by Erica Vetsch
Charles stood in the doorway of the stone barn, staring at a mountain of cases of French liquor. The hypocrisy and thoroughness of the job someone was making to pin this crime on him were staggering.
“The contraband is clearly on your property, and”—the Revenue man held up the letter once more—“with the information delivered to our offices in Lyme Regis during the night, the evidence is clear. You’ve received payment for stolen goods, you’ve provided a boat to bring in the goods, and through the use of stealth and signaling, you have sought to evade anyone from the Revenue Office apprehending you.”
This was a nightmare. He was innocent, the charges were trumped up, and the real villains were going free.
One of the officer’s men produced darbies and clapped them on Charles’s wrists. “Come along, sir, if you please.”
That letter. How had the Revenue man gotten it? And with such speed? Charles’s head whirled. They had arrived at Gateshead just past first light with a warrant in hand. Someone had ridden during the night to the closest Revenue Office and gotten the authorities out of bed.
His eyes sought Sophie’s as he was pulled roughly out of the barn.
“Charles? What should I do?” she asked, her eyes wide and her face pale.
“Get me a solicitor.” He tugged back on the manacles to force them to stop. “Where are you taking me?”
“Lyme Regis jail, sir. To wait for the magistrate.”
The letter was at the crux of their claims. It had been in his pocket when he’d arrived at the assembly room last night. He had shown it to Grayson … and then Reverend Dunhill. What had happened to it after that? He’d been so angry and frustrated … Had someone heard him confront Grayson in the street last night? He hadn’t exactly been whispering. The man in the hooded cloak perhaps? Or the bearded giant just outside the public house?
Had someone lifted it from his pocket after he’d returned to the dance? They had been speaking rather loudly in the street. Anyone could have overheard and learned of the note’s existence.
They reached the front steps of Gateshead, where a box wagon with iron bars on the openings awaited him. They had come prepared to haul him away.
The girls stood on the gravel drive, Penny in the middle, her arms around her sisters. Mamie hovered in the doorway, her face scrunched in worry. Sophie went one step toward them but stopped, as if reluctant to leave his side.
“Sophie, get me a solicitor. Not Will Owens. Someone from outside Gateshead. And contact Barrington at the Admiralty.”
“I will.” She went to the girls, cupping Betsy’s head for a moment and squeezing Thea’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, girls. We’ll sort this out.”
“What are they doing? Why are they taking him away?” Thea’s voice rose. She tried to get around Sophie, but Sophie held her back.
“He broke the law. He’s going to jail,” someone in the back of the mob shouted.
Charles’s gut burned at the injustice and humiliation, especially in front of the girls. The minute he was proven innocent and released, he would mete out a bit of justice of his own on the real culprits.
Sophie’s encouraging smile as they shoved him into the wagon gave him heart, but Thea’s look pierced him to the core. She didn’t understand that he wasn’t guilty. This thing had the stench of conspiracy all over it. But Thea’s look had been both accusatory and angry.
Sophie would have to set her straight. Or he would, once he was free.
The ride to Lyme Regis was intolerable. The closed wagon had no springs, and they were tossed about like loose cargo in a storm. Charles was pinned between two large jailers who showed no sympathy. If anything, they seemed to take great joy in arresting a titled gentleman. They spoke about him as if he weren’t there, laughing and joking.
Charles ignored them. He could only think of all the clues that had been right in front of him from the moment he’d arrived at the estate. They jumbled together in no particular order, but each one was a plank, fitting together into a whole deck.
The banner Thea had found during their picnic. It had to be for signaling ships from the cliff.
The excellent condition of the Shearwater, even after it had been wrecked once. No wonder his uncle had been eager to salvage it and get it back into service.
The apparent affluence of the villagers, from the vicar’s nice suits to the extensive inventory at the dressmaker’s that Sophie had commented upon. Each person seemed to have more and better things in their possession than their circumstances would indicate.
The rather healthy look of the estate books, in spite of the steward being less than adequate and his uncle being out of his mind in the last months.
The second path from the shore to the cliff top where the so-called “smuggler’s cave” had collapsed that Charles had spotted on their brief run up the coast aboard the Shearwater.
The French champagne the vicar had brought to the wedding breakfast.
The imported lace Mamie had mentioned seeing on a woman’s dress at church.
Even further back, the death of the Pembroke girls’ father. No wonder his uncle had taken on the guardianship of his boat captain’s children. The man had lost his life in the service of the earl’s illegal work.
Was the entire village in on the smuggling? Or were some unwitting accomplices? Were only a few guilty, but many drawn in through unknowingly purchasing illegal goods?
He had known smuggling was a widespread problem. Admiral Barrington had mentioned that the Home Secretary had requested naval involvement in stopping the flood of illegal goods into the country.
But right on his own doorstep? With his uncle providing the funds and ship and warehousing?
Charles felt like an idiot.
God, how could I have been so blind? What if I can’t prove my innocence? What will happen to Sophie and the girls and Mamie and Gateshead? How are You working here? Are You working here? Nothing has gone right. Everything was going to be so simple. I had a plan, a reasonable plan, and now it’s wrecked.
He should be captaining a naval ship right now. And yet if he had gotten his way, he would have left Sophie in a precarious position, with thieves and smugglers all around her. She would have been in danger if she ever tumbled to it, and as smart as she was, she would have discovered it sooner or later.
His chest constricted at the thought of what might have happened. Thus far no one had been hurt, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t have gone to great lengths to escape discovery and prosecution.
After what seemed ages, the wagon jerked to a halt, and the back door flung open. “Get out.” A burly gray-haired man with a truncheon flicked his head. The jailers inside grabbed Charles by his elbows and shoved him toward the door. Staggering, he emerged into the sunlight, blinking against the glare.
Lyme Regis.
He was escorted into a dingy, dank stone building. Two cages of iron bars stretched across the back of the single room. The darbies were removed, as was his coat and stock, and he was shoved into the left-hand cell.
Musty straw covered the floor, and the only light came from a narrow slot near the eaves.
“The magistrate will have a session tomorrow or the next day. When your lawyer shows up, we’ll send him in. Until then, keep quiet.” The truncheon-bearing guard slammed the iron door with a clang that went right through Charles.
Tomorrow or the next day? He would be trapped in here while his adversaries were roaming free, building the case against him.
“God, You say You won’t let evil prevail over good.” He wrapped his hands around the bars and lowered his head to lean against the iron. “Please give Sophie strength, help her to find a good solicitor, and help her not to lose faith.”
CHAPTER 13
HER HUSBAND HAD been arrested and carted off to jail.
Not words Sophie had ever anticipated thinking.
Charles had been arrested, and for something Sophie knew he hadn’t done.
After they loaded him into the wag
on, she rounded on the onlookers. “How dare you? This is preposterous. You know he isn’t guilty. And you know who is.”
The crofters, farmers, and villagers looked from one to another, spreading their hands and raising their brows. “You gentry think you can do anything and get away with it. He got what he deserved,” someone shouted. Several heads nodded, exchanging looks.
“My dear, you’re overwrought.” Reverend Dunhill stepped forward, making a gesture as if he would put his arm around her. “I’m certain we can sort this out. Though I am surprised. I never would have believed it of the earl.” He sounded distressed and disappointed.
She stepped back, glaring. “I’d like you all to leave now. I have work to do, and I’m sure you all do as well, getting rid of the contraband in your houses and barns. Trumping up more charges to make sure you get away with your crimes.”
“We ain’t the ones with a barn full of liquor,” came a voice from the midst of the crowd. “Caught proper, his lordship is.”
A carriage trundled up the drive toward them, and for a moment, Sophie’s heart leapt. Were they bringing him back? But no, it wasn’t Charles. However, when the horses pulled to a stop, she almost cried. The Haverly crest decorated the door, and none other than her brother stepped out.
It was all she could do not to disgrace herself by running straight into his arms. Marcus was here. He would help her. He would help Charles.
Such was the power of his presence that people parted to make way for him. He strode through, looking neither right nor left, keeping his eyes on Sophie. When he mounted the steps, he put himself between her and the preacher.
Tears swam on her lashes, and she blinked hard.
“What have you been getting yourself into, Sophie?” His gentle teasing almost proved her undoing. He slipped his arm around her waist, bringing her into his side and turning to face the villagers. “Disperse now. If you’re not involved in this debacle, I will expect you to support your mistress wholeheartedly.” He stopped, and an edge entered his voice. “If you are involved in this travesty, know that you will face justice. You’d best get yourself on the side of the angels, or you’ll find yourself in dock when I sort this out.”
He guided Sophie and the girls into the house and closed the door in the face of the reverend when he tried to follow them inside.
“How did you know?” She spoke the muffled words into his waistcoat as she hugged him.
He sighed. “We’ve got work to do. I’ve sent Partridge to London for a barrister, though I’m hoping we won’t need him.”
“Partridge.” Sophie straightened. “I could have sworn I saw someone in the village last week who looked just like him …” Suspicion raised its head. “Have you been spying on me through him?”
“Spying? Me?” He put his hand to his chest. “Nonsense. It would take someone more clever than I to be a spy. Didn’t you get my letter, or Mother’s? I told you I would be coming for a visit since I had urgent business in the area. Partridge came with me, as he usually does. I was in Lyme Regis this morning, ready to set out for Gateshead, when a man rushed into the taproom and interrupted my breakfast with news that the Revenue men had departed to arrest the new Earl of Rothwell.”
“He’s not guilty. The very idea is preposterous.” Anger flared in Sophie’s middle, causing her to tremble.
“Hello, Mamie. You’re looking well.” Marcus reached out a hand to clasp Mamie’s, his eyes warm. He had always had a soft spot for Rich’s mother, and Sophie loved him for it.
“Who is this man?” Betsy asked, coming to stand beside him, looking up a long way. “He has long hair.” The captain’s bicorn slipped off her head to the floor.
Marcus squatted and picked up the hat, placing it gently on her head once more. “I’m most anxious to be introduced to you as well, young miss.” He looked at Sophie. “Care to perform the niceties?”
“There isn’t time. I have to get to Charles. I’ll tell you everything on the way. Girls, you are to stay with Mamie and Mrs. Chapman and be good. I’ll be back with the captain as soon as I can.” Sophie picked up her reticule from the table in the foyer and plucked her spencer and bonnet from the hall tree.
Mrs. Chapman bustled into the room carrying a small valise. “I put a few things in here for you, milady, in case you have to stay over.”
“You’re a treasure. Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Mamie fluttered her hand. “Go, child. We will be fine.”
“I’m leaving a couple of guards here to watch the house.” Marcus took Sophie’s arm and the valise. “Ladies, I’m going to ask that you remain inside the manor until we return. My men will keep you safe.”
Thea predictably crossed her arms and shot her chin out, but Penny nodded. “We’ll stay inside. Just help the captain.”
In the carriage, Sophie gripped her hands in her lap. She was so grateful for Marcus’s presence, she felt weak, but worry constricted her throat and pressed her shoulders like a yoke.
“Who are those girls? The little one is cute enough to eat.”
“They’re Charles’s wards.”
Marcus’s brows shot up. “How did he come to have wards?”
In halting bits, Sophie told him of the girls’ arrival and their relationship to the former Earl of Rothwell.
Marcus tilted his head. “Odd that the old fellow would take on three young females. There’s more here, I suspect, than meets the eye. Tell me about the town and what you’ve observed. Who has more than they should, or who has acted suspiciously? Start at the beginning, and tell me everything that happened from the moment you arrived at Gateshead.”
As she spoke, she fit pieces together in her mind, realizing that some of the things she had thought odd but that had been conveniently explained away at the time, actually pointed to the truth.
“The seamstress has a workshop full of inventory. And lace that could only come from France. She said she brought most of it from her shop in London.”
“You said you visited the boathouse and shore, and part of the cliff gave way and hit Charles on the head?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. The cliff is very unstable.”
“Are you certain it was an accident?” Marcus leaned back against the squabs and crossed his arms.
“Surely no one would do such a thing on purpose. He could have been killed.” Sophie blinked.
“The arrival of a new earl must have put the smugglers into a panic. Grayson has to be involved somehow, and Charles was a danger to their operation. Someone tried to stop him with a rock to the head, though they were unsuccessful. But then word got out that the new earl would be leaving soon to return to the navy. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. It will be business as usual once he’s gone.”
“But he hasn’t received any orders yet.”
“And he stumbled upon the smuggling operation. Now he definitely has to go. Therefore the plot to frame him for the crime.”
“Would someone like Halbert Grayson be capable of such an intricate plot? I wouldn’t have thought he had the intelligence or influence in the town.”
Marcus nodded. “No one’s off my list of suspects at this point. We’re nearly there. I don’t know that you’ll be allowed in to see Charles just yet, but I can take a message from you if you’d like.”
“Will they let you in?”
He snorted. “I’m the Duke of Haverly. I’ll get in.”
The coachman had to stop and ask directions to the jail, and when he pulled up before the stone building, a shiver went through Sophie. A guard with a musket stood before the door.
“Wait in the coach.”
“Tell him …” She paused, heat swirling into her cheeks as she realized what she’d almost blurted out. With an effort, she composed herself. “Tell him we’re doing everything we can, that I know he’s innocent of these charges, and that he’ll be free soon.”
Marcus leaned across the carriage and squeezed her hand.
When she was alone,
she let the tears fall.
She had almost asked her brother to tell her husband that she loved him.
“This is a sorry turn of events, Wyvern. Or should I call you Rothwell? It’s quite irresponsible of you to marry my sister out of hand and then land yourself in jail a fortnight later.”
Charles looked through the bars at his brother-in-law, appreciating the wry humor. The outer door remained open to let in some light and to allow the guard to keep an eye on them.
“You should call me Charles, and this isn’t exactly the way I wanted to be welcomed into the family.”
When he held his hand out through the bars, the guard barked from his post by the door, “Stay back!”
“How is Sophie?” Charles asked, withdrawing.
“She’s outside in my carriage, but they won’t allow her in. I had to threaten to go to the magistrate to be let in myself. Now, before they think better of giving me access, there are a few things you need to know. First, a lawyer is on his way from London. I’ve sent a man to the firm of Coles, Franks, and Moody, and they’ll find a barrister and bring him along. This same man will stop by the Admiralty and inform Barrington.”
A bit of the tightness in Charles’s chest eased. “These charges are false. I’ve never stolen or smuggled a thing in my life.”
Except a miniature of my wife. The thought came unbidden. He still had the painting. Why hadn’t he returned that to her and admitted what he’d done? It seemed so silly now that he’d been embarrassed into silence.
Marcus was speaking, and Charles tried to concentrate. “I’m aware the accusations are false, and I’ve got men investigating. We’ll get the charges dropped.”
“And then I’m going after the real culprits.”
“We’re making a list of possible conspirators. I’m afraid this might take some time. If my suspicions are correct, the scope is broad, and it might even extend to buying off local authorities. That warrant was procured with remarkable speed. I’d say the trap was laid some time ago and only sprung last night when you confronted Grayson. There are too many moving pieces for this to be spontaneous. For now, don’t talk to anyone but me and your lawyer. You never know who might be listening.”