THE LADY
AND THE TIGER
Christina Dodd
CHAPTER 1
Kent, England, 1813
Miss Laura Haver groped her way toward the ocean cliff, guided only by the sound of the waves and scent of salt water on the breeze. Clouds streamed across the stars, blocking the feeble light, and her
foot skidded down the first few inches of cliff before she realized she'd reached her goal.
Sitting down hard, she pulled herself to safety, then scooted back and huddled in the rough sea grass. Pebbles scattered down the steep slope to the beach on the Hamilton estate, and she listened for the shouts that meant she'd been discovered.
There was nothing. Just the endless rocking of the waves on the sandy beach below.
It had been three months. Three months of lonely torment as she pored over her brother's diary and
tried to decipher his cryptic scrawls. Three months of futile visits to the London townhouse where
Keefe Leighton, the Earl of Hamilton, resided and kept an office. Three months of listening while Leighton assured her the government would avenge Ronald's death.
Three months of knowing that he lied.
A boat crunched on the sand below as it drove onto the beach. Shivering with chill and fear, she pulled the dark hood over her brown hair and scooted back to the edge of the cliff. Although it was a moonless night and so dark she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face, she nevertheless observed as covered lanterns flashed like fireflies. They showed bits of light only as the men deemed necessary, and
in their movement she counted at least twenty smugglers—eight unloading the boat, eight receiving on
the beach, and three men just standing, apparently supervising the operation.
One tall figure moved back and forth, and from the consideration all the men paid him, it was obvious
he was the leader. Ronald's diary mentioned him only as Jean, but Laura feared she knew his identity. She strained her eyes wide and prayed for just one moment of light—and when it came, she stood in indignation.
"He is the smuggler."
As if her words caught on the wind and blew to his ears alone, Leighton turned and looked up toward
the top of the cliff. She saw the glint of his eyes, and with the instinct of a hunted creature, she crouched behind a rock and froze. She didn't want Leighton to see her here. She couldn't let him find her here.
All her ugly suspicions had been proved true, and if he had killed her brother to silence him, she doubted he would hesitate to murder her, too.
Her heart pounded and she wanted to flee with unrestrained panic, but she'd come too far and too much was at stake for her to lose her composure now. Straining to listen, she could hear men's voices above
the lap of the waves, but no shout of discovery gave her reason to run. She had to keep her head, get back to the inn, and write her report to give to the authorities. It would be difficult to convince them that
a member of the House of Lords was nothing but a common criminal, but with Ronald's diary as corroboration, she'd do it.
She had to, for Ronald's sake.
She crept backwards. Her skirt caught on her heels, rocks ground into the palms of her hands. She stood finally, and leaned to dust off her skirt. When she straightened and squinted toward the horizon, she realized a tall figure blocked out the stars. She stared, pinned by fear, then with a yelp and a start, she whirled and ran.
She could hear the sound of thudding boots behind her. The gorse grabbed at her skirts and the ruts of
the mostly untraveled road moved and twisted in snakelike guile. The wind gusted at her back and carried a man's warm breath to touch the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh ran over her skin and she moaned softly, clutching the stitch that started in her side. When she could run no longer, she dared a look behind her.
All she could see was black night. The stars had disappeared completely and the upcoming storm splattered the first raindrops in her face. She'd imagined Leighton when he wasn't there.
With a ragged sigh of relief, she slowed to a walk and trudged toward the inn. How stupid and cowardly she'd been in her precipitous flight! But for weeks she had dreamed about Leighton chasing her. She'd seen his face on every dark-haired man who walked the streets. Something about Leighton convinced
her she should flee and never stop.
It hadn't always been that way. When Ronald had been killed, she'd gone to meet Leighton for the first time, confident he would help her. After all, Ronald had been Leighton's first secretary, and he spoke
of Leighton in dazzling terms.
Instead, Leighton had actively and personally repelled her inquiries. According to him, she should remain at home like a proper lady, and the smugglers would be brought to justice when the time arrived. But she couldn't bear to be patronized, especially not by Leighton. She just clenched her teeth and faced up to him, ignoring the breadth of his shoulders, the sculptured perfection of his features, and her own untutored desire to hurl herself into his arms and let him care for her. Early in their relationship, she
might have done just that, but from the very beginning some instinct told her that his placid exterior hid something deep, potent and deceptive.
Still apprehensive, she glanced behind her again. Ronald had always said she was too straightforward to sneak around and too blunt for diplomacy, but now that she'd read his diary she'd learned that her brother had led a secret life. He had her convinced he was nothing more than Leighton's secretary, when actually he had worked to uncover this ring of smugglers. A frown puckered her forehead. He hadn't told her because he didn't want her to know and worry. He'd been protecting her, and now she was alone with
no one to avenge his death but her.
She'd do it, too. She'd make sure those responsible suffered as she had suffered with his loss.
The rain began to fling itself to the ground with increasing conviction, and she wrapped her redingote,
that coat which she'd sewn with her own fingers, tighter around her shoulders.
When she saw the lights of the Bull and Eagle, she fixed on them as if they were her salvation. She knew, of course, that Leighton might seek her, but not tonight. He had brandy to unload and reckless men to pay, and he would never imagine that she'd be on her way at first light, even if she had to walk.
Carefully she crept through the now-muddy inn yard and pushed the outside door open. In the two days she'd stayed here, she'd ascertained that it squeaked if not handled properly, and that brought Ernest bustling out of his quarters to smile and bow and greet her as if she were the salvation of Leighton
Village.
And all because of one little lie she'd been driven to tell.
God would forgive her, she was sure, for she'd told it in pursuit of truth and justice, but she didn't know
if hearty, bald-headed Ernest ever would.
The hinges didn't make a sound. The taproom was empty, as it had been when she left, and she didn't understand how her luck had held. She didn't want anyone to know she'd been out, yet at the same time during the other evenings she had been here the townsfolk had congregated in the taproom for ale and conversation. Briefly she wondered what kept them away, why the fire burned low and place looked abandoned. Then a burst of angry shouting from the kitchen sent her fleeing up the stairs. At the top
she paused and listened.
Ernest's voice she could recognize, and he sounded both agitated and afraid. The other voice was a man's, lower, less distinct, but with a tone that raised the hair on the back of her head.
Who was it? Gripping the rail in both hands, she crept down two steps and listened intently. Why did he sound so menacing? Heedlessly, she stepped on the e
dge of the third step and it creaked beneath her shoe. The conversation in the kitchen stopped and she froze. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards and Ernest stepped into the common room. She tried to melt into the shadows, and he stared up at her. He saw her; she would have sworn he saw her, but he shrugged and walked back into the kitchen without any indication that he'd noted her presence.
The conversation began again, lower this time, and she sneaked to her room. Silently, she took the key from her reticule and unlocked the door. Slipping inside, she shut the dark oak panels behind her and turned the key again, protecting herself from all comers.
It was just as she'd left it. This was, as Ernest had told her the night she arrived, the best bedchamber in the inn and the one which had served Henry the Eighth when he'd been stranded in a storm. Laura didn't know if she believed that, but certainly a gigantic old-fashioned bed dominated the room. It rested on a dais in the corner, and the canopy was hung with velvet curtains which could be drawn to keep in the warmth. Gargoyles decorated every bedpost and each rail between had been sanded and polished until it shone. Ernest had proudly told her that over two thousand geese had been plucked to stuff that feather mattress. She only knew she'd been lost in it when she slept.
The fire in her fireplace burned, piled high with sweet-smelling logs. On one side was a settle, a bench whose high back protected her from drafts when she sat there. On the other stood a desk and a chair.
As she always did, she went to the desk first. The candles had burned down while she was gone, but
they still illuminated the papers that were strewn in artful disarray. Beneath them rested a diary. Ronald's diary. His diary was the one reason she knew to be in Leighton Village now, tonight. It was the reason she'd scouted the area earlier in the day and had deduced that the cove would be the landing place.
She reassured herself the diary remained safe, then thoroughly covered it with the papers again. Ronald had taught her that. Always hide things in plain sight, he said. He'd learned that while in service to Leighton, and she'd found it good advice.
Flushed with guilt, she opened the desk drawer and pushed her hand all the way to the back. Her fingertips touched the cold metal, and she drew out a small silver pistol. On this matter, she ignored Ronald and his advice. She couldn't bear to leave the deadly thing out. She'd stressed her need for
privacy to Ernest and been careful to lock the door whenever she left, but possession of such a firearm made her nervous. It was Ronald's, and until he'd been killed she'd never imagined she would want to carry one. She knew how to use it, of course. Her father had insisted on her learning self-defense while they lived in India. But back in England, she'd believed herself inviolate. Now, with Ronald's death, her veil of security had been ripped and she trusted no fellow being.
Strange, but her sense of being threatened by Leighton had started long before her suspicions that he
was the smuggler congealed into a certainty. Once when she turned suddenly, she caught him contemplating her with a look she'd seen only one other time. When her parents were alive and the
whole family lived in India, she'd seen a tiger concealing itself in high grass, waiting for his prey. Leighton's mien betrayed a tiger-like confidence in himself. He was sure he could have her if he
wanted, but the time wasn't yet right. His expression had given her a shiver, but when she tried to
verify her impression, all expression had smoothed from his face.
But. as the months had worn on, she sometimes thought she could sense the impatient twitch of his
tail and the way he crouched, waiting to pounce.
Shivering, she replaced the pistol. Stripping off her wet redingote, she flung it over the back of the settle, then laid her gloves by the feeble flames. She slipped out of her practical boots, now covered with mud, and placed them neatly by the gloves. Her dark blue walking dress, so suitable for the city and for the occupation of seamstress, was bedraggled from the night's ill-use, and she touched the hem with trembling fingers. She hadn't the money to replace it; every cent she had had gone into this trip to Kent. Still—she firmed her chin—it was worth the loss of a mere gown to bring Ronald's murderer to justice, and she was close to that now. Kneeling, she repaired the fire so it burned brightly again, warming her hands all the while. As her hair dried, the short strands sprang away from her head and curled in wild abandon, but
she didn't care tonight, for who would see it?
* * *
"She's at the Bull and Eagle." Keefe Leighton, the Earl of Hamilton, gave the boy a push. "Go back and tell the others, then return and wait in the stable. I'll be out when I've got the information."
In the dark and the rain, he couldn't see Franklin leave, but he knew he would be obeyed. Every one of his men was loyal to him, and only to him, but tonight something had gone wrong. As he kicked the
door of the Bull and Eagle, he cursed the woman he'd seen silhouetted against the stars.
Laura. His instincts told him it was Laura Haver, and his instincts were very active where she was concerned. What was she doing here on this precise night? What did she know, and how did she know
it? What had her brother told her that he hadn't been able to communicate to Leighton? Leighton needed to get the answers, so he'd abandoned his men as they unloaded casks of brandy and hid them in the caves on the cliffs above the beach. Leighton had to follow the woman.
The taproom was empty. Not even Ernest stood before the fire that sputtered on the hearth, and Leighton's gaze probed every corner as he scraped mud off his boots. Then the innkeeper bustled out
of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. "Hey, what are ye doing out tonight?" he demanded roughly. "Ye know—"
Leighton swept his hat off and Ernest stopped in his tracks. Something that looked like horror flashed briefly across his rotund face, then he wiped his expression clear and allowed a slow grin to build. Hurrying forward, he took Leighton's cloak. "M'lord. How delightful! M'lady assured me ye'd arrive."
"M'lady?"
"M'lady arrived yesterday, but she didn't expect ye for several days."
What was the man babbling about? Leighton kept his face carefully blank. His mother was dead, his grandmother seldom left the manor, and they were the only noblewomen Ernest called "m'lady." In a neutral tone, Leighton asked, "Didn't she?"
Chuckling, Ernest slipped behind the bar and opened the tap on a cask of Leighton's favorite ale. Brown liquid splashed into the mug while Ernest said, "Aye, 'twill be a surprise sure to please her. Almost as pleasant as the surprise ye've given us." He winked and passed Leighton the glass. "Marrying the young lady, and at Gretna Green, too! We'd never have thought it of ye, m'lord, but when love strikes as
sudden as all that, a man's got to leg-shackle the heifer before she's had a chance to think."
"My opinion exactly." Leighton clutched the handle of the mug and wished he could clutch someone by the throat with equal fervor. He'd come in, furious and determined, and been knocked completely awry by Ernest's babblings. Now he found he was supposed to have married—and at Gretna Green. "Who knows about this?"
"Ah . .." Ernest swabbed the length of the bar with a rag. "Well, to tell ye the truth, m'lord, word seems
to have got out in the village."
"Now, how did that happen?"
Ernest scrubbed, harder.
Taking a chance, Leighton used her name. "Did... Laura ... mention this to many people?"
"Nay! She was as discreet as ye instructed, and told only me."
So it was Laura who awaited him in the bedchamber above. Of course, she didn't realize her lord would ever truly arrive, but perhaps these events could be turned to his favor.
Leaning on his elbows, Ernest smiled at Leighton feebly. "But of course the women wondered, and I
gave 'em just one hint, and before I knew it—" He flung up his hands in a helpless display. "Ye know women, m'lord. They're terrible gossips."
"Damn!" Leighton pa
ced away from the bar. The whole village knew that their lord had supposedly married? Laura Haver had a lot to answer for, and the list grew with each passing minute. "Gossip can
be the cause of a lot of trouble. Did m'lady happen to tell you why I wasn't with her or why she didn't
go on to Hamilton Court when it is so close?"
"Aye, m'lord, she told me everything."
Ernest beamed with pride at being trusted with so many secrets, yet at the same time lines of worry marred the baby softness of his skin and his dark gaze darted toward the kitchen as if he perceived
danger within. Leighton had never seen him look so beleaguered, and it stopped him in his tracks. In
his business, he recognized the signs of a traitor, and he softly paced back to the bar and leaned on it. "Ernest, have you got a problem you'd like to discuss?"
Leighton well knew the power of his gaze, and Ernest cowered, then dropped his rag to the floor and
bent down behind the bar to pick it up. "I'll take ye up there now, m'lord." He bustled out from behind the bar, his shoulders hunched. "I know ye're anxious for a reunion."
Wanting to see how badly Ernest wanted him gone, Leighton said, "I ought to eat first."
"No!" Ernest turned on him, then tried to smile. "Not here. In yer room. I'll bring up a meal to yer room."