Indiscreet

by Candace Camp

  It was a very small chamber, with only a narrow bed, a chair and a small chest of drawers. Benedict surmised that it had formerly been a dressing room, a guess borne out by the side door opening into what must be the Earl’s bedroom. Punctiliously polite, Jenkins offered Benedict the straight-backed chair and sat down himself on the edge of the bed. His face gave nothing away, but the rigidity of his posture made it clear that he would have preferred to be elsewhere.

  Benedict smiled at him. “His Lordship thinks very highly of you,” he told him.

  Jenkins gave a small nod. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I am sure that is why he asked me to talk to you. Did he tell you?”

  “He requested that I speak freely to you, yes, sir.”

  “The Earl seems quite worried about this smuggling ring. I told him I would do my best to help him.”

  Jenkins struggled for a moment to hold on to his stiff distrust, but his concern for his employer overcame him, and he leaned forward, looking worried. “He has been somewhat bothered by it, sir, for several weeks. It worries him constantly, and the doctor says that is not good for him. But nothing I can say soothes him. He—he trusts you. He told me that Miss Camilla chose well. Can you help him? Will you do something about it?”

  “I shall do all I can,” Benedict promised readily. “But at the moment, I am still fumbling in the dark. I talked to several of the servants, including Purdle. The main thing I have learned from them is that there appears to be a new leader of the smugglers, but that no one knows who he is. Do you think that is true?” Benedict had been unable to tell whether no one actually knew or they were merely refusing to talk to an outsider, no matter what the Earl had instructed them.

  “I think it is the truth. I have not heard anyone even hint that they knew who he was. There are one or two men who seem to be his henchmen, closer to him than the others. One of them often gives orders. But the orders have to come from someone else. He is too stupid to act on his own.”

  “You know this man?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “Yes, but I find it doubtful that even he has seen the man’s face. No one but a fool would let this fellow know who he was, and the new leader is no fool.”

  “I could talk to him nonetheless. Who is this man?”

  The valet hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “If the Earl says to trust you, then I must. His name is Evans. He is a drunken lout who lives in the village. His wife died long ago—they say she was lucky. But you will get little out of him, I think.”

  “What else do you know about the new man? Some have said that he talks as if he was from around here.”

  Jenkins grimaced. “Or tries to copy the accent, anyway.”

  “Are you saying that he is not from the area?”

  “That I do not know. What I am saying is I’ve heard that he tries to talk like one of the locals. But sometimes his accent slips or he uses too fancy a word. In short, there are those who say he is Quality.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  BENEDICT STRAIGHTENED, HIS heart suddenly racing. It was what he and Sedgewick had talked about time and again—the possibility that the man they were looking for was from the upper classes, someone Richard Winslow would have readily invited into his home, even into his inner sanctum, his study.

  “A gentleman? Are you sure?” he asked carefully, trying not to give away his excitement.

  “No,” Jenkins admitted. “Not sure. I’m just saying there’s some suspicion.”

  “Is there anything beside the slips in his speech?”

  “Well, I heard that one man got a glimpse of his hand one time, and it looked like a gentleman’s hand, white and uncallused.”

  Benedict sat back, looking at the man. “How do you know so much? Even Purdle didn’t tell me this.”

  Jenkins returned his gaze without wavering. “Purdle is a fine man, Mr. Lassiter, but he is not from here. He came to work for the Earl some thirty years ago. He’s from Sussex originally, I believe. My family, on the other hand, has been here as long as the Chevingtons—perhaps longer.” His blue eyes twinkled. “I have connections, perhaps, that Purdle does not.”

  “I see.” Being an outsider, it seemed, was a stigma that was rather difficult to overcome among these people. “Then perhaps you can tell me this, too, why is the Earl so upset? So worried?”

  Jenkins’s expression was perfectly blank. “I beg your pardon, sir? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do, and I think you know why, too. The Earl seemed uncommonly perturbed by these local disturbances, more so than I would assume a man in his position would be.”

  “His Lordship is a very good landlord, sir. He likes to know what is going on among his people.”

  “But that doesn’t cause the kind of anxiety I saw in his eyes. I think both you and Purdle know, but Purdle would not tell me. However, I am hoping that your concern for the Earl is greater than your immediate loyalty to your employer. I must know everything if I am to help him.”

  Jenkins sighed and looked away. He seemed to come to some decision, for he turned back to Benedict and said, “You’re right. He is quite worried, sir. It’s, well, it’s Master Anthony. His Lordship is afraid that he has joined the smugglers.”

  Benedict, who had been leaning forward, intent on drawing the answer out of the old man, now sat back with a sigh. “That is what I feared.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the boy,” Jenkins assured him earnestly. “He is a wonderful lad, full of life and fun. He always has been. It’s just that, well, sometimes, he doesn’t think. He has been a trifle spoiled, perhaps, and he gets bored here. His Lordship cannot bear to let go of him, you see.”

  “Better to do that than to let him sink the family with his mischief.”

  Jenkins winced at his choice of words, but said only, “Yes, I tried to convince His Lordship to let him go up to Oxford now that he is eighteen, but he would not hear of it. And as for the army, which is what Master Anthony wants to do…well, it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

  “Why do you think he is involved with the smuggling ring?”

  “Purdle and I have seen him sneaking out at night. It isn’t the first time he has done so, by any means, but it’s been much more frequent of late. Every time we have seen him sneaking out, the next morning our delivery of brandy is on the doorstep.”

  Benedict sighed. “Everyone turns such a blind eye to the smuggling here. It’s no wonder the boy was intrigued by it.”

  “Mayhap, sir, but for an Elliot—a future Earl, no less—to be involved in it…! Why, it would break His Lordship’s heart if anything were to happen to that boy. That would be even worse than the scandal. And God knows the scandal would be bad enough.”

  “Yes, well, we must make sure that there is no scandal.” He paused, then continued cautiously, “Anthony is a smart lad, and daring. He could turn his frustrated yearning for the army into another sort of campaigning. Could it be he who is the gentleman leading the smugglers?”

  “No!” Jenkins’s face flushed red with anger. “Never. You don’t know Master Anthony like I do, or you would not say that. It is one thing to help out for a lark. But he would never, ever, murder anyone.”

  “Soldiers kill. You say he has a longing to be a soldier.”

  “On command. For his country. Yes, then the lad could kill, I suppose. And he would do so to protect his family or, indeed, any innocent person who was threatened. But he has a good heart. He would never kill anyone for gain. Especially not Nat Crowder. Nat was Jem Crowder’s brother, and Jem and Master Anthony have been friends since they were little tykes. It’d be almost like killing one of his own family. Worse, really, if you were talking about the rector, whom he cannot like.” Jenkins stopped abruptly, looking embarrassed. “Oh. Pardon me, sir. I should not have said that.”

 
“Perfectly understandable. I have visited with the Right Reverend Harold Elliot, you see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, thank you, Jenkins.” Benedict rose from his chair.

  “Anything to help ease His Lordship’s mind, sir. If you don’t mind my asking…have you told Miss Camilla about this?”

  “No. The Earl told me to keep silent.”

  “Ah. Very good, sir.” Jenkins looked relieved. “I was hoping that was the case. I fear Miss Camilla would get in a regular taking if she was to find out about the young master’s escapades.”

  Benedict suspected that, far from not knowing about them, Miss Camilla was probably neck-deep in them, from the way he had seen the two of them whispering together like conspirators. However, he said nothing to disillusion the aging servant, just bade him good-night and walked back down the hall to his own room.

  The room was silent when he walked in. A lamp burned low on the table, lighting the room dimly. In the faint golden light, he could see Camilla’s sleeping form on the bed, as well as his own couch, a blanket and pillow thoughtfully left upon it.

  He walked to the sofa and began to undress, glancing over now and then at Camilla’s recumbent form. She was turned on her side, away from him, and all he could see was the dark cloud of hair above the covers. He wondered if she was really asleep. He thought of a pair of fine blue eyes and of the way her lips had yielded sweetly beneath his.

  A few days ago, the pretense of marriage had seemed like nothing but a nuisance, and sleeping in the same room with her had been a fine jest on her for creating such a pretense in the first place. Tonight, sleeping fifteen feet away from her bed did not strike him as particularly funny.

  Mentally cursing, he lay down on the couch and wrapped the blanket around him. He adjusted the pillow beneath his head and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come. He kept imagining what it would be like to go to her bedside and pull back the cover, to look at her lying there in her nightgown. The gown would be white, he knew, and he could picture it rucked up around her legs, exposing her shapely calves and thighs. He would be able to see the dark circles of her nipples beneath the thin material, the soft swell of her breasts and hips. He thought of tracing her sleeping face with his forefinger, of touching her forehead and cheeks and lips, of trailing his finger down over the velvet softness of her throat.

  Benedict turned his head into his pillow to stifle a groan. He was so suddenly, poundingly hard he felt as if he might burst, yet he could not stop thinking about her. About kneeling beside the bed and taking her nipple into his mouth, cloth and all, and pulling gently. When he pulled away, the wet cloth could cling to the hard pink bud, inviting his return. He thought of sliding his hand down her body to the apex of her legs, slipping in between them and stroking until she was hot and damp with pleasure. He could hear her moan, feel her thrusting up against his hand, wanting more.

  This was insane! He bit into the pillow and wrapped his arms around his torso, willing himself under control. So he lay, wide-awake, refusing to give in to his desires, through much of the seemingly interminable night.

  He did not drift off to sleep until the pale light of dawn began to show around the edges of the drapes. Then, just as he was finally sliding down into the darkness, the creak of the door brought him wide-awake.

  Benedict turned, his hand sliding down to his boot, beside the sofa, and the knife that was strapped inside it. He pretended still to slumber, watching through slitted eyes as a man tiptoed across the room toward where Camilla lay sleeping.

  The man crossed in front of him, and Benedict relaxed, recognizing the slender form as that of Camilla’s cousin Anthony. He started to sit up and comment on the young man’s unusual visiting hours, but he restrained himself. The wiser course, he knew, would be to watch and find out exactly what had brought the young Viscount here at this hour of the morning.

  Anthony leaned over the bed and shook Camilla’s shoulder. She came awake with a low cry, and Anthony quickly clapped his hand over her mouth.

  “Shh…Camilla, it is I.”

  Camilla recognized Anthony’s voice, and, blinking the sleep from her eyes, she could see his features now in the dim light. She pushed his hand away irritatedly.

  “What in the name of heaven are you doing?”

  “Waking you,” he answered reasonably, still in the same low whisper. “Get up. I need you.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head and turned to look over his shoulder at the couch where Benedict slept. Camilla followed his gaze and understood. He was afraid that Benedict would awaken, and he did not want him to know why Anthony was here. She nodded her understanding and slid quietly out of bed. She stuck her feet into her slippers and wrapped the heavy dressing gown around her, all the while keeping a cautious eye on the sleeping form on the sofa. With Anthony on her heels, she stole out of the room.

  Outside in the hall, she strode across to the long, narrow table where Anthony had left his candle and turned to face him. “All right. Now what is going on?”

  “Shh,” he cautioned her again. “You’ll wake everybody up.”

  “Oh. You mean the way you woke me?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “All right. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have done it, Milla, except that it’s an emergency.”

  “Isn’t it always?”

  “No. I really mean it. There is another man’s life at stake here.”

  “What?” Camilla straightened, all teasing erased from her voice. Her eyes flew instinctively toward her door across the hall.

  “No, not him,” Anthony said impatiently, picking up the candlestick in one hand and taking her by the arm with the other. He started down the hall, pulling Camilla along.

  “Then who?” Camilla asked as she hurried along beside him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Anthony, you aren’t making any sense. Are you bosky?”

  “No!” he answered indignantly, forgetting his stricture to be silent. “I haven’t had a drop to drink since a cup of wine at dinner last night…where, I must say, you and Mr. Lassiter were acting most peculiarly.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Camilla was grateful that the dim light of the hallway hid her rising blush.

  “I was not the one being silly,” he replied significantly. “The two of you were making sheep’s eyes at each other all night. And don’t think that I am the only one who saw it. Mama was going on about it for ages after you left last night. Even that cipher Thorne noticed it. He kept blathering on about love in bloom.”

  “Oh, no, really?” Camilla choked back a gurgle of laughter.

  Anthony gave her a jaundiced look. “You wouldn’t have thought it was so bloody funny if you had been the one who had to endure his poesy.”

  “I’m sorry. Poor Anthony. You are quite right. I am sure I would have been bored out of my mind.”

  He nodded, vindicated. They had reached the top of the stairs by now, and Anthony stopped to pick up a small case there. Camilla recognized the worn cloth bag immediately. It had belonged to her grandmother originally, and for years it had contained the bandages and ointments required for household emergencies.

  Camilla eyed it now with misgiving. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I told you, a man’s life is at stake. Now would you stop asking questions and come on?”

  His words frightened her, and she followed him quickly down the stairs. They slipped out of the house by the solarium door and hurried across the garden. The horizon to the east was lightening, turning the whole sky a dull gray and giving them enough light to see clearly as they made their way along the path toward the beach. They went down the cliff trail as quickly as it was possible to traverse the steep path, and when they reached the sand, Anthony led her at a trot toward the long spit of land that led across the water to Keep Isla
nd.

  “Hurry up. The tide is rising,” Anthony told her as they started across the narrow strip of land.

  Camilla could see that indeed it was. There was a path of land no wider than a foot between the two sides of the ocean, and even as they walked across, the water was beginning to crash over it.

  “You’re going to strand us on the other side!” Camilla protested, following him and watching her step, so as not to slip and wind up in the water. The water on either side grew quickly deeper as they advanced over the spit of land, and she had no desire to receive a dousing in the chilly predawn ocean.

  “Don’t be daft,” Anthony replied in a brotherly fashion. “I took my boat over here earlier. I just came back to get you on foot because it was faster.”

  The hulking ruins of the keep grew ever clearer in the increasing light. The first rays of the sun struck its eastern walls, turning them the same warm color as the stones of the present-day Chevington Park. But nothing could disguise the bleakness of its tumbled walls or the black marks left by fire.

  Behind them, the water began to wash over the lower central section of the land bridge. They reached the island and climbed up the crumbling stone steps to higher ground and hurried on into the ruins. They did not look back. And so they did not see the figure standing on the cliff on the other side, a hand shading his face, watching them.

  * * *

  FRUSTRATION SURGED UP in Benedict. He had had to stop to dress before he followed Camilla and Anthony, and it had eaten up precious time, as had the fact that he strayed a little off course and lost sight of them for a few minutes. By the time he reached the top of the cliff, they were almost all the way across the spit of land to Keep Island.

  He headed down the path to the beach at a reckless clip, stumbling once and almost falling. He ran across the sand to the bridge to the island, but he had not gone ten feet onto the path before he saw that it was impossible.