yourself.”

“Of course I do!” Phoebe declared. “This man is… is…”

“An outlaw,” Portia said gently.

Phoebe said nothing. It wasn’t the man’s activities that troubled her so much as the knowledge that there could be no future for Olivia in such a relationship. Phoebe could see only hurt ahead. She gave Portia a slight shrug and saw from the swift flash in Portia’s eyes that she understood.

Portia said, “So, why d’you want to go and play chess with this pirate, duckie?”

“Because I owe him a game,” Olivia said. “And I can play it safely, because my father is away.”

“You really think you can play it safely?” Portia leaned her elbows on the table and looked closely at Olivia, her meaning clear.

Olivia met her gaze. “I think I have to decide that for myself.”

There was a short silence that Olivia broke. “You both decided it for yourselves.”

“I think the third member of our little circle has found her wings,” Portia observed. “Come, Phoebe, don’t look so glum.”

“It worries me,” Phoebe said simply.

Olivia pushed back her chair. “I don’t mean to worry you.” She stood with her hand on the back of her chair, and some of her confidence had evaporated. “But I don’t want to go without some… some understanding.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Phoebe reached into her pocket and laid a ring of braided hair, faded now, upon the table.

Portia slipped fingers inside her shirt and brought out her own. She laid it beside the other.

Olivia took her own from her pocket. She placed it on the table. “Thank you,” she said.

Nothing else was said as they each took back their rings. Olivia tucked hers back into her pocket. She gave them both a half smile and left the room.

“You have to let go of Olivia,” Portia said as Phoebe looked down at her own ring that she now held on the palm of her hand. “She has to make her own decisions.”

“I know. But she’s always been the little one. The one we have to protect, take care of.”

“I think she can do that for herself now.” Portia slipped her own ring inside her shirt.

“But she’s Cato’s daughter. I feel responsible.”

Portia shook her head. “She’s our friend, Phoebe. First and foremost.”

Olivia wrote her message to the pirate. It was succinct.

If you wish for a return match, I will be available either this evening or tomorrow evening. I will look for you outside the front gate at precisely six o ‘clock.

She sanded the ink to dry it and smiled to herself. It struck the right decisive, uncompromising note. It was time Anthony learned that his opponent in this tournament had a mind of her own. She could imagine his shock when he discovered she knew how to contact him.

He was also about to discover that she had a few pointed questions to ask him and she wouldn’t be satisfied with his usual evasive answers.

Throwing a shawl around her shoulders, Olivia left her chamber and hurried out of the house. It was a steep climb up St. Catherine’s Hill, but the wind was behind her, coming off the sea. At the top of the hill she turned and looked out across the glittering expanse. Was Wind Dancer out there at the moment? Would someone be looking out for a sign from the island?

She turned to the oratory, little more than a small, loosely formed pillar of stones that crowned the summit. She could see why the master had chosen it as a contact point. It was a very prominent spot that would be visible for miles around, both on the island and from the sea.

Olivia knelt to examine the stones. There was a small space between the two bottom layers. It formed a square box, almost like a cupboard. She slipped her hand in and found a white flag closely furled on a stick. She took it out, slid her message into the space in its place, and stuck the flag at the top of the oratory, pushing the stick hard down into the stones.

The white flag flew out jauntily in the brisk breeze. Now all that was needed was a watcher.

Olivia nodded to herself and set off back down the steep hill against the wind to await developments.

Anthony was sitting with his back to the mast, sketching a pair of gulls squabbling over a fish head, when Mike rowed his dinghy into the chine and came alongside Wind Dancer later that afternoon.

Mike climbed up the rope ladder and swung himself over the side of the ship. “There’s a message, master… at the oratory. I can’t read the writin‘. It’s joined up.” He handed the folded paper to Anthony with a worried frown.

Anthony opened it. He whistled softly. “How the hell.. .?” He looked up at Mike, eyebrows arched in question.

“The flag was flyin‘, master. I thought you wanted me. Thought maybe we was puttin’ to sea or summat. But when I saw the writin‘, like, I knew it wasn’t from you.” He pulled anxiously at his earlobe. “You know what it’s about, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” Anthony said softly, “I know exactly what it’s about. What I don’t know is how the hell she learned about the oratory.” He leaned his head back against the mast, closing his eyes to the sun’s rays as it shone directly overhead into the cool green depths of the chine. “Somebody let something slip, Mike.”

Mike tugged even more fiercely on his earlobe. “Weren’t me, master.”

“No, I didn’t imagine it was.” Anthony’s eyes opened and his gray gaze was uncomfortably penetrating. “But someone did.” He stood up in one easy, graceful movement. “So I have some preparations to make. And I have a task for you, Mike.”

“Britches,” Olivia said. “I would like to borrow a pair of your britches, Portia. Skirts blow about in the wind and get tangled up in things.”

“Anything you like, duckie,” Portia said obligingly. “I’ll go and fetch a pair. You’ll need a doublet too.” She left Olivia’s bedchamber with her usual quick stride.

“How long will you be?” Phoebe asked. “You’ll be back by morning, won’t you?”

Olivia stepped out of her petticoat before answering. “I imagine so… but things could delay me,” she responded in a somewhat vague, musing tone. “Wind and tide for instance.”

“I suppose, if you don’t get back by morning, I can just tell Mistress Bisset that you’re staying in bed, or studying, and don’t wish to be disturbed,” Phoebe said reluctantly. She was still not resigned to this plan of Olivia’s, but since she had no choice but to acquiesce, she might as well do what she could to facilitate matters.

Olivia kissed her. “Don’t worry, Phoebe. Everything will be perfectly all right. My father’s not here, so you don’t have to make up lies for his benefit. If I’m not back, just say that I’m staying in bed to work on a particularly difficult text and I don’t wish to be disturbed. Everyone will believe you.”

“I suppose so,” Phoebe said, returning the kiss. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“I wonder what your pirate will think of his lady in britches,” Portia remarked as she came back into the chamber, laying a pair of serviceable dark gray woolen britches and a doublet on the bed.

“I don’t suppose he’ll think anything of it.” Olivia pulled on the britches and tucked her chemise into the waistband. “Not that his opinion is of much importance,” she added a shade tartly. She put on the jacket and buttoned it. “These do feel strange.”

“They may feel strange.” Portia examined her critically. “But they certainly do suit you.”

“It’s because of her long legs,” Phoebe said somewhat gloomily. Her own shortcomings in this area were a frequent source of grievance. “You’ve both got such long ones. I could never wear britches. My legs are just stumpy little things.”

“But you don’t need to wear them,” Olivia pointed out. “My father would have a fit.”

Olivia pirouetted in front of the long glass. Portia was thinner than she was, but the britches were still a comfortable fit. She tugged at the bottom of the doublet. It reached her hips but did nothing to disguise their curves. Anthony would probably reach for pencil and paper, she thought, her eyes darting involuntarily to the book on the bedside table.

“What should I do about my hair? Should I wear a cap?”

“You’re not pretending to be a man, so I wouldn’t worry,” Portia said. “Just braid it and twist it up.”

Olivia followed the suggestion, pinning the two thick braids into a coronet on top of her head. The effect was rather austere and she decided she liked it.

“How are you going to leave the house in those clothes without being noticed?” Phoebe asked.

“Same way Anthony c-came in. Through the window and down the magnolia.”

“Oh, you’ll make a soldier yet.” Portia applauded.

“A sailor,” Olivia corrected. “I’ll leave the soldiering to you. I find navigation much more to my taste.”

“I suppose the mathematics appeal.”

“Exactly so.” She went to the window and surveyed the magnolia somewhat doubtfully. “Of course, if it’s not to be tonight, I’ll have to c-climb back this way. It might be more difficult.”

“Stay out until dark and I’ll make sure the side door is left open tonight. Even if you do go, if you get back before dawn you can come in through the door,” Phoebe said, sounding hopeful. “I mean, how long can a chess game take?”

Portia chuckled but said nothing.

Olivia glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s a quarter to six. I’m going now.”

“Be safe,” Phoebe said.

“Good luck,” Portia said.

Olivia gave them a quick smile, then took a deep breath and launched herself into the topmost branches of the magnolia.

She had to jump from the bottom branch, but the ground was soft and her landing was concealed by the overarching branches. She slipped across the lawn, darting from bush to bush, thinking with some astonishment that for someone who’d never had to practice concealment before, she was really rather adept at it.

Anthony had come and gone in darkness, but the early summer evening was still sun-bright and Olivia nearly ran into two gardeners watering the flowerbeds. She ducked behind the thick trunk of a copper beech and waited until her heart had slowed and the men had moved a little further away. They had their backs to her now, and with crossed fingers she darted across the small patch of open ground and into the concealment of a box hedge. From there it was easy. She was out of sight of the house now, and the driveway was lined with oak trees.

Keeping behind the trees, she raced for the gate. It was still open; the gatekeeper wouldn’t close it until nightfall. She could hear the gatekeeper’s children playing in the garden at the back of his cottage, but could see no one although the front door stood open to the evening air.

She was out in the lane in a heartbeat and then stood, hugging the wall, looking up and down. Would someone be there?

She didn’t hear the low whistle at first. It mingled with the whistling songs of the birds getting ready to roost. Then she heard it, low and yet penetrating, coming from behind the high hedgerow on the far side of the lane.

Olivia ran across and pushed through a gap in the hedge.

Mike was holding the bridles of two ponies. His reaction to her costume was limited to a muttered “Lord love a duck!”

Olivia greeted him with a smile. “So we’re to ride.”

“Aye, miss, just to the cove. The boat’s waitin‘ on us.” He boosted her into the saddle of the smaller of the two horses and mounted the other himself.

When they reached the clifftop, Olivia saw the narrow trail snaking down to the beach far below them. She thought it was the same path she had climbed up that miserable night when she’d left Wind Dancer. How different she felt this evening.

Mike tethered the ponies and led the way down the trail. It was steep and twice Olivia’s foot slipped, sending a shower of sand and pebbles skittering down to the undercliff. The little sailboat was drawn up on the sand, two men sitting beside it. They jumped up as Mike and Olivia reached the beach, and pushed the boat into the shallow water.

“Beggin‘ yer pardon, miss, but the master says we ’ave to cover yer eyes again.”

Olivia looked at Mike in disbelief. He was holding a strip of linen between his hands. “Why?” she demanded indignantly.

“ ‘Tis the master’s orders, miss.” Mike twisted the linen between his hands. He hesitated, remembering what he’d been told. The master had had a distinctly militant gleam in his eye. “He said that if’n ye didn’t like it, I was to say it’s the price to pay for bein’ so inquisitive, like.”

So he’d upped the stakes, had he? A case of two can play at that game? Should she concede this one for the moment or drop the whole business? Leave the beach and the damned master of Wind Dancer to play all his games solo?

“Give me the blindfold.” She took the linen from Mike. “I’ll tie it in the boat.”

Mike’s relief was palpable. “If you’d let me carry you a few paces, miss, ye’ll not get yer feet wet.” He lifted her easily and deposited her in the boat, where the two men prepared to hoist sail. They nodded amiably to Olivia.

Mike pushed the boat further off the beach and jumped in himself. He looked expectantly at Olivia, who with a grimace tied the linen over her eyes.

She sat quietly in the darkness, listening to the soft plash of water against the bow. One of the men began to hum, and the others joined in, a soft musical undertone to the gentle skipping motion of the dinghy. Curiously she found her blindness rather sensuous… she seemed to be experiencing smells and sounds and motion much more acutely.

As before, it was hard to tell how long they sailed. It had seemed a long time that other night, and it certainly seemed no shorter this time. They must be going west, because she could feel the rays of the setting sun on her face. And then she felt the change in direction and the sun was gone. The air was close and warm and she guessed that they had entered the chine. Now they were using oars and the sound was almost muffled.

Then one of her companions produced the low hoot of an owl, and immediately there was an answering whistle, soft as rain.

“We made good time,” Mike said, receiving a grunt of agreement in response. “It’d be all right for ye to take off the blindfold now, I reckon, miss.”

Olivia reached up to untie the strip of linen. Despite the softness of the light, she was dazzled for a minute. Then she made out the elegant shape of Wind Dancer just ahead, rocking gently at anchor in the middle of the narrow, cliff-lined chine. Of course, there must be a deep channel in the middle. Deep enough for the frigate’s draft. The anchorage was utterly secluded, the cliffs rising to either side, just a sliver of sky visible at the top. The chine continued beyond the ship, but growing ever narrower.

The oarsmen brought the boat up against the ship’s side, and Mike tied her up at a ring in the stern. Olivia looked up and saw Anthony leaning over the rail at the head of the rope ladder. He called down, “Stay where you are, Olivia.”

“I’m coming up,” she returned. Holding the blindfold, she accepted Mike’s proffered hand onto the ladder and clambered up. It swung out alarmingly from the side of the ship as she climbed, and she had to remind herself that she’d once jumped across a boarding net with the open sea yawning many feet below her. The britches made the climb easier, though.

Anthony offered her his hand but she scorned his assistance and swung herself over the rail, followed by Mike and the oarsmen. With a gesture of disdain, she flicked the linen blindfold at him. It snapped against his cheek.

Anthony twitched it out of her hands. “Annoyed you, did it?” He sounded somewhat satisfied.

“Tit for tat?” she demanded.

“Precisely.” His eyes gleamed.

“Are we going to play chess?”

“Why else did you go to such trouble to get me a message?” he mocked. “If you’d like to return to the dinghy, we’ll be on our way.”

“On our way where?” Olivia to her annoyance was startled and heard herself express it.

“Wait and see, my flower.” He regarded her still with that gleam in his eye.

Without a word, Olivia swung herself back over the rail, climbed down the ladder, and deposited herself in the boat.

“I’d tread cautious if I was you,” Adam muttered as Anthony leaned over the rail beside him.

Anthony regarded the boat’s occupant rather in the manner of one assessing the temper of an unpredictable feline. “You may have a point. But I think I’m a match.”

“Are you coming or not?” Olivia shouted up at him.

Anthony shot Adam a grin. “Then again, maybe not.” He swung himself over the rail and climbed down to the dinghy.

Whistling softly, he reached up and loosed the painter from its ring. He sat down and took up the oars, using one to push the boat away from the side of the ship. He pulled strongly, still whistling, heading further down the chine.

“Where are we going?” Olivia stared over his shoulder as he rowed. It seemed as if they were going to disappear into the cliffs at the narrowest point.

“Wait and see” was the infuriating response.

At the moment when it really seemed they were about to run up against the wall of cliff at the furthest point of the chine, Anthony rested on his oars, regarding Olivia thoughtfully.

“So, how did you discover the secret of the oratory?”

“A question for a question,” she said, folding her hands in her lap.

“Go on.”

“Are you intending to rescue the king?”

He said nothing immediately, whistling between his teeth in customary fashion, frowning at the anchored ship behind her.

“And if I am?” he asked eventually.

Olivia shrugged. “Nothing,” she said. “But I’m not a fool, and I won’t be taken for one.”

“Oh, believe me, I have never done that,” he said definitely.

“So are you? Is that why you’re pretending to be a nitwit hanger-on at the court, so no one will take any notice of you? So no one will ever think you’re capable of planning so much as a walk along the clifftop?”

Anthony laughed softly. “I trust no one else can see through my little game.”

“Well, of course they won’t. I can see through it because I know you.”

“Do you?” He leaned on his oars, watching her closely in the dim light of the chine.

“I know what you are… or at least, I know what you are not,” she corrected.

“So, how did you discover about the oratory?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I think I have.”

She supposed that in the absence of a denial, she had an affirmative. “A little boy was so excited about his toy ship that he let some things slip while he was playing.”

“Ah, one of the Barker brood.” He took up his oars again. “An inherent risk, but one I consider reasonable.” He frowned at her. “So, how does Lord Granville’s daughter view this matter?”

“I don’t know,” Olivia said. “I haven’t asked her.”

Anthony’s crooked smile flashed.