The Smuggler Wore Silk (28 page)

“I killed a man last night, Julian. I stared down the barrel of my pistol, pulled the trigger and killed him. What does that make me?”

“Grace—”

“By your reasoning, I’m a murderer.”

He only shook his head.

“Do you know why I fired that pistol and killed a man? Because I love you, Julian.” Saying the words sent her heart soaring. And left her belly quivering with nerves. She swallowed hard. “I love you, and I would do whatever I had to in order to protect you.”

He turned, stared, his eyes wide with shock. “Why?” he whispered hoarsely.

How could he ask such a thing? “For so many reasons,” she answered.

He searched her face, his eyes staring intently into hers. Then he turned away from her.

Her heart plummeted, dropping off the cliff and into the black. She’d taken the step, said the words, and he’d turned away. Again. Despair clogged her throat, dragged at her. It was so deep, so dark that it was beyond tears.

“You can’t love me, Grace.” He looked over his shoulder at her. His face was hard, his mouth one firm line. But his eyes were unbearably sad.

“Because your father killed your mother? That’s not your fault.”

“It’s—”

“No,” she snapped. “It isn’t. You were a young child who couldn’t have stopped him. And you’re not your father. He was cruel and immoral and dissolute. You’re not.”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I do know. I sat side by side with you when Fanny’s child was born. You held the hand of stranger as she labored to bring a babe into the world.”

“Grace. Stop it.” He shook his head as if to ward off her words.

“And you’re not Miles Butler. He’s selfish and reckless, with no thought beyond himself and his desires. He’s never considered the consequences of his actions on the young men at war for this country. Everything you’ve done, anyone you may have killed, has been for your country. And I watched you stay your hand last night when you could have killed Miles Butler. You didn’t.”

“You think too highly of me.”

“No. I know you. I
love
you.”

“You can’t possibly.”

“I do,” she whispered through the tears that clogged her throat. “And I always will.”

He staggered under the weight of her words. She reached out once more, and this time he stepped toward her. Dropping to his knees, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his face against her belly.

He made no sound, only held her there while she stroked his hair and wept for him.

When his grip eased, she cupped his cheeks and raised his face. Those gorgeous summer sky eyes were dry, and the heartbreak in them seemed to rend her in two. She brushed her lips against his. The kiss was soft, tender. Full of light and warmth and love. A meeting of souls.

“Come to our room now,” she whispered, drawing him to his feet.

His hand was warm and strong in hers as she led him out of the countess’s suite. She closed the door softly but firmly. “Don’t lock it, Julian.”

“I won’t. It will always be open to you.”

Now it was his turn to lead her back to their chamber. To their bed. As they sank onto the soft mattress, he pulled back. His mouth hovered over hers.

“Where would you like to go, my lady smuggler?” He traced a thumb over her lips.

“Anywhere.” She smiled slowly. “As long as I’m with you.”

Dear Reader:

The most difficult and fascinating aspect of writing historical romance is research. I could spend hours (and have!) researching the minutia of daily lives, fashion, food and politics. It’s difficult knowing, however, that for every detail I get right, another detail is likely wrong. I hope you will forgive my mistakes. I assure you, I diligently research, but sometimes I am just plain incorrect. It happens more often that I would like.

When researching, the best place to start is always primary sources. I owe so much to Google Books! When Grace stitches herself up, she quotes The London Medical Dictionary, Volume 2, by Bartholomew Parr, published in 1809. The ditty sung by John the blacksmith is part of a song printed in The British Minstrel, and National Melodist, Volume 1, published in 1827 by Sherwood, Gilbert, and Piper, and John Bumpus. I love learning these little bits of history from the original sources.

Such a primary source is how I stumbled on Jack Rattenbury, the smuggler I patterned Jack Blackbourn after. Jack was a joy to write, but that is because he arrived in my brain fully formed. When researching smuggling during the Regency, I ran across a book called Memoirs of a Smuggler. It was written in 1837 by the infamous smuggler Jack Rattenbury, the self-styled “Rob Roy of the West.” I fell in love with Jack and his escapades and decided I simply must include him in The Smuggler Wore Silk. Of course, I took great license with his character and life, but as with all fiction, there is a kernel of truth at the base.

The real Jack Rattenbury was born in Beer and by the age of age of sixteen had already been a privateer, an apprentice on a ship and imprisoned in Bordeaux. He’d traveled to New York, Copenhagen, France and a few other places. When he returned to Beer in his sixteenth year, he thought to try his hand at fishing, but found it dull and tiresome after his “roving life.” As the smuggling industry was booming at that time, he decided to make his fortune that way.

Jack was cheeky and confident, and seemed to me to have a delightful sense of humor. He was known for his clever escapes, including hiding in a chimney to escape the customs officers—a fact I shamelessly used for this book, but which had no relation to treason. He left the smuggling business briefly to run a public house in 1809. The pub failed after a few years, however, and he went back to smuggling. So that part of the story is true, though the dates might be a bit sketchy. He was not arrested for treason that I know of, though he was arrested multiple times. He usually managed a clever escape, of course.

Jack married a woman named Anna, who was as daring as her husband. She helped orchestrate a number of Jack’s escapes, including steering a boat alongside a brig so Jack could jump ship. When the second mate started to shoot at Jack, Anna “wrested the piece out of his hands.” A brave woman, was Anna Rattenbury!

With Jack Rattenbury in mind, I crafted my Jack Blackbourn. I tried to do justice to his sense of humor and ingenious escapes. I don’t know if the real Jack would approve of my Jack, but I hope so. And I hope you enjoyed reading him as much I enjoyed writing him!

T
HE WOMAN SHOULDN’T
have been in the thick of battle. But she rose out of the acrid smoke, perched high atop a chestnut horse and wearing the scarlet coat of a cavalry officer.

The Marquess of Angelstone staggered through rows of trampled corn, shock rippling through him as the woman raised a cavalry sabre high into the air. A shrill whistle sounded overhead. Instinctively, Angel ducked as cannon artillery pounded through the ranks, blasting into the earth and showering him with dirt and black powder.

The woman on horseback didn’t flinch.

He staggered forward, coughing, ears ringing, as soldiers around him fell or scattered. Pressing a hand to his jacket pocket, Angel fingered the square shape of the letter he carried there. He hadn’t known he’d have to fight his way to Wellington to deliver it.

The horse turned a tight circle, one of the woman’s hands gripping the reins. The sabre in her other hand flashed like quicksilver in the sunlight. Her grip on the steel blade was untrained, her movements awkward. But fury and hate blazed from her eyes and seemed to fuel her sabre as it sliced across the chest of a French soldier. The man collapsed, shrieking and clutching at welling blood.

The woman turned away, already arcing her sabre toward another enemy soldier, and Angel lost sight of her.

Reflex sent Angel’s bayonet plunging as a Frenchman reared up in front of him, face contorted by fear. When the man screamed, regret shot through Angel before he forced it away. It was kill or be killed. There was no time for regret.

He surged forward with the ranks of foot soldiers, compelled to look for the woman. The muddied ground sucked at his feet, threatening to pull him beneath thundering hooves and panicked soldiers. Broken corn stalks slashed at his face. The sulfur smell of black powder burned his nose, mixing with the scent of men’s fear.

He fought past a charging enemy soldier, spun away from another and saw her again.

Soot streaked her grim face. She grinned at the enemy standing before her but the smile was terrible. The man paled and aimed his rifle at her. He was not fast enough to beat her sword.

When that soldier, too, fell under her sabre, she looked up. Over the dead soldier and through the swirling gray smoke, Angel met her eyes. They were a chilling, pale blue and held only one thing.

Vengeance.

She pulled on the reins and her horse reared up, hooves pawing at the air. Angel planted his feet and braced for impact. But the hooves never struck. The woman kept her seat, her jaw clenched, and continued to hold his gaze.

The battle faded away, booming cannons falling on his deaf ears. The gray, writhing smoke veiled the dying soldiers and hand-to-hand battle being waged around him.

He only saw her merciless eyes. Blood roared in his ears and the beat of his pulse became as loud as the cannons. A high, powerful note sang through him.

The woman’s horse whinnied as its hooves struck the earth again. Standing in the stirrups, she thrust her sword aloft and howled. The battle cry that echoed over the field carried with it the sting of rage and unfathomable grief. She wheeled the horse, spurred his sides and charged through battling soldiers, her blond hair streaming behind her.

And she was gone, obscured by clouds of dark smoke and the chaos of battle.

July 1817

A
LASTAIR
W
HITMORE
, M
ARQUESS
of Angelstone—code name Angel—coughed into his gloved hand in the hope of discreetly hiding his laugh. A man shouldn’t laugh when a fellow spy was being hunted by a woman.

“Oh, my lord,” the brunette tittered. “Truly, you are a remarkable figure of a man.”

The Earl of Langford—poor hunted bastard—lifted his annoyed gaze over the short matron and met Angel’s eyes. The woman leaned forward, her powdered cleavage pressing against Langford’s arm.

Angel quirked his lips. The brunette’s fawning was highly amusing, since it wasn’t directed at himself.

“If you will excuse me,” Langford said, “I must speak with Lord Angelstone about an urgent matter.”

“Indeed?” Angel didn’t bother to conceal his merriment. “I wasn’t aware we needed to discuss an urgent matter.”

“It has just come to my attention,” Langford ground out. He extricated his sleeve from the woman’s grasping fingers and eased away from her.

“Must you go?” The brunette pouted rouged lips. Feathers trembled on her turbaned head as she sent a coy look toward Langford. “I truly feel we should further our acquaintance, my lord. You have been in the country for
months
.”

“With my
wife
.”

The brunette’s mouth fell open. “But, you are in London. She is not here this evening. I thought—”

“My dear lady,” Angel said smoothly, sliding between the pair. He might as well stage a rescue mission. “As I’m sure you are aware, his lordship has many demands on his time. Not the least being his wife and new daughters.”

“I see.” Without even a single remorseful glance, she turned her back on Langford. Sharp eyes flicked over Angel. Subtle as a stalking elephant. “Well. You are unmarried, Lord Angelstone.”

“Indeed. But alas, I am otherwise engaged for the evening.” Angel raised the woman’s chubby fingers until they were just a breath away from his lips. “A pity, for you would have been a most enchanting diversion.” He wondered if his tongue would turn black after such lies.

“Perhaps another day, Lord Angelstone.” She preened, patting her bosom as though to calm her racing heart. The cloying scent of eau de cologne drifted up, and Angel fought the urge to sneeze.

“Perhaps.” Angel let her fingers slide out of his. He bowed. “Good evening, ma’am.”

As the brunette waddled away, Langford sighed gustily beside him. “A female predator, that one.” He brushed at his coat sleeve. “She was getting powder everywhere.”

Angel smothered a grin. “You’ve been married and ensconced in the country too long, my friend, if you’ve forgotten how our society ladies once adored you.”

“Not as much as they currently adore you.”

“True. A title does that. Now, did you truly have something to discuss?”

“No.” Langford palmed his pocket watch and flipped open the case. He frowned at the small glass face. “But I do intend to make my escape. I’ve had enough weak punch, innuendos and pleasantries for one evening. And Grace is waiting at home.”

“How is your countess?” With a wife such as Langford’s, he could understand the desire to hide in the countryside.

The frown cleared and Langford grinned at Angel. “She is still tired from the birthing, but she shooed me out for an evening when she learned of my assignment.” The watch disappeared into a waistcoat pocket.

“Ah. I wondered if you were here for business or pleasure.”

“A little of each.” Langford’s shoulder jerked up in a halfhearted shrug. His eyes roved the room. “You?”

“The same.” In truth, it was always business. A spy never did anything simply for pleasure.

Angel studied the ballroom. It was an impossible crush. Guests bumped up against one another as they laughed and flirted. Diamonds winked and painted fans fluttered as women entertained suitors and friends. Footmen threaded through the crowd carrying trays of gold champagne and rose-colored punch. Surrounding it all were the subtle notes of a string quartet and the scent of candle wax.

Such was the glittering and dazzling world of the ton. But underneath the gleaming polish of society were passions and intrigue and secrets. It was his mission to seek them out. And beyond his government assignments, beyond the political intrigues, was the enemy who had assassinated a woman four years ago.
His
woman.
Gemma.

Cold anger turned him from the scene. “I believe I may follow your lead and make my escape as well.” He wanted his own hearth, a brandy and his violin. The constant din of voices grated and the endlessly changing pattern of dancers was visually dizzying. He scanned the room once more. A wave of people ebbed and flowed, came together and parted.

And he saw her. No cavalry coat. No sabre. Insteed of wearing steel of weaponry, only a gown of silver netting over white muslin. A painted fan fluttered languidly near her face. No howling battle cry now, only the sensual curving of her lips as she bent her head toward a military officer.

Something clutched inside him as the battleground superimposed itself over the ballroom. Twirling women became French soldiers, the sound of stringed instruments became the whistle of a blade. The scent of gunpowder stung his nostrils and the pounding of artillery rang in the air. The scene swirled around the woman, though she was no longer on horseback.

It had been two years since Waterloo. Two years since he’d seen a bright halo of hair and pitiless eyes full of retribution. He shook his head to will away those memories.

But the woman remained. A bevy of men were gathered around her, jostling for position. The striped waistcoats of the dandies clashed with the brilliant red of soldiers’ uniforms. Then, like an echo of his memories, the Duke of Wellington himself approached the woman. She smiled warmly as he bowed over her hand.

The bevy of suitors stepped back in deference to Wellington, leaving him as alone with the woman as two people could be in a crowded ballroom.

“Who is that woman?” Angel spoke softly, nodding toward the woman. “The one talking to Wellington?”

“Lilias Fairchild. Major Jeremy Fairchild’s widow. He was killed at Waterloo.” Langford raised a brow. “Did you know the major?”

“No.” Angel watched Mrs. Fairchild’s fan tap lightly against Wellington’s arm. A sign of affection rather than flirtation. “What do you know of her?”

“Both Grace and I found her pleasant enough, though one can sense a spine of steel beneath the attractive exterior. She’s known for being private, which has only increased the gossips’ chatter.” Langford lowered his voice. “She followed her husband on the march. They say when the major’s body was brought off the field, she was wild with grief. She took her husband’s horse and sabre and joined the battle.”

The gossips were correct. There had been a wildness in her that day. Across the room, her hair caught the light of the candles and turned a bright yellow-gold. “I’m surprised she’s allowed into this ballroom.” A woman on the march with soldiers, one so unladylike as to fight and kill, should be ostracized by society.

“There are some doors closed to her. But with Wellington himself championing her, society as a whole has accepted her.”

“She should have died.” He’d assumed she had. He’d thought about her periodically over the past two years, the way one did with a striking memory. Her face was the clearest recollection he had of that day. He had never considered she would live, and was vaguely sad to think such a vibrant creature had been struck down. Seeing her alive and whole seemed to defy fate.

“If you ask the troop she marched with, death was her intention,” Langford said softly. “The French called her
La Dame de Vengeance
.”

Vengeance.
It seemed he and the widow Fairchild were two of a kind.

“I know her just well enough to introduce you.” Langford’s glance turned sly.

She wouldn’t remember him from Waterloo. One soldier meeting another on the field of battle was nothing. Not that it mattered. It had been only a moment. A fleeting breath of time that would barely be remembered. Never mind that he’d seen her wild, vengeful eyes in his dreams as often as he’d seen Gemma’s dying eyes.

As Wellington bent to speak to Mrs. Fairchild, the woman angled her head and let her gaze wander the room. She should not have seen him. Guests danced and flirted and laughed between them, blocking her view. But like an arrow piercing fog, she trained her blue eyes unerringly on Angel.

There was no vengeance there this time, but still they seemed to blaze. The color of them, the shape of them, ignited a visceral beat low in his belly. As did the lush curves even the most flowing gown couldn’t conceal.

Recognition flared in the widow’s eyes. Her lips lifted on one side before she flicked her gaze back to Wellington. The duke bowed his farewell and retreated into the crush.

“Introduce me.”

“You’re asking for trouble with that one, my friend.” Langford laughed. “Which means it would be my pleasure to introduce you.”

Langford pushed through the crowd. Angel followed, brushing past silks and satins and elaborate cravats. Mrs. Fairchild’s eyes tracked his movements across the floor. It was odd to be studied with such interest, even as he studied her. Flanked by soldiers and gentlemen festooned in evening wear and vying for the position closest to her, she seemed to be an island of calm.

He narrowed his eyes. No, not calm. Confidence. There were no affectations, no feminine vapors. A woman who killed a French soldier in the thick of battle had no time for vapors.

“Lord Langford,” she said as they approached. Her eyes flashed briefly in Angel’s direction, then back to Langford. “It is good to see you again. How are your wife and daughters?”

“Quite well, thank you. The twins are a handful already.” Langford grinned. It wasn’t clear whether the grin was for his daughters or Angel, as he slid an amused glance in Angel’s direction. “Mrs. Fairchild, may I present the Marquess of Angelstone?”

“Lord Angelstone.” Her voice moved over him like velvet, smooth and rich. “But we’ve met before.”

“We have indeed, Mrs. Fairchild.” He bowed over her hand. “Though the circumstances were quite different.”

Langford’s brow rose. The message was clear enough.

“We met in battle.” Mrs. Fairchild tilted her head. Candlelight shadowed dramatic cheekbones and full, ripe lips. “I’m afraid names were not exchanged.”

“My condolences on the loss of your husband,” Angel said.

“Thank you.” Her face softened. “He was a good man.”

“And a good solider, I’ve heard,” Langford added. “Will you be in London long, Mrs. Fairchild?”

“Through the Season, I think.” She smiled, a subtle, feline turning up of her lips. “Will you dance with me, Lord Langford? So I can pretend I’m not too old for all this nonsense?”

“For you, Mrs. Fairchild, I’ll brave the dance floor—but not tonight. I must return to my wife.”

“A flattering escape.”

“Indeed. Now, I see your punch glass is empty. I’d offer to get you another”—Langford looked toward the table holding the punch bowl—“but I have no desire to fight this insufferable crowd.”

Mrs. Fairchild laughed, low and throaty. The sound sent desire spiraling through Angel.

“Go then,” she said, shooing Langford with her closed fan. “I can obtain my own punch.”

“Allow me.” Angel stepped in, offering his arm. Langford, the cur, grinned. Angel ignored him. “I would be honored, Mrs. Fairchild.”

Behind them, the bevy of gentlemen suitors bristled, almost as one. A pack of wolves defending their queen. Or a gaggle of geese flapping uselessly at a predator.

“Thank you, my lord.” She cocked her head to look up at him. A smile flirted with the corners of her lips. “I would be most grateful.”

The gaggle hissed in disappointment.

She set her white-gloved hand on his arm. The touch of her fingers was delicate on his sleeve. As they crossed the room, she splayed open her painted fan and waved it languorously. A lazy ripple of painted wildflowers in the wind. The scent of her skin rose into the air. Clean. Bright. And when she smiled at him once more, his body tripped straight into attraction.