by Jo Beverley
“Of course.” It would leave her with no money to finance an escape, however. Unless they found the money hidden at the Crag. “But the Horde will have no reserves.”
They were out in the lane, and they stepped aside to let a man with a barrow pass, exchanging pleasant greetings. The man winked as he went past. “Grand night last night, weren’t it, Cap’n?”
Susan took a deep breath. “Clearly he doen’t know of the loss. But I wish everyone didn’t know about you.”
“Don’t be silly. How could it work if everyone didn’t know? No one’s going to say anything.”
“It has to get out. Perch knew who Captain Drake was, but he accepted money not to know. Gifford won’t do that.” She said what she knew she shouldn’t say. “David, I don’t want him hurt.”
He stopped to look at her. “Gifford? Perhaps you do fancy him.”
She felt the color rush into her cheeks. “Of course not. But he’s a good man simply trying to do his duty. It would be evil to kill him.”
“You do think I’ve turned into a monster, don’t you?”
“No. But when it comes to you or him. To your men or him . . .”
“I won’t kill him or order him killed. It’s not the Dragon’s Horde way, Susan. You know that.”
“But I don’t want you hanged or transported, either!”
“Make up your mind, love.” But then he linked his arm with hers and urged her onward. “Don’t borrow trouble. But I have to say, it would be useful if you could get your hands on that gold soon. Once we move last night’s cargo, we’ll be able to pay the investors. But as you say, no reserves. We’ll have to do another run. Soon.”
“How soon?”
His glance said, Too soon. “Captain Vavasour has a tea cargo he couldn’t get in farther up the coast.”
“You can’t bring it in here! And the moon’s fuller every night.”
“We’re having such dull weather, the chances are it’ll be overcast—”
“Chances!”
“Susan, smuggling’s a chancy business.”
“That’s why I want no part of it.”
“No, that’s why you don’t want me part of it. Stop it.”
The firm command took her breath away. But he was right. Her panic was more likely to get him killed than help him.
“Of course we’d not bring it in here, but tea’s a lighter cargo, so we can use somewhere tricky. Irish Cove, perhaps. That’s not been used for years.”
Her breath caught, even as she knew it shouldn’t matter. It was just another bay along the coast. But in some twisted way it seemed another betrayal of Con to use that special place for a smuggling run when he was nearby.
“It’s a hard climb up with the goods,” she said.
“We could drop lines and hoist the tea up. It’s equally hard for the Preventives to get at. Or get Vavasour to sink the bales with markers. Then pick them up by boat . . .”
He was lost in his plans, but Susan knew Gifford would be hawkeyed here. “David, if I find the gold, would you be able to wait?”
He looked at her. “It’s a hard opportunity to pass up, a nice cargo just waiting. . . . But all right, if you find the money we can lie low for a month or even two. Isn’t it going to be hard now the earl’s in residence?”
“I don’t think it makes much difference unless it’s hidden under his bed, and it isn’t. I’ve checked all such places already under cover of the inventory and spring cleaning. I confess, I expected finding it to be much easier. He had to be able to get at it, to add to it and take from it.”
“Perhaps he spent it all on potions and dried diddlers,” he said with a grin. She’d shown him the earl’s bedchamber, and he’d nearly died laughing.
She swatted at him. “Remember, I was his secretary. I know what he spent. From what he received from the Horde, even just in recent years, there should be over two thousand in gold coin somewhere. That’s not exactly easy to hide, even in small caches around the place, and if there were small caches, I should have found at least one.”
“Perhaps a secret room, or secret chamber in the walls,” David said.
“I know, but that could be anywhere. At least there’s very little paneling.”
“I need to let Vavasour know in two days.”
“Two days! Very well, I’ll buckle down to a ruthless search—for cunning hidey-holes in particular. Which reminds me. Con’s brought a secretary with him.”
“Con?” he said with interest.
She prayed not to blush. “I knew him as Con once. It slips out. Listen, his secretary—”
“Of course he has a secretary.”
They were beginning the steeper climb up to the Crag, and perhaps that was why her heart beat harder. “Well, he’s set him to going through all the records and papers. What if there’s something there about smuggling?”
“Don’t you know?”
“The earl was as crazy about his administration as about everything else. He scribbled notes to himself and pushed them in odd places. He did the same with letters he received.”
“I very much doubt that Mel wrote him letters.”
“I know, but I feel as if de Vere is bound to uncover something.”
He smiled at her. “We’ll play that hand when we’re dealt it. It’s not like you to be in such a fidget.”
Again she longed to tell him the truth, but she’d hide her past—all her past, if she could.
“It is time for you to give up your job there, though,” he said. “It’s not suitable.”
“If I can’t tell you how to manage your affairs, you can’t tell me.” She stopped to catch her breath, something she couldn’t remember having to do before. “You work for him,” she added.
“I’m his estate manager,” he said, not breathless at all. “That’s suitable employment for a gentleman. Housekeeper is different. Are you all right?”
No, no, I’m not. I’m afraid, and confused, and both longing to see Con again and terrified of him.
“I’m just tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night either.”
He put his arm around her and hoisted her up the last bit of hill before the flatter land around Crag Wyvern. “I won’t try to order you around, Susan, but I’d like you out of that place and not worrying about me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I do intend to find a replacement, but I have to have a last try for that gold first. As for not worrying about you—how?”
“Perhaps you need to get away from here.”
She stopped in the chilly shadow of the great house. “Away? You want me to go away?”
“I don’t want you to, but I don’t want you constantly worrying, either. I can’t promise to live safely for you. You know that.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I’m just out of sorts today.”
“Ah, that time of the month, is it?”
It wasn’t, but she smiled and said, “You know too much about women.”
He laughed and they carried on toward the gargoyle-crowned arch that led into the house of the demented earls of Wyvern.
Chapter Eleven
Con had fled Crag Wyvern.
His official excuse was to inspect his estate and tenants, but he’d taken young Jonny White and fled to the normal world, which was so easily forgotten inside the Crag’s fortress walls.
After an hour or so he was soothed by the normality and good health of this part of Devon. He noted the strange quietness at first, and the absence of people other than the old and young. As the day advanced more people inhabited the scenery, all pleasant enough, and eager to talk to the new earl. All smugglers the night before.
He accepted the hospitality of one cottage to share a hearty midday meal, chatting about farming matters as if that were what put the food on the table.
He sensed all around him the unspoken question: What was his attitude to smuggling? He gave his answer as best he could without talking about it—he didn’t intend to change anything.
It was t
rue. Any attempt at sudden change would be disastrous. However, it was his duty to try to put a stop to the Freetrade eventually, and to prepare the people here for the change that would inevitably come.
He mentioned the naval cutters now patrolling the coast, and the number of army officers and men looking for peacetime employment. When an elderly woman blessed the fact that the war was over, he commented that they were also blessed that the government should need less money and could reduce the iniquitous duties on things like tea.
She agreed wholeheartedly, showing that none of the simple folk understood the implications—low taxes would reduce prices, and that would take away the profit in smuggling. No one was going to take on the risk and the work for a ten-percent return.
The burden of it pressed on him. This place needed a lifetime’s care, and he didn’t want to give it his life. He could leave the simpler part of it to his estate manager, but he needed to either give Kerslake more powers or hire a steward. That could wait until he had the measure of Susan’s brother. He vaguely remembered a rapscallion with a toothy grin.
Zeus! He couldn’t leave everything here in the hands of her and her brother!
The property seemed to be in good heart, at least, with crops growing and animals healthy. The sorry summer had not had too serious an effect in these parts. The cottages and farms were in good repair, and the people looked well fed. There was even a school in Church Wyvern run by the curate’s wife with assistance from Miss Amelia Kerslake. He was invited to admire the large room furnished with benches, slates, a globe, and a good selection of books.
All paid for, he was sure, from smuggling, but there was much to be said for prosperity, no matter where the money came from.
He managed a word with the curate, who expressed himself delighted to help sort through the earl’s private collection of books. The hearty young man confessed to great curiosity about them.
“Have an interest in the dark arts, do you, Mr. Rufflestowe?”
“Know thine enemy, my lord,” said the curate, but a twinkle in his eye admitted to simple human curiosity.
Since he seemed an admirably down-to-earth man, Con asked, “What’s the correct procedure for a skull, Rufflestowe?”
“Procedure, my lord?”
“There are two human skulls in the earl’s rooms, and they look to me as if they were disinterred in the not-too-distant past. Have there been any disturbed graves?”
“Good heavens. Not as far as I know, my lord. But there are some ancient burial sites around here. Most interesting . . .” He caught himself up. “A little interest of mine, my lord. Perhaps it would be best to leave the matter of the skulls until I can inspect them. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
Another enthusiastic worker, thought Con. “By all means, sir.”
He found Jonny sitting at a desk in the schoolroom, working his way carefully through the words on a hornbook. The lad had been a London orphan before taking the king’s shilling just before Waterloo. He’d doubtless had little education. Con made a mental note to arrange reading lessons for him, but dragged him off on the rest of the circuit of the estate.
As the Church Wyvern clock struck four, he turned his horse back toward Crag Wyvern, as reluctant to return to the house as he had been to enter it the day before. The feeling reminded him of Waterloo. He hadn’t wanted to go there either, but duty had left him no choice. Then, however, he’d known he was riding into hell. Now, he only felt like it.
He left the horses and Jonny at the stables in the village and walked up to the house. At the great arch into Crag Wyvern, he hesitated, tempted to linger outside.
He could walk across the headland. . . .
With a bitter laugh, he realized that he was dreaming of encountering a friend there, of exploring rock pools and caves, of lying in the sun talking, talking, talking. . . .
He squared his shoulders and walked through the gargoyle-crested arch into the shadows of Crag Wyvern.
He crossed the echoing great hall, heading toward the office, aware of being on the alert for Susan, both warily and eagerly. She didn’t appear, but she might still be with Race.
When he opened the door to the office, however, he found someone else in the room with Race—a young man rising from an extra chair at the desk.
It could only be Susan’s brother. The resemblance was remarkable, though no one would ever mistake one for the other. She might look like a Renaissance angel, but her brother, despite sensible country clothes, was all Renaissance warrior.
“Mr. Kerslake,” Con said.
The man bowed. “My lord.”
He was tall and strong, with an aura the officer in Con recognized. Things fell into place. This was Captain Drake. Of course he was. He was Mel Clyst’s son. It was hard not to grin. Susan was certainly not the mistress of the new local leader. On the other hand, he thought, sobering, she was certainly neck-deep in smuggling.
“So,” he asked Race, “how has the estate done in recent times?”
“Very well, my lord. Of course, it’s suffering as everywhere with the end of the war and the fall in prices. . . .”
Con picked up a chair from by the wall and sat at the desk so the others could sit as they went through an efficient review.
Kerslake might be carrying two jobs, but he seemed to be doing this one well. If Race hadn’t found any problems in the estate records, there weren’t any to be found. Con asked a few questions and received sensible answers. When Kerslake had to look up some figures he seemed to know exactly where to find them.
After a while, Con held up his hand. “Enough. Everything seems to be in order, and de Vere will filter this all down to simplicity for me. Will you stay to dinner, Kerslake?”
There was a hesitation. “With pleasure, my lord. But you do know that my sister is your housekeeper?”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Some might think it would create awkwardness.”
Con realized that the young man disapproved of Susan’s being here, and was sending a subtle warning. It reminded him sharply of Mel Clyst’s all those years ago.
That warning in the past had sparked trouble. What would this one ignite?
A touch of mischief.
“Then I invite her to dine with us, Kerslake,” Con said. “She is hardly the common run of housekeeper, and she assures me that her duties don’t include actually cooking.” He was sure that Susan wouldn’t like this move. And of course, it meant she couldn’t hide from him, if that was what she planned. “Why don’t you carry the message to her?”
Kerslake rose, but his eyes were steady. “Is this an invitation, my lord, or a command?”
“I’m an army man, Kerslake. If I give a command, you will be in no doubt about it.”
When David Kerslake left, Con turned to Race and raised a brow.
“Honest, competent, thorough, and severely underemployed,” Race said. “I’m not sure why he’s still at the job.”
Con sighed. “Smuggling, Race. Smuggling.”
“It’s that attractive to a man of such ability?”
“The best of games, and he’s captain of the team. I’m sure of it. He is the old one’s son, after all.”
“What?”
Con realized that Race didn’t know. “Both Susan Kerslake and her brother are the bastard children of Melchisedeck Clyst, tavernkeeper and the former Captain Drake—”
“Captain Drake?”
“The name taken by the smuggling master in these parts.”
Race’s brows rose. “But the manor?”
“Their mother is Miss Isabelle Kerslake of Kerslake Manor.”
“The deuce you say. And they never even married?”
“It seemed unimportant to them. Their children were raised by the mother’s relatives at the manor. Having the Kerslake name is useful, since everyone will look for Captain Drake to be a Clyst. I gather the Preventive officer is new. He might not even realize yet that David Kerslake is not a true son of the manor.”
Con smiled. “You’re beginning to get the feel of the place. Fell down a cliff one night. I gather the general belief is that he was pushed, and by one of the rival smuggling gangs hoping to make life difficult for the new Captain Drake.”
“I’d think it would make life difficult for all of them, unless the old one was sharp and the new one blunt.”
“Ah, but the key word there, Race, is think. Many smugglers don’t often think. And no, Lieutenant Perch was middle-aged and obliging. Lieutenant Gifford is apparently young, clever, and ambitious.”
“Idiots.” He glanced at Con. “Kerslake doesn’t like his sister being your housekeeper, does he? Strange that he permitted it.”
“Do you think she is a woman who is allowed or not allowed?”
“I see you’ve found more amusement for me.” Race tidied his papers and closed the ledgers. “First the anticipation. Will the lady attend the dinner or not? If she does, will she still hide in gray? Then the thrill of watching the byplay between you all . . . Does the formidable brother know about the past?”
“What past?” Con asked, but it was useless.
Race grinned. “Does the lady still desire? Does the lord? Will they speak their hearts? Will they be forbidden? It’ll be as good as Drury Lane!”
Con swiped at him, and Race ducked, laughing like an imp from hell.
Susan was checking the preparations for the evening meal and preparing wines. As the Crag lacked a butler, the old earl’s valet had done that job, and as she’d often dined with her employer she’d learned something about his cellars. She hoped the wines she’d chosen would be suitable. They were all French. All smuggled, of course, but she didn’t think Con would raise the subject.
When arms snared her from behind, she almost dropped a bottle. For a startled, insane moment, she thought, Con! But then she turned to glare at her brother. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Scaring you.”
She put down the bottle. “You do that all the time. Well, did you pass muster?”
“Of course. I’m a very good estate manager, and there isn’t a great deal to do. For an earldom the property’s quite small.”