The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Not nightmares, Grace. Memories.” His gaze fell, and when she followed it, she saw he was staring at his open hand.

  A slim brass key glinted dully in his palm. His long fingers curled around it again and he stepped hesitantly forward. His chest expanded with a deep breath before he fit the key into the lock and flung open the door to the countess’s suite.

  The room was nothing but shapes and shadows in the gray dawn light. The breeze from the door fluttered the linens covering the furniture as though ghosts, freed from their long solitude, danced to greet them. Dust floated on the air, as did the faint scent of roses.

  Julian stood just inside the door, his hands motionless at his side. “She died,” he rasped. “And I killed her.”

  Grace nearly wept at the pain reverberating in his voice. “Julian, you couldn’t—”

  “I killed her. Or as good as. She was defending me against my father. He’d been drunk, as usual, and raving that my mother coddled me too much.” He looked around the room, as though considering. “Perhaps she did, but it was in response to his dissolute ways.”

  “What was your mother like?” she asked softly.

  “Sweet. Shy. Meek, even, which made it easier for my father to be cruel to her.” He reached out and ran his hand over the empty surface of the dressing table. “I would come into her room to show her my latest outdoor discovery or something I’d accomplished with my tutor. She would be sitting here in front of the mirror, weeping and putting salve on a bruise to speed the healing.”

  “He hurt her.”

  “Often. He drank often as well, and had his regular mistress installed in one of the other bedchambers.”

  “That’s heartless,” she breathed. She couldn’t imagine the insult. “Your poor mother.”

  “I didn’t know who the woman was until I was older. He went to other women, of course, but he always had one living in Thistledown before my mother’s death, and later in our London townhouse. We never returned here after my mother died.” He walked to a chaise and pulled off its cover. A quarter century of dust billowed out, clouding the air.

  “What happened to your mother, Julian?”

  He closed his eyes, ran his hand down the arm of the chaise. “I can remember exactly how they looked. My father, drunk and furious. My mother, terrified yet determined. He was making plans to introduce me to his mistress. Not just then, as I was only eight, but in a few years. It was getting to be time I learned how the Earls of Langford conducted themselves.”

  Shock sliced through her and she stepped forward. “God, Julian, that’s horrible. You were so young.”

  “Old enough, in my father’s eyes. He was telling my mother he’d have to start teaching me earlier to counteract all of her coddling. She fought him. I think it was the first time she openly defied him.”

  “With good cause.” She reached out to put a hand on his arm then dropped it. He seemed oddly fragile, as though he would shatter if she touched him.

  “He shook me, telling me he’d have to teach me to be a man. I remember she leapt at him, scratching, biting even. He lost his grip on my arms and I ran. Not far,” he qualified. “Just far enough that I could hide behind some tapestries in the upstairs hall. She followed me into the hall and he followed her.”

  He looked at her now, but his eyes were unfocused and she knew he wasn’t seeing her.

  “I hid there,” he continued, “crouched behind the tapestry, hands covering my ears while they fought. But I still heard my father shout that he would be rid of her, once and for all. I heard her scream as she tumbled down the servants’ stairs.”

  “Oh, God. Julian.” Her legs turned weak. She staggered to the chaise and gripped the arm to keep from sliding to the floor.

  “I stayed behind that tapestry until the morning, terrified because I could hear my father shouting for me as he stumbled through my bedchamber and the nursery.” He looked down at his hands. “I was such a coward.”

  “You were eight.”

  “That’s no excuse,” he bit out.

  “You were only a child,” she returned.

  “Old enough that I could have stood in front of my mother instead of running. Grace, my father killed my mother. He meant to. I’ve the blood of a murderer in my veins.”

  “But that doesn’t make you a murderer.”

  “It was my fault he killed her. They say blood tells, Grace—and it did. I’m a spy. My training includes the ability to kill, and I’ve done so.” He turned to face her, and the red light of dawn slanted over his grief-ravaged face. “I have nothing in me to give you. I’m no different than Miles Butler.”

  Grace’s heart swelled, ached, nearly burst from the pressure. She grieved for the child whose innocence was stolen and for the man who didn’t believe he deserved love. She stepped forward, reaching out for him. He only shook his head.

  He wouldn’t let her comfort him. At least not with her touch.

  “I killed a man last night, Julian. I stared down the barrel of my pistol, pulled the trigger and killed him. What does that make me?”

  “Grace—”

  “By your reasoning, I’m a murderer.”

  He only shook his head.

  “Do you know why I fired that pistol and killed a man? Because I love you, Julian.” Saying the words sent her heart soaring. And left her belly quivering with nerves. She swallowed hard. “I love you, and I would do whatever I had to in order to protect you.”

  He turned, stared, his eyes wide with shock. “Why?” he whispered hoarsely.

  How could he ask such a thing? “For so many reasons,” she answered.

  He searched her face, his eyes staring intently into hers. Then he turned away from her.

  Her heart plummeted, dropping off the cliff and into the black. She’d taken the step, said the words, and he’d turned away. Again. Despair clogged her throat, dragged at her. It was so deep, so dark that it was beyond tears.

  “You can’t love me, Grace.” He looked over his shoulder at her. His face was hard, his mouth one firm line. But his eyes were unbearably sad.

  “Because your father killed your mother? That’s not your fault.”

  “It’s—”

  “No,” she snapped. “It isn’t. You were a young child who couldn’t have stopped him. And you’re not your father. He was cruel and immoral and dissolute. You’re not.”

  “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

  “I do know. I sat side by side with you when Fanny’s child was born. You held the hand of stranger as she labored to bring a babe into the world.”

  “Grace. Stop it.” He shook his head as if to ward off her words.

  “And you’re not Miles Butler. He’s selfish and reckless, with no thought beyond himself and his desires. He’s never considered the consequences of his actions on the young men at war for this country. Everything you’ve done, anyone you may have killed, has been for your country. And I watched you stay your hand last night when you could have killed Miles Butler. You didn’t.”

  “You think too highly of me.”

  “No. I know you. I love you.”

  “You can’t possibly.”

  “I do,” she whispered through the tears that clogged her throat. “And I always will.”

  He staggered under the weight of her words. She reached out once more, and this time he stepped toward her. Dropping to his knees, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his face against her belly.

  He made no sound, only held her there while she stroked his hair and wept for him.

  When his grip eased, she cupped his cheeks and raised his face. Those gorgeous summer sky eyes were dry, and the heartbreak in them seemed to rend her in two. She brushed her lips against his. The kiss was soft, tender. Full of light and warmth and love. A meeting of souls.

  “Come to our room now,” s
he whispered, drawing him to his feet.

  His hand was warm and strong in hers as she led him out of the countess’s suite. She closed the door softly but firmly. “Don’t lock it, Julian.”

  “I won’t. It will always be open to you.”

  Now it was his turn to lead her back to their chamber. To their bed. As they sank onto the soft mattress, he pulled back. His mouth hovered over hers.

  “Where would you like to go, my lady smuggler?” He traced a thumb over her lips.

  “Anywhere.” She smiled slowly. “As long as I’m with you.”

  Dear Reader:

  The most difficult and fascinating aspect of writing historical romance is research. I could spend hours (and have!) researching the minutia of daily lives, fashion, food and politics. It’s difficult knowing, however, that for every detail I get right, another detail is likely wrong. I hope you will forgive my mistakes. I assure you, I diligently research, but sometimes I am just plain incorrect. It happens more often that I would like.

  When researching, the best place to start is always primary sources. I owe so much to Google Books! When Grace stitches herself up, she quotes The London Medical Dictionary, Volume 2, by Bartholomew Parr, published in 1809. The ditty sung by John the blacksmith is part of a song printed in The British Minstrel, and National Melodist, Volume 1, published in 1827 by Sherwood, Gilbert, and Piper, and John Bumpus. I love learning these little bits of history from the original sources.

  Such a primary source is how I stumbled on Jack Rattenbury, the smuggler I patterned Jack Blackbourn after. Jack was a joy to write, but that is because he arrived in my brain fully formed. When researching smuggling during the Regency, I ran across a book called Memoirs of a Smuggler. It was written in 1837 by the infamous smuggler Jack Rattenbury, the self-styled “Rob Roy of the West.” I fell in love with Jack and his escapades and decided I simply must include him in The Smuggler Wore Silk. Of course, I took great license with his character and life, but as with all fiction, there is a kernel of truth at the base.

  The real Jack Rattenbury was born in Beer and by the age of age of sixteen had already been a privateer, an apprentice on a ship and imprisoned in Bordeaux. He’d traveled to New York, Copenhagen, France and a few other places. When he returned to Beer in his sixteenth year, he thought to try his hand at fishing, but found it dull and tiresome after his “roving life.” As the smuggling industry was booming at that time, he decided to make his fortune that way.

  Jack was cheeky and confident, and seemed to me to have a delightful sense of humor. He was known for his clever escapes, including hiding in a chimney to escape the customs officers—a fact I shamelessly used for this book, but which had no relation to treason. He left the smuggling business briefly to run a public house in 1809. The pub failed after a few years, however, and he went back to smuggling. So that part of the story is true, though the dates might be a bit sketchy. He was not arrested for treason that I know of, though he was arrested multiple times. He usually managed a clever escape, of course.

  Jack married a woman named Anna, who was as daring as her husband. She helped orchestrate a number of Jack’s escapes, including steering a boat alongside a brig so Jack could jump ship. When the second mate started to shoot at Jack, Anna “wrested the piece out of his hands.” A brave woman, was Anna Rattenbury!

  With Jack Rattenbury in mind, I crafted my Jack Blackbourn. I tried to do justice to his sense of humor and ingenious escapes. I don’t know if the real Jack would approve of my Jack, but I hope so. And I hope you enjoyed reading him as much I enjoyed writing him!

  KEEP READING FOR A PREVIEW OF ALYSSA ALEXANDER’S NEXT

  A SPY IN THE TON NOVEL

  In Bed with a Spy

  Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!

  Prologue

  THE WOMAN SHOULDN’T have been in the thick of battle. But she rose out of the acrid smoke, perched high atop a chestnut horse and wearing the scarlet coat of a cavalry officer.

  The Marquess of Angelstone staggered through rows of trampled corn, shock rippling through him as the woman raised a cavalry sabre high into the air. A shrill whistle sounded overhead. Instinctively, Angel ducked as cannon artillery pounded through the ranks, blasting into the earth and showering him with dirt and black powder.

  The woman on horseback didn’t flinch.

  He staggered forward, coughing, ears ringing, as soldiers around him fell or scattered. Pressing a hand to his jacket pocket, Angel fingered the square shape of the letter he carried there. He hadn’t known he’d have to fight his way to Wellington to deliver it.

  The horse turned a tight circle, one of the woman’s hands gripping the reins. The sabre in her other hand flashed like quicksilver in the sunlight. Her grip on the steel blade was untrained, her movements awkward. But fury and hate blazed from her eyes and seemed to fuel her sabre as it sliced across the chest of a French soldier. The man collapsed, shrieking and clutching at welling blood.

  The woman turned away, already arcing her sabre toward another enemy soldier, and Angel lost sight of her.

  Reflex sent Angel’s bayonet plunging as a Frenchman reared up in front of him, face contorted by fear. When the man screamed, regret shot through Angel before he forced it away. It was kill or be killed. There was no time for regret.

  He surged forward with the ranks of foot soldiers, compelled to look for the woman. The muddied ground sucked at his feet, threatening to pull him beneath thundering hooves and panicked soldiers. Broken corn stalks slashed at his face. The sulfur smell of black powder burned his nose, mixing with the scent of men’s fear.

  He fought past a charging enemy soldier, spun away from another and saw her again.

  Soot streaked her grim face. She grinned at the enemy standing before her but the smile was terrible. The man paled and aimed his rifle at her. He was not fast enough to beat her sword.

  When that soldier, too, fell under her sabre, she looked up. Over the dead soldier and through the swirling gray smoke, Angel met her eyes. They were a chilling, pale blue and held only one thing.

  Vengeance.

  She pulled on the reins and her horse reared up, hooves pawing at the air. Angel planted his feet and braced for impact. But the hooves never struck. The woman kept her seat, her jaw clenched, and continued to hold his gaze.

  The battle faded away, booming cannons falling on his deaf ears. The gray, writhing smoke veiled the dying soldiers and hand-to-hand battle being waged around him.

  He only saw her merciless eyes. Blood roared in his ears and the beat of his pulse became as loud as the cannons. A high, powerful note sang through him.

  The woman’s horse whinnied as its hooves struck the earth again. Standing in the stirrups, she thrust her sword aloft and howled. The battle cry that echoed over the field carried with it the sting of rage and unfathomable grief. She wheeled the horse, spurred his sides and charged through battling soldiers, her blond hair streaming behind her.

  And she was gone, obscured by clouds of dark smoke and the chaos of battle.

  Chapter 1

  July 1817

  ALASTAIR WHITMORE, MARQUESS of Angelstone—code name Angel—coughed into his gloved hand in the hope of discreetly hiding his laugh. A man shouldn’t laugh when a fellow spy was being hunted by a woman.

  “Oh, my lord,” the brunette tittered. “Truly, you are a remarkable figure of a man.”

  The Earl of Langford—poor hunted bastard—lifted his annoyed gaze over the short matron and met Angel’s eyes. The woman leaned forward, her powdered cleavage pressing against Langford’s arm.

  Angel quirked his lips. The brunette’s fawning was highly amusing, since it wasn’t directed at himself.

  “If you will excuse me,” Langford said, “I must speak with Lord Angelstone about an urgent matter.”

  “Indeed?” Angel didn’t bother to conceal his merriment. “I wasn’t aw
are we needed to discuss an urgent matter.”

  “It has just come to my attention,” Langford ground out. He extricated his sleeve from the woman’s grasping fingers and eased away from her.

  “Must you go?” The brunette pouted rouged lips. Feathers trembled on her turbaned head as she sent a coy look toward Langford. “I truly feel we should further our acquaintance, my lord. You have been in the country for months.”

  “With my wife.”

  The brunette’s mouth fell open. “But, you are in London. She is not here this evening. I thought—”

  “My dear lady,” Angel said smoothly, sliding between the pair. He might as well stage a rescue mission. “As I’m sure you are aware, his lordship has many demands on his time. Not the least being his wife and new daughters.”

  “I see.” Without even a single remorseful glance, she turned her back on Langford. Sharp eyes flicked over Angel. Subtle as a stalking elephant. “Well. You are unmarried, Lord Angelstone.”

  “Indeed. But alas, I am otherwise engaged for the evening.” Angel raised the woman’s chubby fingers until they were just a breath away from his lips. “A pity, for you would have been a most enchanting diversion.” He wondered if his tongue would turn black after such lies.

  “Perhaps another day, Lord Angelstone.” She preened, patting her bosom as though to calm her racing heart. The cloying scent of eau de cologne drifted up, and Angel fought the urge to sneeze.

  “Perhaps.” Angel let her fingers slide out of his. He bowed. “Good evening, ma’am.”

  As the brunette waddled away, Langford sighed gustily beside him. “A female predator, that one.” He brushed at his coat sleeve. “She was getting powder everywhere.”

  Angel smothered a grin. “You’ve been married and ensconced in the country too long, my friend, if you’ve forgotten how our society ladies once adored you.”

  “Not as much as they currently adore you.”