Bay tossed a crust onto the sand. “Go away. We need the rest for breakfast.” The owl couldn’t be bothered, but two sandpipers darted from the dunes and fought an energetic battle over the crumbs. Bay sat up to watch the racket, then pulled a watch from the pocket of his robe, a habit from the army he’d never broken. He needed to know what time it was, although he had nothing in particular to do but woo the woman he wanted to marry. A shadow intervened. Smiling his most charming smile, he turned.
“Frazier told me where to find you.”
Bay kept his smile in place, but his throat constricted. Lady Anne Whitley, cloaked from head to toe in widows’ black, edged up to the carpet, the silver barrel of her gun glinting. Bay took a deep breath, confirming his fears. The weapon had been fired recently, but he’d heard nothing out here except the birds, the waves, and the wind.
“He didn’t want to tell me. Loyal to a fault, he is.”
“I hope you haven’t done something foolish, Anne.” He kept his voice steady, but as loud as he dared, praying that Charlie would stay put.
She shrugged, the hood of her cloak falling back. “He’ll live, if those stupid girls have their way. It was just a scratch.”
Frazier would have been on the road to the village, walking the Toothaker sisters home. Perhaps between the two of them they had helped him to safety and then had the presence of mind to send someone after Anne before she shot the second man of her evening. If something happened to Frazier-
Or to Charlie-
Bay would kill Anne himself.
He couldn’t think twice about it. The woman he had loved once had disappeared.
He watched the gun waver. She was as nervous as he was.
“Where is she?” Vitriol dripped from each word.
“Where is who?” he bluffed.
“Your whore, Bay. The little slut you ran off to Dorset with. That Charlotte.” She spat out the name as though its taste was foul. “You tricked me in London, Bay, sent me away. But I came back.”
He would never be free of her. Charlie would never be safe from her. Did Anne’s parents know the lengths to which she’d gone? Could they keep her confined before she did something desperate? Deadly? They had an aversion to scandal, had done their best to hush up Anne’s bigamy, turned a blind eye when Anne had complained of Whitley’s treatment of her. She’d had no one to turn to for years, except him, stolen moments in a broken life.
“We had a disagreement. She’s gone off somewhere. Surely you heard?”
“I’m sorry to have missed that.” She looked around at the little seraglio he’d created. “Very romantic. Wasted on a tart like her. You never learn, do you? Silly letters, extravagant gestures.”
The letters! That’s where the whole butterfly-nectar tripe came from, all those letters he wrote to Deb to keep her sweet. Charlie must have read more than the one about the necklace. He pictured her in a starched white cap, a frown on her face, poring over the little bundle that had been tied with a blue ribbon. At least she’d have them if he died, words that weren’t even written to her but had meant something just the same.
Bay flopped back on the carpet, inching toward the trunk that held his pistol. They had used it as a dinner table, the bottle of port and two glasses still resting on the surface.
“Do you mean to shoot me, Anne? I say, I’d much rather share the rest of this wine with you. If I’m about to meet my Maker, or more likely go to the devil, at least the pain of it will be dulled.”
“What good are you to me dead?”
“None, I should think. Do you still wish to go forward with your procreation plan? If so, holding a gun on a man is somewhat suppressive of any ardor he might manage. I confess despite the romantic setting, I’m limp as a willow branch at the moment. Not my best night, I’m afraid. What with the little whore lacerating me with her fishwife’s tongue and you threatening me with that pistol, my willy’s awfully weak.”
“You won’t fool me again, Bay. Don’t bother. Lie back.” Cocking the pistol, she smirked in triumph at him.
“Oh, Anne.” He failed to keep the despair out of his voice.
He could try to do as she wished, hoping she’d be so distracted Charlie would somehow emerge from the cave and run up to the house for help, if there was any to be found. He’d kept them short-staffed on purpose, protecting Charlie’s reputation. There was Mrs Kelly. Irene. A scrawny kitchen boy if he remembered correctly. Frazier was wounded, and with luck being tended to in the village. Two stable lads, callow youths with spots, probably sound asleep. His old coachman. Reinforcements were coming tomorrow, too late to save him from this calumny tonight. “You’ll deny me that glass of wine?”
He could topple the bottle, make a pretense of getting another inside the trunk, seize the weapon.
And then shoot her. Perhaps not to kill after all, but to send her own weapon flying into the sand. It was a good plan, the best he could come up with on short notice.
“You’ve had enough. Undo your breeches, Bay. Now.”
Charlotte stood in the oblong of moonlight watching, her heart in her throat.
She had done her business earlier, quite furious after the worst proposal in the history of mankind. Stewing a bit in the dark, she contemplated turning back into the hidden passage to reach the house, but it was pitch-black and the route was unfamiliar. She hadn’t the luxury of playing hide-and-seek and pirates in the tunnel to know where she was. Bay had said he and the servants had brought everything down to the beach over the lawn, so it would be most unwise of her to brave through decades of cobwebs to reach an equally dark cellar.
So she had sat on the swept floor to think, wrapping the cashmere robe around her. Bay didn’t know about the baby, yet he still had asked her to marry him. That was a good thing, she reckoned. There was no talk of duty or guilt. She might be old, but not too old to have his child. He’d be surprised when she told him, but she wouldn’t tell him yet. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be hers. She’d go out there and make him re-propose, this time with a few high-flown phrases, something a woman could cherish on a cold night when the silver in her hair outnumbered the ebony and her bright blue eyes were cloudy and gray. Perhaps she should ask him to write it in one of his infamous letters-his pen was much prettier than his tongue. Although his tongue had its uses. She had shivered with remembrance.
And then she had risen, gone to the secret door, and seen a menacing black wraith standing over Bay with a moonlit silver gun. Heard Bay’s bravado. Saw as he cleverly lounged toward the trunk and the disappointing result. Heard the ominous click of the pistol. The voices were subdued now, carried off by the wind.
There had been an old lantern in the corner. Silently Charlotte backed back along the wall, extending her bare foot. There. She touched cold metal. As she bent to pick it up, the handle came off in her hand and the lantern clattered to the floor, splintering, its echo sounding like cannon fire. Please God that Anne didn’t hear it and come to investigate. Charlotte didn’t doubt that Lady Whitley would shoot her dead without thought. But maybe the sound of the ocean and the gulls and Anne’s black beating heart obscured the noise.
Charlotte picked up a curved scrap. Could she use the lantern shards like a knife? She really didn’t think she had the strength to plunge a bit of broken metal into another human, no matter how worthy there were of dismemberment. But she had to do
She wouldn’t have time to delve into the trunk and get the gun, not that she would know what to do with it to begin with. She’d probably shoot Bay by accident and then she’d want to shoot herself. She had the belt to her robe-a garrote? The thought of strangling Anne was remarkably appealing, but Charlotte knew she’d lose her will or her footing, and the gun might go off. There was nothing for it. She returned for the chamber pot, tipping the contents into the bladed beach grass, using one of the linen rags to dry it out as best she could with trembling hands. Bay was prone now, the striped robe pulled up from his legs, the soles of his bare feet curiously innocent. Anne appeared to be sitting on him, her back straight, the gun not visible but undoubtedly trained on him. Anne was
Charlotte waited. There was murmuring, awkward shifting, then regular movement. She froze, realizing the full extent of what she was watching. But she needed to find her courage, find the right time to interrupt this hellish display when Anne would be too preoccupied to expect anything other than fulfillment of her obscene fantasy.
Charlotte clutched the porcelain bowl with both hands, gliding across the evening-damp sand. The Man in the Moon winked and grinned down at her. If she succeeded, the story would be too good to ever tell, a joke she would share with the full moon and her husband. If she failed, the clouds would blot out all the light in her life.
She was so near. As was Anne, moaning, her dark hair blowing in the breeze. Charlotte was now close enough
