The wagon and work horses were nowhere to be seen, and Colin decided not to inquire about them. Perhaps the young men of last night had returned for them. He hoped so.
Maybe Martin Fallow had indeed fallen off the cob, which had found its own way home. Or perhaps he’d found shelter and sent the horse on its way. Regardless, Bridget must have left on Snappish, taking Sylvie with her—doubtless looking for her precious cousin. Colin should have known she wouldn’t obey his order to forget about Fallow.
Colin was about to head in the direction of the coast when one of his own grooms galloped up.
“Message from Miss Daisy,” the groom panted. “She said it was urgent, that we should try here if you weren’t at home.”
Colin thanked him and opened the letter.
Your Mrs. Black came to see me today, along with her daughter Sylvie, who is so obviously yours. (So very much like Emma! I am an auntie—how delightful!) Mrs. Black asked to speak to a smuggler but won’t tell me why. (I rather like her.) Little Jenny (Sally’s daughter, if you recall) tells me Sylvie was chattering about going to America, and therefore I fear Bridget plans to flee the country to get away from you—for why else would she need the help of smugglers? If you need more proof, there’s a valise strapped to her saddle. What in God’s name have you done to upset her so? For although she acts most determined and resourceful, she is clearly unhappy, and it is monstrously unkind of you. The tide turns at eleven tonight.
Colin swore. She was going after Fallow and intended to flee the country with him, if she found him alive. If dead, she would flee without him.
“Will there be any answer, sir?” asked the groom after a while.
Colin shook his head and sent the groom away. He didn’t give a damn about Fallow. If only he could beg Bridget to reconsider, but no, he’d gone far past what could be forgiven. He would have to let her go.
More than that, he would have to arrange the departure himself, make sure that Fallow’s crime went undetected and that she and Sylvie were safe.
Bridget paced back and forth in the coffee room. Daisy came down dressed in a faded round gown, swallowed another cup of coffee and ate some very hard rock cakes, and then stood abruptly, saying she really must get to work.
Work? Did she clean the bedchambers or chop vegetables for the stew? Bridget wouldn’t put it past her, and only hoped she would wash the ink off her fingers first. “What work do you do?”
“I shan’t tell you that,” Daisy said.
Tit for tat, Bridget thought, but she’d only been making conversation.
“It might get back to my brother, you see, and he wouldn’t approve.”
Bridget smiled reluctantly. “You’re trying to pique my curiosity, and you’re succeeding, but it won’t get back to your brother. I don’t expect to see him, and even if I do, I certainly shan’t confide in him, so that won’t serve as an excuse.”
“You shall see a great deal of him,” Daisy said. “He has a daughter now, so you are stuck with him whether you marry him or not. You’d better reconcile with him—best for everyone all round.”
“Impossible,” Bridget said. “His behavior—he said something unforgivable. If I had the option, I would never speak to him again.”
“Oh. So you’re one of those.” Her nose twitched as if at a foul odor. “In that case, Colin is better off without you.”
“One of what?”
“The unforgiving,” she sneered. “The Warrens don’t need any more of those.”
At that, Bridget remembered: after Emma’s death, Colin’s mother had never spoken to him again. “Did—did she stop speaking to you, too?”
“Oh yes, but I deserved it.” Daisy tossed her head and left.
Well, and Colin deserved it, too—not then, but now he certainly did. How could she ever forgive a man whose opinions, no, whose deepest convictions were so loathsome to her?
Bridget went into the kitchen, got directions to Mr. Bennett’s cottage, and set out on her own. On the way, she met Sylvie and Jenny dawdling on the lane, fast friends now.
“He’s expecting you, ma’am,” Jenny said.
She was ushered into a cheerful parlor by a clean, pleasant-looking maid. Sun shone in through casement windows framed by bright yellow curtains. Mr. Bennett, a spare, bespectacled man in his fifties, had been writing at a small desk. He set down his pen, stood, and bowed to Bridget. “Welcome to my humble abode, Mrs. Black. May I offer you some refreshment, ma’am? Tea, perhaps?”
How unexpectedly polite for a smuggler. “Thank you, but no. I’m in rather a hurry.”
Did his eyes twinkle behind the spectacles? “Come now, it’s excellent tea. Top quality and even more delicious because no duty was paid on it. I insist.” He nodded to his servant, who curtsied and shut the door.
Bridget took a seat, more than a little bewildered. She’d expected a rough sort of person, not a scholarly-looking man.
Educated he might be, but that didn’t stop him frankly assessing her. “A friend of Miss Warren’s, are you?”
“Yes,” Bridget said, which was stretching the truth almost to breaking point, but it seemed she was about to become a deceitful person whose entire life was a web of lies. “I am in need of assistance from smugglers, and she sent me to you.”
His brow creased. “A pretty young thing like you shouldn’t be dealing with smugglers, any more than Miss Warren should live in that tumbledown inn.”
“Perhaps not, but I have no choice. A cousin of mine . . .” She pondered how to give as little information as possible and get what she needed in return. “He has lately been involved with some smugglers. Late last night, he—he got into an argument and was shot, after which he rode away. My hope is that he escaped to the smugglers with whom he had made arrangements, and that you can locate him for me.”
Mr. Bennett cocked his head. “I may be able to do so. In what capacity was he involved with smuggling?”
“Does it matter?”
“I cannot picture the cousin of a well-bred lady such as yourself unloading a ship or assisting with a pack-train of ponies—unless he is a youngster doing it for a lark, in which case he has paid dearly for his entertainment.”
“No, he is merely a fool. I believe he intended to smuggle some—some quite bulky and heavy goods to Ireland.”
“Hmm. Weapons, I assume. Do you wish to ship the same cargo on his behalf?”
“No!” she cried, putting up her hands. “Not at all!” Her heart thudded painfully. Would he turn her in to the authorities?
What had Daisy done by sending her here? She rose in a hurry. “You’re not a smuggler at all, are you?”
“Calm yourself, my dear. Ah, here comes our tea.” The maid entered carrying a tray, set it on the low table before them, curtsied and left. “Do sit down again and pour for us.”
She couldn’t possibly pour anything, she was shaking so much. She put her hands on her hips to steady them and glared.
His lip curled. “I was once a smuggler—bought this cottage with the proceeds—but now I am merely a cynical old man who has seen much foolishness.” He indicated the chair. “Sit, my child. Miss Warren sent you to me as the most proper person to put you in contact with smugglers without exposing you to danger.”
Slowly, Bridget resumed her seat and poured the tea. “That was thoughtful of her. I have not had occasion to contact smugglers before.” She passed a cup to Mr. Bennett. “I am a law-abiding citizen.”
He chuckled.
“Very well,” she said ruefully, “not in this instance, but my cousin’s continued presence in England will cause me no end of trouble, not to mention most likely cost him his life. Therefore I am willing to pay to get him out of the way.”
“If he was badly injured, he may well be dead already.”
�
��I am aware of that,” she said, surprised by how little she cared. “Dead or alive, I want him taken to Ireland where he belongs.”
“Fallow died less than an hour ago.”
“Damn,” Colin said to one of the most successful smugglers in the area, Andy Evans. He’d not seen Andy for years, but they’d been friends as boys, before they inevitably went their separate ways.
“He was left on my doorstep this morning by that bastard, Danny Gort.” Andy spat. “You wouldn’t know him. He’s my biggest competitor. Always seeking to do me a bad turn.”
Colin raised a questioning brow.
“Fallow came to me first, but I turned him down. There’s one thing I don’t do, and that’s ship unidentified cargo.” He cocked his head. “What was it, guns?” At Colin’s nod, he grunted, “Thought so. Far too risky. I could maybe buy myself out of a charge of smuggling, but not treason.”
Colin’s consternation must have shown on his face, for Andy’s friendly expression disappeared. “Easy to have high-and-lofty principles when you’ve been born in the purple, Colin Warren. When a man’s had to claw his way up to a measure of success, he sees things a little clearer.”
“You sympathize with the Irish?”
“Somewhat. Nobody likes to be trampled on. But I value my skin, so I won’t aid and abet them neither.”
Nor would Bridget, although whether for her own safety or for the sake of Sylvie’s future, Colin wasn’t entirely sure. Did Bridget and Andy deserve to be seen as traitors for their sympathies?
“Danny Gort will ship anything if the price is right, but now he’s saddled me with a goddamned corpse.” Andy eyed Colin. “Fallow was a friend of yours?”
“Far from it. I’m the one who shot him.”
“Nah, he would have been dead straightway.” Realizing Colin was serious, Andy snorted. “What happened? You used to be the best shot for miles around.”
“Not last night. You remember the hue and cry years ago about some stolen rifles?”
Andy whistled. “The selfsame rifles?”
“Yes, they’ve been hidden close by all these years. It’s a long story, but I found out where they were and arrived just in time to stop him, but my shot only caught him in the shoulder. He escaped on horseback. I’m surprised he got this far.”
“Well, you’re welcome to his corpse. What do they do with the bodies of traitors these days? No use drawing and quartering a dead man.”
“They don’t draw and quarter them at all anymore,” Colin said, “and I’m not about to explain any of this to the authorities. I want his body buried at sea, as far from here as possible.”
“Why?” Andy eyed him. “You’re protecting someone.” He’d always been a little too clever, which was probably how he’d done so well. “Aren’t you?”
“Shall I ask Gort to do it?” Colin asked. “It’s all one to me, as long as the work gets done.”
“Come now, what’s the big secret?” Andy asked. “It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
The sound of a horse and cart came to them through the open window. Colin turned; a dog cart came to a halt before the house. In the back was a familiar little girl. An elderly gentleman held the reins, and beside him sat Bridget Black.
“Damn,” muttered Colin.
“I’ll do it,” Andy said with a grin.
Chapter 14
“Not a good sort of man, is Danny Gort,” Mr. Bennett had said apologetically as he and Bridget left that smuggler’s abode. “I went to him first for that very reason; he has few scruples.”
Not a good sort was an understatement. Mr. Bennett had left Bridget and Sylvie in the dogcart while he questioned Mr. Gort, who came outdoors to leer at Bridget with a positively evil grin. How, she wondered, did Daisy Warren come to have such persons as friends?
“Andy Evans is a much more pleasant fellow,” Mr. Bennett said, “but I didn’t think he would consent to smuggle guns to the Irish.”
And yet, according to Mr. Gort, a wounded man answering to Martin Fallow’s description had been found on Mr. Evans’ doorstep shortly after dawn.
“I want to use the necessary,” Sylvie whined. She had said the same at Mr. Gort’s house, and he’d leered at that as well, offering to escort Bridget and her daughter to the outhouse. Bridget had refused with a shudder.
“I know, dearest, but you’ll just have to hold it in,” she said now.
“It’s only a few miles to Mr. Evans’ house,” Mr. Bennett said.
Valiantly, Sylvie controlled herself, only complaining a couple more times, and now at last they pulled up before the second smuggler’s house. It was a pretty stone building, similar in size to Bridget’s own house. Apparently, smuggling was a lucrative business.
“Here we are.” Mr. Bennett drew up before the front door. “I’ll just—”
Through the open window, Bridget spied the last person she wanted to see. “Oh, no,” she whispered. Colin Warren’s eyes met hers—and then he turned away.
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Bennett stared at her. “You’re looking pale, Mrs. Black. Are you unwell?”
“May I please use the necessary?” Sylvie moaned.
“Y-yes, darling, of course.” Bridget jumped down from the cart. “Mr. Bennett, would you be so kind as to take Sylvie around the back? Perhaps one of the servants can show her the privy. I think I’d best take care of this, er, conversation myself.”
Mr. Bennett frowned at the open window. Colin was no longer there. “Very well.” He helped Sylvie down and led her around the back of the building.
Bridget’s heart thundered. What was Colin doing here? How had he guessed where she would be?
Would he have her arrested? Would he snatch Sylvie away?
She squared her shoulders and marched to the front door. Colin was in the wrong—entirely in the wrong—and she must remain strong and sure of herself. Somehow, in spite of the law and his power, she would survive. And prevail.
The desperate pounding of her heart showed how little she believed her own bravado.
Before she could knock, the door swung open. Colin stood there, grim and cold. “Mrs. Black.” He bowed formally, excessively so. If her heart could sink any lower, it did now.
She dipped the slightest courtesy. “Mr. Warren.”
“I regret to inform you,” Colin said, “that your cousin, Mr. Fallow, is dead.”
Bridget let out a breath. At least Martin wouldn’t be arrested for treason. “May I—” She swallowed, unexpectedly saddened even in her relief, but unwilling to beg for anything. Yet. He had no right to refuse her this. “I should like to see him.”
Colin’s expression shifted to a sneer resembling his sister’s. He stepped back. “This is Mr. Evans. I’m sure he would be delighted to show you your cousin’s remains.”
She curtsied to Mr. Evans, a jolly-looking man of about Colin’s age.
“I wouldn’t call it delighted, Warren,” he said acidly. “Don’t mind him, ma’am. He’s a mite peevish today. Crossed in love, I’ll wager.”
Colin glared at him.
“Oh, that’s right, I’d forgotten.” Mr. Evans chuckled. “The Warrens don’t believe in love. Come with me, ma’am. He’s up in one of the bedchambers.”
Bridget followed him up the stairs. After a pause, she heard Colin coming up as well. No doubt he intended to make sure she didn’t try to negotiate her escape with the smuggler.
“Sorry about jesting at such a solemn moment, ma’am,” Mr. Evans said. “Me and Mr. Warren are old friends. Can’t help taking a dig at him now and then.”
“That’s quite all right,” she said. “If anything, I am relieved that my cousin is dead. He has caused a great deal of trouble lately.”
“Aye, no doubt. Running guns is downright stupid, and so I told him.” They emerg
ed onto a landing. Mr. Evans led her into a bedchamber.
Martin Fallow lay pale and still on the sheet, his arms crossed over his chest. In spite of everything, tears came to Bridget’s eyes. She dabbed at them with her gloved hands. She heard Colin enter the room behind her.
She wished him anywhere but here. He didn’t understand and never would, and now it seemed that the smuggler was his friend, so she could expect no help from that quarter, either.
Colin came up beside her and pressed a handkerchief into her hand.
“Thank you,” she muttered, astonished at this gesture, reminding herself that it meant nothing. He simply didn’t want to haul a blubbering woman off to prison.
“He made his arrangements with Danny Gort instead,” Mr. Evans said. “He should have known Gort wasn’t the sort to help a wounded man. Gort dumped him well-nigh dead on my doorstep this morning.”
Bridget sniffled and blew her nose. How horrid for poor Martin. She could only hope he’d been unconscious at the time. “I suppose that means Mr. Gort has my horse as well.”
“No,” Colin said, “the cob returned to your home, according to your groom.”
She shouldn’t be surprised that Colin had been at her house, since he’d had to transport all the guns. And yet, how dare he snoop about, questioning her servants? Would he insist on putting his own servants there to spy on her? If he didn’t put her in prison, that is.
“Likely the poor beast wandered away before Gort found your cousin,” said Mr. Evans. “Can’t stand the bastard. One of these days I’ll do the world a good turn and shoot him, then drop him overboard.”
The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 23