realised the seriousness of what he was doing. There was no one abroad in the village, either on foot or driving horses and carts. The houses, cottages and hovels were dark, their occupants seemingly abed. The land party had arrived and disappeared like ghosts. The captured seven would pay for the crimes of fifty. Out at sea the smugglers’ cutter had sailed off and was disappearing over the horizon.
Philippa Kingslake, twenty-six years old, unmarried and, in her Aunt Augusta’s eyes, unmarriageable on account of the life she led, was also known in the literary world as Philip King, whose adventurous stories were avidly read by all and sundry, especially by young lads like Benjamin, who had no idea their author was a woman. Had she inadvertently led him into danger, writing tales with heroes he might aspire to emulate? Aunt Augusta would almost certainly think so.
The lane from the village to the house dwindled into a track as she began the uphill climb to the house, arriving so breathless she had to stop and lean against the stable wall to recover before going indoors. The horses were restless; she could hear them snorting and pawing the ground. Had they been startled by the shots which must have been heard clearly by everyone in the village? She went into the stable where her own mount and Nat’s, together with two carriage horses, were housed. Going over to stroke and calm them, she realised they were sweating. They had been out recently and there was only one place for them to have gone. The sheer impudence of the smugglers astounded her. Where was Joe, the coachman, who had quarters above the stables? Had he been sleeping so soundly his charges had been led out under his nose? Or was he involved? Was he even in his bed? Torn between finding out and reporting Ben’s arrest to Nat, she chose the latter and hurried indoors and up to her brother’s room.
And then she was in for another shock. He was not in his bed, had never been to bed by the look of it. Had he also been out with the smugglers? She had not seen him, but then she had not dared show her face—recognising anyone would have been impossible. He had certainly not been one of the seven who had been arrested and herded so close to where she was hidden. Now she was in a quandary. Should she wait until Nat came home or alert her aunt?
She went back to the stables and climbed the ladder to Joe Sadler’s quarters, banging on his door loudly enough to rouse him. After a few minutes he opened the door. He was wearing a hastily donned nightshirt over his breeches, his hair was ruffled and he was pretending to yawn as if woken from sleep. She was not deceived; the bottoms of his trousers were wet. ‘Miss Kingslake!’ he exclaimed, genuinely surprised. ‘What are you doing up in the middle of the night?’
‘Never mind what I am doing. Do you know where my brother is?’
‘No, ma’am. Is he not in his bed?’ ‘No. Was he on the beach with you?’ ‘On the beach?’ he queried, feigning ignorance. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am not stupid, Joe. I know what has been going on. I saw you all down there, unloading cargo.’ ‘You should have stayed indoors, ma’am.’ ‘Then I would not have known what had happened to Ben, would I?’
‘Ben? Master Whitehouse?’ ‘Please do not be obtuse, Joe, you know whom I mean. He was taken by the dragoons along with six others. I need to rescue him and I cannot find Nat. Am I right in thinking he was one of the land party and he sanctioned the use of the horses?’
‘Oh, Miss Kingslake, you was never supposed to know about any of it. Someone tipped off the Customs and we had to scatter. Mr Kingslake will be home d’rectly.’
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, you had better rub down the horses and settle them before the Customs come searching for goods and see they have been out.’ She paused as a new thought struck her. ‘You are not hiding any of the contraband here, are you?’
‘No, Miss Kingslake.’
She was not sure whether to believe him or not, but went back into the house. It was beginning to get light and Mrs Sadler, Joe’s mother, was busy in the kitchen, raking out the fire, ready to cook breakfast.
‘Lord a-mercy, Miss Pippa,’ she said as Pippa entered from the yard. ‘Whatever are you doing up so early?’
‘I went out to watch the boats come in.’
‘You never did! Whatever next! Don’t you know no one goes out on landing nights unless they have business with the free traders? They’d as soon kill you as let you go …’
‘The revenue men and dragoons came upon them with half the cargo still on the beach. Seven of the landing party were arrested …’
The plump woman, whose apple-red cheeks came from constantly working over a kitchen fire, turned pale. ‘Joe …’
‘He is home. I’ve just seen him.’
She let out a long breath. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘But my brother is out and my cousin has been arrested.’
‘No?’ She crossed herself. ‘Oh, Lord have mercy, for the justices won’t.’
‘We will have to get him out somehow. I was hoping Nat would be back by now. I wish I knew what had happened to him. I cannot believe he would leave Ben to his fate.’
‘He would not, Miss Pippa, you can be sure of that. Something prevented him.’
It was that which was worrying Pippa as she climbed the stairs to her aunt’s room to break the news to her. Where was Nat? Was he holed up somewhere safe, waiting for the furore to die down before coming home, or was he lying bleeding, perhaps dying, in one of the numerous channels across the marshes, unable to move? She dreaded the confrontation with her aunt, who would undoubtedly blame Pippa and Nat for the arrest of her beloved son.
The widowed Mrs Augusta Whitehouse had come to live at Windward House six months after Pippa’s parents had died leaving a seventeen-year-old Philippa and thirteen-year-old Nathaniel orphans. Aunt Augusta did not like Windward House; it was exposed to every wind that blew down from the Arctic, as she so often pointed out. It invaded every nook and cranny of the building and she never felt warm in spite of huge fires in every room, but nothing and no one would persuade her to leave her niece and nephew to their own devices, even though Pippa had said she was well able to manage with the servants they had.
‘Leave a seventeen-year-old not yet out in society to manage a household and her brother who seems not to know the meaning of discipline is not to be thought of,’she had declared. ‘I would be failing in my duty if I did not take you both under my wing.’ And so she had shut up her own house and come to Narbeach, bringing her six-year-old son with her. Benjamin, unlike his mother, loved Windward House and was soon into mischief with the village children and doting on his cousin Nat.
And look what it had led to, Pippa mused, as she rapped on her aunt’s bedchamber door and, bidden to enter, went in to find her aunt sitting up in bed, her long grey hair on her shoulders over which she had draped a thick shawl. The room was lit by the embers of the fire of the night before.
‘Philippa, what in heaven’s name are you doing up and about? It is the middle of the night. Has something happened?’
‘It is almost dawn,’ Pippa said. ‘And, yes, something has happened or I would not have wakened you. There was a landing last night …’
‘Everyone knows that. I keep my head under the blankets when I know the free traders are about. It has nothing to do with me.’
In spite of her concern, Pippa smiled. ‘Have you never drunk untaxed tea or taken a nip of illicit spirits, Aunt?’
‘Everyone does that. I ask no questions.’
‘Then ask yourself what Ben does when the gentlemen are about.’
‘Ben? I should think he sleeps, as I do.’
‘Not last night. I saw him arrested and taken away by the dragoons.’
‘Never.’ Augusta scrambled out of bed in one swift movement. She flung a dressing gown over her night-rail and dashed from the room, along the corridor to her son’s bedchamber. His bed