But the situation with Whitley was no smiling matter and, thinking of the major, his expression darkened. He would have to deal with Whitley. Isabel might refuse to marry him, but she could not prevent him from doing just as he pleased in the matter of Major Whitley. Whatever power or secret Whitley held over Isabel had to be discovered and destroyed and he was just the man to do it. A lethal, dangerous glitter lit his eyes. Julian or Charles would have instantly recognized that glitter and applauded its appearance with relief and enthusiasm. The tiger that both cousins knew had to live within the cautious and amiable Marcus Sherbrook had finally awakened.

Chapter 3.

Isabel misjudged Whitley. Even with Sherbrook's stunning announcement echoing in his ears, he did not immediately head back to the Stag Horn Inn and start ferreting around for information. Instead, he kicked his horse into a gallop and rode toward the coast. His schemes involving Isabel may not have played out as he had hoped, but he would consider his next move at a more convenient time. He could brood and plot later; right now, he was focused on another little plan dear to his heart-one that he was confident would pay a much bigger dividend.

Several miles later, the terrain changed dramatically and, the closer he came to the coast, the neat farms and forested areas of the gentle hills gave way to bare, windswept, wildly undulating ground. Coming to a divide in the road, he dug in his vest pocket and pulled out a sc.r.a.p of paper. After a glance at the directions he'd scrawled down, he turned his horse off the main road and onto a path that appeared little more than an animal track. After several turns, the restless English Channel came into view and the scent of the sea was strong in the air, a crisp wind blowing across the increasingly barren ground. Spying the small dwelling and the ramshackle outbuildings behind it in a narrow, desolate gully below him, he carefully guided his horse down the thin, twisting path.

Arriving at his destination, he pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. His boots had hardly hit the ground when an ugly black and tan mongrel of mainly mastiff heritage came charging and snarling from around the side of the house.

"Badger! Down!" yelled the roughly garbed, stocky man who ran close on the heels of the dog. "Down, you blasted cur, down! Down, I say!"

The dog, still grumbling fiercely, dropped to the ground but never took his yellow eyes off Whitley.

Seeing the pistol that had magically appeared in Whitley's hand, the other man said, "Put that away! Badger won't attack you...this time."

Slowly putting away the pistol, Whitley said, "Such a welcome. I am quite overcome."

The other man smiled grimly. "We don't like strangers around here. Be glad I knew you was coming and saw you on the trail; I was tying up the other dogs."

Nodding to a sea-wind-blasted tree nearby, the man said, "Tie your horse there. We can talk inside."

Glad to be out of the buffeting winds, Whitley tied his horse and followed the other man inside the house. A small fire burned in the fireplace. The air inside the house was thick and close, the smell of animals, unwashed bodies, and countless meals cooked over the fire stung Whitley's nostrils.

Gingerly he seated himself in the rough wooden chair indicated by his host and accepted, with some reluctance, the pewter mug of amber liquid pushed into his hand.

Taking a sip, Whitley discovered the liquor was some of the finest French brandy he'd ever tasted. "Very nice," he said, as he swirled the liquid around and delicately sniffed. "Not what I expected."

The other man laughed. "You'll find that here in the West Country we've grown to appreciate the bounty from across the Channel." His jovial manner disappearing, he asked bluntly, "And now what need, major, do you have of someone like my poor self?"

Whitley was aware that the whole south and east coast of England was rife with smugglers, and during his stay in the Devonshire area he had been surprised at how open the common folk were about the smugglers in their midst. But then it hadn't taken him long to realize that in this neighborhood nearly everyone was in one way or another touched by the smugglers. From the farmer who turned a blind eye when oxen and horses vanished from the barn overnight, or the laborers who pocketed a bit of the ready for a night's work, or the landowners who discovered a half anker of brandy or a few yards of lace or silk left discreetly behind, all benefited from the smuggler. Most inhabitants near the coast had friends or relatives who either plied the trade themselves or helped the smugglers. All were united against the Revenuers.

Whitley's initial, discreet interest in the smuggling community had been met with blank-faced silence, but once suspicion had been erased that he might be a preventive man in disguise, it hadn't taken him very long to learn what he wanted. Peter Collard, a local fisherman, might be helpful if one wanted to do a spot of private business. Whitley and Collard had met for the first time last night at the Stag Horn and, after sizing him up, Collard had agreed to a second meeting.

"Someone mentioned that you're a very able sea captain and that your ship, the Sea Tiger, is bigger and better armed than any cutter in the Revenue Service." Whitley took another swallow of his brandy and said carefully, "I heard a, er, rumor that if someone was wishful of escaping the eyes of the authorities and sailing for a French port that you're the man to see about pa.s.sage."

Collard looked down into his mug. "People talk. Don't mean 'tis true."

Whitley bit back an oath, impatient with the fencing. "Let's pretend it is true," he said sharply. "And if it is true, what would one be expected to pay for a message to be delivered to a certain individual in Cherbourg...and waiting a few days for a reply?"

Collard left off contemplating the contents of his mug and his brandy and stared hard at Whitley. "And would you be the one wishful of having such a note delivered?"

"I would."

Collard studied him a few minutes longer, then named a price. It was higher than Whitley had expected, but since Collard was considered the best, he decided it was worth it. The last thing he wanted was for his message to Charbonneau to end up in the hands of the Revenue Service, or at the bottom of the English Channel.

Not wanting to appear too eager, Whitley haggled on the price, and eventually a deal was struck. They discussed the details over a second mug of brandy, and when Whitley rode away, he was satisfied that at least one of his schemes was unfolding as planned.

Having settled with Collard, Whitley turned his thoughts to this morning's disastrous meeting with Isabel. Nothing had gone as he had a.s.sumed it would, and all during the long ride back to the inn, anger and resentment festered inside of him.

By the time he returned to the Stag Horn he was in a thoroughly foul mood and his thoughts about Isabel Manning and Mr. Sherbrook were not kind. Spying the innkeeper, Keating, behind the lovingly polished oak counter in the main room, his gaze narrowed and he considered how he might discover more about the irritating Mr. Sherbrook...and more important, the engagement between Mrs. Hugh Manning and Sherbrook.

The news that Isabel was engaged had been a facer, Whitley admitted sourly, even as he smiled and watched Keating pour him a foaming mug of dark ale. Taking his ale with him, Whitley retreated to a small table in the corner to nurse his drink as well as his wounds. Isabel was proving more difficult to handle than he had first thought and, since his hold on her was tenuous at best, he had to pick his way with care. He had been positive that she would panic and agree to anything he wanted, to keep him from even hinting about his suspicions. It had been a decided setback when she had proved to be so obstinate. She'd eagerly paid him when he first confronted her and he had a.s.sumed that she would continue to pay to keep his mouth shut about what may or may not have happened in India. With his pockets newly plump, he would have happily ridden away...for a while.

Whitley viewed blackmail as an investment, one that if he were careful and didn't get greedy, would keep paying for years and years and years. His problem, in Isabel's case, was that he had no tangible proof and could only bluff-which he was rather adept at doing. His lips thinned. Unfortunately, it appeared that Mrs. Manning was equally skillful; d.a.m.n her!

Until this morning he had been confident that he could frighten Isabel into parting with a great deal more money for the promise of his silence, but the prospect of a fiance changed the entire situation. Biting back a curse, he swallowed a deep draught of ale. That b.l.o.o.d.y Sherbrook!

Arriving in the area three days ago, Whitley had established himself at the inn and made friends with Keating and his wife and a few of the regulars. Having elicited Collard's name, he then concentrated on pumping everyone for more information, ostensibly about the neighborhood, giving out that, though a stranger, he thought to settle nearby. His goal, however, had been to learn what Mrs. Hugh Manning had been doing in the ten years since she left India. Having no access to Isabel's circle of friends or relatives, he'd been forced to use Keating and the like for information. It was surprising, he thought, what the common folk knew about the doings of the likes of Mrs. Hugh Manning. He'd been gratified to learn that she had been living quietly with her son at Manning Court in the home of her father-in-law, Lord Manning, and was well thought of and liked in the neighborhood. There had been no mention of any engagement or courting gentlemen.

It was pure mischance that had brought Whitley to Devonshire and Isabel's doorstep. Newly retired, and with little but his government pension to sustain him, Whitley had immediately set into motion several long-held plans to arrange a very, very comfortable retirement for himself. While in London, he'd dropped in to visit several old friends now stationed at the Horse Guards. He smiled. Renewing former a.s.sociations had proved useful. Having accomplished what he wanted to in London, it was then time to turn his attention to those individuals he'd known in the past and that he thought might be vulnerable to blackmail. Since he had need of someone like Collard and wanted to put some distance between himself and London and any repercussions that might arise, he had chosen Devonshire as a likely locale for the furtherance of his schemes. That Isabel happened to live in the district was pure chance, but it made her the first of several old acquaintances in England that he planned to visit.

Having discovered her still-unmarried state, he had an idea that marriage to a woman of fortune might not be so very disagreeable. Her son was the heir to a barony and the current holder of the t.i.tle was elderly, Manning Court was a handsome house; he was confident that he could live quite comfortably there. Marriage to Isabel would have banished the disagreeable necessity of buying and setting up his own place, and it was unlikely, even with his various schemes to increase his ready cash, that he could afford a country estate like Manning Court. And even if he could afford to purchase such a grand place, the upkeep would have proven ruinous. Besides, why spend his own money when he could spend someone else's?

Sherbrook's advent on the scene certainly put paid to any notion of marrying Isabel and helping himself to her fortune. Sipping his ale, he brooded on the unfairness of fate. Isabel was not to his taste, a little skinny, hot-at-hand, and far too outspoken, but in order to get his hands on her fortune, he could have swallowed his distaste. Marriage to Isabel had never been a sure thing, and the way she was refusing to pay him to keep his mouth shut and go away had made the prospect of his being able to bring her to the altar even more unlikely. Still, it rankled to discover that someone was there before him.

Reviewing the meeting with Sherbrook this morning, he frowned. With his nose for scandal and gossip, he'd wager a purse full of yellow boys that there was something havy cavy about that engagement. There'd been nothing of May or orange blossoms about the pair of them and the more he thought of it, the more convinced he became that if Isabel and Sherbrook were engaged there was something unusual about it. Something he could use to his advantage?

After mulling the situation over for several moments Whitley finally gave up. He couldn't see any way, at this time, that he could turn the engagement to his benefit, but he did intend to snoop about and see what he could find out.

Returning to the counter with his empty mug, he allowed Keating to pour him another. Leaning against the bar, he sipped his second mug of ale slowly and made light conversation with Keating, angling for an opening to drop in mention of Sherbrook.

An interruption occurred a few minutes later with the arrival of two youths. Jostling with each other, as boys will do, they approached the bar. Cheeky grins on each grimy face, they demanded lemonade.

Smiling, Keating served the two boys. Whitley recognized the one boy with the dark, lank hair and round, friendly features as a member of Keating's numerous brood. The other boy was blond-haired, taller, and slimmer, and though his clothes were in as deplorable a state as the other boy's, the material and workmanship bespoke wealth. Whitley's gaze sharpened as he studied the newcomer. The resemblance to Hugh Manning was striking. So this was Hugh's son. How very, very providential.

Having served his newest patrons, wiping a gla.s.s with a small white towel as he stood next to the bar, Keating asked, "And what have you two young h.e.l.lions been up to today? If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say it appears you've been wrestling in the mud." He bent a teasing look on the taller boy. "I'll wager that when Lord Manning and your mother agreed to let you miss term at Eton after you broke your leg at Christmas, they didn't expect you to spend the time cavorting with this scamp. What have you been doing to end up in such a state?"

Both boys burst out laughing and the brown-haired one said, "Farmer Foster's sow farrowed last night, Pa, and half the piglets ended up in the pen next door. He promised us a penny each if we'd catch them and throw them back where they belong. Coo! It was a dirty job. Squealing piglets everywhere and slippery as the devil in the mud and that old sow...We were half afraid she break through the walls of her pen and eat us up."

Keating's nose twitched. "It smells as if you have brought home half of Foster's farm with you." Glancing at the taller boy, he said, "And you, Master Edmund, while I expect Sam to come home looking like a ruffian, I'll wager your mother will not be pleased when she catches sight of you."

Edmund grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. "Mother says that boys are meant to be dirty and that when I grow up I will have a long time in which to be a proper gentleman. All she asks is that I don't come to the table covered in muck or keep lizards in my room."

Whitley cleared his throat and asked, "Did I hear the name Manning? Would that be any relation to Mrs. Hugh Manning?"

Edmund looked at him and said politely, "Yes, sir. Mrs. Manning is my mother."

Whitley smiled charmingly. "What a coincidence! I visited with your mother only this morning. We are old friends; we knew each other in India."

Edmund's very blue eyes lit up. "You knew Mother in India?" Eagerly, he added, "Did you know my father?"

"Why, yes, I did," Whitley replied easily. "Your father and I were great friends. I knew him even before he married your mother."

"By Jove!" Edmund exclaimed, his face flushed with excitement. "That's wonderful! Has Mother invited you to stay at Manning Court? I know that Grandfather will be most pleased to meet a friend of my father's from India." Shyly, he added, "I hope you do not think me too forward, but my father died so long ago and I know very little of him. Mother and Grandfather have told me all they can about him, but Mother doesn't like to talk about India, I think it is too painful for her and reminds her of his death. I would be most gratified to learn more about my father from someone who knew him then."

Whitley was conscious that Keating was watching him with a considering eye. Previously Whitley had given no hint that he had known Isabel-had stated, in fact, that he was a stranger to the area-and he was now worried that his claiming of a prior relationship with Mrs. Manning might arouse suspicion. Behind his jovial manner, Keating was a knowing one and Whitley doubted that much went on in the neighborhood that the innkeeper, or his wife, wasn't privy to.

"Quite a coincidence," Keating said slowly, his mild blue eyes fixed on Whitley's face, "you being friends with Mrs. Manning."

Whitley looked innocent. "You could have knocked me over with a feather when I met her by accident this morning. I pulled my horse aside to allow a lady to pa.s.s on the pathway I was riding and realized I knew her. We recognized each other in an instant. It is hard to say which of us was the most astonished."

"I'll wager Mother was elated to see you," said Edmund, "and that she can't wait to tell my grandfather the good news. Did she invite you to come to dine tonight?"

Taking spiteful pleasure in the problems he could see arising for Isabel once her son returned home, Whitley smiled. "No, she didn't," he replied, "but I think that was because she was distracted by the gentleman who joined us within a few minutes of our meeting. A Mr. Sherbrook? Tall, imposing fellow? A neighbor, I believe?"

Edmund grinned. "Mr. Sherbrook is a great friend of mine, but he and Mother usually avoid each other. I imagine Mother was too busy thinking of a way to escape from him and forgot to invite you."

"Ah, now, Master Edmund, I think you've bothered Major Whitley enough," Keating interposed.

Whitley hid his annoyance, knowing very well what Keating was about. The innkeeper obviously thought that Edmund had said enough and was trying to divert him and, while it irritated him, Whitley was quite satisfied with the results of this little conversation. It was going to be even more satisfying when he dropped his last bit of news.

Astonishment crossing his face, Whitley said, "I'm sure that I don't quite understand. There was no sign of your mother wishing to avoid Mr. Sherbrook's company this morning. Quite the contrary: Mr. Sherbrook announced that they were betrothed."

A stunned silence descended. Enjoying himself immensely, Whitley stared from one shocked face to the other.

"You must have misunderstood him," said Keating, frowning. "There's been no hint of an engagement between them."

"Mother and Mr. Sherbrook? Oh, that can't be right," blurted out Edmund, his eyes nearly starting from his face.

"Mr. Sherbrook was bamming you," Sam Keating said bluntly. "Everyone knows that they can't abide each other."

Whitley shrugged. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, but Mr. Sherbrook plainly stated that he and Mrs. Manning were engaged."

"And Mother didn't toss the words back in his teeth?" demanded Edmund.

"No. In fact, as I recall, she most becomingly allowed him to kiss her hand and looked at him as if he had hung the moon." Whitley cleared his throat. "It was quite touching really."

The other three looked at each other, then back at Whitley.

"Gammon!" said Keating forcefully. "I've never heard such nonsense!"

"What nonsense?" asked his wife as she bustled into the room, carrying a tray of clean gla.s.ses and mugs.

Keating, Edmund, and Sam all began to speak at once and, after a moment of listening to their babble, Mrs. Keating put down the tray on the counter and, raising a hand, said, "One at a time, if you please."

Sending Whitley a dour look, Keating said, "Let him tell you. He's the one who said it."

Fixing a friendly gaze on the major, Mrs. Keating said, "Well, major? What is it that has these three loobys in a fret?"

"Why, only the news that Mrs. Manning and Mr. Sherbrook are engaged to be married," he murmured. "Mr. Sherbrook told me so himself just this morning. Mrs. Manning was right by his side when he told me of their betrothal."

Mrs. Keating looked startled. Her round, plump face perplexed, she muttered, "Never say so! There's been never a hint of such a thing." Thoughtfully, she added, "Although Mr. Sherbrook would play his cards close to his vest and Mrs. Manning ain't one to wash her linen in public...." A smile curved her lips. "I always did think that the pair of them went to an awful lot of trouble to avoid each other. Mayhap, they only wanted to do their courting in private."

She glanced at Edmund, who was standing and staring at her open-mouthed. "Well, my young man, what do you think about having Sherbrook for a stepfather?"

Edmund's mouth shut with a snap. He swallowed. Took a deep breath. An expression of awed delight on his young face, he breathed, "I would like it above anything! And Grandfather will be over the moon. He has said to me time and again that Sherbrook would make Mother an excellent husband-if she wasn't too stubborn to see it."

Keating laughed. "Yes, I can hear the old baron saying just such a thing."

Immensely pleased with the results of his meddling, Whitley said, "I suspect that your mother will tell you all about it when you arrive home."

"Indeed, she will!" Edmund said with a laugh. Putting his empty gla.s.s on the counter, Edmund bid the others good-bye and flew from the room.

Isabel was enjoying a cup of tea with her father-in-law in the small green salon that the family used when not entertaining. It was a pleasant room: gold-patterned pale green silk covered the walls; cream-colored drapes adorned the long windows; and a thick, wool rug in shades of green, cream, and rose hid most of the gleaming walnut parquet floor. Comfortable sofas and chairs done in the same three shades as the rug were scattered about; elegant satinwood tables flanked several pieces of the furniture.

Despite the fine spring weather, as the day waned there was a trifle chill in the air and a small blaze burned in the dark green marble fireplace. Taking advantage of the warmth of the fire, Isabel and Lord Manning were seated nearby.

Isabel had just lifted her cup of tea to her mouth, when the double doors to the room swung open and Edmund catapulted into the salon. As always, her heart swelled with joy when she saw her son. He was, she thought with justified maternal pride, a fine boy.

There was little of Isabel to be seen in Edmund's young face. He was clearly his father's son, having inherited Hugh's wheat-fair hair, bright blue eyes, winning smile, and rugged build. The old baron often said that Edmund could have been Hugh's twin at the same age.

Those same bright blue eyes full of feverish excitement, Edmund rushed up to stand in front of his mother. "Is it true?" he demanded eagerly. "Are you going to marry Mr. Sherbrook? Your friend, Major Whitley, said that Mr. Sherbrook told him so this morning and that you did not deny it. Oh, Mother, it is wonderful!" Turning to glance at his grandfather, Edmund said, "It is just what you wanted. Mother is to marry Mr. Sherbrook!"

Recovering quickly from his astonishment, his lined features reflecting the same excited delight as Edmund's, Lord Manning leaned forward in his chair and exclaimed, "Oh, my dear! This is the best news an old man could hear. You, married to Sherbrook! I could not have asked for anything more wonderful." Springing to his feet with a youthful vigor that belied his age, he crossed the room and pulled on the bell rope. "We must have champagne to celebrate this marvelous news!"

As if turned to stone, her welcoming smile frozen on her lips, Isabel still held her cup of tea halfway up to her mouth. Blindsided, she barely managed to keep the panic that threatened to choke her from showing. Plain, brutal desperation broke her free from the icy paralysis Edmund's announcement had caused and with shaking fingers she carefully set down her cup, grateful she didn't spill a drop. Whitley! May his black soul rot in h.e.l.l! Sick fury burned through her and she cursed Major Whitley with a fluency and an inventiveness that would have scorched polite society's raised eyebrows.

She'd known the risk of Marcus's reckless announcement becoming public had been great; she just hadn't been prepared for it to happen so soon, or to come home to roost in her lap so swiftly. Staring at the ecstatic faces of her son and father-in-law, like a rat escaping a sinking ship she scrambled for a way out of her predicament.

Seeing their open pleasure, their sheer joy, she realized immediately that denying the engagement was out of the question. She could no more have destroyed those delighted expressions than she could have danced on a knife blade. For the time being, the engagement would stand.

In that instant, she felt a prison door snap shut. Looking from one happy face to the other, she doubted even an emphatic denial would bring them to their senses. They wanted this marriage and she had not, until this moment, understood how very much. Fighting back panic, she searched for another way out of this predicament, but no matter how frantically she searched, thanks to Whitley, there was no escape. She would have to marry Sherbrook. Not to escape being labeled a jilt, she thought sickly; that name she would have gladly borne. No, she would have to marry Sherbrook because of all the innocent people she loved and that were now part of this d.a.m.nable situation, and who would be devastated if she cried off.

Looking into her son's excited face, with a hollow feeling in her chest, she knew that she would never allow him to believe in a fantasy world in which she was going to marry Marcus and then shatter it in a few weeks by ending the engagement. Her gaze slid to her father-in-law, finding an identical expression of joy on his face. Her stalwart, kind, generous father-in-law. How could she lead him in such a cruel dance? To let him think his dearest wish was to come true and then rip it away from him? And what of Mrs. Appleton? Before the day ended, she didn't doubt that Lord Manning would have sent the widow news of the engagement, and that in a few days, weeks at the most, another engagement would be announced. How could she let them believe she would marry Marcus, allow them to build hopes and dreams, make plans of their own, and then with a few careless words lay waste to everything? She could not.

Wanting to bury her head in her hands and howl, Isabel flashed a blinding smile to the men of her family. "La! You have found us out," she said with hardly a tremor in her voice. "Marcus and I had thought to keep it to ourselves for a few weeks, but he was so gratified by my acceptance that he blurted out the news to the first person he met."

The butler's entrance into the room saved her from further speech.

"Champagne!" ordered Lord Manning joyfully. "The best in the cellar. And tell Cook to prepare a feast for dinner tonight: Mrs. Manning is to marry Mr. Sherbrook."

His face wreathed in smiles, the butler, Deering, bowed low and murmured, "Allow me to congratulate you, Madame, and to say that the staff will be very happy at the news."

"Enough of that," interrupted Lord Manning. "I want that champagne. Oh, and bring me some writing materials. I must invite Sherbrook to dinner tonight." His smile widened. "And Mrs. Appleton."

"I'll do that," Isabel said hastily. Rising to her feet, she said, "Let me but dash off a note to M-M-Marcus and Mrs. Appleton and I shall return and enjoy a gla.s.s of champagne with you."

Shortly, Marcus was reading his betrothed's scribbled note. There was nothing loverlike about it.

Marcus, she wrote, Edmund brought home the news of our engagement this afternoon. His path crossed Whitley's and Whitley wasted no time in telling him. My father-in-law is beside himself with joy. He would like you to come to dine this evening.