The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  The lady was riding astride. Again.

  His blood began to heat as he remembered their gallop across the countryside. The memory conjured up a vision of the lady riding astride something else. Namely, him. The image of that cool, serene woman, her head thrown back in passionate abandon as she rode him, had him shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

  He fought back the vision. There was no room for attraction in this mission. She was his assignment. Nothing more than a lead to the traitor.

  By the time she trotted Demon past his hiding place, Julian had tamped down any lingering desire and forced himself to study her clinically. Her features were indistinguishable in the darkness, but her shoulders had tensed and her movements were erratic. Not her usual demeanor.

  When she urged Demon into a trot and left the graveled drive, he wheeled his horse around and followed at a safe distance. Eventually the windows of Beer’s main street began to glow in the darkness ahead. He expected her to skirt the town, but she rode straight through the village, staying on the nearly empty main street.

  The only signs of life in the village were in the various pubs and inns still doing a brisk business. Light and sound spilled out of those establishments as the customers shared ale, cider and smuggled spirits.

  She drew to a stop in front of the sign of the Jolly Smuggler. Julian narrowed his eyes as he scanned the pub’s façade, pleased to be making progress in the investigation. The Jolly Smuggler was Jack Blackbourn’s pub.

  Still, a lady did not enter a public house owned by a smuggler and catering to the lower classes, even if she was wearing breeches. Did Miss Hannah care nothing for her reputation?

  A thin, gangly lad just shy of manhood darted forward to claim Demon’s reins.

  “Be careful. He’s frisky tonight.” Her voice floated through the darkness.

  “I’ll be careful, Miss Gracie,” the lad answered as he led the animal away.

  Julian’s eyes narrowed as he watched his quarry stride to the door of the public house. Miss Hannah’s gait was sure, her chin held confidently high, her shoulders at ease. She looked more comfortable wearing breeches into a smuggler’s pub than wearing a lady’s gown in a salon.

  Interesting.

  Warm light and raucous laughter spilled out of the open door. Julian saw a man behind the bar raise his hand in greeting and beam out a delighted smile. Then the door slammed closed behind Miss Hannah and Julian was shut out.

  __________

  THE COMMON ROOM smelled of ale and tobacco. Beneath that was the ever-present scent of fish and ocean, as most of the patrons made their living on the water—by means both legal and clandestine. It was a pungent mix, but comforting in its familiarity. The tension at the base of Grace’s neck eased slightly as she scanned the room.

  The man behind the bar was stout, with a square face and a prominent nose. Wild hair sprung from his scalp in tufts that Grace knew he tried desperately to control with the queue at the base of his neck. He was a man with many roles: fisherman, pilot, sailor, publican—and smuggler.

  “Hello, Jack,” she said.

  “Now there’s a lovely lass come into my pub. A drink on the house? I have your favorite French wine.” Jack Blackbourn wiped the counter with a well-used rag, clearing a space for her.

  “Thank you, Jack, but no. I’ve business tonight.” She held herself away from the counter even as Jack leaned companionably on it. She recognized his posture and knew he was preparing to settle in for a long talk.

  “All work and no play again, my lovely?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Spend a few hours in my pub, and Jack will show you how to play,” he said with a wink.

  “Your wife might object and skin you alive. Then where would I buy my wine?” she replied blandly.

  “She might, Miss Gracie, she might indeed.” Jack guffawed and slapped his thigh before gesturing across the room. “Your business is in the corner, my lovely. But come back soon and share a bottle with Jack.”

  “I will.” Giving in to affection, she rose to her toes and leaned over the counter to drop a kiss on Jack’s cheek.

  “It’s just as I always tell my Anna. The ladies love me.”

  With another laugh, Grace turned in the direction he’d pointed. The village blacksmith and two other men sat at a table, heads together, talking in low voices. She threaded through the throng in the common room while patrons hailed her from all directions. Even as she answered the greetings from the fishermen and laborers, her focus was on the trio in the corner. She knew their expressions like her own and understood something was wrong. Her muscles tightened again as the tension that had drained away upon entering the pub roared back.

  Three faces peered up at her as she approached. Each man stood as she reached the table, and one drew out a chair for her before they all sat again. There the propriety ended. Etiquette between the sexes was only a nuisance when it came to smuggling.

  “Hello, Jem,” she said to the young man across the table. “How is Fanny?”

  “Tired, and ready for the babe to be born.” Jem’s shock of flame-colored hair was mussed, no doubt by the sea wind given his occupation as a fisherman.

  “There’s a few months left, I’m afraid, Jem.” She smiled, though her heart clutched. His brilliant green eyes were too anxious.

  She looked to the side and studied the round, bewhiskered face of John the blacksmith. He leaned close to the narrow face of Thomas, a tenant farmer from a nearby estate. Worry etched both of their faces, carving deep lines around their mouths.

  “What’s happened?” she asked sharply. “Your wife is well, John? Your children, Thomas?”

  “They’re all well enough, Miss Gracie,” John said, his voice low and urgent. He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “We found something in the smuggling caves, and don’t think as how it’s quite right.” He glanced at the other two men in turn. Each nodded in confirmation.

  She, too, kept her voice low. “What did you find?” she asked, brows drawing together.

  “This.” John reached into his homespun coat and pulled out a leather folio tied with a thong. “We found it inside a trunk of lace.”

  He handed the folio to Grace. She untied the thong and opened the trifolded leather. Inside was a sheaf of papers covered with thick, heavy writing.

  What she read had her mouth dropping open.

  San Sebastian . . . Wellington to join . . . battering train traveling through Spain . . . appropriate siege guns, short on ammunition . . . troop count . . .

  Then, on the next page:

  Alastair Whitmore, code name Angel, 13 stone, over 6 feet, blond hair, brown eyes . . . Safe houses . . . 14 Avenue de la République, Paris . . . 22 Rue Carnot, Cherbourg . . . 4 Rue Delacroix, Calais . . .

  At the close of the document was a French revolutionary call. Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood, or Death. Her ears buzzed and she could feel the color drain from her cheeks.

  “I can read some,” the blacksmith said, bringing Grace out of her shock. “Though it’s harder when the words are joined. But I can tell it’s not right, is it, Miss Gracie? What’s on that paper, it’s not right.”

  “No,” she answered. “No, John, it’s not right. It’s military information. Troop counts, munitions information.” It’s treason, she wanted to shout. Fear strangled the words in her throat.

  “S’what we thought, Miss Gracie.” John nodded with grim satisfaction. “What’s on there shouldn’t be going to Cherbourg.”

  “This information should not be outside of the Foreign Office, and most definitely should not be in France.” She closed the folio, rubbed her hands on the smooth leather. “When did you discover it?

  “’Twas a fortnight ago.” Jem leaned forward. “The trunk was being loaded onto my fishing lugger.”

  “We didn’t know what to do with it,” John told he
r. “We didn’t want to go to the magistrate or the customs house, not knowing who wrote it.” He took a bolstering sip of ale then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “We didn’t know who to trust.” Jem gestured toward her. “So we thought: Miss Gracie will know.”

  But she didn’t have an answer as to whom they could trust. Grace secured the folio with the thong. Tucking it away inside her coat, she wished she could hide treason as easily as she could hide the folio. Did she recognize the handwriting? She couldn’t be certain. Chilled, Grace pulled her coat more securely around her.

  Thomas, the third man, leaned forward. His narrow features were serious and haggard. “It has to stop, Miss Gracie. I might ignore the law for a few extra coins, but I don’t hold with treason.”

  Treason.

  The word fell between them, a lead weight.

  “Who should we tell?” Thomas continued. “And how do we tell someone without explaining how we found it in the quarries? We’d be turning ourselves in for smuggling. I have seven mouths to feed.” His voice was full of fear. “I can’t be taken up for smuggling.”

  Grace looked around the table. Three pairs of eyes turned to her for answers. She could feel their anxiety, tense waves that radiated through the air. Each of them was afraid. For themselves, their wives and children, if they were caught smuggling.

  “Someone must be informed,” Grace agreed, and held each of their gazes in turn. “I don’t know who—yet—but I give you my word, when I inform the authorities, I’ll protect you. I won’t give them your names.”

  She could see the relief flow over them, a little wave of release that rippled around the table. They’d been living in fear for two weeks and she was glad she could relieve them of some of it. Yet now their worry weighed heavy on her shoulders.

  “If we can help, we will.” John leaned back in his chair. “Just say the word.”

  “Thank you.” She stood, the men following suit. “I must return to the manor, but I promise to let you know what happens.”

  She bid them each good night and moved toward the door to the street. She waved good-bye to Jack, who called out from behind the bar, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay and have a spot of fun, my lovely?”

  “Next time, Jack.” She knew he expected a laugh from her and obliged him. The sound was strained even to her own ears. When she turned Demon toward Cannon Manor a few minutes later, she let him have his head while her thoughts whirled.

  Treason. The word screamed through her mind. She was certain in the general course of things, an official military dispatch would not be in an abandoned quarry used by smugglers. It would be carried by a member of a governmental office, either diplomatic, military or political. An official British dispatch would not end with the phrase Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, ou la Mort!

  Demon tensed beneath her. She rubbed his neck and crooned softly to him to calm him. Still, she couldn’t calm her own thoughts. She must inform someone in a position of power. But how to do so and still keep her word to the men? The only way to protect them was to conceal their identities from the authorities.

  She would not fail in her promise.

  Suddenly, the fine hair at the nape of her neck rose. She felt eyes watching her. Demon shifted beneath her and whinnied softly. He felt them, too.

  Glancing to the right, then the left, she squinted into the deep shadows formed by the trees. Nothing was visible in the dense darkness. Yet she sensed the other person, like a faint hum of an insect she couldn’t quite see.

  She raised her chin. Well, this was Cannon land. She regularly rode these lands in the early hours of the morning. She wouldn’t run and she wouldn’t be afraid. Besides, if the observer meant mischief, he’d had plenty of opportunity to pounce already and hadn’t done so.

  The small, delicate pocket pistol in her coat weighed heavy. She’d become so accustomed to carrying it at night she’d forgotten it was there. Now, she was grateful for its presence and glad she’d been taught to use it.

  She urged Demon into a canter as they broke the cover of trees and entered a long field. She looked behind her once, twice, and although she thought she saw a lone horseman, she couldn’t be certain.

  When Demon finally entered the stable yard, Grace breathed a sigh of relief. A young groom staggered sleepily out of the stables. After dismounting, she handed him the reins and strode to the rear kitchen door. She knocked softly and waited, looking once more to the trees behind her. She could still feel eyes on her.

  “Is all well, Miss Gracie?” A bleary-eyed Binkle swung open the door and let her in.

  “I’m not sure. I have to think on it.”

  “If there’s anything the staff can do, please inform us.” He secured the door, latching it tightly.

  “Thank you, Binkle. I will.”

  The shape of the leather folio pressed against her side. She needed to hide it while she decided how best to proceed. Only one place came to mind: her stillroom. She possessed the only key.

  Grace hurried to her room and retrieved the ring of keys she carried with her during the day. After descending the rear servants’ stair, she delicately picked her way through the silent halls until she came to the stillroom. She slid the key into the lock and slipped into the room, locking the door again behind her. Pausing a moment, she breathed deep. The combined scent of spices mixed with dried flowers soothed her. This was her room, her space. She knew every jar, every bottle, every sachet.

  Using the pale moonlight gleaming through the window as a guide, she located the tinderbox on her workbench and quickly lit a candle. Lifting the candle high, she peered into the dark corners and perused the shelves and cabinets and cubbyholes. Her gaze fell on a short barrel of rose petals harvested that summer for use in perfumes, oils and potions.

  She strode forward and lifted the lid of the barrel. Pulse pounding, she used her hands to dig through the mass. Clouds of sweet, fragrant air floated into the room. She settled the folio at the bottom of the barrel, then covered it with the delicate petals before replacing the lid.

  Chased by fear, Grace snuffed the candle and darted from the stillroom. The folio buried beneath innocent rose petals contained a life and horror of its own.

  Chapter 6

  JULIAN SURVEYED THE revelers filling Lady Hammond’s salon over the rim of his punch glass. Silks, satins and muslins in an array of brilliant jewel tones and soft pastels twirled around the floor, accented by brilliant diamonds, bold rubies and cool sapphires. He did a quick study for familiar faces. He noted a few he’d seen in London over the past few years. But he saw no spies, no foreign agents he recognized. Nor did he see Grace Hannah. The guests appeared to be nothing more than local landowners and gentry mingling over music and food and laughter. Whether the traitor was in their midst remained to be seen.

  Terrace doors were propped open to circulate a breeze, but the humid September night intensified the heavy scents of perfumed women and potted flowers. His clothes clung to his skin in the moist air. Drawing a deep breath for fortification, Julian resigned himself to a hot, uncomfortable evening. He pasted on his charming Wandering Earl smile and prepared for the assault.

  It wasn’t long in coming. His hostess, Lady Hammond, wide of girth and well-endowed, cleaved through the crowd, her bosom leading the way across the congested floor. “My lord!” she called.

  “Lady Hammond.” Julian bowed over the hand she offered. “I can’t say how much I appreciate your invitation.”

  “Nonsense. I consider it my duty to introduce you. Come.”

  She took his arm and led him from group to group in a circuit around the room. Almost every group included an eligible young lady. It was the same each time: Lady Hammond would perform the requisite introductions, the young lady would say something witty and speculative gazes would flick his way to see if he approved. Society was certainly predictable. Already the
gossips were considering who could be his prospective bride.

  He suffered through another round of introductions to a pair of matrons, a Lady Lintell and her companion, Mrs. Parker. He made polite responses to polite questions—are you enjoying the weather?—and fixed his smile more firmly as Lady Lintell’s incessant chatter began to grate. Then, abruptly, his attention focused in on their conversation.

  “My goodness. Whatever is Miss Gracie doing here?” The words were delivered by the rail-thin Lady Lintell. “It’s been—well. I don’t even know how many years since Miss Gracie joined us.”

  “At least seven years, Minnie.” Lady Hammond followed Lady Lintell’s gaze. “Long overdue.”

  “Quite overdue.” Mrs. Parker stood on tiptoe to see over the crowds. Julian doubted it would help, as she wasn’t even as tall as his shoulder. “It’s a shame she never attends.”

  “I wonder why?” Julian said, more to himself than to the older matron.

  Lady Lintell leaned close, her eyes bright with a conspirator’s light. “Now, I don’t know, but it’s been said Lord Cannon won’t allow her to attend. Why, everyone knows he just works that girl to the bone without giving her a thing in return. Not that Miss Gracie complains, mind you,” she added. “She takes her duties seriously and is always willing to lend a hand. Why, just yesterday she sent another bottle of tonic over to my husband for his cough.”

  “Last week Miss Gracie brought one of her special teas to my daughter, who is in the family way,” Lady Hammond explained. “I am glad to see Miss Gracie finally joining us.”

  “I suppose it has been seven years since Mr. Wargell jilted her. Poor Miss Gracie. It really wasn’t well done of him, you know.” Lady Lintell’s fan tapped Julian’s arm. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she, my lord?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you see the lady just inside the door wearing the white dress? That’s Miss Grace Hannah.” She frowned. “Really, if Lord Cannon is going to finally let that girl out of the manor, he ought to outfit her properly. That gown is quite unfashionable. Although, what does a man know about fashion, after all?” She squeaked and looked up at Julian. “Oh, my lord! Not you, of course! You’re quite well-informed about ladies’ clothing. Er, well—”