The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Are you sure?” Julian narrowed his eyes.

  “Aye,” he said firmly.

  “How can you be certain it was the traitor? A common thief could have been here.” Grace whirled away, her gaze probing the shadows of the cave. “Was anything stolen?”

  “Not even a single bottle of French brandy.” Jem shook his head, disgust ripe on his face.

  “Which means he’s not a common thief. He was here for a specific reason,” Julian said softly.

  “But if nothing was stolen—and presumably you didn’t find any more folios—how do you know the caves were searched?” Grace asked.

  “Things weren’t as we left them.” Jem gestured vaguely toward a trunk with casks stacked on it. “Two casks were moved. It looked like they were moved so someone could get into a trunk. I checked the trunk and the silks were all mussed.”

  “The fabric might have become disorganized during transport,” Julian pointed out.

  “Not like this. These were tumbled about, like someone started digging at the bottom.” Jem scratched his head. “What made me notice it was the casks. I put them in front of the trunk last night and had a little rest on one of them while I ate the cold meat and ale my Fanny packed. I was the last to leave the caves last night and first back tonight.” Jem gestured toward the wooden casks, stacked now on top of the trunk.

  Julian turned to look at the offending items. Just simple, innocuous wooden casks, worn and scarred.

  “Have you noticed items out of place before?” he asked.

  “I was telling Jem about that before you and Miss Gracie came, milord,” Thomas interjected. “I’d not thought about it before. What’s a few trunks or barrels moved around? There’s men in and out nearly every night. But it has happened before—as many as five or six times.”

  “I haven’t noticed it before, but I thought to ask John the blacksmith.” Jem frowned. “I passed him in the street and he said he was coming to the caves early. Had a row with his missus and was thinking to hide for a few hours. Though he was looking forward to going home, as his missus always apologized by—ahem.” Jem flushed, looked at Grace, then away. “Apologized.”

  Julian tried to hold back his chuckle. He’d known his share of angry women.

  “John’s not turned up,” Jem concluded. “He’s running nearly a half hour behind now.”

  Julian’s instincts stirred, a quick shift of awareness that had something hard settling in his belly. “Jem, I want you to think carefully.” He tried not to let his suspicions sound in his voice.

  Still, the young father’s eyes widened. “Milord?”

  “How long ago did you see John?”

  “Nearly two hours now.”

  “Julian?” Grace’s single word was full of questions.

  He didn’t even turn to look at her. He didn’t want her to see the premonition in his eyes. “John indicated he was coming straight here, to the caves. Is that correct, Jem?” Julian continued.

  “Aye.” Jem’s green eyes flicked around the cave. “I thought he’d be here when I arrived.”

  “What do you think—” Thomas began.

  “I’m not thinking anything yet.” Julian counted the number of tunnels that fanned out from the cavern they stood in. “How far back do these caves go?” he asked, nodding at the nearest tunnel opening.

  It was Grace who answered. Although her voice was even, he heard the subtle fear in it. “The natural caves extend about a half mile, perhaps a little more. From there they intersect the quarries. Some of the quarries are still in use, but others are abandoned.”

  “Search them,” he commanded, looking to both Thomas and Jem. “Search the natural caves and the abandoned quarries. Don’t concern yourselves with the working quarries yet.”

  With grim faces, the two men disappeared into tunnels, each with a lit lantern held aloft. Julian reached for one of the dozen lanterns lining the wall and used a candle to light it.

  “Grace?” He held out a hand to her. Icy fingers slid between his.

  “What if—” she began.

  “Don’t think about it. Just search.” It was the only advice he could give her. “Shut out your fear, shut out the worry. Just do what needs to be done.”

  He heard her swallow, felt her fingers jerk once in his. Then she tipped up her chin and strode forward.

  Lantern light glimmered gold on limestone walls as he and Grace started down one of the tunnels. Though she could walk upright, the ceiling was just low enough he had to duck his head and hunch his shoulders. The air was cool and damp, and settled into his bones.

  “Tell me of John. Is he often late?” Julian asked.

  “No.” She made a choking sound. “He’s one of the most reliable smugglers.”

  Don’t think. Just search. He held the lantern higher to penetrate small side galleries and offshoots. Water dripped somewhere, pinging against rock. Her fingers began to warm in his.

  Then they heard a shout. Another. Her fingers dropped away as they ran back to the mouth of the tunnel. Beside him, Grace’s breathing was ragged. Her boots rang on the stone floor nearly in unison with his.

  Jem stood in the opening to one the tunnels. All color had drained from his face and his mouth was set in a severe line. “I found John.” He spun around and led them through the tunnel.

  Julian smelled death before he saw it. Violent death had its own scent, one he knew well. Blood, tinged with something foul and sickly. He stepped in front of Grace to block her view of what lay ahead.

  “Stay here,” he commanded.

  She didn’t even answer. She simply raised a brow as if to say, Are you mutton-headed? and ducked around him.

  He swore, whirled and tried to grab her shoulders—but it was too late. A sharp cry ripped from her throat before she moved two paces. With her face drained of color, her cheekbones seemed to sharpen. Panic edged into her breathing so that it became shallow and quick.

  “Breathe, Grace. In and out.” Now Julian did block her view, and he saw her eyes were glassy.

  “But John—”

  “Can’t be helped now.” He’d only caught a glimpse of the blacksmith’s body, but that was all he needed to see. “In and out. Now.”

  She did breathe. Long, slow, deep breaths. He watched her struggle, saw her throat constrict and her lips press together. But she battled back the horror and the nausea.

  She shouldn’t have seen this, was all he could think. He should have forced her to stay behind until he’d investigated the situation. He’d seen murder many times before. While he never became hardened to it, it had lost its ability to shock him. But she was innocent to that knowledge.

  Or she had been.

  He studied her colorless cheeks and the eyes that seemed too large for her face. Espionage didn’t belong in her life.

  When he was certain she’d found control, he left her and went to John’s body.

  The cause of death was clear. A blow to the head. Julian crouched down and felt the man’s skin, then studied the weapon, the wound. The blood. The blacksmith hadn’t been dead long at all. The killer could have been in the caves with them.

  “Did he fall?” Grace’s voice quavered. Her hand touched his shoulder, rested there. “Did he fall and hurt his head?”

  It would be better if he lied. Death was always ignominious, but murder was devastating to those left behind. He could spare her the pain of that.

  The fingers on his shoulder dug into his flesh like sharp daggers, and he knew she understood the truth. Her mind was only trying to deny it.

  “No. He did not fall.” Julian gestured to a chunk of limestone tossed a few feet away. Blood smeared it. “Someone deliberately used that as a weapon.”

  The rock had not fallen from the limestone ceiling above. Nor did the killer accidentally hit John and flee the scene. There were multiple wound
s, indicating repeated blows. Repeated blows implied purpose. And rage.

  But that, she didn’t need to know.

  “Oh, John’s poor wife,” Grace whispered. Her breath hitched, a sharp inhalation. “How am I going to tell her?”

  “We are going to tell her,” Thomas said. He stepped beside Grace so that they stood side by side, looking down at the blacksmith’s bloodied body.

  “We all will,” Jem added as he moved to Grace’s other side.

  Thomas laid a hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Let’s take him home to his wife.”

  Julian hooked his hands beneath the blacksmith’s lifeless arms and waited for Thomas to take his feet. They carried the body through the caves, Grace and Jem a step behind.

  Beyond the caves, clouds obscured the moon and a chill rain fell. They maneuvered the blacksmith’s limp form up the rain-slicked cliff walk. Julian glanced only once at Grace and saw tears tracking down her cheeks, although she made no sound. His stomach twisted. He wanted to pull her into his arms and wipe those tears away.

  Chapter 22

  THE DARKNESS OF the night lay heavy on Julian. The bedchamber he’d so painstakingly redecorated to soothe and calm did neither of those things. Beside him in the bed, Grace lay on her side, her breathing slow and even.

  She’d cried herself to sleep in his arms. Powerless to help, he could only hold her. He knew there was nothing he could say. Death was final. Murder was an atrocity. No one knew that better than he.

  Beside him, Grace’s breathing quickened. She stirred, and he caught the scent of rain and lavender. He waited, uncertain whether he should draw her in and hold her or simply let her be.

  Making the choice for him, she drew back the covers and slid from the bed. Curious, he stayed motionless when she disappeared into their shared dressing room. He heard fabric rustling, then the thump of something hitting the floor. She reappeared a few minutes later wearing breeches, with a pair of riding boots clutched in her hand.

  He wanted to curse. Instead, he held himself perfectly still and kept his breathing deep and even. Through his lashes, he watched her tiptoe across the room, the boots still clutched in one hand. She put her hand on the knob and looked over her shoulder at him.

  For a brief moment, he thought she would speak. Regret flashed across her face before she turned the knob and disappeared into the hall.

  The minute the latch clicked, he leapt from the bed and sprinted to the dressing room. He knew how to dress quickly and quietly. Pulling on his breeches, he snatched a shirt, a coat and a cap. He also slid his pistol into his waistband and clenched his teeth over his knife. As Grace had, he carried his boots in one hand. But where she’d tiptoed across the room, he strode through it. He didn’t have a spouse to deceive.

  He finished dressing as he stole through the silent house, shrugging into shirt and coat, settling the cap over his head. When he reached Thistledown’s side door, he tugged on his boots before stepping outside. Taking the knife from between his teeth, he slid the thin blade into his right boot.

  The rain had subsided to a miserable drizzle that dribbled down his neck and past his collar. Julian blocked out the chill and scanned the grounds. Assuming she would saddle Demon, he started toward the stables. The crunch of gravel to his left made him stop. He tensed, waited, watched—and saw her. She was on foot, hurrying down Thistledown’s gravel drive.

  He frowned. Not a particularly clandestine path, as she was out in the open, but perhaps she didn’t expect anyone to be watching.

  He snorted. She shouldn’t have married a spy.

  Staying off the gravel drive to mask his footfalls, he followed her from the shadows of the trees. She wasn’t traveling to Beer or to the smuggling caves, he mused, as they were too far away to travel on foot. Who could she be meeting? She turned onto the lane at the end of Thistledown’s drive, then eventually onto a narrow path, and finally a dirt track barely wide enough for a wagon.

  The dilapidated cottage that finally came into view appeared to be crooked on its foundation. The roof sagged and its windows were little more than shards of glass.

  Julian surged forward when he saw the barrel of a blunderbuss glinting in the window. He leapt over a fallen log, sprinted across the path—and stopped short when he heard a curse.

  “Bloody hell, my lovely. Are you lookin’ to be shot?” The blunderbuss disappeared from view. It was replaced by a square face and wildly springing hair.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” Grace called softly. “I’ve some news. Can I come in?”

  “Well, I’m not leaving you on the doorstep, though I’d hoped to have a full night of sleep,” Jack grumbled.

  Jack Blackbourn’s head disappeared from view, then reappeared in the doorway of the ramshackle cottage. “Come in, my lovely. I’ll get the fire going.”

  “There’s no need. I can’t stay long,” Grace responded as the door swung shut behind them.

  For an ugly moment, jealousy streaked through Julian. Was Grace cuckolding him? Was his wife of mere days already a cheat? He closed his eyes, forced himself to think past the pressure in his chest. No. He knew she was not. Certainly not with Jack Blackbourn.

  He looked through the window and saw Blackbourn pull Grace into his arms.

  The evidence was damning. And I’m just as damned, he thought as the jealousy swelled again.

  He fisted his hand on his thigh and watched the pair through the window, struggling to use his training to observe. Blackbourn patted Grace’s back as one might comfort a distressed child. The kiss he dropped on her temple was similarly platonic.

  Julian pushed away the jealousy and resentment. When he looked again, he was steadier, calmer. Still, anger burned low in his belly. She may not be unfaithful, but she had lied to him. She knew where Blackbourn was hiding.

  He stalked closer to the cottage, using sodden leaves and needles to mask his footsteps. With only a few swift movements he crouched in the thicket of ferns beneath the window. Above him, faint moonlight glinted on the remains of a broken windowpane. Voices carried easily through those broken panes of glass.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I know you and John were close.” Sympathy flowed from Grace’s words.

  An answering grief filmed Blackbourn’s quiet, “Aye. He was a good man.”

  “He was.”

  “Hell.” Something thumped. A fist pounding on a hard surface. “John’s wife. Has anyone told—”

  “She knows,” Grace interrupted quickly. Hurried footsteps clicked across the floor. “We took John’s body home to her.”

  “And the black-hearted bastard that killed him? Did you find him?”

  “No. We don’t know who he is. But I think—Julian thinks—it was the traitor.”

  Chair legs scraped against a wooden floor. Footsteps paced.

  Julian brushed away a feathery, wet fern tickling his neck. He leaned forward, straining to hear. Grace murmured something, and although her words were indecipherable, the soothing tone was obvious.

  He waited. Fury built, sharp and tight in his chest.

  She’d lied to him. Not outright, perhaps. Thinking back, he realized she’d never said she didn’t know where Jack Blackbourn was. She’d simply failed to answer him. She failed to trust him.

  Why should she? a voice inside him whispered. Because he was her husband, damn it. Still, that inner voice whispered, and the words stabbed into him. But you’re a spy and a Travers, and barely worthy of her trust. He ignored that voice—had to ignore it—and concentrated on the cottage.

  He couldn’t understand the words that floated through the open window now. He only heard Grace’s smooth tones and Jack’s answering rumble. But he didn’t need to hear more. He knew enough.

  Skittering backward, Julian retreated from the overgrown bushes and stood up so he could see into the window. Two figures huddled over a pathetically low fire emitting
just enough light to see by, but certainly not enough heat to combat the chill fall night. He didn’t feel any sympathy.

  Not bothering to keep his footfalls silent, he leapt to the front door of the cottage and threw it open. Blackbourn was already scrambling for his blunderbuss, but he’d left it at the window. Grace fumbled in her coat but she was far too late.

  “Don’t. Move.” Julian aimed his pistol straight at Jack Blackbourn’s smuggling heart.

  “Julian! I thought—God, I thought—” she trailed off when he didn’t lower the pistol. “Julian?”

  Why, in God’s name, did he want to pull the trigger? He was certain Blackbourn was innocent of treason. Yet he still wanted to send a bullet into the man.

  Do it. She’s your wife. Your property. It was his father’s voice. Not a ghost or an apparition, but that part of his father that lived in him. His finger slid on the trigger as sweat coated his hands. He buried that voice and met Blackbourn’s gaze.

  “My lovely, I think this is between the earl and me,” Blackbourn said slowly, his eyes somber. “Perhaps you should wait outside.”

  “No.” She surged forward.

  “Grace.” Blackbourn continued to gaze at Julian, unmoving. “Go—” He stopped speaking as Julian lowered the pistol.

  “I might change my mind.” Julian kept the pistol in his hand, now pointing at the floor. “But for now, you’re not in danger.”

  “Mighty glad I am about that, milord.” Jack offered a sardonic smile. “After all my escapes from the revenue officers, I’d hate to meet my fate at the wrong end of a pistol held by a jealous husband.”

  “Jealous husband?” Grace jumped between them, her eyes wide. “Have you turned crazy, Julian? It’s Jack, for heaven’s sake. You know I wouldn’t—couldn’t—”

  “Which is why you’re both still standing.” His finger itched on the trigger. He tried to ignore it. “You’ve known all along that Jack was in this cottage,” he said flatly.

  “Yes.” Remorse moved over her face. Then she firmed her chin and straightened her shoulders. “I knew he was here.”