Husband? What madness was this? That particular word, in relation to himself, had never crossed his thoughts—and it should not now! They had hardly had a chance to know one another, but they had an unimaginable connection.
He dismounted from Gulliver and walked him into the stables. Dido nickered to Gulliver as he led him past the stalls. David could sympathize with the mare. He wanted to be with his mate as well.
After removing the saddle and harness and rubbing the stallion down, although he began walking down the path to his cottage, his feet took him towards the gardens. What did he intend to do? Look in the windows like a thief or Peeping Tom, coveting something he could not have? His mind kept telling him he was searching for the old tunnels, but his heart hoped for a glimpse of Lady Charlotte. Why was he making such a fool of himself over this woman? He had given up hope long ago of a traditional relationship bound by holy matrimony. Nothing about him was traditional, since he had chosen this selfish path as a youth.
All he could hope to do at this point was clear his name. He wandered around the gardens, looking for any sign of hiding places. He was fairly good at seeing what others would overlook. There was a long conservatory at the back of the house; beyond it lay a formal garden, followed by another series of succession houses. It was an unusual arrangement, but perhaps one of the ladies was a gardening enthusiast. Pebbled paths were lined with yews, elders and hawthorns. He wished he had looked by day. He walked around the perimeter of the further buildings and found what looked to be an entrance at the side of the ice house wall. It no doubt led nowhere other than to the ice, but he decided he might as well look while he was here. He took the lantern hanging on the nail by the door and lit the flint before descending.
As David suspected, there was a door at the bottom of the well which had been dug out for ice. It did not appear to have been opened in decades, however, by the look of the layers of dirt and rust. He set the lantern down at his feet and began to prise at the door latch, but it would not budge. Taking his blade from his boot, he scraped and chipped at the decay surrounding the lock. With some skill and diligence, he was able to force it open. It was not enough, and he had to chip away the elements jamming the door before he had success. Clearly, this was not the route of entry if there was any storage taking place here at Langborn.
After much effort, the door finally gave way with a loud creaking sound. He stepped inside and heard the door slam in place behind him with a bang that echoed through the tunnel. The flame flickered from the gust and he whirled around and cursed himself. He should have paid more attention. Down on the floor was a rock, which should have been used to hold the door open. He prayed there would be a way out at the other end, or he would not be found before it was too late.
Not willing to concede defeat or panic yet, he began to walk gingerly through the tunnel, dodging cobwebs and who knew what else on the wet, slippery floor. The familiar scents of must and mould intermixed with the sounds of dripping water and scampering rodents. After about twenty yards, he found the tunnel split in two directions. He chose the path to the left, suspecting it would lead to the conservatory. He was met with another door, which showed the same signs of disuse as the other. Turning back, he followed the second path another fifty yards. This door, while old, had been used recently. His pulse sped up with anticipation as it used to when he was young—the thrill of being chased, doing something secretive, making large profits—he was still not wholly immune to an adventure, though now he would choose a different way to fulfil the urge.
He held up the lantern and looked around, investigating for other signs of use. Someone was very, very careful, and had swept behind themselves. He found a track that had been missed, leaving half a footprint and a partial wheel print.
The lock on this door appeared to be new, and was unable to be picked without damaging it. He did not wish to alert the gang that he was searching for them. He turned and made his way back the way he had come, looking for the turn to the beach. He was surprised there was yet another fork in the path and he was certain he could not have stumbled all the way to the Saltdean Gap yet. Had another tunnel been forged or was this underground system much more intricate than they had known? It was all quite disorientating!
The tunnel made a sharp turn to the left and David had a difficult time keeping his sense of direction in the dark. He had not paced out his steps, as he normally did, to keep his bearings. Growing worried over what he might encounter, he hid his light underneath his cloak when he sensed he approached the entrance to the beach. Creeping slowly, he stopped to allow his eyes to adjust—but what he saw astonished him.
There was a small ravine which emptied out to the Channel. Two small skiffs bobbed in the water, almost hidden. It was a smuggler’s dream. Was there any possible way Yardley was not complicit in this operation? He had to know of this ravine. He ran his hand through his hair with frustration. How could he free himself without causing problems for Yardley or Lady Charlotte?
He climbed back up the edge of the cliff, and was grateful for his years of climbing experience, for it was a steep and slippery climb. Breathing heavily by the time he reached the top, he debated going inside and confronting Yardley, but knowing he had a house full of guests gave him pause.
He stopped at the conservatory and leaned against the ornate iron framework. He could hear the sound of music, reminding him of the abyss which separated himself from Lady Charlotte. He could picture her laughing and dancing, with gentleman hanging on her every witty word. Then he saw her standing there, looking angelic with the glow of candlelight behind her golden hair. She stood not five feet from him, her fingers playing with the petals of an orchid through the streams of moisture running down the glass. It was an image worthy of being set to canvas, were he talented enough to capture the moment.
Watching her was wrong, but he could not look away. Like a moth drawn to a flame, it was a force he could not resist. An army officer entered the conservatory, apparently looking for her, and David’s stomach curdled. Instead of staying to watch someone else court her, he decided to go in and wait to speak with Yardley.
Chapter 11
I am certain every lady feels oppressed by overbearing brothers. Add the monstrosity of a duke into the equation and it is untenable. Heaven forbid I make a mistake or have an original thought! Life was much, much simpler, when I was alone.—14 Feb
I need to speak with you.”
Yardley gave Charlotte his haughty, elder brother look. “Now? I have the men assembled in the study to discuss some important business. Can this not wait?”
“Surely they can drink brandy for five minutes?”
“Very well.” He followed her into the library and closed the door behind him.
“I would like you to explain why you did not tell me Sir David was here.”
“I did not see the point. He needs must lower himself to the station of a servant.” He leaned against the edge of a desk and crossed his longs legs in front of him.
“His sister and niece are guests in our home.”
“Everyone has a black sheep in their family. Would you like to explain why you are so concerned about Mr. Douglas?” Mockery edged his tone.
She looked away to hide her flush. “I have a suspicion you are hiding something from me.”
“And I feel the same. You have cut your hair, you have changed your dress… are you, perchance, interested in Mr. Douglas? Is there something you are not telling me?”
“What if there is?” she asked, spreading her hands wide.
“He is not for you, Lottie.”
“Who are you to decide my happiness?” she cried in outrage. Swinging away, she paced the dark blue and gold carpet.
“A doting older brother who knows much more of the world than you. And, in this case, much more of his story.”
“Then please enlighten me.” She sent him a dark glance.
“Why can you not be interested in a suitable gentleman? Davenport or Prescott, for insta
nce?”
“Davenport only had eyes for Letty and Prescott is harder than cast-iron. Besides, can you imagine me following the drum?”
“The only drum you would have to follow is that of London Society. He sits at a desk at the Home Office.”
“Do you mean to tell me you invited them here just to parade them as eligibles in front of me?” She placed her hands on her hips with exasperation.
“Actually, I called them here to aid me with a smuggling problem. Introducing them to you was an afterthought.”
“Of course it was. What smuggling problem? They have never caused trouble before.”
“I am not quite certain. It has come to the King’s notice, however, and he wants it to cease immediately.”
“How odd. So you have assembled this group of gentlemen, who are best suited to the task, with the expressed purpose of stopping the smugglers?”
He inclined his head. “Indeed.”
“But what of the villagers? They need the supplemental income.”
“I am afraid we will have to find another way. That is for another day. The gang is still operating and I have men awaiting my presence in the study.”
He walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Looking down into her eyes, he added in a brotherly tone, “Forget Douglas, Charlotte. He is dangerous. You must trust me to know what is best for you.”
“It would be easier if you did not keep the details from me, your Grace.”
“Your Grace?” His eyebrows elevated in offence.
“You are acting like a duke, not a brother,” she explained with petulance, narrowing her eyes at him.
He smiled and kissed her on the forehead before leaving.
She barely managed to keep her face impassive until the door clicked behind him. She was a grown woman, not a child! How dare he treat her as though she could not handle the truth?
“And all in the name of brotherly love? Ha!” she declared, a laboured sigh escaping her.
Needing to release some frustration, she searched the library for something to pound, throw or break. There were no pillows to hand, and she groaned with irritation. “Why must I act like a lady? Does he not realize the more he tells me no, the more it makes me want it?”
She had to settle for pounding on the wall, and there was very little wall to be had in a room with floor to ceiling bookcases. There was a small amount of wood frame between each of the rows and rows of shelves. Pounding until her hand hurt, she then leaned against the fireplace, feeling foolish. Accidentally hitting her head on the metal sconce, she spun around to glare at the offending object. Then, catching her foot on the grate in the process, she overbalanced and grabbed hold of the sconce to steady herself. It snapped at the hinge and the wall began to move. Charlotte clung onto the mantel for dear life as the fireplace began to revolve and she found herself in a cold, dark room.
Shaking with fright, she whispered, “Where am I?” In alarm, she pushed hard against the fireplace, but nothing moved. There had to be a way back into the library! Thankful she was wearing gloves, she searched the wall in the darkness for a lever or other device, to no avail. Did the mechanism work only with the sconce?
With difficulty, she fought the instinct to panic as nothing she tried succeeded in opening the door. Shivering with a combination of the low temperature and morbid dread, she wrapped her arms around herself as tight as she could for warmth, and closed her eyes. She could not see and she was deathly afraid of spiders and anything else which crept or crawled. An unwanted memory played through her mind, of sitting in the library the other night and hearing a scratching sound. That meant there were mice or rats in here, as well as spiders.
How long would it be until someone found her? Would every one assume she had gone to bed?
“This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. This cannot be happening. No, Chapman will be waiting for you. She knows you cannot remove this ridiculous new gown. But that could still be hours! If Benedict was to meet with the gentlemen, it might well be an age before the guests seek their chambers for the night,” she muttered aloud.
The longer she stood there, the more afraid she became. Her mind began to fill with horrors from the various Gothic novels she had read. Ghosts, goblins, dragons and insane relatives locked away in dungeons were so much more amusing on the page. Every creak, whistle and scratch made her jump. Somewhere in the distance there was a constant drip, drip, drip. The unremitting rhythm of it made her want to scream. A chilly draught of air stroked her ankles, and then she noticed a door rattling far off in the blackness ahead. Where could the door be? And where did it lead? She tried to think where a tunnel could go to from here, but found it hard to conjecture in the smothering dark. She had always believed the old tunnels had been sealed during her father’s time.
If only she had a light! “This is no less than I deserve for allowing myself to vent frustrations,” she chastised, but it was too late for remorse.
Too afraid to step away from the revolving door lest she become lost or run into some terrible figment of her imaginings, she stayed where she was, huddled near the cold marble of the fireplace.
All she could do was hope someone would come searching for her in the library. If she had been able to hear the mice—she shuddered—then surely someone must hear her screams for help. In the meantime, she told herself fiercely, taking hold of the poker that was thankfully still in its place beside the grate, she would be brave. Still, she was not above praying she would not have to defend herself from rats.
“Gentlemen, I apologize for keeping you waiting. My sister had something important to discuss. I assume you have made yourselves acquainted with David Douglas?” Yardley inclined his head toward David. Wyndham, Prescott, Davenport and Cavenray all indicated their assent. David had been waiting when the rest of them had entered the study. All the gentlemen were seated in leather armchairs set in a half-circle around a large oak desk. Yardley took his seat behind it.
“He is here in the guise of my gamekeeper, the plan being to become a part of and then bring down the Rottingdean smuggling gang, at the request of our Sovereign. Douglas, would you mind apprising these gentlemen of what you have discovered so far?”
David explained his investigations to this point, including Captain Dunn and Reverend Howard’s involvement, and that he suspected they were answering to someone else.
“Reverend Howard has family ties to a munitions manufactory, but I have seen no sign of stores of guns or ammunition. I have managed to insinuate myself into the gang, but have not been privy to anything other than the usual runs of lace and gin. I did overhear from the Revenue Officer that they suspect a large run to be taking place on Sunday night. That gives us two more days to discover any hiding places,” David explained.
“I have asked each of you here,” put in Yardley, “not at his request, but because I feel it behoves all of us to resolve this quickly. Colonel Prescott, do you have any information from the Home Office?”
“I was surprised by the secrecy surrounding this, especially given His Majesty has made such a request of Mr. Douglas. However, I did finally discover that it has to do with arms being sent out to our enemies illegally. Apparently, a bill is to be proposed, allowing arms to be sold to whomever has the wherewithal, regardless of their allegiance to Britain.”
“To arm the very men who would kill us? Who would propose such a thing?” Wyndham asked, his voice rising in outrage.
“That is the answer I was unable to ascertain,” Prescott answered.
“I did send word to have Howard investigated, but they only confirmed the connection. There is no proof they are distributing arms illegally. I have sent some men to keep an eye out nevertheless.”
“Captain Harris, were you able to discover anything from the navy?” David asked.
“Patrols have been increased along the Channel, but it is difficult to be everywhere at once. It is impossible to check every boat coming in when you are an island nation. I did speak
with Captain Garrick, and he also spoke of a suspected run they think to be bigger than usual, happening on Sunday night.”
“My company was approached a few months ago, in connection with delivering arms to Asia. We turned down the business, not feeling comfortable with the destination of those armaments. There was something underhanded about the whole business,” Davenport informed the gathering.
“Do you recall who approached you?”
“No, but I will question my secretary tomorrow.”
“We must use our collective knowledge to discover where the contraband is being stored. There has to be somewhere nearby. They could not load a ship quickly if everything was not on hand,” Lord Wyndham pointed out.
“I agree—having had first-hand knowledge of how smuggling works. They want that part of the operation done as quickly as possible.”
“Captain Garrick did mention they have been sailing in circles following dummy runs. This gang is savvy,” Harris observed.
“I believe they have been using Yardley’s yacht to move the goods. This afternoon I discovered an old fisherman who had seen The Jolie being moved from Shoreham on more than one occasion.”
Yardley cursed.
“I also explored the tunnels under your property, which you thought were sealed. I found a fresh lock on a door, with evidence of recent activity. That particular tunnel leads to a nearby ravine where some small vessels are moored.”
Yardley stood up and pounded his fist on the desk. “This is becoming personal,” he growled. “We should commence searching at once.”
“Not so fast,” David cautioned. “It is likely someone is checking frequently, if not a full-time guard in place. I did not run into anyone tonight, but I suspect any small sign of our presence would tip them the wink. It is imperative we catch them.”
“What do you propose?”
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