Lace for Milady

by Joan Smith

  My guard-prisoner was impressed enough with my claims on the Duke that he only lifted the light from my fingers and held it to the wall himself. He then took it to the barrels in the corner and set it on the floor, took up a tin cup and pulled the cork from the bunghole of one of them. A stream of dark liquid poured out, sending its aroma across the room, and he drank it down as though it were water. He smacked his lips, wiped them with his sleeve, and regarded me with a bad smile.

  The room had reeked of brandy when I first entered. There were half a dozen cups on the floor. They had all been drinking down here before, including the Duke of Clavering. The Frenchman might be half-drunk al­ready, for all I knew. I turned away and walked to the farthest corner from him. I soon heard him having another helping of the smuggled brandy. It was stored in the passageway, but these two kegs must have been brought in for their own use, and good use they were making of them, too.

  I was terrified he would get drunk and attack me. “Ne buvez pas,” I commanded in a stern voice. He looked at me, smiled boldly, and took another drink. I issued no more commands, for I didn’t wish to anger him. I just stood, glancing at him from time to time, and every time I looked he was examining me steadily. He didn’t even move his eyes to drink. How long it was taking them! Why didn’t they come?

  At last it happened. He set down his cup and ad­vanced toward me. There was no hesitation this time. He put both his arms around my waist and pulled me into his arms. Not without some resistance on my part, as you may imagine. I pushed at his chest, kicked his shins with my soft, harmless slippers. He was not taller than I was. Our eyes and lips were exactly level, yet he had, even in his drunken condition, three times my strength.

  "Le Duc vous tuera! Il est mon ami,” I reminded him with panting gasps. He fixed one hand behind my head and pulled it rudely toward his brandy-soaked lips.

  My French deserted me. “Don’t! Don’t touch me! I’m the Duke’s friend. He’ll..."

  “Kill you!” Clavering said, in quite a polite tone, and suddenly my attacker was being lifted six inches off the floor and flung aside as though he were an empty coat.

  In my struggle with the Frenchman I had not heard their approach, Clavering’s and Louie’s, but how glad I was to see them. Smugglers, bastard, criminals— whatever they were, they were welcome. I threw myself gratefully and shamelessly into Clavering’s arms and heaved a sob of relief. He held me closely for a moment and said nothing, but I could hear his heart pound from his recent dash from Belview. His coat was wet and cool—it was still raining, then—and felt rough against my cheek. His hands moved up and down on my back comfortingly.

  “You shouldn’t have left her alone with that maniac,” he said to Louie over my shoulder, then bent his head down to mine. “It’s all right, Prissie. He wouldn’t really have harmed you, you know. Come now, don’t cry. I’ll take you home.”

  Home, though it was only yards away, had such a reassuring sound to it! “Yes, take me home,” I said, and pulled away from his arms. There was a little delay while Louie lit their own candles from mine, then Clavering took up the candelabrum and followed me to the door, slid the bolt, and we walked up the narrow stairs into the parson’s bench—such a foolish mode of entry to a room—climbed over its side and stood in the dimly lit saloon.

  “Close the lid,” I said, for I didn’t want even that reminder of where I had been, and what I had been through.

  “Sit down. I’ll get you some wine,” he said. I sank on to a sofa and sat benumbed, not yet recovered enough to be angry or outraged or a thing but grateful that I was home safe.

  He handed me a glass and sat down beside me. Apparently under the misapprehension that I still required comfort, he put an arm around my shoulders. “He didn’t do any worse than try to kiss you?” he asked.

  “No, but he would have,” I replied, removing his arm.

  “Louie’s a fool. Well-meaning, but to leave you alone... Drink your wine. It will calm you.”

  “I don’t want to be calm. I want an explanation.”

  “All in good time,” he answered calmly. “Isn’t it strange to be here alone in the middle of the night? Very intimate, don’t you think?”

  “Clavering..."

  “Don’t you think you should call your friend Burne,” he suggested, turning to smile lazily at me.

  “You’re not my friend.”

  “Except when you are in trouble. I heard you use me to threaten André.”

  “If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have been in trouble! How dare you use my house for smuggling?”

  “Not your house, Prissie. My land that is temporarily leased to you. Unfortunately it abuts against the wall of your house, but really, you know, I offered a dozen times to buy it from you and save you this unpleasant episode. I had the sinking feeling that sooner or later you’d get into the parson’s bench. The door at the bottom of the stairs was always kept bolted, by the way. I guess André must have heard you trying to break it down, and decided to let you in?”

  “How could you expect me not to discover it, when you were laughing and carousing down there to wake the dead?”

  “I thought you’d be safely asleep in your bed by that time. I tried to keep the noise down to a roar, but after a successful trip the boys always have a round. What were you doing up and all alone at such an hour?”

  “It’s my house! I don’t have to explain to you why, I am up."

  “You don’t have to explain why you decided to go investigating all alone in your chemise, either, but it does seem unlike the practical Miss Denver. Quite like the impractical one who tries to ride a nag she can’t handle, though, now I come to think of it.”

  “Don’t try to shift the blame for this night’s work on to me. You have a great deal of explaining to do.”

  “I have, and I shall do it tomorrow. You’re too upset now. In your excitement the impropriety of our situa­tion has slipped your mind. I have no objection in the least to your entertaining me in such charming deshabille, but Slack might misunderstand.”

  “I am not entertaining you.”

  “You noticed that, too, did you? I am happy to see we agree on what constitutes entertainment. I think that as we have allowed all the other proprieties to go by the boards, we might as well go all the way and dabble in a little entertainment. Why should André be the only one to enjoy the night’s work? And you did tell him you are my friend, you know. I believe I even heard the word tuera being mentioned. Now I don’t go killing every fellow who makes advances to a lady unless she is my lady.”

  “Don’t you dare lay a hand on me!” I said in a low voice, for we had been speaking low to avoid detection by any light sleeper.

  “I never can resist a dare,” he answered promptly, and laid not one hand but two on my shoulders, pulling me roughly into his arms. He soon placed his lips as well on mine and was kissing me soundly. Had I not already suffered so many unusual adventures that night, I might have been more outraged, but somehow it seemed a suitable climax to the evening. Even it seemed to soothe my jangled nerves. I did not bother to fight him off and give him the idea it mattered; it would have pleased him too well. I let him embrace me and enjoyed it, but did not actively participate. It was my first kiss. Edward Hemmings (my first beau, if my reader has forgotten) talked a good deal about love but was not a great man for action. I underwent the thing as though it were an experiment, trying to analyse the sensation of being held and mauled a little by a man.

  After a while he lifted his head. “You can do better than that, Priss,” he said teasingly. “Another first, I trust?”

  “Yes, unless you include your French smuggler friend.”

  “That explains it. Practice makes perfect. Don’t be afraid.”

  “I don’t need any lessons.”

  “Yes, you do. It is like riding, and can be taught. Relax and enjoy it.” He kissed me again, more strenu­ously, but I don’t think he followed his own advice. He was not the least relaxed, but became suffici
ently ardent that I was obliged to struggle free.

  “Oh, you're coming on rapidly,” he said with approv­al. “A natural. You’ll be giving me lessons before the week’s out.” He put his hand on the back of my head, just like the Frenchman, but I pulled it away, for I was a little frightened of my own feelings. I had not thought the whole body reacted so violently to a kiss.

  “That’s enough of that,” I said primly.

  “Not near enough. I’ve been wishing I’d done this since I took my leave of you; if you’d been in your usual sparring trim I would have. You’re a very attractive woman, Prissie, hard as you try to conceal it with your modest dress. And you were right; Prissie is the wrong name, thank God. I was half afraid you’d be a cold one.”

  I expect I was still suffering a little from my ordeal in the cellar, or I would have stopped him sooner, but when he tried to resume kissing me I objected strongly. “See here, Clavering..."

  “You have the most sensuous lips I’ve ever kissed,” he said, leaning toward me with his hands out.

  This was not to be trusted, nor endured. “Burne!”

  “I am aflame, my love. I have been for ages. You can even shout a ‘Wed’ at me and I won’t take it amiss. Someone is singing it in my ears already.”

  “That would be your conscience, if you have one! I think you had better go now,” I said, pulling my dressing gown tightly about me. Not to say that it was open; it wasn’t, but the belt was working loose.

  “I might as well, if you mean to lock up all the sweets.” I glared at him, shocked at such a bold speech. “All right, Priss, I’m going.” He arose.

  “I hope there is some way you can keep that menacing Frenchman out of my house.”

  “I trust Louie has taken care of him by now, and if he hasn’t, you may be sure I will. What would you like me to do with him? Put him on the rack—pull out his fingernails—cut out his tongue. Remember the temp­tation the poor fellow was subjected to. And he is French, you know.” He walked to the parson’s bench and lifted the lid.

  “Well, au revoir. Time to crawl into the bench. Ah, listen, my Prissie, you won’t do anything foolish like run to Officer Smith with this story, will you? I shall be back early in the morning to explain everything.”

  I don’t remember what I said. I recall he stood on the first rung of the stairway leading below, and very nearly tumbled over, cracking his shins when he reached out toward me and I stepped back suddenly. I also remember he uttered some ungentlemanly oaths, but apologized.

  "Shall I tell Slack?” I asked. I must have been still in shock to ask such a question, to ask permission to do it, I mean.

  "Suit yourself,” he answered curtly. "It is clear you have no intention of further humouring me. Good night, Miss Priss.”

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  The minute Clavering was gone, I put down the bench lid and placed on top of it the heaviest things I could find in the room. Some of his own tomes on Roman ruins, some blocks of wood, a large fern in a nice heavy pot, and other smaller oddments. Then I went to bed. Not that I had any thoughts of sleeping after such a night. I lay awake for hours, thinking. Firstly, I won­dered how I had been deranged enough in my mind to have let him away without getting a full explanation of his part in this criminal smuggling business. It must have been shock, pure and simple. My mind was not functioning properly after such an ordeal, and his love-making hadn’t helped clear it, either. In fact, he had very likely kissed me to make me forget it, and as it was a new experience for me, it had succeeded; but the morning was coming, and I would have my re­venge. He would explain his web of lies over the past weeks. His pretending not to know about the Roman ruins next door, his close association with Louie and the smuggling. How did he come to be embroiled in these low pursuits? Was it a love of excitement and danger? If so, why not involve himself in the war with Napoleon? Plenty of chance there for any reckless, danger-loving man to combine duty and pleasure.

  With so much to consider, sleep was impossible. I saw the sun rise through my window, a beautiful golden-rose glow that promised another fine day. As it crept above the treetops, I began to consider rising, then my eyes closed at last and I slept—till noon. I was furious when I awoke and glanced at the clock. Why had no one awakened me? Before many moments I was up, dressed, and hurtling down the stairs. I ran first to the saloon, to see that someone had moved the obsta­cles from the lid of the parson’s bench. The room was empty. I ran next to the morning parlour, to be con­fronted with the spectacle of Miss Slack hovering over Clavering’s shoulder, pouring him a cup of coffee and smiling gaily.

  “Well, young lady,” she said. “I think you might have included me in your little adventure last night.”

  “You told her?” I asked Burne.

  “You know these women. They always worm all your secrets out of you.”

  “Then she has done a good deal better than I have, for it seems to me I managed to let you off without an explanation, and I am eager to hear it now.”

  “I am eager to give it. Do sit down and have a cup of coffee, Priss.” My home and my coffee! Kind of him to allow me to enjoy them.

  "This is the last cup. I’ll pour it and get some more,” Slack said, but she was only being discreet again, and leaving us alone.

  "I must say, you don’t look any the worse after last night’s frolic,” he said, with his eyes lingering on my face.

  "Never mind thinking to trick me out of an explana­tion with that old stunt. I mean to hear why you have taken to smuggling with your cousin, Louie FitzHugh.”

  "Officer Smith, I understand, is your informant? Well, it’s true enough. Louie is one of my family connections.”

  "How nice for you!” I said, settling back with my coffee.

  “Convenient, certainly. He is the best seaman in Pevensey. Louie could land a ship in the middle of a howling storm without wetting the decks. But, of course, he’s part Clavering, and that must explain his skill.”

  “As well as that little streak of larceny that seems to run in the Clavering blood.”

  “Quite. We have some fine gold plate and jewelled crosses at home that one of our ancestors helped him­self to in Peru when he was sailing with Sir Francis Drake. We have been at it for centuries.”

  “Shall we dispense with ancient history and get right down to the present pirate in the family?”

  “Smuggler. There is a shade of difference. Louis is a smuggler only. Well, throw in bribing officials, to re­vert to history.”

  “But not the only smuggler, nor only briber of offi­cials, either.”

  “It gets dull, you know, sitting in the House in London, listening to long-winded speeches, then coming home and talking to tenant farmers and bailiffs. Everyone needs a little excitement in his life.”

  “Not everyone chooses to indulge his whim by turn­ing smuggler, and even those who do do not in the general way set themselves up as pillars of rectitude, looking down on the smuggling community. And I think you must surely be the only aristocratic smug­gler in all of England.”

  “No, no. I can tell you for a fact my cousin, Lord Tremaine, is also active. He operates from Dover.”

  “Well upon my word! And you said not a month ago you were going to replace Officer Smith because he is not wide-awake enough!”

  “But I didn’t do it, you notice. His somnolent manner of proceeding suits me very well.”

  “Clavering, do you mean to sit there and tell me unashamedly that you are a smuggler?” I demanded in astonishment, for I was sure he’d try to put some good face on it.

  “I am a little ashamed,” he confessed. “But there’s no real harm in it. It keeps Louie and the boys out of worse mischief.”

  “If you were ever found out, you would be disgraced.”

  “It would be embarrassing, and that is why I am come to ask if you could find it in your heart to overlook the events of last night.”

  “You’re asking me to conspire in crime?”

  “
Not actually take an active part. ‘Watch the wall, my darling.’ It is an old..."

  “Yes, I know all about it. George told me. Good God! Is George in on this, too?”

  “He doesn’t work with my group,” Clavering an­swered blandly.

  “Then you admit you are in charge. You called it your group.”

  “You didn’t expect me to take commands from Louie FitzHugh? I organize the runs, but we use Lou’s ship, the Nancy-Jane, and he is the better sailor, so he is the captain of the ship. Nominally he is in command at sea, I suppose. A difference has not arisen on the high seas to put it to the test.”

  “You mean you actually go to France with them?” The more he talked, the less could I credit that he was telling the truth.

  "That’s the best part. The rest of it is work.”

  “And that’s where you’ve been these past days, when you let it out that you were in London at Parliament?”

  “Yes, we got back last evening, in the teeth of a booming gale, but Cousin Louie is up to anything. You spoke of my deception in making clear my displeasure with the smugglers, but that keeps Smith pretty well away from my stretch of coast, you know. I have my own patrol out, so he doesn’t bother with it. He feels they wouldn’t dare land here, and my warnings of mantraps keep the lands free of trespassers who are likely to disturb us in transit from sea to chapel, so we have pretty clear running. I don’t think there is much risk of being discovered. Really, I think I have devised an admirable arrangement.”

  “I doubt Leo Milkin, the cripple at the inn, would agree with you. To gain freedom of detection in crimi­nal proceedings at the cost of crippling probably dozens of men..."

  “There is not a mantrap of any kind on any of my land.”

  “But you’ve posted your signs, and killed all your foxes!”

  “Oh, killing my poor foxes, that was the hardest part of the whole thing. How I hated to part with them. But as to the signs, it is not illegal to post without actually laying the traps. I looked into it. It is illegal to trap without posting, but not to post without trapping.”