by Erica Vetsch
The moment the music stopped, villagers surrounded her, drawing her away from Charles, asking questions, introducing themselves, being so very nice. She hoped her answers were coherent, because her emotions were most certainly not.
Penny wasn’t the only one with a queue of potential dance partners. Sophie danced every set. Will Owens, the solicitor, led her through the allemande, and Mr. Barker, their host for the evening, partnered her through a reel. Of Charles she saw nothing, though she kept watch for him.
By the time intermission arrived, Penny had pink cheeks and eyes filled with stars. She clasped Sophie’s arm.
“This is the most fun. I’ve met ever so many people, and I haven’t stepped on anyone’s feet yet.” She laughed, flicking open her fan and stirring the air around her face. “I’ve had no less than three offers to sit with gentlemen at supper, and Mr. Fields even declared he was going to send me a memento on the morrow.”
“Really? What did the captain say about that?” Sophie asked, searching yet again for her husband in the crowd.
“I haven’t seen him for some time. You don’t think he would disapprove, do you? Surely Mr. Fields only means to send a posy or perhaps some chocolates?” Penny lowered her fan. “That wouldn’t be too forward, would it?”
“Fields?” Miles Enys spoke from behind them. “You wouldn’t take a gift from him, would you?” His hands fisted, and he scowled.
Sophie wanted to roll her eyes. Surely she hadn’t been like this at their ages? No, she had fallen in love with Rich and never even thought of loving another.
Until now, her heart whispered. You’re thinking about someone else now.
Shoving that thought away, she went to one of the open windows. The room seemed unbearably crowded and noisy. Leaning on the sill, she caught sight of Charles in the middle of the road. Who was that with him?
They stood just outside the circle of a lantern on a pole. Charles faced away from her, but she had no doubt it was him. He stood stiffly, tension in every line of his body.
He shoved a scrap of paper into the other man’s face, stabbing the page with his finger.
The other man backed up a step, put his hands up, and shook his head. The light fell upon his face, even as his obsequious gesture revealed his identity.
Grayson.
The argument was growing quite heated. Perhaps Charles had discovered some discrepancy in the estate books? Had the steward been swindling? His bowing and scraping had always seemed at odds with the calculating look in his eyes.
The reverend strolled out the front door with his hand up, as if to calm the men.
Sophie’s shoulders relaxed, and her breath eased.
Reverend Dunhill would sort things out. Nothing made men behave better than the arrival of the pastor.
Charles noted the interested stares as he led Sophie in the promenade. They were definitely going to provide the on dits for Gateshead Village for the next little while.
Sophie would stand out in any crowd, and he was proud to have her on his arm. Her green dress with delicate gold bits showed her excellent taste. Her citrusy scent filled his head, and his mind swirled with familiar and unwanted thoughts. He shouldn’t allow his attention to be diverted. He needed to concentrate on the business at hand, which was pinning Halbert Grayson to one spot long enough to confront him about the note.
But Sophie made thinking about anything other than her difficult. She smiled up at him, her cheeks rosy, and his heart lurched like it had hit a reef. When she moved in step with him, her hip brushed his, and his knees felt odd. None of the reasons he had for keeping his emotions out of their relationship seemed important in that moment.
The first set ended, and they were separated by the crowd. When he next caught sight of her, she was being escorted by Will Owens onto the dance floor. He seemed quite happy with his prize, grinning like a gargoyle and keeping hold of Sophie’s hand much too long when they pivoted.
Owens was younger than Charles. Closer to Sophie’s age than to his. The ratio of men to women was fairly even, possibly even weighted toward the men tonight. A handful of young bucks stood along the wall near the refreshment table, whispering and elbowing, watching the dancers—particularly Sophie. He clamped his teeth until his jaw ached.
Penny went by on the arm of Miles Enys. Uneasiness sloshed through Charles. What did he know about raising girls? He was thankful Sophie had stepped up to help him, but she seemed to think he should be involved with the decision-making required for the girls’ welfare too. He didn’t want Sophie to become too reliant upon him, because when he left, she would have to shoulder that burden alone.
Which somehow had seemed logical a week ago but now wasn’t sitting well.
He finally spotted the man he had been looking for all evening. His steward, Grayson, caught his eye and made a quick dart for the stairs.
Just as well. The taproom or the yard would be a better place for their discussion than the crowded assembly hall. Charles wended his way around the perimeter of the room to the steps. When he reached the taproom, half full already of men who would rather drink ale and talk than dance, Grayson was disappearing through the front door.
“Good evening, Lord Rothwell. Fancy a drop?” The man tending the bar leaned over with a full tankard. “Best in the county.”
“No, thank you.”
Another man scooted his chair back and stepped in front of Charles. “Milord, let me introduce myself. I’m Porter MacFie, and I own the butcher shop.” He tucked his fingertips into his waistband. “I understand you’re not planning on staying around these parts? Hiring a new steward and leaving us, eh?” He scratched the hair over his ear. “Not that I blame you. Not much of a life for a fancy gent like yourself.”
“I apologize—there’s someone to whom I must speak.” When he moved to go around MacFie, the man edged into his path once more. “Oh, I beg your pardon.”
They swayed and swerved, bobbing in front of each other until Charles finally lost patience, took the man by the upper arms, and moved him out of the way. If he didn’t know better, he’d say these men were conspiring to keep him away from his quarry.
Finally, Charles made it out into the night air. Where had Grayson gotten to? The man’s actions were certainly suspicious.
A large man with a beard leaned against the front of the public house, arms crossed. Charles gave him a glance as he went by, but since he wasn’t Grayson, paid him no mind.
Grayson had crossed the road, but he stopped dead when a man wearing a hooded cloak stepped out of the shadows. Turning around, Grayson looked for a way of escape, but Charles had caught him up by that time.
The hooded man stepped back into the shadows, but not before Charles caught the glint of a blade. The hair on his neck stood up, and he grabbed Grayson by the sleeve and hauled him toward the middle of the road.
“I want a word.” He looked into the darkness behind them, but the hooded man had disappeared. Charles pulled the paper from his pocket. “What do you know about this?”
“What? I haven’t done anything.” Grayson cowered, putting on his best hang-dog air. But Charles wasn’t having it.
“Smuggling. I want to know who is involved and how long it’s been going on.” He rattled the paper. “If my uncle was smuggling goods, he was doing it with someone’s help.”
“Smuggling? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Grayson struggled, but Charles hung on.
“If you don’t know smuggling has been going on right under your nose, then you’re the most inept steward in the history of estate management.”
Grayson jerked, as if stung. “You can’t pin this on me. I don’t know anything about that letter or smuggling or anything else.”
Charles dropped the steward’s arm. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, with or without your help.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Sailing in here and demoting people when you don’t know the first thing about
running an estate. Hiring outsiders and pushing people out of their jobs.” The cowed, bumbling steward act was gone. In its place, defiant anger. The true man at last.
“You’re finished. I want you off the estate tomorrow.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can. If you’re not out by noon tomorrow, I’ll have the bailiffs in. I’m sure you won’t starve. You’ll have all your ill-gotten gains to live on until you can find another position, though you won’t be getting a reference from me.”
“Gentlemen, is there a problem?” Reverend Dunhill’s voice cut through the darkness. “Tonight is supposed to be one of enjoyment and celebration, not confrontation.”
“He fired me. Thinks I’ve been helping the old earl smuggle goods into the country.” Grayson jabbed a finger under Charles’s nose.
“Is that so?” Dunhill stepped close. “I’m sure that can’t be true. Not of Grayson here, nor of the late earl.”
Charles held up the paper. “This says otherwise. I feel I’m being taken for a fool, but I assure you, that is not the case. Tomorrow, I consult the authorities. If the smuggling is still going on, it stops now.”
The preacher took the page, turning it to the light. His face grew grave, with deepening lines bracketing his mouth. “This is serious indeed. Halbert, you had no notion of this activity?”
“No. And if he says so, he’s a liar.”
“There’s no way,” Dunhill said, slowly, “to know when this note was written. It might have been years ago. Perhaps even meant for your grandfather. Smuggling happens, of course, but not here. I’m sure I would know of it.”
That gave Charles pause. Was it possible he had it wrong? Was the note older than it looked?
“Gentlemen”—Dunhill’s tone was both placating and parental—“I suggest we leave the topic for tonight. Don’t spoil the evening’s entertainment letting anyone know of the issue. We can sort it on the morrow, I’m sure.” He took Grayson’s arm, leading him away and talking into his ear with every step.
Charles balled his fists. He hated waiting, and he didn’t trust Grayson.
CHAPTER 12
“DID YOU DANCE every single dance?” Thea burrowed under Sophie’s covers as the sun peeped over the horizon. “What did you eat? Did Penny flirt with all the boys? Did the captain dance too?”
Pelted with questions, Sophie grimaced, pulling the pillow over her head. “Do I know you?”
Thea was having none of it. “You promised, Sophie.” She pulled the pillow off.
Another little body climbed into bed, and Sophie cracked one eye to see Betsy in one of her new nightgowns and sporting Charles’s bicorn.
“Permission to come aboard?” Betsy clambered over Sophie and collapsed in giggles. “That’s what the captain says you have to say when you want to go on someone’s boat.”
“Good morning, lovelies.” Sophie sat up, stretching. For having such a short night’s sleep, she felt refreshed and ready for the day. She tickled Betsy and pulled Thea into a hug.
“Penny’s still asleep. I didn’t even hear her come in last night, though I tried to wait up.” Thea crossed her legs and leaned her elbows on her knees. “When did you come back?
“It was very late. And to answer your questions, I danced almost every dance, we ate all sorts of foods, Penny behaved very well, and the captain danced the first dance. Beyond that, he had business to attend to, and it was a good opportunity for him to meet some of the community leaders.”
“Was your dress the best?” Betsy asked.
Sophie could only see one of the girl’s eyes, the other being hidden by the forepeak of Charles’s hat. “There were many pretty dresses there. Madam Stipple must have sewn a lot of them, for I recognized some of the fabrics from our visit to her shop.” The variety and quantity of new gowns had caught Sophie’s attention. Did they have assemblies very often, or was this such a rare event that new dresses for most of the ladies in attendance were to be expected? The village certainly seemed better off than others she had passed through on their journey here.
A faint pounding came from downstairs. Who would knock on the front door at this hour?
“Girls, go back to your room and get dressed. Mrs. Chapman will have breakfast for you.” Sophie swung her feet over the side of the bed and grabbed her wrapper. Heading into her dressing room, she nearly tripped over Rich’s sea chest. She’d forgotten that she’d pulled it out to use as a step stool last night to reach the hatbox that held her evening fans and reticules.
With a shove, she sent it back along the wall. She really should go through his things one of these days.
Noises came from the adjoining dressing room, so she assumed Charles had heard the knocking too. With chilly fingers, she buttoned her day dress.
A tap sounded on Charles’s bedroom door, and Miles said, “Milord, there’s a bunch of men downstairs. They say they’re from the Revenue. They have a warrant.”
Sophie wrenched the connecting door open. “A warrant? What for?” She spoke around the hairpins clenched in her teeth, her arms high as she finished styling her hair.
Charles stood in the doorway of his dressing room, in breeches, with his shirt on but unbuttoned, his boots in his hand. She noted the muscled planes of his chest and the taut skin of his abdomen before she realized she was staring and averted her eyes.
“They wouldn’t tell me, milady. Said to fetch his lordship, or they’d be coming up to get him.” Miles shifted uneasily. “Looked like half the village was with them.”
Charles stomped into his boots and buttoned his shirt. “Tell them I’ll be down directly. I was going to contact the Revenue Office this morning anyway.”
Sophie returned to her room to find her shoes and hurried downstairs. Miles had not exaggerated. Half a dozen men stood in the front hall, and through the open door, many more clustered.
“Sir, I have a warrant to search the Gateshead estate for violations of the Orders in Council concerning trade with France and her allies. We have reason to believe you have been engaged in the illegal importation of goods from France and have been avoiding paying the excise tax on goods imported from Belgium.” The well-dressed man in front of the pack held up a paper complete with a wax seal and red tape binding. “If you resist, we will be forced to restrain you.”
“I have no desire to resist. I was planning to speak with you today about this. I haven’t been involved in smuggling, but I believe there has been smuggling activity connected to this estate.” Charles’s ability to speak calmly reassured Sophie that he had everything under control.
Smuggling. That might account for some of the oddities she had noticed. But it was preposterous to think Charles had anything to do with it. He hadn’t been at Gateshead a month.
“We have this communication, delivered to us last night.” The Revenue officer unfolded a piece of paper. “It is a letter written to you, acknowledging your part in the illegal activities, receiving money, providing transportation, both signaling and meeting ships carrying illegal goods.”
Charles tried to snatch the paper, but the officer was quicker. “Sir, that is evidence. You are not allowed to have it.”
“I found that letter stuck in a book in my office. It’s not addressed to me. How did you get it? It was in my possession last night.”
“So you admit that it is yours. The note is addressed to ‘Rothwell,’ sir. You are Rothwell, are you not? We’ve received intelligence over the past few days that directs us to a certain building on the property, and I believe we should start there.” With a self-important nod, the officer turned on his heel. “If you will come with me, sir.”
“Charles, what is this?” Sophie hurried after him. “What’s happening?”
“We’re going to get to the bottom of a crime that’s been taking place at Gateshead for a long time.” His face was grim. “I suspect someone is trying to blame me for breaking the law, but it won’t work. The idea is preposterous.”
His strides were long,
and she had to trot to keep up.
The crowd moved with them, and Sophie recognized many of the faces from the assembly last night. How could they have offered friendship and hospitality one day and now looked to blame an innocent man?
“Sir,” she addressed the back of the man in charge. “You are on a hiding to nothing. There are no stolen goods here.”
They approached a stone building attached to the south end of the stables. A well-worn path led to the door.
This was ridiculous. Her husband was no smuggler. There was something sinister going on. Someone had taken a letter from Charles and was using it to have him charged with crimes. Well, they were in for an unpleasant surprise if they thought there were stolen goods on this property.
Sophie positioned herself where she could see both inside as soon as the door was opened and the faces of the crowd when they got the news the building was empty. Then she would blister this Revenue man for listening to rumors.
The oak door had a large padlock hanging from the hasp. “Where’s the key?” the officer asked.
“I have no idea. I’ve never been inside this place before.” Charles stood between two burly men who were no doubt tasked with preventing his escape.
“I’ll break it.” Mr. Fields, whom Sophie had met last night, stepped forward. He was the father of the young man who had danced with Penny first, and he carried a heavy hammer. He’d come prepared? This smelled more and more like a trap.
With one mighty blow, he smashed both the hasp and the lock, and opened the door.
Sophie peered into the gloom, expecting cobwebs and dust.
Which there were in abundance.
But there was also a pyramid of crates, each labeled with contents illegal to possess in England.
“Your Lordship.” The Revenue officer scowled. “You’re under arrest for smuggling goods into the country in violation of the Orders in Council governing the possession of French wares, specifically cognac, champagne, and other spirits.”