him since they were boys. But the group sat right
behind him, and he’d soon realised that the supposed viscount was
talking about raising money by selling Felix’s childhood
friend.
“Does Miss
Bellingham have a fortune, Maddox?” one of the others asked. “I’m
not interested in a chit without a fortune.”
“A competence,
rather. In trust till she turns 25 or marries,” Cyril said. “If she
had a fortune, Peckridge, I’d be marrying her myself! But 2,000
pounds, gents! That’s worth an investment of 500, surely? And
she’ll have control of it herself in less than three years. A sin
against nature, that is.”
“22? That’s
pretty old! What’s wrong with her? Secondhand, is she?” The others
all sniggered.
Cyril was
indignant, more on behalf of his sale than in defence of Miss
Bellingham. Felix was indignant enough on that cause for both of
them. He remembered Jocelyn Bellingham; remembered her well. She
was Cyril’s cousin, not his; the daughter of Cyril’s mother’s
sister, left to her aunt’s care after the death of her parents,
“and as shy and modest a lady as you could wish to find,” Cyril
proclaimed.
Even if he
hadn’t had his mission, Felix might have spoken up at that point,
for the sake of the child he remembered. As it was, he introduced
himself (as Frederick Matthews), apologised for overhearing, and
announced that he was interested in 2000 pounds and would be
willing to consider taking a wife. It worked, and here he was,
drinking his own port, in his own house, and listening to cousin
Cyril describing a lady in terms that made him see red.
Suddenly, he
could stand it no longer. His investigation into the Black Fox
would have to wait for tomorrow. “I’m tired, Maddox,” he said. “I
think I’ll turn in.”
But when Felix
got to the room assigned to him—one of the guest rooms on the west
frontage of the house—he couldn’t sleep. Perhaps a stroll in the
woods: scene of many a childhood game when he and his widowed
mother lived here with his grandfather. And a slightly older Felix
often stole out on a night such as this, when the moon was nearly
full, to trap game in the woods, or just to watch animals living
their secret lives while the world slept.
No sooner
thought than done; he let himself down from the window and was soon
slipping into the shadows under the trees. As he had so many times
before, he chose a trunk to lean against, stilled his movements,
and slowed his breathing to wait for what the night had to show
him.
There was a
fox, trotting purposefully along the path. An owl swept by on
silent wings. Two deer stepped daintily out of the undergrowth,
then startled as they caught the fox scent and leapt backward
again, crashing away into the deeper shadows.
No. Not the
fox. Someone was coming from the house. Without moving a muscle, he
prepared for action. A figure. But not large enough to be Cyril.
The hope that he could clear this whole matter up this first night
died, but his curiosity remained. Where was the lad going? For the
person hurrying along the path was no more than a boy, surely;
short and slender, with a youthful gait.
On an impulse,
Felix followed, using all his woodcraft to stay silent and
undetected, but still keep within sight of the boy.
They took the
fork leading down to the cliffs. Below on the beach, clear in the
moonlight, people milled around several rowboats in the surf. He’d
found the smugglers after all! No legitimate cargo would be
unloaded on a remote beach in the middle of the night.
The boy took
the path down the cliff face, but Felix would be seen if he
followed. He concealed himself in a rocky outcrop, where he could
watch both the beach and the path from the village. If the
smugglers planned to take the cargo inland tonight, that was the
most likely direction for whatever transport they had arranged.
As time wore
on, however, it became clear that the cargo was being stored in the
old cave complex Felix used to
behind him, and he’d soon realised that the supposed viscount was
talking about raising money by selling Felix’s childhood
friend.
“Does Miss
Bellingham have a fortune, Maddox?” one of the others asked. “I’m
not interested in a chit without a fortune.”
“A competence,
rather. In trust till she turns 25 or marries,” Cyril said. “If she
had a fortune, Peckridge, I’d be marrying her myself! But 2,000
pounds, gents! That’s worth an investment of 500, surely? And
she’ll have control of it herself in less than three years. A sin
against nature, that is.”
“22? That’s
pretty old! What’s wrong with her? Secondhand, is she?” The others
all sniggered.
Cyril was
indignant, more on behalf of his sale than in defence of Miss
Bellingham. Felix was indignant enough on that cause for both of
them. He remembered Jocelyn Bellingham; remembered her well. She
was Cyril’s cousin, not his; the daughter of Cyril’s mother’s
sister, left to her aunt’s care after the death of her parents,
“and as shy and modest a lady as you could wish to find,” Cyril
proclaimed.
Even if he
hadn’t had his mission, Felix might have spoken up at that point,
for the sake of the child he remembered. As it was, he introduced
himself (as Frederick Matthews), apologised for overhearing, and
announced that he was interested in 2000 pounds and would be
willing to consider taking a wife. It worked, and here he was,
drinking his own port, in his own house, and listening to cousin
Cyril describing a lady in terms that made him see red.
Suddenly, he
could stand it no longer. His investigation into the Black Fox
would have to wait for tomorrow. “I’m tired, Maddox,” he said. “I
think I’ll turn in.”
But when Felix
got to the room assigned to him—one of the guest rooms on the west
frontage of the house—he couldn’t sleep. Perhaps a stroll in the
woods: scene of many a childhood game when he and his widowed
mother lived here with his grandfather. And a slightly older Felix
often stole out on a night such as this, when the moon was nearly
full, to trap game in the woods, or just to watch animals living
their secret lives while the world slept.
No sooner
thought than done; he let himself down from the window and was soon
slipping into the shadows under the trees. As he had so many times
before, he chose a trunk to lean against, stilled his movements,
and slowed his breathing to wait for what the night had to show
him.
There was a
fox, trotting purposefully along the path. An owl swept by on
silent wings. Two deer stepped daintily out of the undergrowth,
then startled as they caught the fox scent and leapt backward
again, crashing away into the deeper shadows.
No. Not the
fox. Someone was coming from the house. Without moving a muscle, he
prepared for action. A figure. But not large enough to be Cyril.
The hope that he could clear this whole matter up this first night
died, but his curiosity remained. Where was the lad going? For the
person hurrying along the path was no more than a boy, surely;
short and slender, with a youthful gait.
On an impulse,
Felix followed, using all his woodcraft to stay silent and
undetected, but still keep within sight of the boy.
They took the
fork leading down to the cliffs. Below on the beach, clear in the
moonlight, people milled around several rowboats in the surf. He’d
found the smugglers after all! No legitimate cargo would be
unloaded on a remote beach in the middle of the night.
The boy took
the path down the cliff face, but Felix would be seen if he
followed. He concealed himself in a rocky outcrop, where he could
watch both the beach and the path from the village. If the
smugglers planned to take the cargo inland tonight, that was the
most likely direction for whatever transport they had arranged.
As time wore
on, however, it became clear that the cargo was being stored in the
old cave complex Felix used to
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