Wreck and Ruin (Regency Rendezvous Book 6)

  Amy Corwin

  Regency Rendezvous

  A Scarsdale Publishing Perfection Imprint

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Amy G. Padgett Wreck and Ruin

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations imbedded in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact information: contact@amycorwin.com

  Editorial Services Provided by: Vince Dickinson

  Judy Lynn, Judicious Revisions LLC

  Publishing History

  First Edition, 2017

  Cover Design R. Jackson Design

  Images Period Images

  SP

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  The Earl’s Encounter

  More Regency Rendezvous Romances

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  February 18, 1828, Coast of Cornwall

  The ship lurched beneath Hannah’s feet, and the small box containing her jewelry flew out of her hands as her shoulder hit the wall of her cabin. Her mother’s emerald and diamond necklace sparkled as it tumbled out of the box, random shafts of light catching the stones as the lantern swung wildly above her head.

  She caught the edge of her bunk with cold fingers. The shriek of wooden timbers splintering against sharp-edged rocks broke through the maelstrom of howling wind and waves. Her stomach roiled sickeningly. Water slammed into the door of her cabin, rattling the flimsy barrier and rushing underneath to wash over the floor and saturate her delicate white satin slippers.

  Already dressed for dinner—for her last dinner—aboard the Orion before it was to dock in Liverpool in the morning, she held on to a bedpost as the floor tilted beneath her feet. How could they wreck this close, go down just eighteen hours before she was due to reach England?

  The ship bucked again, throwing off her question with a disdainful shrug and sending her falling onto her bed.

  The necklace twined between her fingers as she clutched at the heavy coverlet, trying to regain her balance. Another wave pounded at her door and the ship tilted so sharply that, for a few seconds, the door slid into the floor’s position.

  We’re going down! Without thinking, her hands scrabbled over the bed, snatching up her jewelry and tying it in her handkerchief. She stuffed it into a plain linen pocket, which she tied around her waist, not caring that it was over the thin white silk of her dress rather than properly hidden beneath her skirts. Her glance flew to the large, hump-backed chest in the corner. The swaying light cast huge black shadows over the walls as her cabin shuddered. Timbers creaked and snapped as the vessel cracked against jagged rocks.

  My papers—money! There was no time. Even as she threw herself at her trunk, the door burst open. Sea water flooded in. A world glimmering in gold and black swirled around her before the light was extinguished. An icy wave battered her against the wall and then pulled her out into the darkness, plunging her into the ocean.

  Spars, a broken mast, and debris slammed into her as she kicked furiously, trying to get her mouth above the cold waves. Her eyes stung. All she could do was plunge under the swirling surface and kick furiously, trying to escape the pull of the sinking ship. Pushing upward, she gasped for air, freezing rain cutting against her cheeks and forehead.

  A twinkle of light—a distant golden glow flickered amidst the swirling gray and black of the storm. Her heart leapt. Someone had seen the ship foundering against the rocky shoreline—someone had come to help! With strong strokes, she slipped through the crashing waves, blinking saltwater and rain out of her eyes as she fixed her gaze on that small yellow spark.

  Something rough and yet yielding brushed her arm. A sodden, woolen coat. Another survivor? She grabbed at it, pulling it closer, only stare into the flat dead eyes of a sailor, the skin on the side of his face ripped and flapping loosely in the water, the flesh already drained of blood. Recognizing him with horror, she thrust him away and kicked toward the sharp, black teeth of the rocks guarding the shore.

  Despite her efforts, the storm was reluctant to let Hannah escape so easily. Waves tumbled around her, teasingly drawing her away from the flickering light, only to toss her back against the rocks like an old, discarded doll. Her hands and arms stung from the salt and icy rain. The outcroppings were so sharp and so slippery with seaweed and water that she couldn’t pull herself out, couldn’t find a way to fight against the push and pull of the violent seas.

  Part of a broken mast hit her back. She sucked in a mouthful of saltwater in a gasp of pain. Coughing and spitting out water, she grabbed hold of the spar, the wood smooth under her bruised hands. Sputtering, she kicked wearily—or thought she was kicking. Her limbs were so cold that she could no longer feel her feet.

  Her body shook—her muscles no longer obeyed her—and the thought of giving up yanked at her. Was she even still holding on? She shifted her hands clumsily, locking her elbow over the bit of wood. A huge, black boulder loomed ahead of her.

  No!

  Thud! The tip of the mast hit the rock, jarring her. She tightened her grip and kicked wearily, wedging the spar between two massive stones. The toe of her right foot hit a small shelf beneath her, enough to stand tiptoe upon, but not high enough to give her purchase to scramble over the tumble of stones.

  But it was enough to give her a moment to catch her breath.

  “Any others?” a man’s deep voice sliced through the gale.

  She raised her head, her mouth open, but water rushed over her lips. She spit it out.

  Yes—me! I’m here! The thought screamed through her.

  In the fitful light, she could see broad shoulders draped in a heavy cloak. A wide-brimmed hat hid the man’s face, and the fitful light made it impossible to see more than his general, slouching shape, but her hands tightened around the wood she clung to, hope flaring in her chest.

  Rescuers! Someone had seen the ship—someone was trying to help them.

  “An officer,” another man replied before she could speak. “Clinging to a rock.”

  A sharp cry caught in Hannah’s throat, the sound lost amidst the wailing of the wind and crashing of the waves. An officer! First Officer Edward Trent?

  Her thoughts surged with hope. He’d been so kind to her during the month-long voyage from Boston, he’d even taken the time from his duties to bring her a cup of tea when she’d felt ill the first day out from port. And he’d survived—thank God! She wasn’t the only one, there were others. There had to be!

  “Push him off, then.”

  “But—”

  “You have a club—use it.”

  What? The stark coldness and inhuman contempt in the man’s words made Hannah’s aching fingers stiffen. She tightened her arm around the broken mast, trying to stay afloat as her limbs shook uncontrolla
bly.

  Think! She must have misheard them—they couldn’t possibly intend to murder a man as he struggled out of the punishing sea. Her mind whirled uselessly, terror making coherent thought as slippery as an eel.

  All she could think about was Officer Trent’s kind eyes. A surge of panic tore her breath away.

  What about her companion, Mrs. Lawrence, and her maid? Surely, they were alive somewhere, had managed to make it to shore. These men wouldn’t murder the helpless women, would they? The thought stalled in her mind, with the sickening certainty that if they used their clubs on Officer Trent, they were unlikely to leave anyone else alive.

  Anyone.

  Her mouth clamped shut as another wave washed over her face. She had to get out of the water soon, before she lost all strength and vitality. Her body was shaky and weak—she couldn’t hold her precarious perch much longer.

  An ugly chuckle greeted the closest man’s remark, and the second man said, “The rock that caught him took care of him right and proper. Smashed his head in for us. No need to do nothing ‘cept watch.”

  “Watch, then, and take care there are no other survivors. Her cargo is our only interest.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  A glint of light caught Hannah’s attention. The man had placed his hand on the rock above her. A ring glinted in the false lights they’d set along the shore to trap the Orion. She stared at it. An animal face with dark eyes framed with wings. An animal as odious as the man wearing the ring.

  I’ll remember that—never forget it.

  The hand disappeared, but the pounding of the waves, rain, and rocks around her obscured his departure.

  And kept her safe from his notice.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. She couldn’t tell if he was standing amidst the rocks above her, or had moved further down the beach to search for the cargo washed to shore by the storm. If they’d murdered anyone else from the ship—her companion or other friends—she couldn’t hear that, either.

  She was grateful for that small mercy.

  A strong undertow pulled at her feet and skirts, trying to yank her back into the ocean. The tension that had given her a small surge of hot energy faded beneath the cutting sheets of rain sluicing over her frozen cheeks.

  She was risking her life to return to deeper water, but she couldn’t stay where she was. The men might return and see her.

  Struggling with the broken spar, she used the last of her strength to free it from the rocks. Then, fatalistically, she kicked weakly, trying to escape from what had felt like a safe, sheltered spot.

  Much of the storm’s fury had been spent, but the cold rain continued to beat down and the waves were no less treacherous. This time, Hannah steered away from the lights, away from the men on the rocky beach. She clung to the piece of wood and struggled against the current, knowing that the wreckers had positioned themselves to let the ocean carry the ship’s treasures to them.

  Exhausted and unable to kick her numb feet any more, she felt the waves crash her once more against the jagged shoreline. The spar hit the rocks with a jolt that sent pain arching through her shoulders and back. Darkness pressed all around her, and despite the sharply serrated surface of the boulder that had caught the spar, she pulled herself up and out of the water.

  Warmth trickled down her wrists. Her saturated skirts caught on the rock, but she ruthlessly ripped them free and scrambled over the boulder to a small patch of sand between the large black stones.

  She fell to her knees.

  You can’t stay here—it isn’t safe, she told herself urgently. Her body shivered uncontrollably as rain beat down upon her head and shoulders. The fresh water washed away the burning salt, but did nothing to bring warmth back to her icy skin. Thankfully, the darkness was too complete to allow her to see much of her raw hands and ruined gown. Cold stones pressed against her knees, absorbing what little heat her limbs retained, but she closed her eyes for the moment, too weak and tired to care.

  Unfortunately, her mind cared—too much—dredging up memories of Mrs. Lawrence, laughing at some wry, humorous tidbit, and Officer Trent, bending forward to offer a steaming cup of tea to her. She could almost feel the smoothness of the bone china cup and smell the scent of hot tea. Her thoughts spun in tight, frantic circles, on the edge of panic, trying to escape into the warm safety of memories instead of facing the stark reality of her situation.

  The cove where the wreckers were busily scavenging couldn’t be far, though the storm muffled the sound of their rough voices. The men would be searching for survivors, ready to club any who could still draw a breath. She had to escape from the beach and the restless sea.

  Inland—it was the only way to safety.

  But if she left the beach, wouldn’t the villagers, anyone who lived nearby, be just as deadly? The men—the wreckers—had to live nearby. What would they do if a limping, bedraggled woman came to them for aid?

  No survivors. They’d club her and throw her body back into the sea. Maintain their silence and their secrets.

  Unable to help herself, she vomited, saltwater burning her mouth. One trembling hand went to the lumpy pocket she’d tied around her waist. Her jewelry was still there, for what that was worth. Bitterness whipped through her. Jewels were useless as a bribe. Why would anyone accept one bangle and leave her alive—and potentially dangerous to their interests—when they could murder her and have everything she owned? Her stomach heaved again, but she swallowed until the nausea passed.

  First things first—all the jewelry in the world won’t matter if I die here amidst these rocks.

  She may have been born in Boston, but she was no sheltered Miss who’d seen nothing of the world except rose-covered wallpaper. Her father had cherished an unyielding, urgent need to travel, to see what lay beyond the next river or forest. And her mother refused to allow him to go alone, so she’d dragged their family with him, step by step, until accident, sickness, and then death had claimed Hannah’s brothers and sisters, her mother, and finally, her father.

  Everyone except Hannah. She’d survived the loss of her family, and she’d survive this. And maybe then she’d finally find the one thing she’d longed for through all the hardships and pain of loss: a home of her own in the country of her father’s youth. England.

  Even if that country seemed ready to kill her the moment she set foot on its rocky, inhospitable shore.

  No matter. She’d get away from the beach and she’d survive, no matter what foul deeds the men on the beach did. She’d live and go to London as she planned, and become the toast of the town. And she’d find her own home.

  Hannah fixed her gaze on the jagged darkness of the rocks rising in a cliff towering over the shore. There was a path there—there had to be. And she would find it before the men could find her.

  Chapter Two

  A carriage! Hannah stood in the center of the silvery-gray ribbon of road and waved her arms, praying the driver could see her, despite the misty rain. Behind her, she heard booted feet scrabbling up the cliff. If they saw her…

  She shivered, feeling exposed at the top of the cliffs. The storm’s rage had lessened, and she caught the occasional voice and scrape of leather soles from the scavengers below.

  “Any others?” A man’s voice echoed faintly through the growing mist.

  She stumbled along the road in the direction of the carriage, gesturing more frantically.

  The clatter of horses and creaking of a heavy carriage rattled above the other noises. Hannah glanced over her shoulder.

  If the men on the beach heard… Were they already climbing up to the road?

  The vehicle rumbled closer. She waved her arms again, stepping toward the ditch edging the road. The coach had to stop! She cast another glance at the cliff. Something dark bobbed in the darkness, barely visible. Panic tightened in her chest.

  “Whoa!” At the last minute, the coachman pulled back on the reins. The four horses snorted and threw their heads up, gray puffs of warm air ringing t
heir mouths as they stamped past her.

  Hannah stumbled into the ditch and dragged herself upright as the coach rolled several yards beyond her before stopping. Lunging for the door, her hands slapped the side panel as she fell against the vehicle.

  She didn’t dare look over her shoulder to see what was happening at the top of the cliff, a few hundred yards away.

  “Beamish! Why are we stopping?” An imperious female voice called from inside the carriage.

  “A figure on the road—the Lady of the Mist!” the coachman replied, his voice shaking.

  “Lady of the Mist! Pshaw! None of that spirit nonsense—the vicar won’t stand for it if he hears you.” The occupant of the carriage thumped against the side of the carriage. “Carry on—we shall never reach Blackrock if you insist on stopping for every bit of mist.”

  “Stop—please!” Hannah called, pounding the panel and grabbing at the handle of the door again.

  “Who is that?” the coach occupant asked sharply. “Step away from my carriage immediately! Beamish—drive on! Now!”

  Wrenching the door open, Hannah flung herself inside, her shoulder banging painfully against the floor. “Please—the ship—wrecked!” she gasped.

  “Who are you? Remove yourself immediately! Beamish!”

  Hannah reached out and caught at the stout figure swathed in blankets on the seat next to her. “Please, you must help me. I was a passenger on the Orion. We sank!”

  The carriage jolted and shook as the coachman climbed down, mumbling under his breath.

  “Please!” Hannah begged, searching the shadows for the face of the woman next to her. “In God’s name—please!”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked. She was so bundled up with a large bonnet, shawls, and blankets that Hannah could barely make out the short, round shape in the darkness.

  A light streamed over Hannah’s shoulder as she pulled herself up to her knees inside the coach. The golden glow flickered over the occupant’s face, revealing broad cheekbones under heavily wrinkled, sagging skin, and eyes shadowed under shaggy gray brows.