The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Grace.” His hands clutched her shoulders and pulled her up to her toes. His eyes focused on her lips.

  “Don’t pretend,” she snapped, jerking back.

  “I wish I were pretending. It would be easier if I were.” Fury edged his tone. “Hell.”

  His lips crushed against hers. The heat behind it stunned her, then filled her. That can’t be feigned. Her mind blanked as his mouth possessed hers, his tongue exploring, his teeth nipping. Sensation burst through her, bright flashes that burned right down to her toes.

  He tugged at her cap and tossed it to the ground. Her hair, loosely tucked inside it, tumbled down her back. She could feel its silken weight as his impatient fingers tangled it. Wrapping her arms around him, she leaned her body into his and felt his arousal press against her belly. Knowing she could do this to him, that he wanted her, set something warm swirling within her.

  When he tore his mouth from hers, she was gasping for air and clutching his shoulders.

  “I’m not pretending,” he muttered against her lips. He lifted his head and glowered at her. “I can’t change what happened between us, and I can’t change who we are.”

  “You’re not just the Earl of Langford. You’re a spy.” She stepped out of his embrace. She needed to think.

  “And you’re not just a poor relation.” He flicked open her coat and lightly ran his fingers across the outline of her pistol. “You’re a smuggler.”

  She stepped out of his reach. “What do you want?”

  “You.” A grim smile flashed. “Your connection to the smugglers and Jack Blackbourn are the only lead I have to a traitor.”

  “Jack.” A tight ball of ice formed in her stomach. Through the moonlight, their eyes met. “Jack was arrested tonight.”

  __________

  A WARNING RANG in Julian’s head, sharp and insistent.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Four men came into the pub.” Her words tumbled out, nearly on top of each other. “They took him by force.”

  “Who?” He grabbed her arm, held her in place. They couldn’t be from Sir Charles. Anyone sent by Sir Charles would have stopped at Thistledown and informed him of the arrest in advance.

  Unless Sir Charles considered him already retired. His fingers convulsed. She drew in a sharp breath and he dropped her arm.

  “I don’t know,” she said, stepping away from him. “Presumably they had some authority, as they arrested Jack in front of his wife and son. Thank God his youngest children weren’t there to witness it.” She closed her eyes briefly. “They don’t even have the right man. Jack isn’t a traitor.”

  “You can’t be certain of that.” No, Julian thought. He couldn’t be certain. Just as he couldn’t be certain Grace wasn’t a traitor. Even though his gut told him she was innocent.

  “I am certain.” She whirled on him as she said it, her hair whipping around like silver ropes to bind him to her. Perhaps it was desire that told him she was innocent, and not his instincts.

  “It’s just not in him,” she continued. “Jack smuggled for profit and a little excitement, but he’d never engage in treason. I swear he’s innocent.” Her gaze fixated on the folio, still lying where he’d dropped it. “I’m innocent.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. Instinct warred with training. He should keep what he knew about Jack to himself. He had no proof Grace was innocent. Yet her eyes were sad, and a faint line had formed between her delicate brows. She tugged at something inside him so that he wanted to soothe her fears away.

  He bent and picked up the folio, turning it in his hands as though the smooth leather would hold the answers to his inner struggle. “Tell me how you obtained the folios.” It still sounded like a command, even if he delivered it quietly.

  “No.”

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “Why should I?” She grabbed her cap from the ground before stalking between the trees, long, slim legs moving fast. “I can’t even verify you work for our government and not another.”

  “I can’t prove it. I can only say that you need to trust me.” The words sounded ridiculous even to his own ears. He followed her, his longer legs easily catching up to her.

  “How silly of me,” she scoffed, turning to face him on the path. “Of course I should trust the man who lied to me, violated my privacy by spying on me, attacked me in the woods and held me captive. A man who claims to be a spy—not exactly the most trustworthy of careers.” She waited a beat, raised a brow. “Does this mean you no longer need to borrow my horse to take up your second career, my lord smuggler?”

  Damn if she wasn’t amusing. “You have a sharp tongue. I don’t know why I like it,” he growled.

  He claimed her mouth, filled with equal parts lust and irritation. She returned the kiss, her lips firm and hard and equally irritated. Stepping back, he crossed his arms.

  “This is treason, Grace. Not a lark.”

  “And the people involved are not pawns. They don’t deserve to be arrested for treason.”

  “No, they don’t. Not if they’re innocent. But I can’t prove they’re innocent unless I catch the real traitor.”

  Her mouth opened, closed. Apparently he’d taken the wind from her sails.

  “I need information,” he said.

  She tipped her head back and took a deep breath. He waited, knowing she would break.

  “Very well,” she said finally. “I’ll give you information about the folios and the caves, but I won’t reveal any names. I promised my friends I would protect them and I won’t go back on my word.”

  “They’re smugglers.”

  She raised her chin. “And so am I.”

  “A fact that could eventually lead to your arrest.”

  “Are you going to hold that over my head? What if we marry? Will you arrest your wife?”

  “We will marry, Grace. I compromised you and I offered for you. I stand by my offer.” He could do nothing less. She was his now—his responsibility, and soon his wife.

  “You offered me marriage without knowing if I was a traitor?” She planted her feet and faced him squarely.

  “Of course.”

  “I’m going to be a dreadful countess,” she said. “You’ll be marrying a smuggler.”

  “And you’ll be marrying a spy. I’d say we’re a perfect match.”

  “You may be right,” she said with a half laugh. “But I won’t give you the identities of the smugglers.”

  “An agreement, then, and I hope to heaven our marriage is easier than this.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Loyalty is an admirable, if rare, quality. While I believe your loyalty is misplaced”—he held up a hand to stop her when she would have spoken—“I promise I won’t betray the smugglers. Any information I learn during this investigation, I’ll keep to myself. If they come to the attention of the authorities in some other manner—a risk they’ve already accepted simply by smuggling—I won’t intervene on their behalf to see them freed. But I’ll keep what I know to myself. Provided, of course, none of them are traitors.”

  “You’ll give me your word?” she asked quietly. Moonlight flitted over her face.

  “I won’t give you my word as a Travers. It wouldn’t mean anything.” He swallowed. “But I will swear it on my mother’s life.”

  “I can’t ask for more than that.”

  “I can’t give you more than that.” He stepped back onto the path. “Let’s return. I need to walk.”

  He could hear her footsteps shuffling through the forest floor behind him as they started toward Demon. When he reached the horse, he loosened the reins and began to lead the animal down the path. Grace fell into step beside him.

  “The folios were found in the smuggling quarries,” she began. “They were hidden within the trunks scheduled to be shipped to France.”

 
“Who found them? Jack Blackbourn?” He frowned.

  “Jack didn’t find them, though he was aware of them.” She reached for Demon’s reins.

  “No, I have him.”

  “He’s my horse.” She sent him a sideways look. He didn’t bother to return the reins and she sighed. “Three smugglers came to me with the folios because they didn’t know what else to do with them, and because—”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t want to be arrested.”

  “So they gave the folios to you, so you could be arrested? How gallant.”

  “They gave them to me because I have more social status and will be taken seriously,” she corrected. “Perhaps not much more social status, but more than they.”

  They emerged from the shelter of the trees. The moon shone bright now that there was no canopy of trees to block it.

  “What’s Jack’s role in this?”

  “Nothing. He used to lead our smuggling band. When the men found the folios, he naturally became aware of it.” She stuffed her cap in her pocket and shook out her hair. “Jack is innocent. I don’t know what information the men that arrested him found, but I know he’s innocent.”

  “I don’t know what they found either, but it wasn’t there a few days ago.”

  “What?” She whipped her head around to stare at him.

  “I did a bit of espionage. I went into the Jolly Smuggler, asked a few questions about carrying items to France and then searched Blackbourn’s home.”

  “That was you asking questions?” She smiled grimly. “Poor Jack. He’d be embarrassed to discover he was taken in by you.”

  “I’m a talented spy.” He returned her smile, just as grimly. “Nevertheless, I found something confirming Jack is innocent.”

  “Thank goodness.” She blew out a breath. “What?”

  He hesitated. It didn’t sit well to give information to a civilian. “His financial records for the pub. He’s in dun territory. His creditors are already circling. At the rate he’s going he’ll be closing the pub within the year, if not earlier.”

  “Oh, poor Jack. He and Anna hoped the pub would provide a life for them. They used everything they had to buy it.” She sighed, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “But how does that prove he’s innocent?”

  “Blackbourn is well-known. He smuggles purely for profit and not for any particular political or religious ideals. In fact, as far as we know, he has no such beliefs. Which means if he were couriering information to France, he would be doing so for money, not for an ideal.”

  “Then he’d have enough money to keep the pub open,” she finished. “But if Jack is innocent, then what evidence did the others find and who put it there?”

  “A good question. Who else knows about the folios?”

  She stared into the dark countryside. “Aside from the three that approached me, the remaining smugglers don’t have any idea about them—to our knowledge, at any rate, and we would know. We don’t believe any of them are traitors.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “We can’t, but the penmanship was superb and took skill and tutelage. Certainly not the penmanship of a laborer or farmer. The men I know can barely read and write. That writing originated from someone of the upper class. Or at least someone with a tutor or governess and formal training, so at least somewhat well off. None of the smugglers—” She broke off, corrected herself. “None of my friends have any such formal training.”

  “I can agree that the folio did not originate with one of your friends, but one of them could have placed the folio in the cave at someone else’s direction.”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  “On the other hand,” he continued, “a farmer or laborer wouldn’t be directly connected with someone in the Foreign Office, and the information in the folios originated there. There must be a middleman with ties to the Foreign Office to transport the information here to Beer, then to the smuggling quarries.”

  “And the folio?” Grace slid her gaze toward his coat pocket. “What will you do with it?”

  “I’ll keep it.”

  “I have a second one hidden in my stillroom.”

  “No, you don’t.” He grinned, satisfied she hadn’t discovered the switch. He hadn’t lost his touch. “I replaced it with modified information within hours of when you hid it. Much as I replaced this one,” he added. “I’ve had the originals for weeks now. You’ve had forged replicas.”

  “In other words, I’ve been worried about someone stealing useless information.”

  “Yes.”

  Grace sighed. “All that worry, wasted.”

  “True,” he agreed. “Are the smugglers searching for additional folios?”

  “They’re checking every trunk, barrel and cask we transport to ensure no more information passes through France. At least not through us.”

  “Damn.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  “What is wrong?”

  “I’ve made a tactical error.” He glanced over his shoulder as Demon huffed out a breath.

  “What?”

  He should have foreseen it. He wasn’t green as grass, as young Miles Butler was. Though he felt like it at the moment. He’d sent the folios to London, believing Grace was the traitor and he was thwarting her. He’d never considered she had intercepted the traitor herself. Grimly, he said, “You’ve interrupted the traitor’s avenue of communication. If the information isn’t received in France, he’ll know he’s been discovered.”

  “Will he run?”

  It was hard to know. Some men ran. Some went to ground. He might even find a new avenue of communication. “Are there any other smugglers in the area he might use?”

  “He could go to any smuggler along the coast,” she said as they turned onto Cannon Manor’s drive. “There are hundreds of smugglers. Two dozen in Beer alone.”

  “But he has a middleman,” Julian murmured. He wouldn’t groom another pawn if this one hadn’t been discovered yet. “He’ll stay in this area. Perhaps not Beer, but Seaton, Sidmouth, maybe up to Lyme Regis.” Somewhere the middleman could travel in short in just a few hours so as not to be missed.

  “That’s still a great deal of coastline.”

  “I need assistance,” he said. “Another set of eyes and ears with contacts in the smuggling channels that can ask questions without being recognized.” He reached out absently, fingering a wisp of her hair. Behind them, Demon huffed out another breath.

  “I’d ask Jack, but he’s in prison.” She shivered when his fingers brushed against her neck. “And the best way to free him is to find the real traitor.”

  “I know an agent with ties to smugglers farther up the coast toward Weymouth, Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight,” Julian mused. “Angel may be able to penetrate the ranks here.”

  “Angel.” She gripped the hand entwined in her hair. “His name appeared in the first folio.”

  “And he’s grateful his name and identity were not given to the French. I suppose he has you to thank for that.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. Still, Julian himself had not been spared.

  They were nearing the manor house. A groom came running out. He’d clearly been waiting.

  “My lord. Miss Gracie,” the groom said, nodding politely as he took the reins from Julian. Whatever he was thinking of this midnight assignation, he didn’t let on. He led the horse toward the stables.

  “The kitchen door is open,” Grace said, nodding toward the side of the house. They started down the gravel path leading toward the kitchen.

  “The smugglers aren’t the only potential middlemen,” she said quietly. “There are other men that know the location of the smuggling quarries. Gentlemen,” she corrected.

  He turned to look at her. Moonlight shone on hunched shoulders. She kept her eyes on the pathway and he wished he could see her face.

>   “I don’t understand,” he said. “How would others not know of the quarries? They’ve been mined for centuries.”

  “We don’t actually use the quarries,” she answered. “We store the cargo in the natural caves on the sea cliffs and then use a cliff path to take the cargo to the beach. From there we ferry the goods out to the luggers waiting to sail to France. The smuggling caves connect to the quarries through a series of natural tunnels, which lead to man-made tunnels that are part of the quarries. Some of the quarries are still in operation, in fact. Everyone knows of the quarries, but few know of the natural caves.”

  “Who knows of the natural caves, then?”

  She said nothing for a moment. They rounded the side of the house.

  “Grace. Tell me,” he prompted.

  She drew a deep breath. “Lord Stuart Paget, Sir Richard Elliott and my uncle.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “They formed a sort of Hellfire Club when they were young. Jack said they used the caves as a meeting place when he first started smuggling. I’m sure any of them could have guessed that the smuggled goods would still be stored there. It’s a convenient spot and, thus far, the revenue officers haven’t discovered it.”

  “Then we have a list of potential suspects.” He narrowed his eyes. “I presume you would be able to recognize your uncle’s handwriting if you saw it.”

  “Yes. He did not write the information in the folios.”

  “And the other two? Would you recognize their handwriting?”

  “No. But there’s another,” she whispered. She folded her hands together and stared at her clenched fingers. “Michael Wargell knows of the caves.” She looked out into the night. “He knows I store smuggled goods there.”

  Chapter 16

  “MY LORD, YOU have a visitor.”

  Starkweather’s words shattered Julian’s plans of a quiet brandy while he strategized. Irritation flared. He’d spent a miserable morning and the better part of the afternoon in Beer trying to glean information on Jack’s arrest. Now he wanted nothing more than to lounge in an armchair beside a roaring fire and think about the information Grace had given him.