Smuggler's Moon

by Cynthia Wright

  Smuggler’s Moon

  The Raveneaus in Cornwall, Book 1

  Cynthia Wright

  “Cynthia Wright returns with her beloved Raveneaus in this unforgettable love story set against the wild beauty of Cornwall, England. Expect to be pulling an all-nighter with Smuggler’s Moon, because you won’t be able to put it down!”

  ~ DANELLE HARMON, New York Times Bestselling Author of Lord of the Sea

  A marriage begun in deception…

  Feisty Julia Faircloth is used to managing the lives of her eccentric relatives, so when darkly dangerous Lord Sebastian Trevarre arrives in Bath and proposes to her shy sister Sarah, she switches places with the bride to save her from a shockingly carnal wedding night.

  Against his better judgment, Sebastian consummates a marriage to the most provoking, appealing woman he’s ever known, and then is forced to live with her in his neglected yet enchanting estate on the coast of Cornwall. Life there is turbulent, not least because Sebastian keeps many secrets. Will his reckless pursuits succeed in restoring his fortune…or cost him the lady who holds his heart?

  Step back in time to magical 1798 Cornwall, England, with Julia and Sebastian—and reunite with André and Devon Raveneau, as André discovers that his life and Sebastian’s are inextricably linked.

  “I have read hundreds of historical romances and can truthfully say that I enjoy Cynthia Wright’s above all others.”

  ~ PAST ROMANCE, Historical Romance Reviews

  Dedication

  For my treasured friend, novelist Ciji Ware, with love.

  Thank you, Ciji, for inviting me to share an adventure in Cornwall with you 20 years ago. It’s because of you that I fell in love with the magical corner of England that is so much a part of Smuggler’s Moon! We’ve shared many of life’s ups and downs over the years and I am very grateful for your friendship.

  Acknowledgments

  How lucky I am to have had such a great team to lend a hand during the creation of Smuggler’s Moon! Heartfelt thanks to my dear friends and fellow authors, Lauren Royal, Ciji Ware, and Danelle Harmon, who read Smuggler’s Moon and offered invaluable feedback. I’m also very grateful for the expertise of my editor, Jessa Slade, cover artist Kim Killion, and copy editor/formatter Amy Atwell of Author E.M.S.

  I’m sending a shout-out to my writing support group, who spurred me on daily, and to the Jewels of Historical Romance, especially our resident Regency scholar, Cheryl Bolen, who guided me out of a few sticky research corners.

  I owe a special debt of gratitude to Richard Platt, author of Smuggling in the British Isles, who searched for answers to my questions and even helped me with one or two smuggling plot twists!

  Gratitude and love to my husband, Alvaro, who followed me into the unknown when we traveled to England in 2013. It was wonderful to watch him fall under Cornwall’s enchanted spell!

  I’ll close with a special hug for every single reader. I write for you, and your encouragement and support mean the world to me. Thank you!

  Chapter 1

  Bath, England

  March, 1798

  Julia Faircloth surveyed the charming, sunlit garden and nearly surrendered to an urge to sigh. “I vow, I have never felt so pleased with life as I have been since we left London.”

  “Indeed,” said her sister, Sarah. “I adore Turbans. Even the name of our new home is pleasing.” Her delicately lovely features turned pensive. “My only desire is that we might be more conveniently situated.”

  As their mother clipped a daffodil, she looked southward, down Beacon Hill to the elegant city of golden limestone which lay below, nestled against the winding River Avon. “Whatever do you mean? We have a perfect view of Bath.”

  “But Mama, it is a rather difficult walk. I would like to be able to stroll to the Pump Room if the mood seizes me, or to Queen Square to meet my friends. As it is, we have only one carriage, and Papa seems to need it most of the time…”

  “I shouldn’t complain so if I were you, daughter. We’ve had immensely good fortune this past year.” Polly’s scolding tone was belied by her fond smile. Turning to her eldest child, she called, “Julia, haven’t you an opinion on this matter?”

  “You jest, Mama,” interjected Sarah. “My outspoken sister never lacks an opinion!”

  When Julia turned her head, a gleaming sable-brown curl fell onto her neck, and she smiled. “I do think that we are awfully fortunate Cousin Archibald had no heirs and that he liked Papa well enough to leave the entire estate of Turbans to him.” And an amazing £20,000, she added silently to herself, wondering how much of that fortune might still be left after Papa’s excessive gambling. “This home could not be better suited to us, and I don’t miss London in the least. Bath may have its own sorts of social nonsense, but that’s so much more tolerable with the countryside at hand.”

  Their baskets massed with daffodils and primroses, the trio started back toward the house. Overhead, chaffinches trilled from the blossoming pear tree.

  As they walked, Polly spoke again. “You are absolutely right. My dear Mr. Faircloth has toiled diligently these many years in our London bookshop, and it is lovely that he can finally rest and enjoy life.”

  Julia listened to her mother with one eyebrow arched above her crisp dark-blue eyes. Much of what she heard was true. Turbans was ideal for their eccentric family. It had been inspired by Cousin Archibald’s journey to Turkey, and the otherwise modest stone manor house featured dashes of Arabian Nights. The wall surrounding the estate was punctuated at intervals by turban-topped columns, and near the gardens stood a crescent-capped minaret with a balcony. The youngest Faircloth, Freddy, had claimed the minaret for his schoolroom, and as the women passed with their baskets, they saw and heard him reciting Coleridge’s new poem, “Kubla Khan” from the balcony.

  “Mama,” Julia murmured thoughtfully, “I agree that Papa has worked very hard and deserves a rest, but do you ever think that he may miss his occupation? In London, he was busy all day long, and he enjoyed chatting with his customers and searching for books.”

  “Nonsense.” Polly stopped, lips thinned, and whispered, “I know what you are hinting, and I beg you to refrain. Your father may have fallen in with a raffish crowd in Bath, and he may have had a lapse at the gaming table, but who can blame him for celebrating a bit after so many years of hard work?” Breathing hard, she added, “There’s nothing to worry about, Julia. Mr. Faircloth has given me his word that he will never touch another card!”

  “Mama is right,” Sarah rejoined. “Don’t spoil all our pleasure by fussing about nonsensical matters.”

  “I hardly think that this is nonsensical—” Before Julia could make a proper argument, she saw her father coming toward them from the house. Her cheeks felt hot as she went forward to greet him.

  “Bless me, aren’t my three ladies a pretty sight?” Graeme Faircloth exclaimed. “Indeed, indeed.” He waved to his son on the minaret balcony, calling, “Give us a quote!”

  All seriousness, Freddy shouted, “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree!”

  “Bravo, bravo!”

  “We’ve missed you, Papa,” said Julia. “How are you?” Her eyes sought his, but her father glanced elsewhere. “Won’t you come inside and have tea with us? I’ll read aloud, just as you have always liked. I came upon the fine, gold-stamped volume of Robinson Crusoe that you gave me a full decade ago, for my twelfth birthday! I was thinking that it would be lovely if we read that again, together.”

  “No, no, much as I’d prefer to accept your invitation, I must decline, my dears.” The sight of their three crestfallen faces made him bluster and chuckle even more excessively. “I cannot describe my business in Bath, except to say that it involves a surprise. A certain be
auty’s birthday doth approach, hmm?” He winked at Sarah, who clapped her hands in delight. “Yes, I must pay a visit to a certain shop in Milsom Street, but of course I’ll say no more until the negotiations are settled. Now then, I must be off. I may be rather late returning—”

  “Papa,” Julia interjected, “have you noticed that you are wearing a brown coat with gray breeches? I vow, you should find a new manservant to fill the place left by dear old Edwin’s death.” She set down her basket. “It will only take me a moment to dash inside and fetch the proper coat.”

  Before he could protest, Julia hurried away up the lawn. Once inside Turbans, she lifted her muslin skirts and ascended the staircase, avoiding the giddy housemaid who had a habit of popping up at odd moments. As she hurried along, she noticed a picture that was slightly askew on the wall and the cobweb fluttering in a corner. Sometimes it seemed that were she not there to supervise, their small staff of servants would run amok.

  Her father had his own bedchamber: a vast room with walls of paneled fruitwood, a stupendous Tudor bed, and rugs retrieved from Persia and Turkey by Cousin Archibald. The shadowed dressing room was in a state of disarray that boldly reflected the state of Mr. Faircloth’s life. Sadness that Julia didn’t fully appreciate caught her in its oppressive embrace.

  After opening a curtain to admit a ray of sunlight, she looked through her father’s coats until she found the one that matched the old-fashioned gray breeches he wore today. No sooner had she folded it over her arm and started into the bedroom than she heard a rustling sound. Was there a piece of paper in the pocket? Julia’s curiosity was piqued. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have thought of investigating, but her father had been acting so secretive and guilty that she was worried.

  Had she not always cleared his pockets of leftover lists and appointment reminders? He could be such a packrat! Her heart began to pound as she reached into the pocket and brought out the piece of fine cream parchment.

  Her heartbeat accelerated. Tears filled her throat.

  The paper announced, in Graeme Faircloth’s own familiar hand, that he owed a debt of £1,000 to a man whose name was completely unfamiliar to Julia.

  The note was dated just two days earlier, long after her father’s solemn vow that he would never touch another card. One thousand pounds! All her life she had counted pennies that her parents were too absentminded to worry about, and the thought that her father could be losing so massive an amount at the gaming table was horrifying. Dizziness swept over her for a moment, but then she straightened her back and took a deep, determined breath.

  There was only one solution. Julia would pay a visit to the wicked stranger who had led her father astray. The name was quite clearly inscribed on the note: Lord Sebastian Trevarre of Number Sixteen, Royal Crescent, Bath.

  Chapter 2

  Lord Sebastian Trevarre sat down on a gilt-wood chair and looked around the magnificent drawing room while Keswick, his manservant, drew off his riding boots.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” Sebastian demanded. “I’d imagine I must have smeared jam on my chin, except I haven’t had any jam. Where is our tea? I’m famished! I hope you told the cook to send up an extra plate of scones and clotted cream.”

  “We are looking at you that way because you should not sit on that chair, my lord. As it looks to be Louis XIV, we suspect you would not care to replace it if it splinters apart under your weight.”

  “Do you mean to insult me? There’s nothing the matter with my weight—”

  “Of course not, my lord, but you are exceedingly tall, and strong—”

  “For God’s sake, don’t snivel. I like it better when you’re impertinent.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes, but a smile hovered at the edges of his chiseled mouth. “In any event, I could have purchased a roomful of these chairs if my brother, the bloody marquess, hadn’t gambled away the family fortune!”

  “Ah, tea is served, my lord.” Keswick concealed his master’s boots under the pianoforte and rushed over to help the maid lay out the Caughley porcelain.

  Sebastian moved to a sturdier sofa near the fireplace. “Perhaps I ought to have champagne instead of tea,” he suggested, casting a hopeful glance toward the maid. She blushed deeply in response, unable to look at him.

  “The tea will be quite enough,” Keswick assured her. He waited until she had left the drawing room before he turned to his master. “Have you forgotten that you’re only borrowing this house from Lord Hampersham? It’s only due to his kindness that we are ensconced at this posh address, my lord. We don’t really think you ought to abuse the privilege by drinking his champagne at teatime.”

  “Kindly remember upon whose kindness you, and your invisible assistants, depend.” Sebastian drank down his tea, then spooned jam and clotted cream onto a warm scone. “I might add that Hampersham himself is not without fault. I suspect that he stood by while my brother gambled his way through Bath, and afterwards he wished he’d tried to stop George before it was too late. Inviting me to borrow his house this month was the least Hampersham could do to cleanse his own conscience.”

  Keswick’s slight, white-wigged figure relaxed slightly. “You do know, my lord, that we actually have only sympathy for you? This is a terrible coil, particularly following on the heels of your parents’ deaths…”

  “Save your sympathy.” Sebastian’s tone was harsh.

  Just then, Lord Hampersham’s butler, Roland, appeared in the doorway. “My lord, you have a visitor. It is Lady Lucinda Barrowminster.”

  Sebastian’s eyes widened. “Show her up, Roland. And, perhaps we should have more tea.” When the butler had gone, he glanced over at Keswick. “Do you remember Lucinda?”

  “Yes, my lord. We knew her in London, the summer before you took your commission with the Royal Navy. She had just accepted Lord Barrowminster’s proposal of marriage, having finally ascertained that you were not in the market for a wife.”

  Before Sebastian could reply, the lady in question swept into the drawing room, surveying every detail of the décor before focusing on him. “My dear Lord Sebastian! Don’t you look devastatingly handsome, in that rather negligent way only you can bring off.”

  “Thank you. I think.” With a wry smile, he bent to kiss her outstretched hand. “I’ve just returned from a long ride, and I didn’t know I was having a guest for tea. If you’d sent word, I would have kept my boots on and my cravat tied.”

  “And brushed your hair? Please, do not say it. I like you better this way. Look, there are even lines about your eyes. How deliciously rakish.” Spying Keswick, she fluttered a hand at him. “Hello. So nice to see that some situations don’t change. But, I hear that you two have been fighting the French, and even sailing to North America during these past six years! Do tell me all about it.”

  Sebastian watched as she settled into a chair and allowed Keswick to pour her a cup of tea. When Lucinda next drew off her bonnet with its fashionable cluster of grapes, he tried not to sigh aloud as he took a chair beside her. “Where have you heard this news about me?”

  “My cousin has been playing faro with you. I hear you’re the most heartless gambler.” She gave him a faint wink. “How did you find New Orleans?”

  “Highly exotic. Steamy and hot.”

  “How cryptic! Rumor has it that you lived in the city rather than on your ship. Were you spying on the French, my lord?”

  His tone cooled. “If I were, I couldn’t possibly say, could I?”

  “I perceive that you are annoyed with me for mentioning your gambling. I hope you haven’t lost very much. I heard about your brother George’s run of bad luck when he was here in Bath last month.”

  Sebastian’s eyes met Keswick’s over the top of her head. “Let’s just say that I’ve been doing what I can to restore, rather than deplete, our fortunes.”

  “Oh, dear. I’ve forgotten to tell you how sorry I was to hear about the deaths of your parents. A carriage accident, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes; on
Boxing Day.” A shadow crossed his face as he wondered how to hasten her departure.

  “And whatever happened to your baby sister? She couldn’t have been more than five when you went off with the Royal Navy.”

  “Isabella is at school in Devon,” he said crisply.

  “I always thought that you should have been the older son. If you had inherited the title, and you were Marquess of Caverleigh instead of George, you wouldn’t have gone off and gambled everything away, would you?” Lucinda leaned forward and ran her fingertip across the back of his brown hand.

  “How is Lord Barrowminster? Have you a houseful of children?”

  Frowning, she replied, “Only three.”

  “Your husband is doubtless missing you, and I have an appointment.” Sebastian stood up.

  “Will you be going to live at Severn Park now? I do hope you haven’t lost interest in the horse breeding operation, when you had such a passion for it.” She drew out the word ‘passion’ with a flutter of her lashes. “You see, my lord, I remember all the dreams you shared with me that summer in London.” Lucinda rose and donned her bonnet, speaking in a rush. “Your lovely mother was wise enough to see that horse breeding would be the perfect way for you to live, since you couldn’t inherit. I do hope nothing has changed?”

  “You always were a curious chit, Lucinda. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed.” With that, he showed her out to the landing above the open staircase. “Do give my regards to Lord Barrowminster.”

  “But, my dear,” she persisted, “you must be quite solvent if you can afford to rent this house.”

  “I hope you won’t mind if I don’t see you out. I am in danger of being late for my appointment with the Marquess of Queensberry.”