Smuggler's Glory

by King, Rebecca

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Francesca studied him for several moments. She was fairly certain that the dark shadows beneath his eyes hadn’t been there the previous day. If he was the artist he claimed to be, why was he concerning himself with the eccentricities of Much Hampton, and wandering around her house in the dark, rather than getting a good night’s sleep?

  Stifling a yawn, her eyes met and held his through the darkness. “If you can’t trust me enough to tell me who you really are, how do you expect me to trust you?” She didn’t need to look too closely to see that same vague look on his face he got when he was going to lie.

  “There is nothing to tell you,” Simon replied gently. He hated lies between them, but the need to protect her was too strong to ignore. Her ignorance of his true identity could, ultimately, save her life.

  “You mean nothing you will tell me.” Francesca sighed, feeling somewhat let down. “I’m tired, and am going to go to bed.”

  “You haven’t told me about the village yet,” Simon chided her, making no attempt to leave his comfortable seat and allow her to slide between the sheets.

  “What about it?”

  “What is going on there that makes the villagers scared of strangers and, unless I am mistaken, everyone afraid to go out at night?”

  Francesca hesitated. It was late and they were both undoubtedly tired. To explain what was going on in the village would take a while, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to be in her bedroom that long. He seemed altogether too comfortable as it was. Still, she sighed and debated whether to just tell him and let him decide what he was going to do with the information. If he wasn’t to be trusted, he would know that in reality, she knew very little. If he was here for some other nefarious reason, what she was about to tell him was not really going to help him in any way, or hamper his activities.

  “The Much Hampton I remember from my youth was a thriving, bustling town, believe it or not. I can always remember going for walks on the moors, and passing through the village. People would always call ‘hello’ and take a moment to talk. It was essentially just the same as any other village in the country. Everybody knew each other and helped each other out when people ran into difficulties.” She sighed and settled back into the chair wearily. She could feel his eyes studying her but she refused to look at him. Instead she tucked a thick woollen blanket across her legs and began to pluck absently at the fine strands that hung loose.

  “I don’t know when things began to change, because I wasn’t here.”

  “Where do you hail from?” Simon hated to interrupt but he fully intended to ask Hugo to find out what he could not only about Francesca, but Bertie and Madeline too.

  “Oxfordshire,” Francesca replied hesitantly.

  “Did your uncle correspond with other members of your family?”

  Francesca frowned, wondering why he wanted to know. It didn’t seem pertinent to the activities of Much Hampton, but she could see no reason not to accommodate his curiosity..

  “Not as far as I am aware, no. He wasn’t altogether close to my father, but seemed to look forward to spending time with us as children. Unfortunately his visits to us were infrequent and short, which is why I looked forward to coming here so much. It was nice to spend time with him without looking at the timepiece and dreading the moment when he was going to take his leave. He always seemed to have time for us here. Of course, my sisters hated it here because of it being far too isolated, but there was something about the moors that seemed to appeal to me and I just loved being at Thistledown with my uncle.”

  “Did you visit often?”

  “Once a year. We stayed over the summer for several weeks. Of course it was wild and windy even then: something my sisters didn’t appreciate. In the latter years my sisters found reasons not to visit at all, until for the past two or three years, I was the only one in the entire family who bothered to pay a visit.” Her voice held a tinge of sadness at the events that unfolded.

  “When did you notice things start to change in the village?”

  “Last year. I was walking with my uncle over the moors, and he seemed more distracted than usual. It was as though something was bothering him, but of course, he refused to speak to me about it. I first noticed something amiss when we went through the village, only nobody hailed us. People seemed almost nervous, and scurried away before my uncle could call a greeting. Some people did call out a cautious ‘hello’ to us, but then hurried off. But it was when we returned from our walk that I really noticed a difference. My uncle wanted to avoid the village, which was unusual in itself, and walk several miles out of our way, but I insisted on retracing our steps. When we walked through the village it was as though nobody was there and the village was abandoned. It was really strange, and more than a little unnerving. If one was of an imaginative nature, one would almost believe that you could feel yourself being watched, only nobody was there. It was deuced odd.” She was so busy frowning into the fireplace that she didn’t notice Simon’s instinctive smile at her mild blasphemy, but he chose not to mention it. At last he felt as though he was getting somewhere, and he wasn’t prepared to say, or do, anything that would stop the flow of information.

  “I know what you mean. I noted exactly the same thing when I came through the village yesterday.” When Francesca’s brows rose, he explained. “When I approached Much Hampton, it was a bustling village, but something struck me as odd. There were lots of carts going here and there, but I never passed one on the way into the village. So where were they going? What were they carrying? I searched the village for a place to stay when it became apparent that the tavern wasn’t in use any more, only when I went back through the village, it was deserted.”

  “It’s really odd. Nobody seems willing to talk. It is as though they know something but are too scared to even speak to anybody about it.”

  “Can you remember what time you passed through the village with your uncle, when you noticed the strange behaviour?”

  “It was just before tea, so it would be about three o’clock. We arrived back here about three thirty and had tea at four.”

  “When did the tin mine close down?”

  “About eighteen months ago. It was a sad day for my uncle because so many of the servants who worked here had relatives who worked in the mine.”

  “Why did it close, do you know?”

  Francesca shook her head. “I think it may have run dry, but cannot be sure. Unfortunately, the one man you could have asked was Mr Templeton, who owned the tavern.”

  “Has he left for more affluent pastures?”

  “No, he died about six months before his wife left.”

  “When was that?”

  “I cannot be sure of dates, you understand,” Francesca warned, raking her memory for as much detail as she could muster. Although she couldn’t understand what any of this had to do with Simon, she knew from the intent look on his face that her answers were important. “I came to see my uncle last summer. Mr Templeton died just before Christmas the previous year. His wife tried to run the tavern for several months before leaving just before the summer. When I got here last year, it was as abandoned as the tin mine across the valley.”

  “Do you know who owns the tin mine?”

  “Not sure, sorry. I know that this house was built by the owner of the tin mine, as was usual in those days. But, I am not sure who the owner was when my uncle purchased the house.”

  “How long has he owned this place?”

  “As long as I can remember,” Francesca replied, stifling a yawn. “At least five and twenty years, if not longer.”

  “Was your uncle married at all?”

  Once again, sadness shadowed her beautiful face, making Simon regret his choice of question. He wanted to ask her to ignore the question, but something kept him quiet. He wanted to know, and it wasn’t just to be able to send as much information about her to Hugo as he could uncover. There was more behind his curiosity that he wasn’t prepared to look too closel
y at.

  “His wife and son died only a few years after he married. From what I overheard during conversation between my parents as a child, their deaths brought about a change in him and he seemed to withdraw from society. This house was purchased shortly after their death. My uncle wanted to escape the marital home, too many memories, and all that.”

  “So he moved here and stayed here until his demise last year. Did he have a vast fortune he lived off? It seems almost too remote to make a successful living here.”

  “To be honest, I have no idea how my uncle made his fortune. My father certainly wasn’t overly wealthy, and made it perfectly clear to my sisters and me that we were a financial burden he couldn’t wait to cast off.”

  Francesca stared at him. “There were many things we talked about while I was here, but his fortune and wealth wasn’t one of them.”

  Simon knew there was little possibility that her uncle would have told her even if she had asked. If her family were hard up, he may have accepted guardianship of the girls over the summer to alleviate some of the burden rather than sending money to their father for their upkeep but he couldn’t see any reason in pointing this out to Francesca.

  From what she had already told him about her family, he could understand her uncle’s willingness to accommodate her and allow her freedom from their grasping ways. He felt a certain kinship with the deceased relative that was unusual, to say the very least.

  What was even more unusual was the fact that he was sitting in the bedchamber of a woman he had met less than a day ago, talking about mysterious happenings in a village he didn’t want to be in, while the woman was dressed alluringly in a nightgown that only just managed to cover her modesty. If his colleagues from the Star Elite learned of tonight, they would kill themselves laughing.

  Shaking his head, he rose wearily to his feet.

  “Thank you for confiding in me, Francesca. I think that there is something very odd going on in Much Hampton, and I am glad I am not the only person to experience its eccentricities. Because neither of us knows what is happening around here, please be very careful and don’t go out unless Bertie or I are there to accompany you. The last thing I want is for you to stumble upon Charlie or Tom alone again.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, Mr -”

  “Simon, please. I hate formalities. It seems such a frivolous and unnecessary waste of time.” He didn’t wait for her to reply and moved toward the door where he paused, one hand on the knob. “Please lock the door behind me and keep it locked.” He glanced toward the window behind him, and the first rays of light that were creeping around the curtains. Wrinkling his nose, he glanced ruefully at her. “Try and get some sleep while there is some of the night left.”

  “Simon?”

  “Yes?” He could sense the worry and concern on her face.

  “Do you think my uncle was murdered?”

  Simon hesitated, and stared at her. Although the real reason why he was in her house had to remain a secret for now, he hated the clandestine necessity of it and didn’t want anything else to be between them unless he could help it.

  “It is difficult to say right now. It would help if, tomorrow, you could show me where he died, so I can take a look. I don’t know what I am looking for, you understand, but I can take a look anyway. Because we cannot be sure what happened on the night of your uncle’s death, neither of us can afford to take risks.”

  “Thank you,” Francesca said softly. She didn’t know why she felt the need to ask such a question, especially of Simon with whom she really had very little acquaintance. It had shaken her more than she cared to admit when Simon revealed his experiences in the village yesterday. There was something definitely odd about the village of late. If only she could find out whether it was linked to her uncle’s death then she would know whether she should spend the time and money refurbishing Thistledown. The last thing she wanted was to refurbish the house her uncle had been murdered in.

  “Get some sleep,” he murmured softly, disappearing through the door.

  She stared at the closed panel for several minutes, lost in silent contemplation, and jumped at the soft knock that broke into her thoughts several moments later. As instructed, she scurried across the room and quickly locked the door, leaning against the cool wood for several moments. She could still smell his masculine scent that hovered in the air, and felt her stomach warm in response to his nearness.

  “You haven’t got time for any of that,” Francesca whispered, pushing away from the door and returning to her bed, where she tugged up the covers. But rather than go to sleep, she rolled onto her back and stared blankly at the canopy high above.

  She had no doubt he had secrets he wasn’t going to tell her, and she was taking a great risk even allowing him into her house, much less staying over. Was his arrival in the village at the same time as the strange activities in the village and the tin mine mere coincidence? Or was he here for more nefarious reasons?

  She wasn’t sure, but she longed to be able to confide in someone. The words had positively trembled on her lips, and it had taken every ounce of self-control she possessed to remain quiet. He was tall, dark, distinguished and a trained fighter, of that she had no doubt.

  But, just whose cause was he fighting?

  Much later that same morning, Simon watched Francesca finish the last of her chocolate. Waiting until Madeline began to clear the table and return the breakfast things to the kitchen, he leant over the table toward Francesca, motioning for her to remain quiet.

  “Will you show me where your uncle died?”

  She didn’t understand the need for subterfuge, especially from Madeline. Taking a deep breath to ask him why he didn’t want anyone else to know, he made a show of coughing as he stood up to cover her question.

  “I would love a tour of the house, Francesca, it is very kind of you to offer,” he glared pointedly at her, making certain his back was toward Madeline so she didn’t see. He could sense Francesca’s confusion but was relieved when she decided not to make an issue of it, and merely agreed.

  “I could do it, Francesca, if you want to get on with the inventory,” Madeline offered, depositing the tower of plates she had stacked on the corner of the table.

  “Oh, no, it is alright thank you, Madeline, I could do with the walk to clear my head,” Francesca replied, feeling the air of suspicion that practically hovered over them. It left her feeling more disturbed than ever, and seemed so out of place in the small room next to the kitchen that served as the dining room, that she suddenly felt the need to get away from it. She didn’t want to suspect Madeline and Bertie and, until she knew a bit more about her confusing guest, couldn’t allow him to drive a wedge between her and the two people she could really call family these days. But she could sense Madeline’s hesitation, and had to wonder why she seemed so eager to take Simon on a tour of a house that wasn’t even hers. Did Madeline know Simon had spent some considerable time in her room, alone, last night? If so, how? Why was she up at such a late hour? Had she been the person in the cloak Simon had found creeping around the house in the middle of the night?

  Unfortunately, Francesca knew she would never be able to ask Madeline. If the woman had no knowledge of Simon’s presence in her room, Francesca would achieve nothing by pointing out her own wayward behaviour. The fewer people that knew what had happened last night, the better as far as Francesca was concerned.

  “Really, I think it would be best -” Madeline began, desperation in her voice.

  Aware of the glint of temper in her companion’s eyes, Francesca waved a casual hand, eager to get out of the kitchen.

  “No, you carry on with what you are doing Madeline, I am more than capable.” With that she motioned Simon toward the door. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  They left the kitchen moments later, and entered the long corridor that led toward the front of the house and the entrance hall. As they walked, the air became noticeably cooler until, by the time they reached the huge, or
nately carved oak front door, he began to feel the coolness creep over his chilled flesh. It made him shiver and draw his jacket around him more closely. Eyeing Francesca’s thick woollen shawl, he assured himself that she was warm enough, and followed her through the morning room to the sitting room beyond and a small hallway that led to another door.

  He took a moment to close each door they passed through carefully behind them, aware of Francesca’s watchful gaze.

  “Just in case anyone decides to try to follow us,” he whispered softly, and watched her brows rise. “It will make it harder for anyone to find us, or overhear what we say.”

  “Just who are you?” Francesca bit out, feeling more disconcerted than ever.

  “Nobody you need to be afraid of, Francesca, I promise you,” Simon murmured, his lips quirking up at the corners in a vague attempt at a smile.

  “But you still aren’t telling me who you really are, and what you are doing here,” Francesca protested, reluctant to let the matter drop. She knew he was going to ask probing questions about her uncle’s death, and wondered if he was just trying to find out how much she knew before deciding whether she was worth killing or not. Giving herself a mental shake, she was about to turn away when Simon’s hand on her arm stopped her.

  “Why do you feel the need to dye your hair grey in a foolish attempt to make yourself look older?” He slowly eased the wire rimmed spectacles off her pert nose and peered through them. He shot her a rueful look and shook his head as he folded the arms and tucked the spectacles into his jacket pocket. “That’s better,” he whispered gently.

  “Foolish?” Francesca gasped at his audacity. She wondered if she should demand her spectacles back. Although she had never needed spectacles in her life, it had helped create a barrier between her and the outside word that had been reassuring somehow and she felt strangely bare without them.