Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Lamb cursed under his breath. “We didn’t bring a lantern.”

  Emily grinned at him, the ride to the barn having banished most of her fury. She edged around the trapdoor and reached into the manger filled with hay. Triumphantly, from beneath the hay, she pulled a small lantern and a piece of flint.

  Lantern lit, after a short argument over which one should go first, Lamb descended the short wooden ladder. Clutching the skirts of her riding habit, Emily scrambled down behind him.

  Lamb hoisted the lantern and, staring at the piles and stacks of contraband pushed against the walls of the big cavern he was standing in, he whistled. Together they walked along the rows of goods, barrels and tubs of overproof brandy and gin, ropes of tobacco, bolts of silk and velvet and packets of lace and fine thread, among other things.

  “Merciful heavens!” Emily exclaimed, awed. “This isn’t just from one run. It’s a storehouse of contraband—they can supply anyone with anything at any time.”

  “I agree,” Lamb said. “We’ve found what we’re looking for. We need to leave.”

  Though the impulse to explore further was strong, beyond showing him where the tunnel narrowed and would lead to the house, Emily didn’t argue. Within minutes, they were out of the cavern, the lantern doused and, once cooled, hidden under the hay in the manger. The trapdoor was shut and the straw scattered over it. Careful to leave no sign of disturbance, they exited the barn and hastened to their horses.

  Rushing into the room where Barnaby and Luc waited, her face bright with exhilaration, Emily launched herself into Barnaby’s arms and cried, “We were right! We found a mountain of contraband. There’s enough goods stored in the tunnel to supply half of London for six months.”

  Clutching Emily to him as if he would never let her go, Barnaby glanced over at Lamb, who followed her into the room. Smiling, Lamb nodded. “They’re not only using the tunnel to hide their contraband, they’re using it to warehouse the goods. They can go weeks without making a run yet still keep their buyers supplied.” His smile faded. “I’m not surprised that Simon wants you dead—there’s a bloody fortune involved. This is no small smuggling operation by a band of desperate fishermen—it’s huge and worth killing for.”

  The mention of Simon’s lethal designs on her husband shattered Emily’s exhilaration. Even with his arms cradling her close, a chill slid down her spine. Forcing herself to leave behind the comfort of his warm body, she made one more attempt to change Barnaby’s mind about placing himself in danger. “Revealing the whereabouts of the contraband to Lieutenant Deering would be devastating to the smugglers,” she said. “They’d lose their warehouse and the contraband. Simon would have no reason to try to kill you.”

  Barnaby shook his head. “I don’t want to simply take away Simon’s reason for wanting me dead: I want him and the Nolles gang destroyed. Yes, losing the hiding place and the goods would be a massive blow, but it wouldn’t stop them. The contraband would be in the hands of the authorities, but everyone connected to the smuggling operation would remain untouched.” When Emily started to argue, he warned, “Remember, all we’d be giving Deering is the location and the smuggled goods—we have suspicion aplenty, but we have no proof of Nolles and Simon’s participation. We can tell Deering what we suspect, but without proof he can’t touch them. I’ll wager that within a matter of months, perhaps, weeks, with Simon’s backing, Nolles would be in business again. Mayhap, not on the scale they are now—at least not right away, but in time, they’d reestablish themselves. All Deering will do is eliminate one hiding place and deal them a financial blow, but nothing else. The gang, the contacts, the routes and the bribed revenue officers will all remain.” A grim smile flitted across his face. “I’m sure Simon is clever enough to find another place to safely warehouse the enormous amount of contraband he’s moving regularly from France to London now. It might not be as convenient, but I’m sure it exists.” He frowned, struck by a thought. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he already has a site selected. He’s not a stupid man—he’d have considered all angles.”

  Gloomily, Emily conceded that Barnaby was right. Blast him! Simon and Nolles had to be destroyed once and for all.

  It was difficult for her to greet Simon in her usual friendly manner that evening. She smiled and laughed at the appropriate times, but her heart wasn’t in it. Cornelia was in fine form flirting with both gentlemen and Barnaby appeared to have no trouble conversing amiably with a man he knew had tried three times to kill him and would, most likely, try again. Emily was grateful for their contributions because she could barely bring herself to speak to Simon. While the conversation ranged around her, from beneath her lashes Emily studied Simon, wondering how he could be so dastardly, wondering how she could have misjudged him so badly. How could he accept Barnaby’s hospitality and act as if he enjoyed his company, yet all the while plan to kill him? Her lips thinned and rage billowed through her. He was a black-hearted beast, she thought savagely, glaring at him over the rim of her wineglass. By God, she’d like nothing better than to run him through.

  Simon’s eyes met hers and fear rushed through her. Praying to God that he had not glimpsed her rage, she forced a smile and glanced away. After that, to her unease, she caught Simon staring at her from time to time, his expression puzzled. She wasn’t, she decided, very good at deception.

  Emily got through the long evening and she was thankful when Cornelia bid the gentlemen good night. Knowing that Simon wouldn’t be so foolhardy to attack Barnaby in his own home and that the watchful Lamb would be nearby, Emily joined her great-aunt, leaving Barnaby and Simon to amuse themselves.

  Walking up the stairs, Cornelia glanced at her and asked, “Do you want to tell me what Simon has done to be in your black books?”

  Emily’s step faltered, but recovering, she sent Cornelia what she hoped was an innocent look. “Simon? In my black books? Why, whatever do you mean?”

  Cornelia’s magnificent eyes narrowed. “You never were a very good liar and you have not improved with time.”

  She sighed. Cornelia was right: she wasn’t a very good liar—and there was no need to lie to her great-aunt. She and Barnaby hadn’t intended to hide anything from Cornelia—there just hadn’t been time to tell her. As they reached the landing, she asked, “The hour isn’t late. Shall I join you in your room for a chat?”

  Cornelia stared at her a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I’d enjoy that.”

  Arriving at Cornelia’s rooms, the minute the door to her sitting room shut, Cornelia said, “All right. Tell me what is going on.”

  Emily did, leaving nothing out.

  When she finally stopped speaking, Cornelia snorted. “You’re fair and far off if you think that Simon Joslyn is a smuggler and trying to kill Barnaby. The boy doesn’t have it in him—and you should know it. My money’s on Nolles—he has as much reason to want Barnaby dead as anyone.” Her brow arched. “After all, he is the smuggler. Why does he need anyone else to do his dirty work for him?”

  Emily stared openmouthed at her for a moment. Was it possible that Nolles was acting on his own? It made sense. Then she remembered the London backer and her lips snapped shut. Shaking her head, she said, “You’re forgetting whoever is backing the operation. That person certainly isn’t Nolles.”

  “You’re right,” Cornelia said slowly. Unhappily, she looked back at Emily. “I just can’t believe that Simon would align himself with smugglers and involve himself in murder.” Her lip curled. “If you’d mentioned Jeffery’s name, now that I’d have no trouble believing.”

  Emily smiled wearily. “Jeffery doesn’t have any money. He could never finance the sort of operation Nolles and his men are running.”

  “I cannot believe that it is Simon,” Cornelia said bluntly. She wagged a finger at Emily. “But if you’re going to persist in this folly, you’re going to have to be a better hostess than you have been so far if you don’t want him to become suspicious.”

  Simon was suspicious. He knew E
mily too well not to know that something was up. His lips quirked. From her glances tonight, he feared she’d separate his head from his shoulders, but rack his brains though he did, he could think of nothing he had done to offend or upset her. Remembering the hostile gleam in her eyes, he shook his head. She looked at him as if he were an enemy. . . . Barnaby had hidden his reactions better, but there was something in the way his host looked at him. . . .

  Alone in his rooms he stalked restlessly around the gracious sitting room, pondering the problem. Barnaby’s watchful reserve hadn’t escaped his notice either. He dismissed the notion that they were annoyed at his unexpected arrival. Barnaby had waved aside his offer to stay in the village, so that wasn’t the cause of their reactions to him.

  When last they’d parted, they had all been on the same side, united against whoever had tried to kill Barnaby. That whoever wanted Barnaby dead hadn’t struck again had been encouraging, but while Tom thought they were overreacting, he and Mathew weren’t betting that the problem had simply evaporated. Simon had come to look at Broadfoot’s chestnuts, but that, he admitted, had just been an excuse to call upon Barnaby and Emily. He’d wanted to see for himself that all was well at Windmere and Mathew had agreed that a friendly visit wouldn’t come amiss.

  Something was going on, that much was obvious: Emily and Barnaby didn’t trust him any longer and he needed to know why. He sighed. And Mathew needed to know.

  Chapter 23

  Within minutes the next morning of a Windmere servant departing for Monks Abbey, Lamb relayed the news to Barnaby that Simon had sent a note to Mathew. Lamb would have given much for a glimpse of the contents of that note. Barnaby expressed a similar thought.

  “I wonder what was so important that Simon felt the need to write his brother,” Barnaby mused, sipping from the cup of coffee Lamb had brought with him.

  Despite the early hour—a pink-and-gold dawn was just spilling over the horizon—Barnaby was already up and garbed for the day. He preferred mornings, but his wife . . . A private smile curved his lips. His bride was still sweetly asleep after a night of passionate lovemaking.

  Lamb shrugged at Barnaby and offered, “Reinforcements? The possibility has always existed that we have fallen into a nest of snakes and that more than one brother is involved.”

  Barnaby nodded. Knowing the size of the smuggling operation, it wasn’t inconceivable that more than just Simon was behind the Nolles gang. It was even possible that all three brothers were filling their purses with gains from the smuggling. Their fortunes were reputed to be large—had that largeness come from contraband?

  A discussion followed that left them no wiser. Setting down his empty cup, Barnaby said, “Enough. We are accomplishing nothing.”

  Lamb made a face. “I agree. I’ll see Luc later this morning and tell him about the note to Mathew.” He grinned at Barnaby. “And you’ll tell your Amazon—perhaps she will see something we have missed.”

  Preparing to leave, Lamb said, “What are your plans for the day? Should Luc and I be ready to accompany you anywhere?”

  Barnaby shook his head. “No. I have meetings with Worley again and several of my tenants throughout the day. I’d like to convince a few to experiment with crop rotation and increased fodder production, as well as suggest that they consider diversifying instead of relying almost exclusively on sheep. Windmere and several of the farms could run substantially larger herds of cattle than they do presently.”

  “What you’re saying,” Lamb murmured with a grin, “is in spite of your title, that you’re a farmer at heart and instead of tobacco and sugar, your worries are now sheep and cattle.”

  Barnaby laughed. “Don’t forget crop rotation.”

  When Barnaby informed Emily of Simon’s message to Mathew, she frowned. They were in her sitting room, preferring its privacy to the morning room and Peckham’s ubiquitous presence. She might not have risen before dawn as had her husband, but Emily was no lie-abed. The time was not yet eight o’clock in the morning and wearing a finely woven woolen gown in a charming shade of mauve, her fair hair caught up in a neat chignon at her neck, she was ready for the day.

  On a nearby table, a silver tray bearing the Joslyn crest held the remains of her breakfast—toast, coddled eggs and some strawberries from one of the Windmere hothouses, along with coffee. Pouring herself and Barnaby a last cup of coffee, Emily absently stirred cream, fresh from the herd of dairy cattle on the estate, in her cup, thinking over the implications of Simon’s actions.

  “That can only mean one of two things,” she said finally. “Either Mathew is involved and Simon wants his help, or Simon is innocent and wants Mathew’s help.”

  Barnaby hadn’t considered the latter conclusion. It was his turn to frown and he said slowly, “I suppose that is possible. After the last attack on me, Simon wrote to Mathew that time, too.” Nettled, he muttered, “Blast it! Perhaps all of our thoughts are wrong and none of my cousins have anything to do with the smuggling—everything could be Nolles’s doing.”

  “Cornelia thinks we are wrong about Simon,” Emily said uneasily. “And she did suggest Nolles. . . .” Her lips twisted. “And Jeffery, except we all know he doesn’t have any money.”

  Barnaby half smiled. “Your cousin is capable of many things, but this operation took money and brains and it’s my observation that Jeffery is sadly lacking in both.”

  Emily sighed. “I don’t disagree.” She looked over at her husband. “So what are we to do?”

  “Until we come up with some other plan, all we can do is go about our day as normally as possible.”

  “And wait for Mathew’s arrival,” she said dryly. “Whatever his reasons for doing so, I think we can safely assume he’ll come in answer to Simon’s note.” Putting down her cup, she asked, “How soon do you think it will be before he drives up to the front of Windmere?”

  “Late this afternoon at the earliest, but before noon tomorrow at the latest.”

  Barnaby spent the majority of the day in his study as planned, but in the afternoon, he and Lamb couldn’t resist a stealthy visit to the wine cellar to look for the hidden door. They both felt the timing was propitious. It was Peckham’s half day and the butler was gone from the house until late that evening; Simon was visiting Luc at the Dower House and Emily and Cornelia were busy at the vicarage, helping prepare baskets of food for the needy in the area. After ascertaining that the other servants were busy about their tasks, Lamb and Barnaby slipped down the stairs to the cellar. The occasional torch hung on the stone walls created small pools of lights within the darkness and guided their steps.

  They’d thought they’d escaped detection, but as they entered the wide hallway of the lower regions of the house that led to the wine cellar, they met Tilden exiting the room, a pair of bottles of burgundy in each hand.

  “Milord!” he exclaimed, startled to see the viscount in the cellar.

  “Ah, good afternoon, Tilden,” Barnaby said, cursing their luck. Eyeing the bottles, he added gamely, “Resupply the liquor cabinet, I see.”

  Tilden smiled and nodded, though still puzzled by Barnaby’s presence in the nether reaches of the house.

  Lamb spoke up smoothly. “I was telling my lord about the extensive and varied collection of spirits that had been laid down by the previous viscount.” Lamb chuckled. “I spoke so highly of it, he wished to see it for himself.”

  Tilden’s face cleared. “Of course! I am surprised that Peckham has not given you a tour of the wine cellar before now. It is his province and he guards it jealously.” He grinned and held up the two bottles. “Only when he is away do I dare invade it.”

  “Well, then, if that is the case, in the interest of keeping peace,” said Barnaby, smiling, “my visit today shall remain a secret between us.”

  Tilden grinned. “As you wish, my lord.” And went on his way.

  Entering the darkness of the wine cellar, Barnaby said, “I could have wished he hadn’t seen us, but I think we can trust him not to pratt
le.”

  “I agree,” Lamb said, as he quickly lit one of the torches just inside the doorway. “Even if he were to say something to some of the other servants, Peckham is not well liked and I doubt word would get back to him of our little foray.”

  After Barnaby had taken down a torch from the walls inside the wine cellar and lit it, guided by the flickering light, even knowing what they were looking for, it took them several minutes before they discovered it. The door was concealed in the far corner of the room behind a tall rack full of bottles of brandy, hock and Madeira. Upon closer examination they found the catch on the rack that allowed it to swing out and away from its position.

  Only a blank corner met their gaze. A careful examination revealed that the adjoining racks covered the seams of the door, and after a further search, Barnaby spied the small handle hidden behind a bottle of burgundy. He gently pulled the handle and magically a large doorway appeared in front of him. A worn stone staircase led downward.

  In the light of their torches, the two men descended and studied the walls, eventually finding the mechanisms that worked the door and corner rack from inside the tunnel. Eyes glittering with excitement, Barnaby had to see for himself how well it worked. Leaving Barnaby behind, grumbling, Lamb stepped back into the wine cellar.

  With Barnaby standing on the stairs, Lamb watching, Barnaby pulled the lever on the wall and the door slid shut. A moment later the corner rack swung smoothly, silently back into place, leaving Lamb staring at a rack full of bottles of spirits. A moment later, the movements were reversed and Barnaby reappeared.