Smuggler's Moon

by Cynthia Wright

  Just then, there was a timid knock at the door. “Mama?”

  Laughing, Devon called, “Come in, sweetheart!”

  Slowly, the latch turned and a toddler appeared, clad in a miniature muslin round gown with a pink sash that matched her cheeks. Strawberry-gold curls covered her head, bouncing as she hurried across the room.

  Devon lifted her onto her lap and kissed her. “Lindsay, this is our guest, Lady—”

  “Julia. Please call me Julia.”

  Lindsay Raveneau regarded the stranger with somber gray eyes. “H’lo.”

  “This is our baby,” Devon explained. “We also have a daughter, Mouette, who is sixteen years old, and believes that she is a woman. Our handsome son, Nathan, is eleven. You’ll meet them when we dine tonight.”

  “I free,” Lindsay announced, holding up three fingers.

  “A little lady, indeed!” Julia exclaimed.

  “I think I hear the men,” said Devon. “I’ll leave you now to rest and prepare for dinner. We’ll have more time to talk tomorrow. Perhaps we can go shopping while Lord Sebastian sees his solicitor.” Standing, she lifted her daughter in her arms and tossed Julia a mischievous smile. “I want to hear more about the woman who brought this notorious bachelor to heel!”

  * * *

  Sebastian noticed that, after Keswick had taken his coat, the manservant continued to stand a bit too close. Clearly, something was on his mind.

  “What are you looking at?” Sebastian asked as he tugged at the crisp folds of his cravat. He didn’t care for the cross note he heard in his own voice, but seemed powerless to repress it.

  “We are wondering if we might assist you with your boots.”

  “The devil you are. There’s something you are itching to say to me.”

  Just then, there was a tap at the dressing room door and Julia entered. He wasn’t sure why the sight of his new wife annoyed him so, but it seemed to have something to do with the growing sense that he had lost all control of his life.

  “Ah, hello. You must be very tired. Perhaps you’d like to rest until dinner.” He gestured toward the massive four-poster, wondering again why Devon Raveneau had seen fit to push them together into one bedroom when he knew perfectly well that Caverleigh House was filled with larger suites of rooms. Turning to Keswick, he said, “You may leave us. I am quite capable of managing my own boots.”

  “As you wish, my lord, but first I must organize your belongings.” Keswick glanced sympathetically toward Julia. “My lady, I understand that a lady’s maid is being assigned to assist you. She should be here shortly.”

  “Thank you, Keswick. You are kind to think of me.”

  Sebastian wondered if this was some sort of backhanded set-down aimed in his direction. He looked directly at her and she calmly returned his gaze, her back straight and her chin slightly raised. He wished she would lie down on the bed and take a long nap so that he could continue with his normal life—not that anything about this situation was the least bit normal!

  Following Keswick into the candlelit dressing room, Sebastian discovered that his trunk was open next to Julia’s portmanteau. It was a disquieting sight, symbolizing both the loss of his personal space and enforced intimacy with a woman he scarcely knew.

  “My lord,” came Keswick’s weighted whisper, “we observe that, once again, you are scowling.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  “She is your wife, my lord. No amount of your ill humor can alter that fact.” With that, the little man turned away and began to unpack the trunk.

  Sebastian stood alone for a moment and took a few deep breaths before returning to the bedroom. There he discovered Julia, standing at one end, looking at a small, oval-framed portrait of his mother that hung above a pair of chairs. His strong sense of discomfort commenced again.

  “Is this Lady Caverleigh?” asked Julia. “I can see something of you in her face, though her coloring is very different.”

  “Yes, that is my mother.” He looked at the woman in the portrait, whose light, unpowdered hair, was arranged in elegant, upswept curls. Her eyes, the color of new spring leaves, gazed calmly back at him. “It’s bizarre to be in this house, filled with her things, but to know that all of it now belongs to Raveneau and I am but a guest.”

  Julia was nodding. He watched as she stepped closer and put a hand on his arm. “It must feel as if your world is upside-down, and everything that you once knew has changed.”

  “Exactly!”

  “I am acquainted with that feeling,” she said softly.

  Sebastian’s heart stung as he looked down at her. “Yes, I suppose you are.” He felt an urge to put his own hand over hers, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

  “We’ve both seen our worlds irretrievably damaged through the actions of people we loved…who seemed to care more for gambling than for their own families.”

  Longing to put an end to this prickly conversation, he contemplated kissing her. There was something appealing about the physical conquest of a self-possessed, intelligent woman like Julia. That moment of capitulation, when the flare of arousal caused her to come unmoored from her intellect, was intoxicating. Reaching out, he fit his hand to her waist and stepped closer. Through the thin stuff of her gown, he could feel the lovely curve above her hipbone and his own body began to warm in response.

  “I understand,” Julia said, “that there are many things I don’t know about you. Devon Raveneau tells me that you have a young sister.”

  Sebastian instantly withdrew his hand and stepped backward. “You may be the most provoking woman I have ever met.”

  “I am your wife, not a stranger who is prying into your affairs.”

  “All right then, yes, I have a sister. It’s hardly a secret. Isabella is away at school and you needn’t concern yourself with her.” Just then a knock sounded at the door and he looked vastly relieved. “Ah, your maid arrives. Not a moment too soon.”

  Chapter 11

  “Good afternoon,” said Sebastian.

  Miles Bartholomew, Esq. looked up from his cluttered desk. “Ah, greetings, my boy! I’m delighted to see you. It’s been far too long, but of course I’d rather the circumstances were different.”

  “So would I.” Sebastian’s tone was heavy with irony. He brushed dust off a chair and drew it up to the desk.

  “I was surprised to hear that you had resigned your commission in the Royal Navy, with its secure income. It was a very sensible career for a second son like you.”

  “Miles, you know bloody well I’ve never been the sensible sort. I’d had enough of that regimented life and living with a lot of men on a ship year in and year out. I served the Crown for six long years, I survived a serious wound, and I was ready to come home to the horses and Severn Hall.”

  “I see. I assume that you made those plans before you learned of George’s…disgrace?” Miles paused, sniffing the air. “I say! Have you been drinking?

  “What a question! I’ve been to White’s, that’s all, and perhaps to Boodles for a bit.” Sebastian frowned. “I may have had a drink or two in the process of socializing.”

  “You’ll pardon me for worrying, given George’s multitude of problems…”

  “I’m nothing like George!”

  “You’re brothers.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t be an ass.” Sebastian stared at the man he’d known since birth, who had overseen his father’s estates and often joined the family for meals when they were in London. It was tempting to share his deeper feelings with Miles, but as usual he waited and the urge passed. Instead, he rose and walked to the window. Through the panes, with their filmy coatings of dust, Sebastian could observe the activity at the East India Company, located just across Threadneedle Street.

  Miles put on a smile that caused an extra chin to emerge above his collar. “My dear boy, I have not congratulated you on your marriage! I am eager to meet your bride. No doubt she is a worthy match for you.”

  “If you mean that
she won’t back down from an argument, you’re right, but that can be tiresome. As you know, my own parents seldom conversed at all, so I was hoping for a more docile bride.” He deftly steered the conversation away from himself. “But, I’m not here to discuss the merits of marriage with you, Miles. I am waiting to see a written account of my brother’s financial damage.”

  Blinking as Sebastian turned back and pinned him with a razor-sharp stare, Miles shuffled the stacks of papers on his desk. “Of course. Of course. I have it all here…”

  Although Sebastian presented a cool exterior, inside he felt sick with dread. “I hope it’s not worse than I’ve already been informed.”

  “I wish I could assure you otherwise,” he replied with feeling. “I wish I could have intervened somehow, but George was as slippery as a pudding. Whenever he thought I was coming to talk to him, he sneaked out into the garden and—”

  “That’s enough,” Sebastian interrupted, pained.

  “You may as well hear, now that I’ve begun. It’s wretched news. I can’t give you the keys to Caverleigh House because it’s no longer in your family. George sold it without telling me, to raise money for his life in exile. I didn’t even know he’d done it until the papers arrived after he had fled to Italy!”

  “I know that he sold it. And I know the new owner, André Raveneau. He was a family friend, after a fashion. When I—we—arrived last night, he and his wife were kind enough to insist that we lodge with them, but it’s a horrible situation. Paintings of my family are still on the walls, the house is still filled with our furniture—”

  “You knew? Why didn’t you say so?”

  Sebastian ignored the question. “Is there more?”

  Squeezing his eyes closed, Miles shook his head with disgust. “Truly, I have no idea how desperate the situation really is. Many of your brother’s creditors have visited me, but I informed them that George was in exile, and you were serving the Crown in France, cut off from communication from me. I made it clear that you were the second son, and your own source of income was your Royal Navy commission. Now that you’re back in London, and married, I can’t help worrying that those creditors will begin to pursue you.”

  Sebastian went to the musty cellaret and poured himself a brandy, drank it down, then brought two half-filled goblets back to the desk. “Here’s to poverty, old friend.”

  “You look like Satan himself when you arch that eyebrow,” Miles observed. “Are you implying that your bride hasn’t brought a fortune to your marriage? Why else would a libertine like you take a wife?”

  “Stop. I’ll be ill if you ram one more unpleasantry down my throat.” He drank the second brandy. “I went to Bath in an attempt to win enough at the tables to reclaim Severn Park. I’d planned my whole life, for God’s sake, to breed horses, and when I returned from France to the news that George had sold my horses, and then lost Severn Park, all I could think of was winning enough to reclaim them.”

  “Don’t tell me that you also had ill luck in Bath?”

  “No. Yes.” He grimaced. “Actually, I won a fine estate, called Turbans, and nearly £20,000…but all I have to show for it is Julia.” Burying his head in his hands, he muttered, “It’s a Byzantine tale. I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Bore away.”

  Every word was painful as he told the story of Graeme Faircloth’s deadly addiction to gambling. “Unfortunately, I was the recipient of his promissory notes. When he died, apparently by suicide, his wife and children behaved as if I were a villain for trying to claim my winnings. Julia was the worst, calling me every vile name she could conjure.”

  “Then…how? Why?” He spread his pudgy hands, palms up, in confusion.

  Although Sebastian knew he could trust Miles to be discreet, he strove to keep his own feelings out of the messy story. “Summing up, I took pity on them. Sarah, the younger daughter, is lovely and docile, so I proposed marriage to her with the condition that the family could continue to live at Turbans. Then, Julia decided that she couldn’t send her sister to a marriage bed with a savage beast like me, so she donned a disguise and sacrificed herself in Sarah’s stead.”

  “I’m not certain I understand.”

  Sebastian offered details about the dark, stormy night, the heavily be-ribboned bonnet, and his own state of intoxication.

  “That’s quite a tale, my lord, but I remain confused. Why not sell Turbans to raise capital for your own needs? It’s not your fault after all that this Faircloth fellow had a weakness for piquet! You could still provide the family with a modest allowance, out of charity.” As he spoke, Miles watched the shadows dart across Sebastian’s face. “I can’t help wondering if there’s more to this saga. Perhaps you’re not really disappointed that your Julia took her sister’s place? Perhaps you have feelings for your bride after all? Why else would you go soft when you need the money so badly?”

  “You’re as nonsensical as ever, Miles. I’ll sort things out with the Faircloths. I just need time, particularly in light of their patriarch’s recent death. Have a heart, old man! As for Julia, I haven’t time to think of her at all.” He scowled for emphasis. “No. I have too many matters of real importance on my mind! Furthermore, if she is unhappy, it’s her own doing. She should be grateful that I didn’t leave her behind at the Goat in Boots Inn!”

  The solicitor squirmed with discomfort before changing the subject. “You’ll be pleased to hear, I do have some cheery news to end on!” With that, he rummaged around in his desk and withdrew a pouch made of sapphire-blue velvet, tied with a golden cord. “Your mother left something for you. Of course, it wasn’t in the will, but she had given it to me privately, asking that I keep it for you in the event of her demise.”

  “And you call that cheery?”

  “My dear fellow, must you be so unrelentingly cynical?” He handed the pouch across to Sebastian and waited. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “In front of you? God, no.”

  “Well then, I have one more piece of business to discuss.” Breaking the seal on a folded sheet of parchment paper, he peered through his steel-rimmed spectacles. “My lord, I have here a document, signed in my presence by your brother, the Marquess of Caverleigh. He writes that he begs your pardon for leasing Severn Park to a stranger. He adds that, even though it was entailed to him, he realizes that it was always understood that you would live there and oversee the horse-breeding operation.”

  “Meaningless, at this point,” Sebastian said through his teeth.

  “His lordship goes on to write that he invites you to make yourself at home at the other family estate, Trevarre Hall, in Cornwall. Gad, sir, I had almost forgotten about that old pile of rock!” Miles began to chuckle, but stopped abruptly at the sight of Sebastian’s stormy expression. “Ah yes, as I recall, you never cared much for Cornwall.”

  “I detest Trevarre Hall.”

  “Ahem! Well then, your brother writes—right here,” he stabbed a finger at the paper, “‘If it were in my power to give you this last ancestral estate, I would do so. Failing that, I beg you, Brother, to think of it as your own home. Perhaps this gesture will win me a measure of forgiveness.’”

  It seemed to Sebastian that his blood had turned to molten lava. “Trevarre Hall is the one place in all of England that I don’t want to occupy, and George damned well knows that! I may not have sold Turbans to raise funds, but I’d have no qualms about selling that ruin in the Cornish hinterlands.”

  “You know that’s impossible. Trevarre Hall is your mother’s ancestral estate, as I recall, and Lady Caverleigh brought it to her marriage with your father. It was in the Wentworth family for three centuries or more!”

  “Right. Didn’t it used to be called Wentworth Hall before my father decided to put his own family name on it? The real Trevarre estates, on godforsaken Bodmin moor, were so desolate that they fell into ruin a century ago.” Sebastian shook his head in disgust. “What a bastard he was.”

  Miles blanched. “Oh now, my l
ord, it was his right. Your mother’s property became his own once they were married. And fitting, perhaps, that he would call it Trevarre Hall since the first Earl of Trevarre emerged from Cornwall centuries ago!” Miles came around the desk and patted Sebastian’s broad shoulder. “At least you and your bride will have a roof over your heads. Perhaps Trevarre Hall will be in better condition than you remember it. Perhaps you can farm? Or, what about that handsome lime kiln on your land? That may be the answer!”

  “Of course. Perhaps I can keep bees and raise berries,” Sebastian parried in acid tones. “The estate used to turn a profit with wool, but no more. George has sold all the sheep.” Raising a hand, he waved Miles off. The wheels of his mind had begun to whirl and he was suddenly anxious to take his leave. “Never mind those dull plans. There are ways to raise money in Cornwall, but I can’t speak of them…not even to you.” He cocked his head. “To Keswick, perhaps, but not to you.”

  * * *

  In the walled garden behind Caverleigh House, Julia sat on a stone bench beside Devon Raveneau and sipped tea. Old roses clambered up and over the stone walls, the tree branches needed pruning, and wild violets nodded rebelliously throughout the garden. Nathan Raveneau, a handsome boy on the brink of adolescence, was leading baby Lindsay in search of a fluttering butterfly, while their elder sister, Mouette, had perched on a second bench near the women.

  “Mama, what shall we plant here?” the girl asked, assessing her surroundings with a faint air of distaste. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a proper rose garden?”

  Julia looked over at the sixteen-year-old beauty who had inherited her father’s striking coloring, and raised her own teacup to hide a smile.

  “I rather like it just as it is,” Devon replied. “True, it needs a bit of loving care, but I have always preferred my gardens to be a trifle untamed.”