Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Glancing down at the hand on his arm, Barnaby said without heat, “If you don’t remove your hand from my arm immediately, I’ll break every bone in your body.” Nolles’s hand disappeared as if by magic. A dangerous gleam in his black eyes, Barnaby snarled softly, “And threaten me . . . or anything of mine again and I’ll stuff your ballocks down your throat.”

  His face pale with rage, Nolles cautioned, “You’re making a mistake, my lord. I make a far better friend than I do an enemy—as others have learned to their cost.”

  “Have you forgotten already what I just explained to you about threats?” Barnaby inquired silkily, the expression on his face warning that it wouldn’t take much for him to implement his threat.

  Nolles stepped away from Barnaby. His eyes bright with fury, Nolles said, “We understand each other, my lord. I trust you won’t regret the choice you have made.”

  Barnaby smiled, something in that smile making Nolles back up even more. “Regret? Doubtful.” Barnaby said. “As for understanding each other . . . indeed, we do, Mr. Nolles. Indeed we do.”

  A misty rain was falling and a chilly wind whistled around the building as the three men walked out of the tavern and mounted their horses. Shoulders hunched against the weather, they rode away from The Ram’s Head, Lamb observing sourly, “Well, that went well. So much for just spying out the lay of the land.”

  Barnaby grimaced. “Not very diplomatic of me, I know, but it was either that or tear that simpering creature from limb to limb.”

  They were riding abreast, with Barnaby boxed in between Lamb and Luc. From his other side Luc said, “Barnaby may have thrown down the gauntlet, but we learned a great deal this afternoon. Nolles is a viper and that Jeffery enjoys the gaming tables Nolles so kindly provides. Oh, and, of course, that one of your cousins was visiting with Monsieur Nolles.”

  “But which one?” Lamb grumbled. He glanced at Barnaby. “What are the odds when we return home we discover that one of your cousins has come to visit?”

  Barnaby’s lips twitched. “I may not be the gambler Luc is, but even I know when not to bet against a sure thing.”

  Prepared to find his home invaded by one or all of his cousins, after parting with Luc at the Dower House, when Barnaby and Lamb arrived at Windmere it was to discover that no guests had arrived in their absence. Learning that Emily and Cornelia were enjoying a visit from the vicar’s wife, Penelope, Barnaby, with Lamb at his heels, retired to the study.

  While Lamb stretched out in a chair by the fire, Barnaby paced the room, a scowl on his face. “You’d think,” he complained, “that whichever of my cousins was meeting with Nolles this afternoon, he’d have had the decency to show his face here so we could identify him.”

  His booted feet inches from leaping flames, Lamb grinned. “Bloody inconsiderate of the fellow, I agree.”

  Barnaby threw him a look. “Dash it all! Waiting around to be killed is devilish unpleasant business, I can tell you.”

  Lamb sobered. “I agree. But how do you know that identifying Nolles’s visitor will help you unmask whoever is trying to kill you? Even if it was one of your cousins, there could be an innocent explanation—being at the tavern doesn’t mean he is Nolles’s London moneyman. Even his abrupt departure doesn’t mean much—perhaps his visit was over and he didn’t notice your arrival.”

  Barnaby snorted. “Having met Nolles, after today, I don’t believe in anything ‘innocent’ in connection with him.” His jaw clenched. “And I don’t believe in coincidences either.” Lamb watched him pace for several more moments. Stopping in front of Lamb, Barnaby said slowly, “I believe there is a connection between the attempts on my life, Peckham’s disappearances and now today, Nolles’s mysterious visitor—and if I’m right, I know what it is that connects them all together.”

  Lamb looked doubtful. “One of your cousins sneaking back into the area, I can connect with the attempts on your life, but it could just have been a coincidence that he was visiting with Nolles this afternoon. And Peckham? What part does he play?”

  Barnaby turned away and, staring at the fire, he said, “I know it sounds far-fetched, but . . .” He glanced back at Lamb and said, “There are some things we know to be true. One of them is that Peckham’s three disappearances have all occurred on nights favored by the smugglers to make a landing. The second thing we know is that Nolles is reputed to be the biggest smuggler in the area—and I’ll wager my last pound that Peckham is working with Nolles.”

  Lamb didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “Go on.” His hands resting on the mantel, Barnaby stared once more into the fire. “Nolles was just another fisherman, and occasional smuggler, until about a decade ago, and then almost overnight, he expanded. The size of his gang increased as did the frequency and amount of contraband smuggled ashore; about that same time Nolles purchased the old tavern, The Ram’s Head, and renovated it, making it the headquarters for his gang.” Barnaby looked at Lamb. “Obviously, someone invested a lot of money in Nolles’s gang—the mysterious London backer. I’m convinced the moneyman is someone who has ties to this area, a wealthy man who knew Nolles.” Barnaby made a face. “Which could include Lord Broadfoot or any number of wealthy landowners, but the timing is what caught my attention. If it was someone local funding Nolles, such as Broadfoot, he’d have been doing it for decades, not just the past ten years or less. So who came into money around ten years ago with connections to this area?” Barnaby pulled on his ear. “That’s about when Mathew and his brothers came into their majorities . . . and inherited their various fortunes.”

  An arrested expression on his face, Lamb sat up straighter. “You’re thinking that Nolles’s backer is one of your cousins, aren’t you?”

  “It makes sense.”

  “Even if one of them is Nolles’s backer, what does that have to do with Peckham and more importantly, killing you?” Lamb demanded. “You haven’t gone back to thinking that Mathew is behind the attacks, have you? That he wants the title at any cost? And if not him, what? Thomas is willing to kill you and his older brother to gain the title? Or Simon is willing to kill you and both brothers to inherit? That’s madness!”

  “Yes, I agree,” Barnaby said. “But suppose the title isn’t the only reason behind the attacks on me? Suppose the other reason has to do with Peckham . . . and Windmere itself?”

  Lamb stared at him, turning the idea over in his head. “If Windmere is at the root of it, there must be something here that is useful to the smugglers,” he said thoughtfully, “and it has to be connected to Peckham’s disappearances. . . .”

  Barnaby knew the moment Lamb made the same connections he had. Lamb’s eyes widened and he jerked upright, exclaiming, “Tunnels! Secret passages!” Excited, he bent forward. “Of course. Landing large amounts of contraband requires a safe place to conceal the goods until they can arrange transportation to London.”

  “Peckham is in on it,” Barnaby said. “I don’t know his role, but I suspect he guides the smugglers in and locks up securely after them. I’m sure if we examine the wine cellar, looking for a secret door or lever or whatever, we’ll find how he’s been disappearing—and proof of our suspicions.”

  “But why kill you? Why not just continue as they have been? You’re not likely to be snooping around in the bowels of the house.”

  “They can’t afford to take the chance that I won’t be,” Barnaby said. “I’m the new owner, a stranger to the area. Why wouldn’t I want to inspect everything? I already know about the tunnels. Odds are I’m going to see them sooner or later.”

  “You’re thinking the previous viscount knew about the smuggling? Condoned it? And if you were dead that Mathew would follow in his footsteps?”

  “Something like that. I don’t know if the old viscount knew about the smuggling—I suspect he didn’t—but he certainly wouldn’t be poking about in some old, half-forgotten tunnels beneath a house he’d lived in all his life. Why would he? The same could be said for Mathew. Even if Mathew’s not involved i
n the scheme, he’d be unlikely to pay any attention to the tunnels—they’re only a fond memory from childhood for him. With Mathew at the helm, the smugglers could continue to hide their goods without interference.”

  “And if he’s part of the operation,” Lamb added, “there’d be no reason for him to do anything different than he’s already doing.”

  Barnaby nodded. “Precisely. And if it’s not Mathew it has to be one of his brothers. They all know about the tunnels—they’ve mentioned playing in them as children—as did Emily. With Mathew living at Windmere oblivious to what was going on under his nose, Thomas or Simon could continue the operation unhindered. Even if Mathew discovered what they were about, he wouldn’t expose one of his brothers.” Barnaby smiled grimly. “I was the unknown quantity, but with me dead, Mathew would inherit as everyone had assumed he would in the first place and everything would have gone on just as it always had.”

  They stared at each other, considering all angles. A few minutes later, Lamb sighed. “It hangs together and explains a great deal.”

  Barnaby agreed. “The only question now is—which brother?”

  “Finding Peckham’s secret door might be helpful,” Lamb muttered. “It would confirm our suspicion.”

  “Much as I would like to, we can’t just go charging into the wine cellar and start probing for a hidden entrance. The moment we do that, Peckham will raise the alarm and they’ll know we’ve tumbled onto their scheme,” Barnaby said. He looked thoughtful. “Unless, of course,” he murmured, “I send Peckham on an errand that ensures his absence from the house for several hours . . . perhaps even overnight.” He shot Lamb a keen glance. “What about the other servants? How trustworthy are they? Do you think any of them could be part of it?”

  Lamb grimaced. “Anything’s possible.” He smiled at Barnaby. “Most of them are becoming used to me, but I am still a stranger to these people, and since I am neither fish nor fowl, that only adds to their wariness around me. I think the majority of your people are just what they seem to be—honest, hardworking folk.” He paused. “Some of them probably have ties to the smuggling community, but as for any actual participation . . .” He shook his head. “No.”

  “Luc has to be told,” Barnaby said. “He’ll have some thoughts on the subject.”

  “I’m sure he’ll have several and won’t hesitate to share them with us,” Lamb said drily. Rising to his feet, he added, “I intended to ride over to the Dower House later and see him anyway. I can tell him then.”

  “Checking to make certain your chick suffered no setback after this afternoon?” Barnaby asked with a grin.

  Lamb reddened. Stiffly, he said, “It isn’t so long ago that he rose from his sick bed—remember he could have died. I don’t think there’s any harm in checking that he didn’t overtax himself today. It was the first time he’s been on a horse in weeks.”

  Barnaby considered teasing Lamb further, but decided to have mercy on him. “Of course,” he said. “Excellent idea.”

  Lamb eyed him suspiciously, but when Barnaby made no other comment, he said, “What are your plans?”

  Barnaby rubbed his neck. “I’ll have to think of an errand for Peckham before we check for a hidden door.” He scowled. “And it will have to be soon—if there was a landing last night, the tunnels will be filled with contraband right now, but they won’t remain that way for long.” Struck by a thought, he added, “A run last night would explain why one of my cousins was meeting with Nolles this afternoon and lends credence to our theory.”

  Lamb agreed. A few more minutes’ conversation and Lamb departed for the kitchens to ferret out anything that would bolster their suspicions.

  Alone in his study, Barnaby wandered around the room, seeking any holes or discrepancies in his theory. He found none, but any way one looked at it, it was all speculation. It was one explanation, but he had absolutely no proof of any of it. It would have been nice, he mused, if when he had returned home, one of his cousins had been waiting for him. Then I’d know which one of the bastards is behind this, he thought harshly. My enemy would have a face....

  Whether to tell Emily and how much to tell her preyed on his mind. She wasn’t, he reminded himself repeatedly, a hothouse flower, likely to faint at the idea that smugglers were using her home as a hiding place for smuggled goods. He grinned. More likely she’d think it a capital idea and admire their enterprise. He had yet to admit to her that someone was trying to kill him, but he suspected Emily had already come to that conclusion herself and, knowing his wife, she wouldn’t take kindly either to the notion that someone wanted him dead. He sighed. She was his wife. He wasn’t comfortable with not telling her, nor was he convinced that keeping secrets from her was wise. So how much did he tell her? All? Nothing? Or something in between?

  Barnaby still hadn’t made up his mind when he walked into Emily’s rooms to escort her downstairs for dinner. The skirts of her green watered silk gown spread out around her, Emily was seated on the sofa, leafing through a ladies’ magazine when he strolled into the room.

  She glanced up at his entrance, her heart giving that familiar little thump at the sight of him. He looked very handsome tonight in a burgundy jacket and pale gray knee breeches.

  He bowed before her and, an appreciative glint in his eyes, he murmured, “I have never seen you look so beautiful . . . except perhaps when you are as bare as nature made you.” Lifting her fingers to his lips he pressed a kiss to them. “And I hope to see you that way before the evening is very much older.”

  “Am I allowed to eat first?” she asked, twinkling up at him.

  Barnaby would have preferred to continue flirting with his wife, but the compulsion to tell her what he had been about this afternoon and the conclusions he had come to nagged at him. Deciding that now was as good a time as any, he sat beside her on the sofa.

  Taking her hand in his, he said, “Lamb, Luc and I rode into the village this afternoon . . . to The Ram’s Head. I met Nolles.”

  Emily’s eyes widened and her fingers tightened on his. Anxiety and unease mingled in her voice, she asked, “And why did you do that?”

  Barnaby made a face. “It was time. Almost from the moment I heard his name, I’ve wanted to meet him, but . . .” He smiled crookedly. “But with one thing and another, you, marriage, Luc and a few accidents to name the most compelling, the moment never seemed right.”

  She couldn’t argue with him about that—the past few months had been eventful, and since he had taken Lamb and Luc with him, she couldn’t even scold him for venturing into the village, but the idea of Barnaby confronting Nolles, even politely, was worrisome. She trusted Barnaby’s abilities to take care of himself, but Nolles was not to be trifled with—he was vicious and cunning. Ambush was his favorite means of attack and neither her husband’s title, position nor wealth would mean a thing to him should Barnaby run afoul of him. Emily sighed, not optimistic about Barnaby treading carefully around Nolles. Her troubled gaze on Barnaby’s dark face, she asked, “How did Nolles react?”

  Barnaby smiled. “Politely. He even bought us a pitcher of ale to welcome us. It was an enlightening afternoon.”

  Casting him a sharp look, she demanded, “What happened?”

  Playing with her fingers, his gaze dropped and he said, “It’s rather a long story.”

  “Dinner can wait. Tell me.”

  He did. Holding nothing back.

  When he finished speaking, angry, intrigued and dismayed all at the same time, she stared at him, turning his words over in her mind. Since she already suspected the accidents were not accidents, they were the least interesting part of what he told her. Frightening, but not such a surprise. The incident with Nolles disturbed her and the news that one of Barnaby’s cousins may have been visiting with Nolles lent credence to the rest of the story.

  Taking in a deep breath, she said calmly, “I agree—it was an enlightening afternoon.”

  He smiled. “No scold?”

  “Would it make any
difference?” she asked with an arched brow.

  “No, but you might feel better.”

  Emily snorted. “The only thing that will make me feel better is identifying which one of your cousins is behind this and putting an end to it.” A thought struck her and she murmured, “Of course, being rid of Peckham will be a nice bonus.” She lowered her lashes. “And if you’d told me about Peckham in the first place, I could have shown you the entrance into the tunnels from the wine cellar ages ago.”

  “You know where it is?” he demanded, excitement gleaming in his eyes.

  “Yes—the entrance and most of the tunnels.” She looked thoughtful. “I haven’t been down there since I was a child, but I’m sure I’ll remember the layout. There’s more than one tunnel, some are smaller than others and they angle off in all directions—one of the reasons, as children, we liked to hide and play in them.” She flashed him a mocking glance. “Local legend has it that the tunnels were constructed by one of your ancestors early in the last century and that the Joslyn fortune is based on smuggled goods.” But he wasn’t to be drawn and she went on. “They would certainly be a perfect place to store contraband.” She tapped her lips. “As I recall, there used to be other entrances scattered about the countryside, but most of them had been filled in or forgotten . . . but I know where one of them is—it’s located in one of your barns near the main road leading to the village. We used it as children.”

  He shook his head, smiling ruefully. “I should have told you before now. If only I had I’d have known all of this weeks ago. . . .”

  She kissed his nose. “And let that be a lesson to you.”

  Most evenings Cornelia ate with them, but upon occasion, and tonight was one of them, she preferred dining in her rooms. Since both Barnaby and Emily felt it was ostentatious to dine in the huge, formal dining room, they often ate a simple evening meal in the morning room.

  With Peckham hovering about they didn’t discuss the topic uppermost in their minds, but after the meal, with the table cleared, they lingered over coffee. They were just preparing to rise when Peckham walked into the room. Bowing, he said, “My lord, your cousin has arrived.”