The Smuggler Wore Silk (10 page)

T
HROUGH THE LATE-NIGHT
gloom, Julian studied the façade of the Jolly Smuggler. Ivy climbed the stone front to the second floor, which he knew consisted of two small and two large guest rooms. Tacked on to the rear was a tiny cottage. Overall, it was a modest building, simple and unadorned, with a sign that made him chuckle. Two men sat in a small jolly boat, each raising a tankard, as the waves rose around them.

As though men drank tankards of ale while sitting in a jolly boat on the open sea. Then again, such a boat was used to convey goods between a larger ship and the shore. It was the perfect size for a smuggler or two to secretly transport their wares and enjoy a pint while they were at it, if they were of a mind.

Whatever else Jack Blackbourn was, he had a sense of humor. The rest remained to be seen. Intelligence from London indicated Blackbourn had retired from smuggling, but he’d done so at least twice before and returned to the game.

The important question was whether he was a traitor.

Julian hoped he was. It would explain why Grace was involved. Perhaps she was pressured into it by Blackbourn, making her an innocent victim taken advantage of by a criminal. Even as Julian had the thought, he hated himself for it. He didn’t wish death on a stranger, any more than he wanted Grace to be guilty of treason.

Clenching his jaw, he put those thoughts behind him. He had only one mission for the moment: Find the traitor. Why he wanted Grace to be innocent when her innocence meant he was trapped in marriage was something he simply could not think about now.

He straightened the coarse homespun coat that constituted his disguise. His pistol bumped against his hip. He could not feel the knife in his boot, but he would have noted the absence. His boot didn’t fit right without it.

He pushed open the door of the pub. He stepped into the smoky, yeast-scented taproom and took in the scene. A dozen men in workingman’s garb sat at tables around the room. Laughter and voices filled the air, as did the scent of good food. In fact, he thought, sniffing again, the food smelled more than just appetizing. It smelled delicious.

Behind the bar stood a short man with untamed hair and square features. He was laughing with a pair of men while he accepted coins for their drafts. That, Julian thought, must be the infamous Jack Blackbourn.

Julian strode to the counter and leaned against it, patiently waiting for his quarry to finish with his customers. When Blackbourn finally came his way, there was still a smile on his lips.

“What can I do for you?” Blackbourn wiped away the spills on the counter in front of Julian with a large gray rag.

“A pint of ale, my good man.” He nodded toward the affable patrons. “A lively crew tonight.”

“Aye.” Blackbourn set a tankard in front of Julian. “But they’re regular patrons, sir, and know each other well. I don’t think I’ve seen you in before.”

“Do you keep track of your patrons?”

“Well, now, a good publican remembers his regulars and their preferences.” Blackbourn leaned casually on the counter. “I’m certain I haven’t seen you in before.”

“No, you haven’t.” He sipped his ale. Curiosity shone bright in Blackbourn’s eyes, but Julian refused to elaborate.

A young barmaid with long yellow curls and a sassy smile pranced by and leaned onto the counter beside Julian.

“Jack,” she said to the publican. “Ned would like another pint and Young Mike would like a bowl o’ stew.”

“Aye, Mary.” Blackbourn turned, pushed open a door a crack and shouted into what must be the kitchens, “A bowl o’ stew!”

“How am I doing on my first night, Jack?” the girl asked when Blackbourn returned to the counter.

“Well enough.” He passed her a full tankard. “Anyone give you any trouble, lass? No stray hands?”

“They know yer pub don’t run to that, Jack, which is why me ma let me work ’ere. I think they all know me anyway.” She tossed her curls and beamed at Julian. “Though I don’t think as how I’ve seen you before, sir.”

Her innocence was blinding. It made him wonder about Jack Blackbourn. What was he doing employing a young, innocent barmaid and then ensuring the patrons weren’t hassling her? A publican hired barmaids to entice their patrons.

“If I’d known such beauty would be here, I would’ve frequented the Jolly Smuggler before.” Julian took her hand and kissed it as he would any lady of the ton.

“Go on with you, sir!” She laughed, a delighted sound full of youth and merriment. Tossing her hair again, she sauntered away, the tankard hoisted on a tray.

“Well, now, you’ve made our Mary’s day.” Blackbourn’s eyes narrowed in speculation.

“If a man can’t make a girl blush with a pretty compliment,” Julian said, lifting his pint, “he ought to retire the field.”

“The truth if I’ve ever heard it!” The barman guffawed and slapped the counter. “Your drink’s on me, sir, for putting a smile on young Mary’s pretty mouth and making me laugh.”

“Thank you, Blackbourn, though I have a mind to pay you anyway. For information.”

“Information?” He sobered quickly. Took one half step back from the counter. “I don’t give out information, paid or not.”

“Everyone has a price, Blackbourn,” Julian said softly.

The barkeep narrowed his eyes. “Not me.”

“No? Let’s try this, then.” Julian slid a large pound note across the counter. “I’m looking for someone who can ship something across the Channel, no questions asked, for a high fee. I’ll be back in a week. Let me know if someone comes to mind.” He downed the remainder of the ale, set the tankard on the counter and walked toward the door.

“Leaving so soon, sir?” Mary called out as she flounced by.

“I am, though I think I may be leaving the sunshine behind, for no beauty can shine as brightly as yours.” He bowed with a flourish and quit the pub on Mary’s happy laughter.

The grin on his face died only a few moments later as he rounded the side of the pub and approached the small cottage at the rear.

Built of wood and covered by a thatched roof, it was attached to the pub at an awkward angle. The windows were dark. He imagined the entire family, however many there were, worked the pub and the kitchens when called for. Blackbourn himself behind the counter, his wife in the kitchen and the children, if any, where needed. Which left the cottage empty.

The cottage door had a useless lock. Blackbourn might as well remove it. It was no barrier to anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of lock picks. Julian's knowledge was not rudimentary. He slid his knife from his boot before pushing open the door. It was a quieter weapon than the pistol, though he didn’t expect to need either.

Standing on the threshold, he listened to the night. He could hear the dull rush of the ocean, voices from the pub. But the cottage was silent.

He stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The furnishings were simple, the style spartan. Yet it was welcoming. Curtains hung at the window and wildflowers sat in an earthenware bowl on the single table. Cheerful quilts lay over straw mattresses in the bedrooms.

He didn’t light a candle. Searches could be conducted in the dark easily enough if a man knew what he was about. Within a half hour he’d thoroughly searched the simple cottage, including all of Blackbourn’s personal documents. He looked for hollow walls, secret drawers and false-bottomed trunks. He found a number of interesting items, including expensive French brandy and other liquors under some loose floorboards.

Then he found the ledgers. Within minutes he knew with certainty just how deep into treason Jack Blackbourn was.

“T
HANK YOU FOR
calling, Lady Elliott.” Grace watched the other woman sink onto the settee in the front salon of Cannon Manor. Her sad eyes were shadowed, her cheeks thin. She looked as tired as Grace had ever seen her. “The tea should be here in a moment.”

“Thank you.” Lady Elliott smoothed her skirts. “I heard the news of your marriage.”

“You and most of Devon,” she said. “Cannon Manor has received more callers during the past two days since the banns were read than in the last five years.”

“I’m not surprised. I’ve heard of nothing else but that Miss Gracie is marrying the Wandering Earl.” She laid a gentle hand on Grace’s arm. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” Never mind that she wanted to cry. She swallowed the tears clogging her throat. Her course was set and there was no turning back. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.”

“I imagine so, particularly when you go to London after the ceremony,” Lady Elliott said. “Then again, the earl is such a worldly traveler, perhaps he’ll be leaving for the Continent soon. Will you be traveling with him?” Curiosity replaced the usual lingering sadness in Lady Elliott’s eyes.

“Ah—” Terrifyingly, she didn’t know. “We haven’t fully discussed our future travel plans,” Grace answered. It was the only statement she could think of that wouldn’t be an outright lie.

“I see.” Lady Elliott sent Grace a commiserating look. “These things do take time to work out.”

“Yes,” Grace agreed vaguely, her mind already focused on the future. Would she have to leave Devon? Would she be required to live in London? On the Continent?

In the end, she would be at the mercy of a man she knew nothing about.

“My husband met the earl while out for a ride and invited him to tea. He met my boys.” Lady Elliott paused, drawn brows and down-turned lips evidencing her bafflement, before adding, “He seemed quite interested in them. I wouldn’t think such a worldly gentleman would want to speak with two such . . . active boys, but the earl did. In fact, he went back out to the stables—just after he’d come in from them—to inspect the boys’ new ponies.”

The tea trolley rolled in with the maid following in its wake. She set out the cups and pot, then added a plate of seedcakes. Grace offered her thanks with a smile as the girl left. She picked up the pot and began to pour.

“How are Sir Richard and the boys?” Grace asked, passing a teacup.

“Well enough, I suppose.” Lady Elliott shrugged her thin shoulders. “Sir Richard seems to be forever closeted with someone or another about business or his horses. The boys—well, I don’t need to go into detail.” She stared into her tea.

“I noted Bryan’s arm was healing well when I last saw him.”

“I’ve told the boys time and again that a well-bred young man doesn’t ride bareback or perform tricks.” Lady Elliott’s gaze was fixed on the plate of seedcakes. “His father is to blame for that broken arm. He encourages them both to be reckless.”

“They seem to have fun, though.” Grace reached for a cake.

“That’s true.” Lady Elliott’s transfixed gaze followed Grace’s hand as the seedcake made its way to her lips. “I’d hoped by now they would have found a cause. Something to excite them. Something with meaning. Or at least become interested in their studies.”

Grace bit into the cake. Lady Elliott paled and her breathing shallowed. She swallowed cautiously.

“What’s wrong, Lady Elliott?” Grace kept her voice low, as she might with a wounded animal.

“I’m going to be ill.” Lady Elliott pressed a hand to her mouth.

“Breathe,” Grace commanded. She slid over to the settee and put her arm around Lady Elliott’s shoulders. “Breathe through your nose, slowly. Deliberately. One in, two out. Three in, four out.”

Lady Elliott gripped her hand and breathed with Grace’s count. As the color came back into her face, she leaned gingerly back against the settee. Her movements were slow and careful, as though she were afraid to upset the balance of her stomach.

“Thank you,” Lady Elliott said.

“Of course.” Grace squeezed the other woman’s hand. “What’s the matter? Can you tell me? Are you ill?”

Lady Elliott contemplated their joined hands for a long moment. Then she lifted shining eyes. “I’m with child.”

“Oh.
Oh.
I’m so glad. So happy for you.” She squeezed Lady Elliott’s hand again, genuinely pleased.

“I’ve only known for a few weeks, so it might not—” She stopped and drew a long breath. “I’m hoping for a girl this time. A small, sweet girl.” She trilled a laugh. “It’s the seedcakes, Gracie. I simply can’t stand the thought of them, let alone the taste. It’s the oddest thing, really. I wasn’t the least bit bothered by foods with the boys, but with this baby the simplest foods make me ill.”

“You sound happy.” And looked it, she added silently. Lady Elliott glowed with happiness.

“I am. Oh,
I am
. I’ve waited so long.”

“For a girl?”

Lady Elliott opened her mouth to answer, then swiveled her gaze to the door. “Lord Langford, how nice to see you.”

Grace’s pulse skipped. The Earl of Langford filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and lean frame, elegant as ever in a blue superfine coat and nankeen breeches. “Lady Elliott, Miss Hannah.” He flashed a grin and swept a bow in their direction, eyes twinkling. “Lady Elliott, you look lovely today. Your eyes are simply full of sunshine.”

The lady laughed, the merriest sound Grace had ever heard from that sad mouth. “My lord, you are positively foolish.” But she beamed at him nonetheless.

“My lord,” Grace greeted him, rising from her chair.

“Miss Hannah.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes stayed on hers, gleaming devilishly.

“How are your sons, Lady Elliott?” He kept his fingers twined around Grace’s. She wanted to tug them free, but was afraid to draw too much attention to them.

“Active as ever,” Lady Elliott answered, waving her hand dismissively. “But I really should be leaving, Gracie. No, I know the way, and there’s always Binkle.” She waved Grace back to her seat and was gone.

They were alone. Without a proper chaperone.

Grace could only stare into his eyes, focused so intently on her. Consumed by sudden nerves, she tugged her fingers free and folded them in front of her. She cast about for an appropriate topic of conversation. What did one say to the man that compromised you?

“Would you care to stroll in the gardens?” he asked.

“Yes,” she agreed with relief.

He offered his arm. She placed her fingers on it, conscious of him with every fiber of her body. She and the earl would soon do much more than exchange kisses. If he didn’t jilt her, of course.

They stepped into the gold September sunlight. The day was still, without a breeze to stir the air, though the chill of autumn hung on the air. Summer blossoms had slowly given way to fall flowers, which bloomed in a riot of rich colors and scents. Grace took a deep breath and let the sweet aromas soothe away the tension.

She raised the first topic that came to mind. “You met Lady Elliott’s sons?”

He laughed. “A pair of scamps.”

“You sound like you enjoyed them,” she said, surprised.

“Because I did.”

Grace wondered at the earl’s interest in two rambunctious and unruly boys. Children did not seem to fit his charming personality—or the cold calculation that hid behind the blue eyes. How much did she really know about the earl, aside from his powers of seduction?

“I imagine you were a similar scamp at that age,” she ventured.

He was quiet for a long moment. “I was never like those boys,” he murmured. “With a father like mine, I could never be so lighthearted and carefree.”

“Was your father—” She broke off. “I’m sorry.”

He continued to stroll casually through the garden, but Grace could feel the tension in the arm beneath her fingers. “It’s well known my father was a bastard, Miss Hannah, though not by birth. He was a quintessential Travers male.” Derision dripped from the words.

“I apologize. I have no right to pry into such matters.”

“No?” He raised a brow. “But I have been well-informed of your parentage.”

She closed her eyes, steadied herself. Of course he had. She should have known Uncle Thaddeus would tell him. The need to move rippled through her.

She stepped away from him and bent to examine a bed of purple-red betony blossoms. Gripping a thick weed that hid between the trumpet-shaped blooms, she dug through the cool, rich soil for the root. “I suppose Uncle Thaddeus wanted to make sure you knew exactly what you were obtaining in a wife?” she said bitterly.

“Indeed.” His tone was mild. “Lord Cannon thought it only right in the event you provide me with an heir.”

“My mother married beneath her.” She yanked hard on the root bundle. It burst from the ground in a shower of dirt. “So far beneath her, in fact, that her father and brother disowned her.”

“I believe the term your uncle used was ‘baseborn laborer.’”

She shuddered even as she tossed the weed away. “Mother had a modest income—a very modest income—left to her from my grandmother, so she and my father moved to Kent where he had some relatives. They loved each other and were happy.
I
was happy,” she finished fiercely. She tilted her chin, daring him to argue with her.

“I can see you were.” He studied her carefully, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood beside the flower bed she crouched in.

“If you want to cry off—”

“Why would I?” He gently drew her to her feet.

“Because I’m a baseborn laborer’s daughter. I have no lineage and no social graces to offer you. I’ll make a dreadful countess.” She hadn’t even realized her fear until she’d voiced it. She stepped back onto the garden path. “It’s not as though we’re marrying by choice.”

“You don’t want to marry me? Ah, I know.” She knew he was baiting her from the laugh in his eyes. “It’s my lack of smuggling experience that has failed to win you over. What must I do to earn your esteem, fair lady? Offer you a trunk of the finest smuggled French silk?” He took her hand and brought it to his lips in a grand, sweeping gesture. “Perhaps then I shall be able to compete with the notorious Jack Blackbourn for your affections.”

She was powerless to stop the bubble of laughter that escaped her lips.

“If you want to compete with Jack, you’ll have to captain your own ship and go to France yourself. Jack would do nothing less.” She let him tuck her hand in his elbow once more as they continued down the path.

“Alas, I have no ship! I suppose I shall always be second in your affections, then. What a way to start a marriage.”

“Do be serious.” She struggled to keep the smile from her face.

“Must I?”

“Yes. Our conversation has strayed into the ridiculous once again.”

“So it has. Very well.” He sighed. “Make no mistake, fair lady. I won’t leave you at the altar.”

She let out a breath. Studying the hard, suddenly serious planes of his face, she thought perhaps she could trust him. But there was much that stood between them. She couldn’t hide smuggling from him once they were married, yet how could she tell the truth? She was, in fact, a criminal. She cleared her throat and started with the simplest topic.

“There are items that should be discussed about our future, such as what, exactly, you expect from this union.”

“To be honest, Miss Hannah, I expect little. In fact, I expect only what you’re comfortable with.” He stopped walking and turned to face her.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You may live at Thistledown for our entire marriage, or you may live in London. You may live at any of my other estates for that matter. If you never want to see me again, that can be arranged. You can share my bed”—he gave her a long, hot look—“or not. Whatever your pleasure.”

He was silent for a moment before continuing, as though carefully choosing his words. “As I said in my note, I regret that my actions have forced you into this situation, but it can’t be changed. I won’t force you any further into a situation you cannot abide. I would have us be friends, Miss Hannah. Lovers, if you are agreeable, but friends at the least.”

Thoughtful, Grace searched his lean, handsome face and deep eyes, struggling to reconcile this serious gentleman with the laughing would-be smuggler. “I believed there was much more beneath the surface than you show the world. Now I am certain of it.”

“There’s always more beneath the surface. Take yourself, for instance.” He ran a callused finger against her cheek. “All that smooth, white skin and fair hair. The serene expression. And such passion beneath.”

He cupped her cheek, a gentle, testing touch. She couldn’t stop herself from turning into his hand until her lips touched his palm. Yet their gazes didn’t stray and she saw the blue turn dark with desire.

“I want all that passion,” he whispered. “But I won’t take more than you will give.”

His lips swooped down to claim hers. The kiss was hot and hungry, even a little possessive. He cupped her face, smoothed his fingers over her cheeks and ravished her mouth.

She sighed and let her body relax into his, let his passion fill her. Heat curled in her belly as his hands skimmed her neck, her shoulders, then down to her waist. His mouth moved over hers, giving, taking, and just a little wild. She gripped his shoulders, then let her fingers delve into his thick hair. She met his mouth with her own, matching him with her hunger.

When he pulled away, she sighed once more, this time in regret.

“Miss Hannah—”

“Just Grace. There’s no sense in calling me Miss Hannah at this point.” Not when his arms were still wrapped around her and her lips were throbbing from his kisses.

“Ah.” He cupped her face again, and once more smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks, this time with absolute gentleness. “Grace,” he breathed. For a moment, regret shimmered over his face. Then it disappeared into an impassive mask that set her nerves humming. “We do have one vital item to discuss. One that might, in fact, change our marriage.”

“It’s Michael, isn’t it?” Her stomach sank. “You’re wondering what happened with Michael Wargell.”