Francesca’s breath shimmered over his lips. A gentle sigh escaped her and she settled against him.
How long they sat there, in the upper hallway of the abandoned wing of Thistledown, neither could be sure. It felt so intrinsically right to be together in such a way, that neither could bring themselves to be the one to break the intimate contact.
He knew from the hesitancy behind the way she responded that she was untried. Everything within him ached to stand up, escort her back to her room and spend the afternoon assuring himself that she really was alright. But it was only the realisation that it was Francesca in his arms that held him back.
Francesca.
She was beautiful, intriguing, mysterious and gentle. She deserved to be initiated into the world of intimacy by her husband. A man who could claim her as his and spend the rest of his life helping her run her home and raise the children he would give her.
A dull ache settled deep within his chest. It felt like a kind of grief; a loss of something he couldn’t define and it brought forth such bitter regret he could positively taste it. A tiny part of him wanted him to be the one who would turn Thistledown into a home and renovate the damaged parts of the house. He wanted to be the one who would be able to claim her as his wife. In another, kinder world, he would be. But not now, not in this life.
Good things in life happened to other people, not to the likes of him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered moments later, when he had found the strength to break the kiss and loosen his hold on her. Even his arms seemed to ache with the regret of having to let her go, but she felt altogether too right lying half across his lap the way she did. “Please forgive me,” he murmured gently, helping her to her feet.
Francesca shook out her skirts, taking a few moments to herself to gather her scattered wits about her. She wasn’t sure what to make of the last few minutes; whether to be angry or not with him. Although she hadn’t actively sought his embrace or affections, she hadn’t discouraged them either. What had happened had just seemed natural; something that had had to happen between them to satisfy both of their curiosity.
Now that it had happened, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Nobody had ever kissed her before. It had felt intriguing and strangely intimate all at once, yet she didn’t feel embarrassed or awkward about it. Curious, yes, but strangely intrigued at the same time.
“Let’s get out of here.” Simon moved toward the connecting door leading to the undamaged part of the house, holding it open for her to precede him.
Francesca couldn’t bring herself to look at him as she walked through, and didn’t wait for him to close the door and follow her as they descended the stairs. On the upper landing, she paused at the top of the second flight of steps.
“About what happened,” she said, wafting a hand vaguely in the direction of the stairs they had just descended.
“It’s my fault. I am so very sorry for behaving so rashly,” Simon interrupted her hastily, his words as harsh as his face. “I can promise you that it won’t happen again.”
Something within Francesca broke and for one brief moment she could have wept for the loss. She wanted to protest that she wanted him to do it again – often, but instead a small voice of caution kept her silent.
Simon was tall, devastatingly handsome and clearly a man of the world. He would undoubtedly have the option to choose any woman he wanted, either for a wife or a brief liaison. Of course he wouldn’t be interested in a dalliance with her, even if she was going to offer one – which she wasn’t. Men like Simon didn’t usually look at women like her. She wasn’t skilled in the art of banal conversation, and besides rudimentary teachings in the art of taking tea and sewing, had very few skills to offer any gentleman of good fortune and standing like Simon.
With that thought still running around her head, she turned toward him, her face a mask of polite indifference. Or as best she could manage anyway. All thought of her near death experience diminished by the enormity of what had just happened between her and Simon.
“I think it would be best if we both forgot about what happened just now. I am sure it will lead to a more – harmonious association until you leave.” She knew her voice was stilted and awfully polite but she was busy struggling with her roiling emotions to be able to adopt a friendlier tone. She didn’t wait for him to reply, simply spun on her heel and disappeared down the corridor and into her bedroom without a backward glance.
Simon watched her go and had to struggle with the urge to charge after her and beg for her forgiveness. To assure her that he hadn’t meant what he had said, and offer her the world in exchange for the opportunity to spend his life with her. But the words had to remain unspoken. He knew for certain that there was definitely something going on in Much Hampton, and that something involved Thistledown Manor in some way. Who in Thistledown Manor was responsible for bringing trouble to Francesca’s door, and if they had any association with the French spies he had been sent there to uncover, he wasn’t sure but he fully intended to find out. It was his mission to bring them to justice. He could only hope that it wasn’t Francesca herself. The idea of restraining her long enough to send for reinforcements to slap her in irons and take her to jail didn’t sit well with him.
The mental image of her sitting cold and alone in a dank, dark cell somewhere made him desperately angry. Could he do it if he had to? Could he send her to jail? He wasn’t sure. He had only been in the house a couple of days; far too short a time to have any real idea of how honest and trustworthy she really was. The burgeoning attraction between them was very real, and very tempting, but had no real chance of survival. Not in his world. Not with so much at stake if she turned out to be duplicitous and involved in betraying king and country.
“She is very pretty, isn’t she?” Bertie asked gently from beside him.
Simon met the old man’s rheumy eyes and sighed. “She is, both inside and out, I suspect.”
“Aye, always was the sweetest one of them all,” Bertie replied kindly. “It would be a shame to see her get hurt.”
“I have no intention of hurting her,” Simon said. “I want her to be happy, but more importantly I want her to be safe.”
“We all do,” Bertie replied, staring at Simon so intently that it drew his attention.
“What?”
“Come with me,” the old man said mysteriously, nodding to the door behind him. “I have something to show you.”
Curious, Simon followed the old man through the door and into a narrow corridor. A long flight of steps turned a corner and went up into a corridor lined with doors. The attics had clearly once been used by the servants of the house but now stood cold and abandoned. Undisturbed dust motes hung in the air, giving it a stale odour that made him want to sneeze.
Simon followed the old man into the room behind the third door on the right, watching as Bertie closed it behind them and moved toward the small window. Bertie silently nodded toward the tin mine, or so Simon thought until his gaze wandered over to Much Hampton. Even from the distance he could see the small village was busy. Carts were moving here and there, although very few actually left the village. So many questions began to tumble through him that he practically bristled with impatience to know everything.
“Watch,” Bertie whispered.
Simon did as he was told and waited. Several long moments later, everyone within the village simply vanished. Children at the rear of the long row of houses were ushered inside, the carts vanished and people disappeared.
“Keep watching.” Simon heard the hint of warning in Bertie’s voice. Flicking him a glance, he was surprised at the dark look on the old man’s face. He turned back toward the window just in time to see a large black carriage move swiftly down the main street. It vanished so quickly that he wasn’t sure he had actually seen it. Despite waiting for several more minutes, it didn’t reappear.
“Who is it?”
“The new people,” Bertie sighed, shuffling away to sit on an old trunk
in the corner of the room. “The entire village changed when they arrived. It’s a shame too, because it was such a nice place to be. Most of the villagers worked here you know, either inside or out in the gardens. Others worked at the tin mine across the way there. Much Hampton is an isolated community, but it was always busy and always happy. Now, it is a mere ghost of its former self. It makes an old man very sad to see it thus.”
“I’m sure it does, Bertie,” Simon replied softly, turning away from the window. He had no idea why the old man had chosen to confide in him now, but was glad for the opportunity to get some questions answered at last.
“I know you are no artist,” Bertie growled, his voice almost stern. “Whatever you are here for, don’t drag Francesca into it. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“I have no intention of involving her in anything,” Simon assured him, watching the scepticism in the old man’s face.
“By simply being here, you are bringing trouble to her door. You are a fighter, someone who has seen cruelty.”
Simon felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. His eyes met and held those of the old man in silent query.
“I may be old, but I am not blind. I have served my time in the army and seen the soulless look of men who have killed and maimed and lived to talk about it. Whatever you are involved in, you aren’t being honest with us. You have your reasons for lying I suppose, but Francesca has her own problems to contend with, without you bringing more.”
“I know the house needs considerable work, and there is the issue with her grasping parents, but what other problems does she have?” Simon asked, his piercing gaze studied the old man closely.
“That’s her business. If she wants you to know, I don’t doubt she will tell you.”
“I can’t help her if I don’t know what I am fighting. I need to know if our battles are one and the same. It will help me to decide how best to protect her,” Simon argued, hoping the old man wouldn’t choose to close up on him. He could sense Bertie was on the brink of becoming an ally and right now, he certainly needed someone on his side. Preferably someone who knew the area and the people in it.
“She is being pressured into selling this place.”
Simon’s brows rose at the words he had least expected to hear. “Pardon?”
“The strangers in the village want to buy the house and have been pressuring her into selling to them.”
“The person in the large carriage we just saw?”
“Yep, the one and the same.”
“Did they buy the tavern?”
Bertie nodded silently.
“Now they want Thistledown?” Simon frowned, trying desperately to piece it all together. Bertie looked at him.
“Did they buy the tin mine?”
“Did she not tell you?” the old man asked curiously. “Francesca is the owner.”
“Francesca owns it?” Simon’s voice was incredulous. “Did nobody tell her that?”
“I’m not sure, I thought she knew already.” Simon had no doubt Bertie believed what he was saying. Simon could see nothing but honesty shining in his watery gaze. “I don’t think she knows, Bertie,” he added, shaking his head. “It’s either that or she isn’t being honest with me.” Immediately his thoughts turned to the figure in black who appeared to have been looking for something. Did they know that Francesca owned the mine as well?
He glanced out of the window, frowning darkly when a flurry of movement at the tin mine drew his attention.
“What the -.” He sensed rather than saw Bertie move to stand beside him.
“Aye, there’s rumours that the place is haunted.”
“Surely you don’t believe that,” Simon snorted, trying not to sound too disparaging.
“Course not,” Bertie replied huffily. “I’m not that darned stupid. But something mighty odd is happening around here.”
“Can I ask your honest opinion about something?” Simon asked, reluctant to resurrect old ghosts but seeing no way to find out what he desperately needed to know. “I need to know purely because I need to understand just what depths the new arrivals are prepared to go to in order to get their hands on this house and, it appears, the tin mine.”
“Go on,” Bertie urged, resuming his seat on the old box.
“Was there anything suspicious about Francesca’s uncle’s death?”
“You mean, do I believe he was murdered?” Bertie sighed, rubbing a hand wearily down his face. “Yes, I do.” The old man seemed to come to a decision. “If I am honest with you, it is a relief to be able to confide in someone about everything that has been going on around here. The strange circumstances around James Hillier’s death made me wonder whether he had been killed. He wasn’t a clumsy man. The belief of the locals that he had inadvertently knocked a candle over while falling asleep at his desk just didn’t ring true. In all of the years I was working for him, the man never fell asleep anywhere other than in his own bed at night. I do know he had had a visitor earlier that day that had made him extremely angry. So much so, that I was instructed to arrange footmen to escort them from the property.”
“Was it the new arrival who causes such a commotion in the village every day at three o’clock?”
“No, someone different.”
“Do you know of any names?” Simon asked hopefully, sighing deeply when Bertie shook his head.
“They didn’t give me a card, just demanded to see Master Hillier and barged past me. Charged straight into the library they did. Master Hillier was furious and demanded they leave. I had to go and fetch footmen to escort the man out, you understand, so don’t know what was said, but Master Hillier was shaken. Badly shaken by the time the man had gone.”
Simon sighed and fought the urge to punch the wall. Although he was grateful for the information, he now knew that the odd goings on around Thistledown were definitely linked to the strange behaviour of the locals, and that made Francesca’s presence in the house, as well as the village, even more dangerous.
“Do the strangers in the village appear at three o’clock every day?”
“Yes, almost on the dot.”
Simon squatted down before the old man and met his gaze. “I need you to think very carefully over the day that Master Hillier had his visitor, Bertie. Do you remember any strange accents the visitor may have had?”
“You mean, were they foreign?” Bertie frowned, thinking over the matter carefully. “No, they were well off because they talked really posh, but they were definitely English.”
Simon sighed. “Could they have been related to Francesca?”
“They weren’t relations of hers as far as I was aware. Course, I only met her mother once,” the old man looked askance at Simon. “Not a particularly nice person, that one. She made no bones about the fact that she hated it here, and felt it beneath her to remain for long. It was a relief when she left, I can tell you. Can’t understand how someone so horrid could have such a sweet child as Francesca.”
“She’s one on her own,” Simon agreed ruefully. “Tell me, when did Francesca last have a visit?”
“The day before you arrived,” Bertie replied solemnly. “Because of the strange events around Master Hillier’s death, I couldn’t take the stipend he left me and just go. I had hoped that Francesca would move here, and away from those blasted heathens she is related to. Nobody was happier than me when she sent word that she would be arriving for an extended stay. I couldn’t just go and leave her here all alone. She needs a man she can turn to. But someone must be keeping an eye on the place because she had her first visit just a couple of days after she arrived here.”
“Is it the same man who keeps coming back?” Simon asked with a frown, wondering how the purchase of Thistledown fitted into the activities of the black carriage in the village.
“The one and the same. Gets even more sinister each time he comes. There’s trouble brewing, I can just feel it,” Bertie grumbled.
Simon remembered his promise to Francesca not to
tell Bertie what had happened on the path, and fully understood her concerns for the old man’s feelings. Clearly he had been doing his best to act as her sort-of guardian, and protector, and had been considering himself adequate.
Placing a gentle hand on the old man’s arm, he smiled conspiratorially at him. “Then we will have to work together to do our best to make sure she doesn’t encounter any more trouble, won’t we?”
“There is something else,” Bertie replied solemnly. “That nursemaid of hers,” he shook his head morosely. “I know Francesca thinks a lot of her, but there is something that I just don’t trust about her. Something unusual, you know? Only I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Do you think she is lying to Francesca?”
“I think she is not all she makes out to be, but it will break Francesca’s heart if the woman is involved in any of the nefarious activities that are going on.”
“Do you think she may be?”
“I don’t know, but I do know that some of the things she has said are deuced odd, and she is very evasive when asked about her past.”
Simon nodded cautiously. He had his own doubts about Madeline, and decided to send a note to Hugo to check out her background as soon as physically possible.
“I think that we may just have to protect Francesca against her own good nature, if it came right down to it.”
“There’s more.”
Simon sighed at Bertie’s words, and shook his head, glancing at the old man ruefully. “Go on,” he replied cautiously, beginning to wonder if they would ever get out of the attic.
“I think Madeline drugged my food to keep me in bed.”
Simon’s face turned hard and menacing as he absorbed the old man’s words.
“I only had a head cold,” Bertie hurried on, squirming under Simon’s intense stare. “One minute I was alright then Madeline made me a cup of hot cocoa. The next thing I remember it was two days later and I was still in bed. Only, I felt groggy, like I had been drinking all night rather than sleeping. When I asked for Francesca, Madeline got quite snappy and kept telling me that Francesca was too busy to visit right now.”
Smuggler's Glory Page 11