The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  The earl eyed the horse again. “I would be remiss, Miss Hannah, if I did not ask whether you could handle this animal. I don’t believe I’ve met a lady that would ride a stallion.”

  “Such ladies are rare, I’m sure.” She tilted her head, met his gaze. “But she only needs to know how best to handle the stallion.”

  He paused. The blue of his eyes was intense. “An interesting theory.”

  Grace glanced at the watch pinned to her riding habit. It was nearly five, and she was allowing herself to be caught up in a conversation she shouldn’t have. She schooled her features. “It is past time for me to depart, my lord. I must return home to—” To what, she thought frantically. What could she tell him? To oversee dinner preparations? To ensure the linens were properly washed and aired?

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Gracie,” a voice called out. A young groom hurried between the stalls, carrying Demon’s saddle and other tack. “I would’ve ’ad Demon ready for you, but ’is lordship came home and is—”

  “Right beside me,” she said quickly.

  “Milord.” He acknowledged the earl with a nod before hurrying to saddle Demon. The horse shied away from the groom, as usual.

  “I’ll hold him steady.” She slipped into the stall to murmur to Demon, stroking his forehead. When the groom stepped back she took the reins and led the horse through the stable and into the sunlit courtyard beyond.

  She approached the mounting block, but the earl stayed her course.

  “Allow me to assist.” He linked his fingers together and offered her a leg up.

  She couldn’t politely refuse and leave him standing there. With an inward sigh, she placed her foot in his linked fingers and boosted herself onto the sidesaddle. Her breath caught, then rushed out again when he gripped her waist to steady her. His fingers, hot and strong, lingered for a moment, imprinting their heat onto her waist. He squeezed gently, then let his hands glide down her hips and drop away.

  Breathing seemed impossible. The caress was intimate. Too intimate. Worse, her reaction—the sudden awareness of her body, the drumming of her pulse—was discomforting. She struggled to keep her expression serene.

  “Welcome home, my lord. And good-bye.”

  She sprung the stallion into action, cantered down the graveled lane and through the iron gates.

  __________

  JULIAN HELD UP his brandy glass and studied the liquor swirling within. An exceptional French brandy, probably smuggled. Perhaps by the lovely Miss Hannah herself.

  She seemed an unlikely candidate for a smuggler. She was slender, even delicate despite her considerable height, with fine bones and nearly translucent skin. He knew she was the niece of a minor baron. Polite, refined, well educated. Yet she was connected to two smugglers in a tavern arguing about treasonous documents. Then there was the serene and composed expression. He found himself wondering what it concealed.

  If anyone knew about masks, it was the Shadow.

  He would peel away the outer layers of Grace Hannah to discover what lay beneath. What did Miss Hannah know, and how involved was she? Someone was smuggling more than spirits and tobacco, and the evidence indicated it was she.

  He sipped the brandy, letting the liquid heat settle in his belly as he considered how best to approach her. Every suspect had a weakness. Hers just had to be found.

  A knock sounded at the door. He tensed, reached automatically for a weapon, before deliberately relaxing his muscles.

  “Enter.”

  “I’ve brought your supper, my lord.” Mrs. Starkweather bustled into the room, a large tray in her arms. “I’ve a hearty roast and good fresh bread for your meal. Not as fancy as in London, I’m sure.”

  “It looks delicious.”

  She set the tray on a table near his armchair and busied herself straightening the cutlery and repositioning the plates.

  “For dessert, there are Miss Gracie’s blackberry tarts.” She lifted the cloth covering them and revealed golden crust and deep purple-black filling. “I’m afraid there’s only the two, though. Mr. Starkweather and I ate most of them when she was here earlier.” She dropped the cloth over the pastries again.

  “I’ve a fondness for pastries myself.” He set down his brandy. “Do Miss Hannah and her tarts visit often?”

  “About once a week for nearly—why, it must be six or seven years at least. I’ve near forgotten what it was like before Miss Gracie came, as that was probably ten years ago now.” Mrs. Starkweather fluttered across the room to the fireplace. “You’ll want light soon. The sun is starting to set.”

  “Yes, thank you. Miss Hannah must have been young when she came to Devon,” he prompted. Information was as much a weapon as the knife in his boot.

  “She was.” Lighting the candelabra on the mantel, she continued her chattering monologue. “I remember seeing her in church that first time and thinking what a sad little thing she was. Those big gray eyes just brimming over with melancholy—then again, her parents had died and she’d been sent to Cannon Manor. A worse fate I can’t think of, what with Lady Cannon just dead and no one to take the children in hand or direct the staff. The staff—” She broke off as she set the candles near the tray of food. “Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean to forget my place.”

  “You’ve known me since birth, Mrs. Starkweather.” He shook his head lightly. “You’ve no place to worry about.”

  “Well.” She smiled at him and leaned forward in the manner of gossips everywhere. “The staff had been doing their best, of course, as staff always does, but with no mistress and Lord Cannon concerned with his own affairs, the manor was in a muddle. Miss Gracie soon put it to rights and that’s that.”

  “Miss Hannah sounds resourceful.”

  “She is, my lord,” Mrs. Starkweather chirped. “Why, she was Miss Cannon’s governess after Miss Cannon drove away the last one—and what a chore that was. Miss Cannon is Miss Gracie’s cousin, but she was no easier on Miss Gracie than she’d been on the other governesses. Neither were his lordship’s sons. Miss Gracie had to mind them as well.” Mrs. Starkweather shrugged philosophically. “Now she minds Cannon Manor, his lordship and the rest of us when called for. That’s just Miss Gracie.”

  “A paragon of virtue.” Except, of course, for the smuggling.

  And possible treason.

  “Beg pardon, my lord?”

  “It’s not important, Mrs. Starkweather.” He speared a bite of meat and swirled it around in the accompanying dark sauce before sampling it. The refreshing taste of basil lingered on his tongue, tempered by the sharp tang of rosemary and the bite of pepper. “The roast is delicious.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Beaming, she fluttered her hands at him. “Now, you just sit and enjoy your supper while Mr. Starkweather and I open the master’s suite for you.”

  “Not the master’s suite,” he snapped. He would not sleep in that monstrosity of a bedroom. “Pick another bedchamber. Any other bedchamber.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She sent him a questioning look. “What of the countess’s chamber? It’s been closed since . . . for a number of years.”

  His stomach churned, the roast burning like acid in his gut.

  “Leave it.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended. He softened it. “For now.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Her chin lifted. They became servant and master again. She strode from the room, leaving Julian alone with his dinner.

  He pushed away the half-full plate. An itch formed between his shoulder blades. He shrugged out of his coat, tugged at his cravat. He slid the knife from his boot and set it beside his brandy glass. Both glinted gold in the candlelight, mirror images of dancing flames.

  Comfort and death, side by side. Much like his life. Right from the very beginning.

  He picked up the brandy. Even that tasted foul, burning his throat and stomach. He set the glass down w
ith a sharp snap.

  He must face it, either now or later.

  His footsteps echoed in the hushed and empty halls. The walk to the master suite felt long, but he could have done it in his sleep. He faltered outside the bedchamber door, unable to enter.

  Buzzing filled in his ears and his heart began to pound. He shoved open the door, stepped through and snapped it shut, blocking out reality. He craved silence and space as he battled memory.

  The centerpiece of the room was a massive four-poster bed wreathed in dark crimson hangings. He could remember his father taking his mistress to this room well before his mother’s death.

  An elaborate marble fireplace dominated one wall of the room. Again, the ghost of his father hovered. In his mind’s eye, Julian saw him standing near the fireplace, tall and lean, with cruel blue eyes and a sharp-featured face. Memories surfaced of a glass thrown into the fireplace, the shards bouncing back into the room and slicing across his mother’s face. It was only one of a hundred injuries she had suffered.

  Julian turned from the fireplace and scanned the remainder of the room. A tall wardrobe hulked in one corner. Thick, dark rugs covered the floor and bulky curtains hung at the windows. His father had believed the heavy furniture and dark crimson and brown fabrics were masculine. Julian only found them oppressive.

  He pulled open the door leading to the dressing room that adjoined these chambers with the countess’s chambers. He strode through, intent on entering his mother’s old rooms. But when his fingers grasped the handle of the chamber door he stopped, unable to turn the knob and step through.

  His mother’s image flooded his memory. He could remember her eyes bright and laughing, as well as wide with fear and shock. He could see her crying, even pleading with his father. And he could see her lying dead on the cold parquet floor.

  Julian backed away from the countess’s bedchamber, leaving the door shut tight. He couldn’t enter, couldn’t face it. Stumbling through the halls, he retreated to the library where his brandy glass waited. Crystal clinked as his shaking hands refilled the glass.

  He picked up the knife. The hilt was cool against his palm. Solid. As familiar as the fingers gripping it. The symbol of what he’d become to prove he was not his father. To atone. Except death could not be undone.

  If he had been stronger, braver, he might have stopped her death. He would never know, and that tortured him more than the fact that his father murdered his mother.

  Chapter 3

  “MISS GRACIE! MISS Gracie! He’s done it again.”

  Grace started, spilling powdered comfrey root onto her worktable. “Who’s done what?” Using her fingertips, Grace delicately scraped the fine powder into a pile.

  Cook bustled into Cannon Manor’s stillroom, her flushed and shining face set into disgruntled lines. “His lordship.”

  Grace’s fingers jerked. “His lordship?” Who? The Earl of Langford? What had he done?

  “Your uncle. He’s invited the gentlemen over without any notice. Again. How am I to plan dinner for six guests without proper notice?” Cook’s ample bosom heaved with indignity. The ladle she carried sliced through the air, coming perilously close to Grace’s face.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage, Cook. You always do.” Of course it was Uncle. Why on earth had she thought of the earl?

  “Common courtesy, I tell you.” Cook attempted to shove her flaming red hair back into its haphazard bun. “It’s common courtesy to give a body proper notice. What will the gentlemen think if they arrive for dinner and there’s nothing to eat?”

  Grace set aside the mortar and pestle. The comfrey root would have to wait. “What was planned for dinner tonight?”

  “Fresh trout and venison, Miss Gracie, but there isn’t enough trout for all the gentlemen. The gamekeeper offered to go fishing, but he might not catch anything—” The ladle arced again as Cook started tugging at her hair, setting the flames loose.

  “Didn’t farmer Cragman butcher a lamb yesterday?” She used her cotton apron to wipe the powder from her fingers. “As I recall he planned to bring by a leg of lamb.”

  “He brought two, Miss Gracie, in payment for you birthing their little one.”

  “Yes, I thought so.” She tapped her forefinger against her upper lip as she formulated a menu. “Use the trout in the first course—trout en matelot, I think. Roasted leg of lamb can join the second course. For the third, perhaps a pudding or a cream. Do we still have blackberries?”

  “We have enough for blackberry cream.”

  “Good. I shall arrange the proper wines for each course and provide Binkle with the list.”

  “Thank you, Miss Gracie. I knew you would know what to do.” Cook bustled out in the same manner she had come in, waving the ladle and muttering about proper notice.

  With a fond smile, Grace returned her attention to the mortar and pestle containing the comfrey root. With each pass of the pestle, she leaned into the tough root until she found the familiar measured rhythm. The monotonous task turned her thoughts inward.

  What was wrong with her? The Earl of Langford arrived in Devon less than a week ago. She’d met him once. He shouldn’t have entered her thoughts so quickly.

  It must be that the local gossips, both gentry and laborers, discussed the earl continuously. The prodigal son returning to his ancestral home after twenty-three years was sensational news and would no doubt keep tongues busy for months.

  With a vicious thrust of the pestle, Grace reminded herself there was no reason for her mind to dwell on him. No reason why her body should remember the feel of his hands or the heat of his fingers on her waist. She had learned long ago that physical desire meant nothing.

  Of course he was a rake and a rogue. He was a Travers. What more did she need to know? Still, it wasn’t her place to criticize the Earl of Langford. She was only the Cannon family’s poor relation.

  She pushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and looked out the window at the bouncing blooms delineating Cannon Manor’s pathways. Her eyes didn’t see the delicate white clusters of yarrow, the bloodred amaranthus, or the pale purple nigella that bordered the walkways.

  She rubbed a hand over her chest, as though doing so would ease the lonely ache that had settled there. Why did she feel this way? Why did the darkness so often drag her down, like cold fingers tugging at her?

  She shrieked when a shadow blocked the light from the ancient window. Her heart gave a terrified leap that had her gasping for air. It was a moment before she recognized the grotesque mask as a face blurred by the glass’s impurities. The abundance of whiskers pressed against the window told Grace it was the village cabinetmaker. She gestured him in through the door to the kitchen gardens, still trying to catch her breath.

  “Beg pardon, Miss Gracie.” The man whipped his hat from his head as he stepped over the threshold.

  “It’s all right,” she said, still patting her chest lightly. “What can I do for you?”

  The cabinetmaker began running the worn brim of his hat nervously through his fingers. “It’s young Ben, Miss Gracie. He’s got the croup, I think.”

  Concern washed through her. “Is he having trouble breathing?”

  “Some. It’s not too bad yet. I remember when my oldest girl had the croup and it’s not near that bad, but the missus is worried sick.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Grace murmured, moving toward her cabinets. She began to sort through jars and bottles, measuring out roots and dried leaves as she spoke. “Try to keep him sitting up. It will ease his breathing. He may have an attack in the middle of the night. If he does, I want you to come straight here and wake me, no matter what time it is. You know the nighttime procedure?” She glanced at him, brows raised in question.

  “Knock on the third window from the right of the kitchen door to wake the butler.”

  “Correct. Binkle will know where to find me.” Sh
e handed him the small packet of dry ingredients she had mixed. “This is marshmallow root, mullein, elm and licorice. Use the blend to make tea and give it to Ben twice a day. The tea doesn’t taste particularly good so he may not like it, but try to make him drink it. Add honey for flavor if you have it.”

  “I will. Thank you.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I know you need new doors for the cabinet in his lordship’s pantry. I’ll have those made for you by next week.”

  Grace desperately wanted to tell him that no payment was necessary, but she knew he would insist.

  “I’ll see you next week then,” she replied. “Remember, come to the manor and wake me if Ben has any problems in the night, no matter what time it is.”

  “I will, Miss Gracie,” he repeated, disappearing through the door.

  Grace returned to the crushed comfrey root. She emptied the powder onto a battered set of silver scales for proper measurement. After measuring out an acceptable portion, she brushed the fine granules into a muslin sachet and set it aside. She hadn’t finished measuring the second batch when there was another knock, this time from the door inside the manor.

  “Miss Gracie?” The butler’s reedy voice issued from a thin face perched upon a long neck and narrow shoulders.

  “Yes, Binkle?”

  “A messenger arrived from Lord and Lady Hammond with an invitation. Lord Cannon stated he will attend the Hammonds’ gathering and bade you to formulate the appropriate response.”

  He held out the invitation. Grace wiped her hands on her apron before accepting it. As usual, it was addressed to Thaddeus Cannon as well as to Grace, though she hadn’t attended an assembly in years. The occasion was a ball, with the Earl of Langford as the guest of honor to welcome him back to the community.

  “I’ll write the response, Binkle.”