“What’s so hellfire important that ye and yer sister must go on ahead?” demanded Gravel Voice.
“I must reach Town in time for a special meeting.” He squared his shoulders. “I am a diplomat for the Foreign Office.”
There was a long pause as Gravel Voice eyed Bentley’s bedraggled clothing. Pengareth had gifted him with the roughspun wool garments for warmth while working the sloop.
“And I am the Prince Regent.”
Guffaws sounded from the group.
“Having met the Prince on a number of occasions, I can assure you that he is a great deal more rotund than you are,” responded Bentley, hoping humor might soften the stony stare.
If anything, the man’s face took on a harder look.
Bentley switched to a tougher tone. “And by the by, who are you, and by what right do you threaten to hold us?”
“I’m the local magistrate,” answered Gravel Voice. “And I have full authority to imprison any criminals—especially smugglers.”
He quickly regrouped and tried another tack. “If we are smugglers, where is our cargo?”
Gravel Voice made a rude sound. “Ye threw it overboard, o’ course. Everyone knows that’s wot smugglers do when the revenue men are about te catch them red-handed.”
Sophie had been making little growling sounds under her breath but could not longer hold back her indignation. “Oh, be sensible, sir. If we were smugglers, we wouldn’t be sailing such a small vessel. Why take such a big risk for a puny cargo?”
Silence.
“Hmm, the lass has got a point,” one of the men finally murmured.
Gravel Voice looked unconvinced. “I’ve heard that the captain of The Wolf is working with a band of French smugglers when he ain’t harassing our local fishermen and trading wherries. Nimrock, the magistrate up in Framington, says the cargo is offloaded from the privateer into small boats, which land in the salt marshes.”
“We’re not French,” pointed out Sophie.
Miss Thirkell was proving to be not only a very skilled sailor but also a very skilled negotiator.
“Ye talk funny,” shot back Gravel Voice.
“I’m A—”
“Astounded!” said Bentley loudly. “My sister is absolutely astounded that you would find her accent odd. But then again, she’s spent most of her time in Gloucestershire, while I’ve been living in London.” He assumed his most official tone. “Surely you recognize the King’s English when you hear it.”
“Oiy, I was in London once,” volunteered one of the men. “And he does sound just like one of them fancy toffs what struts down Piccadilly Street.”
Gravel Voice narrowed his eyes. “I still say we haul them off to the gaol in Beecham and hold ’em until Colonel Markham returns from maneuvers.”
“My good man, you really ought to consider the consequences of such action. If you are wrong about us, imagine how badly it will reflect on your authority to have impeded a government mission.”
Bentley’s words finally stirred the first flicker of doubt in the magistrate’s eyes. Seeing it, he quickly forged on. “If I were you, I’d keep us here in the village overnight and send a messenger to the revenue cutter’s home port. I assume it’s somewhere close by, and that way any understanding can be cleared up quickly and discreetly, before any higher officials become involved.
“That makes some sense, Hawthorne,” agreed one of the magistrate’s companions. “We don’t want te look like fools.”
“We can lock ’em in the storeroom of The Saucy Wench,” suggested one of the other men, pointing to the nearby tavern. “It’s got a study lock and no windows.”
A murmur of assent rose from the group.
Gravel Voice—who appeared to be named Hawthorne—hesitated, and then gave a gruff nod. “Jem, you ride over to Neffing-ton and bring back Captain Farraday while we secure the prisoners here.” He turned and gestured for Sophie to hand over her package.
Scowling, she hugged it even tighter to her chest.
“That,” intoned Bentley, “is an item of utmost importance to my government negotiations. I really must insist that it stays with us.”
“It might contain pistols,” argued the magistrate. “Or knives, or some other dangerous weapon.”
“It contains nothing but printed words from a High Authority. Do you really wish to be held responsible if it goes missing?”
“How high?” asked Hawthorne after a barely perceptible pause.
Leaning a little closer, Bentley answered in a conspiratorial whisper. “The Very Highest.”
“Hmmph.” The magistrate thought for a moment. “Will ye consent to letting me have a closer look at it?”
Bentley held out his hand to Sophie and gave an encouraging little jiggle of his brow.
She didn’t overly look pleased, but slowly handed the well-wrapped Bible to him.
“Thank you,” he murmured, then offered it to Hawthorne. “Handle it gently, my good man,” he cautioned.
A scowl, followed by a tiny shake and a few tentative pokes. “It seems harmless enough,” growled the magistrate, passing it back. After hitching up his pants, he signaled his companions to surround Bentley and Sophie. “Follow me, and don’t try any tricks or it’s off te the county gaol with ye two, quicker than a kestrel can flap its wings.”
“Wouldn’t dream of trying to fly away,” murmured Bentley.
The witticism didn’t draw a smile. “March.”
Blades of lantern light pierced the foggy gloom as the group tramped down the wooden wharf and across the puddled street. “In here,” ordered Hawthorne, after leading the way through the tavern taproom and down a narrow passageway.
The iron-banded door opened with an ominous creak.
“M-might we be allowed a blanket and a candle,” asked Sophie meekly, shrinking back from the dark-as-Hades blackness. “And perhaps s-something warm to eat and drink. I am f-feeling a trifle f-faint.”
Miss Thirkell acting meek and fluttery? Bentley mentally added theatrical skills to her impressive arsenal of talents. If she gained them a hearty supper, he would see that she got a medal from Whitehall. Maybe two.
“Poor lass, she do look awfully pale.” One of the barmaids had followed the procession to the storage area. “Shame on you, Harry Hawthorne, fer bullying a helpless female.”
Bentley maintained a straight face.
“Wot if she takes ill?” muttered one of the men. “Then we would really be in hot water.”
Hawthorne lifted his lantern. “It’s not so very uncomfortable in there,” he said defensively, casting his light around the packed earthen floor. “Once Sally fetches a couple of quilts and pillows, it’ll be right homey.”
“I’ll also bring some Cornish pasties and a bottle of ale so they can wet their whistles,” volunteered the barmaid. “It’s almost closing time and there’s still plenty left in the kitchen.”
“My sister could also use a small nip of brandy to bring a touch of color back to her cheeks,” said Bentley. He silently sketched the outline of a full bottle as the magistrate turned away for a moment.
“Oh, aye, I can see that,” replied Sally with a saucy wink. “Don’t ye worry. I won’t let yer sister expire for lack of nourishment.”
A flurry of activity soon had the temporary prison looking almost inviting. A small planked table and two chairs had been carried in by two of their captors, and the aroma of hot food perfumed the musty air....
Bentley bit back a tiny groan. A plume of fragrant steam was rising up from a pewter platter of fresh baked Cornish pasties—a local specialty filled with beef and diced potatoes.
“Make yerself comfortable.” Hawthorne fitted an oversized key into the heavy lock. “I can’t say fer sure how long it will take to find Captain Farraday and his ship, so ye two may be in here fer a while.”
“Ha.” Sophie smiled as the door fell shut. “I highly doubt it.”
Bentley cocked an ear and listened to a rapid-fire series of metallic clicks.
“That,” he said, “appears to be a rather formidable mechanism. I think Mr. Hawthorne is right—we aren’t going anywhere.”
“No,” agreed Sophie. “Not until we fill our breadboxes.” She reached for one of the pasties and took a bite. A sigh slipped from her lips as she savored the rich taste of meat and spices. “Oh, this is delicious. Really, sir, you should try one.”
Bentley already had his teeth sunk into a mound of the flaky crust. “’Elishsus,” he repeated around a mouthful of dough. A swallow. “Absolutely delicious.” He washed down the other half with a swig of brandy.
“Thank you for saving my Bible. Again,” she said. “That was very clever talking on your part.”
“Not clever enough.” He made a face and reached for another pasty. “I was hoping that our place of confinement would offer a chance of escape. But at least we may save precious time by being mere steps from our boat when we are released, instead of locked up in some distant inland gaol.”
“You—” she began, only to cut off with a stifled giggle. “You have a dribble of juice on your chin, Lord Leete.”
“Do I?” He stuck out his tongue and with an exaggerated slurping sound licked it up. “It’s so good, it would be a pity to waste even a drop.”
Sophie laughed, feeling the spontaneous sound add an oddly pleasant tickle of heat to the warmth of the food inside her. Strange how the dangers and discomforts of the voyage hadn’t made the viscount snarly or sullen. On the contrary—he appeared to be enjoying himself.
“I confess, I am a little surprised that this adventure hasn’t put your aristocratic nose out of joint,” she murmured.
“Nearly every other body part is bruised and battered, but my nose seems quite undamaged,” he quipped. “I’m sorry that it seems to offend you. This is the second time you have made a rather caustic comment about it.”
“I . . .” Sophie looked away in embarrassment. “I have sometimes thought that you were looking down said appendage with disapproval.”
“I don’t disapprove of you, Miss Thirkell,” he said quietly.
“But you always seem to stare at me with such a peculiar expression,” blurted out Sophie. “And until now, you always act so . . . lordly.”
“It’s hard to act lordly when you are wet as a drowned rat,” he replied. “Having cannonballs whizzing overhead and a hostile magistrate threatening arrest also tends to knock one down a peg or two.”
“I’m sorry my plan subjected you to such abuse.”
“Oh, good heavens, don’t be!” exclaimed Bentley. “Without your intrepid skills, I wouldn’t have a prayer of reaching London in time for the meeting.”
He thinks me intrepid? Sophie had been sure he considered her the most horrible hoyden in all of Christendom.
“Besides,” he went on. “I haven’t had so much fun since the time at Eton when my friend and I nearly blew up one of the building trying to make stinkbombs.”
“You have an awfully odd idea of fun, Lord Leete,”
“As do you, Miss Thirkell.”
A sigh slipped free. “True. I have very odd notions about a lot of things. Indeed, it often feels like I am a square peg trying to fit in a round hole.”
“Then perhaps you just need to carve out your own niche.”
“I . . .” Unsure of herself, Sophie found her voice trailing off.
“It isn’t easy, I know,” he continued. “We all doubt ourselves at times.”
“Surely not you,” she replied.
“Of course me.” Bentley smiled. “I’ve been quaking like jellied aspic on the inside more times than I care to count. But I have found that if you believe in yourself and your goals, then you can accomplish whatever you set your heart on.” A pause. “So don’t be nervous about the upcoming meeting with your relatives. Anyone who can outwit a French privateer and sail through dangerous shoals in a raging storm shouldn’t be intimidated by anything.
To cover her confusion, Sophie carefully cut two wedges from the apple tart on the table. “T-this looks delicious as well. Are you still hungry?” she asked, offering him a piece.
“Good Lord, yes.” He forked up a bite and took another swallow of brandy. “Talking works up quite an appetite—and thirst.”
“You have a very devious tongue,” observed Sophie, grateful for the change of subject. “I hadn’t realized that diplomats could lie through their teeth.”
“I did not lie,” he replied with a grin. “I merely embellished the truth.”
She arched a skeptical brow.
“Miss Thirkell, in the course of sailing, you employ whatever tactics it takes to keep your vessel safe, don’t you?” he went on. “I simply use mental maneuvers to do the same thing.”
“In other words,” she mused, “you are saying that we are more alike than might appear at first blush.”
“Well, er, yes.” Was it merely a quick of candlelight that had his eyes aglow with fire? “In a manner of speaking.”
Sophie decided it must be the brandy talking. There was an odd little note in his voice. A rumble, redolent of smoke and salt . . . and sinful urges.
A tingling sensation danced down her spine. She quickly shook it off, and cleared her throat. Concentrate! She gave herself a mental scold. Think of the Bible and your duty, not Lord Leete’s beautiful blue eyes and sensuous smile.
“If you have finished with your meal, let us get to work,” she muttered.
Bentley popped the last morsel of tart into his mouth and dusted his hands. “Doing what?” he asked.
“Getting out of here.”
“Miss Thirkell, unless you have a barrel of gunpowder hidden in your sea boots, I am afraid you must console yourself to the fact that we are stuck here for the night.”
“No gunpowder,” she replied. “Just a knife.” Light winked off the thin-bladed length of steel. “Which is all we need to be on our way.”
“But that lock—”
“Oh, piff—my father had a number of similar models in his Boston warehouses, until I showed him how easy they were to pick. They may look intimidating . . .” The knifepoint jiggled into the iron keyhole. “. . . but there are very few levers inside, and those are simple to manipulate.”
Click, click, click.
“Bring along the brandy and the bag of apples,” said Sophie as she eased the door open. “We may need to avoid putting into port for the next little while.”
“In that case, I had better take the cheese and bread too,” said Bentley. “A pity the barmaid didn’t bring more pasties. Perhaps we can check the larder as we leave.”
“Let’s think of our feet—and how fast we can move them—rather than our stomachs, shall we?” she advised, turning to take up the naval lantern Hawthorne had left behind. Metal scraped against metal as she adjusted the shutters to allow only a pinpoint beam of light
The viscount chuckled as he buttoned up his worn wool coat. “You have already run me ragged—ha-ha.”
Slanting a stern look his way, Sophie shushed him to silence. But in truth, his sense of humor was beginning to grow on her. That he could be both serious and silly was intriguing. What other hidden facets . . .
Sophie realized that she was staring and quickly looked away. Seeing no sign of life in the passageway, she signaled for him to follow.
Crouched low, they hurried down its length and entered the taproom. A few dying coals crackled faintly in the hearth, and a cat padded across the wooden counter and disappeared into the deep shadows.
“Everyone appears to have retired to a nice, warm bed,” whispered Bentley, as rain started to drum against the mullioned glass. He heaved a long sigh.
“Oh, show some bottom, sir. Sailors must be willing to brave the elements,” she muttered.
“Rather than display my bottom, I would rather tuck it beneath a nice, thick eiderdown coverlet.”
Shoving aside the intriguing thought of Bentley’s bottom lying on softly rumpled sheets, Sophie moved to the side window and took hold of the heavy br
ass latches. “Put a cork in it, Lord Leete. And then help me get this open.”
Mud squelched under his boots as Bentley dropped into the walled herb garden bordering the side of the tavern. Thankfully, the rain clouds had swirled away just as quickly as they had blown in. A half moon peeked through the mist-shrouded skies, its watery glow casting just enough light to pick out the path leading out to the street.
“Have a care, Miss Thirkell,” he whispered, reaching up a helping hand. “The ground is slippery as a greased eel.”
Sophie had already swung a leg over the casement. “Don’t worry, I’m used to navigating all sorts of—” Her foot, clad in the heavy sea boot, suddenly slid over the slick stone, missing its toehold.
Whomp.
“Oh, I am so sorry, sir,” she exclaimed in a wool-muffled voice as she squirmed to untangle herself from his flattened form.
“Think nothing of it,” he wheezed. The force of her fall had knocked them both to the ground. “I am always happy to be of assistance to a lady, even when it calls for serving as a rug.”
A breath of air—a silent laugh?—tickled against his cheek. “Oh, dear, the ground must be devilishly wet and cold.”
True. His backside was mired in mud, and already the damp chill was seeping through his breeches. The rest of him, however, was experiencing a delicious flare of heat. Friction causes fire....
“If you would remove your arm from my waist,” said Sophie, redoubling her efforts to scramble free, “I could get up.”
“Right.” Bentley feigned a wince. “Just give me a moment to gather my wits.”
“Dear Lord!” exclaimed Sophie in concern. “Did you hit your head on a stone?”
“It’s nothing,” he replied gruffly as she threaded her slim fingers through his hair.
“Stay still,” she ordered. “Let me feel for any swelling.”
Bentley gritted his teeth. A fast-rising lump of flesh was indeed forming, but it was located in an entirely different section of his anatomy. “No need for worry.” With a huffed grunt, he managed to lever up onto his elbows. “I shall survive.”
Mischief and Mistletoe Page 24