Amanda's Story

Messages in the Night

"Where did you go?"

"Ah, ma petite, that I cannot tell you."

Rachel frowned, pushing her lower lip out slightly. "It's been more than a week."

Beauchamps looked up from where he was splitting a blade of straw, tossing the tiny golden pieces onto the floor of the stable. He met Rachel's challenging look, a glimmer of humor appearing in his stone-gray eyes. "I've had to travel a bit. I may only be attached to the Yorkshire militia for official work, but unofficially, I have duties that take me across half of England."

Rachel pulled one corner of her mouth down, considering. "At least you've not had to cross to France."

Beauchamps looked back down at the straw he was obliterating and said nothing.

"Did you? I mean, have you gone to France? Even though the war goes on?"

He tossed the last piece of straw aside and stepped closer to her. Taking both her hands in his, he pulled them to his chest, looking down into her eyes. "There are ways to cross safely. Letters of passage, official vessels and private ships that are allowed to go unmolested. It's not as unusual as you'd assume."

Rachel studied his face as he spoke. He seemed to grow more familiar each time they spoke, yet more surprising as well. Now she could see, the tanned skin of his face told of exposure to sun and wind. The way he carried himself, a sign of balance, probably gained on many sea crossings. The roughness of his hands, not just from holding the reins of his new favorite horse or practicing sword play with the militia. He was a man used to action.

"You're careful?"

He smiled and brought her hand to his mouth, giving her knuckles a soft caress. "Oui. Always careful."

Rachel's heart stuttered at his touch. She sighed, letting a bit of her worries slip away. "Remember I pray for you. So does Father."

Beauchamps nodded, giving her hand a final kiss before releasing it. He straightened as he heard someone approaching, and Rachel turned to look over her shoulder at the sound.

Vern approached, and with him was his brother, Thomas.

"Bonjour," Beauchamps greeted them, stepping out of the stall and into the well-trodden aisle of the stable. He clasped hands with the men and then motioned for them to gather to the side. With a nod to Rachel, he sent her off to stand near the doors, watching to give warning if anyone approached.

Rachel could not hear their conversation, just some low murmurs as the two servants apparently reported updates and information on local activity. Rachel crossed her arms and took another step forward, poking her head just outside the door. The twin lanterns on either side of the gates spilled their light into golden pools upon the yard. Late as it was, most of the other servants had retired for the night, the stable boys off to their quarters above the carriage house, the gardener and cook to their cottages. Betsy was probably still in the house, waiting for Rachel to come inside so she could attend to her needs before bed.

Ten minutes passed. The night grew chill, and Rachel pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She had an uneasy occupation these days—wait for Beauchamps to send word, either through Vern or a note delivered by a servant, and then she'd meet him at the assigned time. Usually she just had to pass on a letter. Sometimes he'd have questions about people she'd seen in church or in the village. Today, she'd ridden by Burley Park, said hello to Phoebe, and while mounting her horse to ride back home, passed on the time and location of tonight's meeting to Thomas. Rachel knew by deduction that the Earl was helpful in some way to the efforts of the spies, for much of the activity fell in the environs of the park or the vicarage. Beauchamps was careful not to connect the dots too clearly—he wanted Rachel to be helpful, but not complicit. There were other women who could get in deep with the local folks without eliciting curiosity. The vicar's daughter would certainly raise eyebrows if she showed up in these situations.

A shuffling behind her made Rachel turn. The three men were parting, Thomas disappearing out the darker side of the stable, Vern slipping back to the stairway that led to his quarters in the loft. Beauchamps clucked to Battelle, munching hay in a stall, and slipped the bit in his mouth and buckled the bridle. He then led him out to the yard, Rachel following a pace or two behind.

"Another week?" she asked, and he looked up. He finished checking over the saddle and reached out his arm, beckoning Rachel to his side. He pulled her in tight, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"I'll be away at least a week, maybe a fortnight."

She exhaled slowly, disappointment and acceptance both ebbing through her sigh.

"There is one matter I hope to make clearer, one that could be vital to your family."

Rachel's eyes flew to his face, her brows knitting together. "To us?"

He nodded, a serious gravity pulling at his features. "Thomas reports that the Earl has continued corresponding with Dabney's father and the constable of Selby. There was an inconsistent report from two or three men, raising suspicions about the accident."

"But the inquest was already held."

He nodded again. "We won't change anything for Dabney's case. But we must satisfy our curiosity on a couple of points. One of the most curious things—how Rachel Pearce's dance card wound up at the scene of the accident."

Rachel felt her jaw drop. "My—" She swallowed and tried again. "My card? Why, I gave it to Dabney at the ball. He wanted to prevent me from having to grant a dance to Du Roche or one of his accomplices. Why would he keep it, though?"

Beauchamps shrugged. "It's just one little intrigue in a whole web of intrigues. We've got other questions, still unanswered. Your help has been tremendous, though." He kissed her hand and turned to take up the reins, but Rachel stopped him with a hand on his arm.

He turned back, one eyebrow lifted in question.

"There are a lot of things I don't understand," Rachel began, then hesitated, glancing down. "I just want assurance that you, and I...become you and I." She dared raise her eyes, seeking his understanding.

A spark glinted in those gray eyes, and a small smile twisted the corners of his mouth. He put a hand on her hip and pulled her into him, tipping her chin up with his other hand. He brushed his lips to hers, sending a tingle straight to her core. Then he deepened the kiss, his thumb moving along her jaw, his fingers slipping into her hair.

Rachel's mind reeled, giddy and drunken with the sensations she'd craved during their week apart. Too soon he broke the kiss. She opened her eyes to see his soft gaze on her.

"I remember another evening in the stable, when I chided you for being so wanton as to meet a man out here, without a chaperone." He grinned, and she nodded, remembering their heated words one evening when she'd chased John Ellsworth out here, demanding an explanation, only to be left in the dust. Beauchamps had followed, meaning to give her a kind warning, but his intervention had led to nothing but sparks—although she was angry, it was the first time she'd realized how tempted she was to kiss him.

"I still think you need a chaperone, or we may be off to Gretna Green soon." He mounted then, leaving her with a smile that warmed the moonlight of the October night and kept her gazing after his shape as he rode Battelle into the shadows.