“Certainly. I will see that it is delivered to Lady Hammond.”
She stepped into the hall and used the heavy ring of keys she always carried at her waist to lock the door. With its comforting mix of spices, sweet flowers and earthy herbs, the stillroom tucked in the rear of Cannon Manor often served as her refuge, but it contained expensive herbs and spices and even substances that were poisonous.
Grace slipped through the hall, Binkle at her heels, intending to go to her tiny personal sitting room. But her uncle, Lord Cannon, appeared in the hall before her. He was dressed in his usual riding breeches and coat. Buttons gaped and seams strained, so that he appeared to be a little round sausage stuffed into the casing of his clothing.
Grace automatically moved to the side of the hall to allow Lord Cannon to pass, Binkle doing the same behind her. But Lord Cannon stopped in the hall and turned to face her.
“You will answer Lady Hammond’s invitation as directed.” The thick brown mustache that bisected his face twitched as he spoke.
“Yes, Uncle.” Grace folded her hands in front of her and bowed her head slightly in the manner her uncle deemed proper.
“You will see to it that my guests have every comfort available to them this evening.”
“Of course, Uncle. I have already made arrangements—”
“Just see that it’s done,” he interrupted, rocking back on his heels.
The crunch of gravel came through the open windows in the rooms beyond. Cannon frowned. “Who’s calling?” he demanded of Grace.
“I don’t know, Uncle.”
“Well. Get the door, Binkle.” Cannon waved his riding crop toward the butler as if to shoo him along.
“Of course, my lord.” Binkle jerked, a quick spasm as though his body suddenly realized he was supposed to be manning the door. He spun on his heel and dashed toward the front of the manor.
Grace would not, of course, be invited to greet the caller. She should leave her uncle to his guest and go about her duties, but curiosity had her trotting behind Lord Cannon, staring at the bald circle on the top of his head while he stomped along behind Binkle. It was so rare for Lord Cannon to have an unplanned caller.
They reached the front hall. Binkle tugged his coat into place, then drew a deep breath and straightened his narrow shoulders. Grace could hear Lord Cannon’s riding crop thwacking lightly against his thigh and knew he was becoming impatient. She opened her mouth to tell Binkle to hurry, but subsided when she saw Binkle reach for the polished door handle. The butler swung the door open and Grace craned her neck to see past Lord Cannon.
A carriage was rolling to a stop before the steps, the wheels grinding and tumbling the gravel beneath them. A groom hopped down from his position in the rear and lowered the steps. One Hessian boot landed on the top step. The second planted itself beside the first. Grace could see the austere front of Cannon Manor reflected in their glossy shine. Her eyes followed the length of the boots up to light breeches covering well-muscled legs.
Shaking her head at her own audacity, Grace looked away. She shouldn’t have noticed the man’s legs. Grace tried to concentrate again on the little bald circle on the back of Lord Cannon’s head. Her uncle’s presence alone should deter her from improper stares. She’d suffer yet another lecture if he caught her.
Grace faded into the doorway of the nearest salon. The visitor would certainly be calling on her uncle. She should go about her household duties.
Yet she didn’t move. Rooted to the spot, she worried Lady Hammond’s invitation in her hands and listened to the Hessians crunching on gravel as they approached the door. She could only see the hall table and its vase of summer flowers through the open salon door, but she could hear a murmur from Binkle, then an answering murmur.
“My Lord Cannon, may I present the Earl of Langford,” Binkle called out.
Her heart bumped, one quick knock against her ribs. What was the Earl of Langford doing at Cannon Manor? Perhaps he’d decided to complain about her impertinent conversation. Her tongue so often let loose at inappropriate moments.
Looking down at the invitation twisted between her fingers, she waited for Lord Cannon’s angry bellow. It didn’t come. She smoothed the expensive paper and forced her shoulders to relax. Until she heard her uncle’s words.
“Come into the salon, my lord.”
Now her heart pounded in earnest. Ignoring it, she forced her breathing to remain even and pasted a polite smile on her face. There was no escaping the earl now.
He’s so handsome.
It was her first thought when the earl stepped into the room. Handsome and charming in fashionable breeches and a dark coat. He smiled in greeting when his eyes landed on her.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Why couldn’t she have removed her apron? The dress beneath was years out of fashion, but at least it wasn’t as ragged as the cotton apron.
“Miss Hannah! A delight to see you again.” He bowed with as much flourish as he had in the kitchens of Thistledown.
Lord Cannon visibly started. His brows drew together and she could almost hear him wondering how the earl had met her before. A tirade was imminent, though she hoped Lord Cannon would wait until the Earl of Langford departed.
“I won’t be staying but a few minutes, Lord Cannon.” The earl’s long fingers reached for his watch chain and ran the gold through his fingers. “I wanted to make a brief social call and reacquaint myself with my neighbors. May I also say, Miss Hannah, how much I enjoyed our conversation the other day?”
Lord Cannon’s mustache bristled. “Well now, Langford, my niece has never been to London. I’m certain you haven’t met her.”
“But I have.” His eyes twinkled as they met Grace’s. “She was in my oven when I arrived at Thistledown.”
Grace closed her eyes, taking a long moment to collect herself before attempting to explain the meeting to Lord Cannon in a manner that would not anger him. “I was advising his housekeeper on the proper technique for preparing a roast.”
Lord Cannon narrowed his eyes but didn’t query further.
“Um. If you’ll excuse me, Uncle? My lord?” She edged toward the door. Perhaps she could escape without saying something utterly ridiculous.
“Forgive me for being improperly inquisitive, Miss Hannah,” the earl said. “I recognize the crest atop that stationery in your hand. I received an invitation to Lady Hammond’s ball as well.”
Looking down, Grace again read the elegant script. “I’m sure you did, my lord. You are the guest of honor, of course, and one mustn’t forget to send an invitation to the guest of honor.”
“It would be a monumental oversight in the planning stages of a ball, I imagine,” the earl replied, “and quite embarrassing when the remaining guests arrived and the guest of honor was mysteriously absent.”
Thwack! The riding crop slapped against Lord Cannon’s leg. Grace knew the sound. Disapproval. Impatience.
“I must go,” Grace said. “Please excuse me.”
“Please tell me that you will be attending the ball, Miss Hannah.”
Thwack! Thwack! The riding crop’s rhythm increased and the sound sharpened. Grace could feel her uncle’s cold brown eyes boring into her. She forced herself to keep her gaze on the earl.
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t attend.”
“But you must, fair lady. The ball would be nothing without your enchanting presence.”
“I—”
“She cannot, Langford,” Lord Cannon interjected.
“Please say you will,” the earl cajoled, ignoring Lord Cannon. “Or I shall not attend myself. And as you said, the guest of honor must attend.”
“Er. Well.” Her fingers twisted the invitation of their own accord. She couldn’t possibly attend. She hadn’t attended any social function in nearly seven years. Not since the fiasco she’d caused. Uncle would be furious.
>
Then the earl smiled and oh, it was full of temptation. All caution died in the light of that smile.
“Yes, my lord.”
Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!
“Wonderful, Miss Hannah!” The earl reached for her hand again. “You must save me the first dance.”
His fingers were long, the pads interestingly callused. He rubbed his thumb against her palm, tickling the sensitive skin. The movement was so intimate, so shocking, she struggled to hold back the gasp.
His eyes gleamed. He knew what his touch had done to her. The delighted quirk of his lips proved it.
“Of course, my lord. I would be pleased to dance with you.” Flustered, the words tumbled out of her. “If you will excuse me?”
“Grace has urgent duties she must attend to,” her uncle said. His eyes snapped with fury as looked at her. “Please excuse her.”
“Of course. Miss Hannah, the pleasure has been mine. I look forward to our dance.” The earl squeezed her fingers before letting her hand slide away. “Lord Cannon, I would be happy to further our acquaintance.”
As Grace quit the room, she heard her uncle say, “A brandy, then.”
What had she gotten herself into?
She strode to her sitting room and shut the door carefully behind her. Sighing, Grace paced to the escritoire. She propped the wrinkled invitation against a stack of ledgers and stared at it.
Withdrawing her acceptance would be wiser than attending. She wouldn’t embarrass her uncle, nor would she make a fool of herself. She wouldn’t have to struggle to find the appropriate pleasantries for the neighbors. Nor would she see Michael—her former betrothed—and his gorgeous wife, who would certainly attend.
Closing her eyes, Grace breathed slowly in and out to calm her pounding heart. If she went, she would have to be on the dance floor, with the earl, in front of everyone. Naturally, her conversation would be stilted, her comments gauche. She’d trip over her own feet or trod on the earl’s toes, and every one of the guests would observe her clumsiness.
A low groan sounded in the room and Grace’s eyes popped open. Looking around, she saw she was alone. The groan had been hers. Of course.
Voices carried down the hall. She heard the earl murmur something unintelligible at this distance. Her uncle responded and she heard a distinct “good-bye.” Then footsteps pounded down the hall, rhythmic, sharp, and growing louder every moment. She held her breath and prepared for the storm.
The door flew open, hinges squeaking in protest. Lord Cannon rounded on her. His skin was mottled and purple right up to the crown of his head. “What are you about?” he roared. “You don’t belong at Lady Hammond’s ball!”
“I know, Uncle.” Grace gripped her fingers together and looked at the crumpled invitation propped on her desk. “But you heard the earl. He wouldn’t attend if I didn’t—”
“He doesn’t know who you are, so he doesn’t know better. But you do.”
“I couldn’t refuse.” Of course she could have. She hadn’t wanted to.
“He was flirting with you. It cannot be tolerated.” His riding crop flicked through the air. “This will be your first assembly since Michael Wargell jilted you. You’ll likely meet his wife. Don’t embarrass me.”
“No, Uncle. I won’t.” What would she say to the Wargells? To anyone?
“And for God’s sake, don’t make a fool of yourself with the earl!” Lord Cannon stalked out, his stride matching the furious rhythm of the riding crop.
She knew most of the gentry, visited their homes with various poultices and tonics and advice. But she didn’t socialize with them. Certainly not since Michael had left her two steps from the altar. She simply didn’t belong.
Unfortunately, she had foolishly agreed to attend and, worse, promised her first dance.
The image of the Earl of Langford’s laughing eyes bloomed in her mind, and with it, all the promise of excitement and the social suicide of breaking her promise of the first dance. No, she would have to attend.
Before she had time to think, she opened a small drawer. One by one she retrieved a quill, paper and an inkwell, before scratching her reply to the invitation.
Lord Thaddeus Cannon and Miss Grace Hannah gratefully accept your invitation.
She blotted the response, sealed it and strode into the hall. On a delicate wooden table near the door lay two letters, waiting to be mailed. She set her reply onto the table for a footman to deliver to Lady Hammond, but her hand refused to drop away. It hovered above the response, fingers poised to pluck it off the table and shove it into her apron pocket.
No. Her hand flew back, leaving the crisp cream stationery in the salver. She’d made a promise, so she would attend and pretend she knew what she was doing.
Heaven help her.
She fingered her apron as she continued to stare at the dried ink and rounded letters of her response. Edginess crept in, sending a rush of nervous energy through her. She needed to move. To breathe.
Chapter 4
“I’M GOING TO walk from here,” Julian called to the coachman, pounding a fist lightly on the ceiling of the carriage. The brilliant sky—so much larger here than in London—had sent out fluffy white clouds to tempt and tease him into the fields.
“Are you sure, milord? It’s nearly two miles to Thistledown,” the coachman called back.
“Yes.” Julian jumped from the carriage and waved the vehicle away before turning to the vista that rolled out before him. Field melded with field, creating a patchwork of green and gold bordered by dry stone fences or hedgerows.
If his memory was correct, some of the land before him belonged to other landowners in the area, but he was certain the farther fields were part of his own estate. He wondered where his own borders were. He had never wanted to know before. He didn’t want to know now, either, particularly. He would be returning to London as soon as the traitor was flushed out.
He stepped from the dirt lane and onto the springy turf. Breathing deep, he took in the tangy scent of grass and damp earth. He tramped through a field, then another, listening only to the drone of bees and bleating of sheep.
Much of the terrain had changed in the past quarter century. Flashes of memory accompanied particular views, but they were so brief he only retained impressions. Then he recognized a large oak, its branches spreading over a stone fence swathed in blooming pink clematis and dark green moss.
He’d sat in the dappled sunlight on this fence as a child. Nostalgia rose in him, a bittersweet pang that burned his throat and caught him by surprise. He settled beneath the oak, leaning against the rough stones. The ground was dry but soft, the earth warm from the summer heat. Around him, flowers rioted over the wall, their sweet scent filling the air.
Fingering the delicate blossoms, Julian contemplated his strategy. He’d thought of simply forcing information from Grace Hannah. If she were innocent, however, it would do her a disservice. If she was involved and fled because of the pressure he put on her, it might also alert the traitor in London. Similarly, he couldn’t directly demand an answer from her. She could inform the traitor, who could go to ground indefinitely. That was something he could not tolerate.
He needed to determine what avenue he could explore. There were numerous smugglers in the area who might have information, but penetrating their ranks without some leverage or an idea of who might be involved would be a futile exercise or, once again, alert the traitor. But it was a risk he’d have to take.
He would pursue Miss Hannah. It would be no hardship to further that acquaintance. A light flirtation, a hint of courtship. Perhaps something more carnal, though he’d never been one to take flirtation too far in his work. To use a woman’s body, to use his own that way—even for the good of the country—would make him no better than his father.
The sound of hooves thudding against earth interrupted his solitude. Julian t
urned to see the oncoming rider. His lips curved when he realized it was the subject of his thoughts, fast approaching on her magnificent stallion.
“Why, Miss Hannah,” he murmured to himself as he watched the pair race over the ground. “Whatever are you doing riding astride?”
Not only was she riding astride, she was galloping across the field as though all the demons of hell chased her. Her skirts billowed and whipped behind her. Surely the rules of propriety weren’t so lax in the country that a lady’s ankles and calves were a common sight? She wore no hat and the sun glinted on her hair.
Julian knew there was more beneath the serene mask she hid behind. No one could take such a tumultuous, reckless ride and throw propriety to the wind without passion. Julian admired the melding of woman and horse, their lean bodies moving as one as they approached a low hedgerow. Together, they seemed to gather their energy before soaring gracefully over the earth and shrubs.
Their unity spoke of an affinity that surpassed mere horsemanship or even innate skill. Horse and rider shared a bond, some understanding or connection. He continued to study Miss Hannah as her words about the magnificent stallion at their first meeting echoed through his memory. Demon has the speed and stamina for racing, but not the temperament, poor fellow. He has trouble following directions.
Horse and rider were now close to the wide oak he sat under. Miss Hannah showed little sign of slowing. She may not see him and take the stone fence as a jump. If so, he would lose an opportunity that might lead him to the traitor.
With a quick push, Julian drew himself up to standing and raised a hand in greeting. He knew the moment she noticed him. Her face tensed with surprise. She leaned forward in the saddle, as though to urge the stallion on past man and tree. Then her shoulders slumped and she turned the stallion toward him. Julian could all but hear her resigned sigh. Propriety won out. This time. If he was any judge of character, it didn’t win every time.
That would be his advantage.
She slowed, drew close. He could see her repositioning her leg, sliding it from the stirrup, around the old-fashioned high pommel and to the other side. Amused, he watched her spread her skirt to cover the saddle, as though she thought the lack of sidesaddle would go unnoticed.
The Smuggler Wore Silk Page 4