Rapture Becomes Her (15 page)
Read Rapture Becomes Her Online
Authors: Shirlee Busbee
Jeb Brown had been essential to the scheme and once he was on board, Emily and Mrs. Gilbert had looked around for other possible investors.
Emily’s eyes rested on the worn features of little Miss Martha Webber and her widowed sister, Mrs. Gant. Once Miss Webber had been a needlewoman much in demand, but age had twisted her once nimble fingers and she had fallen on hard times. She and Mrs. Gant lived together, barely scraping by, taking in wash and whatever chores the two old women could still do. Emily had hesitated to approach them, but Mrs. Gilbert had urged her to do so. “They’re worse off than I am,” Mrs. Gilbert had said. “I know that Martha and her sister don’t have much between the pair of them, but I suspect they’d be willing to risk a few pounds. Ask them.” Emily had and Miss Webber and Mrs. Gant had eagerly added their mite.
Mrs. Goodson, the widow of a laborer left to fend for herself with a family of starving children, had followed Miss Webber and Mrs. Gant. James Ford, the shoemaker, and Caleb Gates, the blacksmith, had been drawn in next. Mr. Meek, a retired law clerk, had been the last to join the investors.
Mr. Meek had been an excellent addition to their little group. He kept the account books and traveled with the goods to London and oversaw the selling of the contraband to the eager buyers.
Being novices they’d made some mistakes in the beginning—fortunately none that had put an end to their risky enterprise. It had taken time for Jeb to make contacts in France that could be trusted to give them good value for their investments and not cheat them. The same was true for Mr. Meek when he had first attempted to market the contraband in London. These days there were several shopkeepers in London who bought regularly from them and a trio of tavern owners who purchased any spirits they smuggled into the country. For the past two years or so the little group had been making steady profit.
Caleb joined them and Mr. Meek cleared his throat and reported, “We made our best profit yet on this last run—which was also our largest to date.” Looking over his round spectacles perched at the end of his nose, he declared happily, “And some of our clients have already placed orders for our next run. There is a demand for silk, net and French point lace from one of the dressmakers and as usual, our tavern owners have indicated they would take any and all brandy we can transport to London.”
Mr. Meek brought forth a plump leather bag and over the next few minutes the chink of coins could be heard as he dispersed the contents. Counting out the coins before Emily, he added, “Before you is proof of just how splendidly we did.” He set a small bag beside the coins and murmured, “And here is everyone’s share for the next shipment. Keep it safe.”
Emily nodded, and put the bag, which had a nice feel to it, in the deep pocket of her riding habit. From the beginning, she had been the banker and from every run, they’d kept out a portion of the profits, when there was a profit, to pay for the next trip to France to buy contraband goods. She hid it, along with her own profit, in a false baseboard in her bedroom at home.
The bag filled with money for the next run already forgotten, Emily looked at the remaining pile of coins before her and the knot of anxiety that seemed her constant companion loosened. Mrs. Spalding and Walker and the other servants would be paid a bit more this quarter than the paltry sum Jeffery deemed adequate. The old stableman, Hutton, so unfairly let go when Jeffery had hired Kelsey, wouldn’t be penniless and the head shepherd, Loren, would be able to hire a few men to help him during the height of the lambing season—not far off. And Anne . . . Emily eyed the coins, wondering if salvation wasn’t piled right in front of her.
“Another storm should be blowing up before much longer,” Jeb said slowly, interrupting Emily’s thoughts. “Might be a good time for me to make another run to Calais. I can fill our orders and then wait for a storm to return.”
During the storms that lashed the coast, most of the revenue officers would be found huddled inside, nursing a tankard of ale near the fire. Though dangerous, stormy weather gave the smugglers their best chance for a run and to move their goods inland unobserved and unhindered. They routinely braved the raging waves of the Channel to bring their contraband from the French ports of Calais or Boulogne to England.
It was agreed that Jeb should prepare for another run and after a few minutes the group dispersed, leaving Emily and Mrs. Gilbert alone.
Eyes narrowed, Mrs. Gilbert studied Emily. Despite the charming flush in Emily’s cheeks and the jeweled clarity of her eyes, it was obvious something was preying on her mind. Having nursed Emily at her breast, there wasn’t much the younger woman could hide from her and Mrs. Gilbert asked, “What is wrong? And don’t fob me off with some silly tale that you ate something that disagreed with you.”
Emily hesitated only a moment before telling of the danger to Anne.
Mrs. Gilbert sighed. “Your poor father would turn over in his grave if he knew what a scoundrel that cousin of yours is. We shall help you in any way that we can—just say the word and we shall descend upon The Birches armed with only brooms and mops if necessary.”
Emily choked up at her words, touched by the generous loyalty. “I know,” she said when she had command of herself.
Flora, her eyes bright with excitement, stuck her head around the door and exclaimed, “Ma, Lord Joslyn is here! Coo! His manservant, Lamb, is with him.”
Ignoring the flutter in her stomach at the mention of Lord Joslyn’s name, Emily rose to her feet. Pouring her share of the profits into a small silk bag and placing it in her opposite pocket, she said, “I must be off.” She grinned at Mrs. Gilbert. “Go see to your distinguished guest. Who knows? Perhaps his patronage will tear clients away from The Ram’s Head and bring them to your door.”
Mrs. Gilbert smiled back at her. “Perhaps, you are right. Run along with you now . . .” Slyly she added, “Unless of course, you’d like to see Lord Joslyn yourself?”
The faintest shade of pink bloomed in her cheeks, but Emily shook her head. “No. My stepmother and great-aunt will be anxious to hear Mr. Meek’s news.”
Hurrying through the kitchen to the back door of the inn, Emily was waylaid by Molly and Harriet both in a dither over Lord Joslyn’s presence. “Oh, miss,” cried Harriet, at eighteen, the next to youngest daughter, “did you know that Lord Joslyn is here? And his man, Lamb?” Pretty face full of mischief, she added, “Now that Mr. Lamb is the handsomest man I’ve ever seen—I wouldn’t mind a tumble with him.”
Molly fluttered her lashes. “I may be a happily married woman, but I can tell you that just one look from Lord Joslyn and I came near to swooning.”
Despite her problems, Emily laughed. Molly was madly in love with her sailor husband and Harriet had been keeping company with a young farmer she was besotted about—everyone expected a wedding before too many more months went by.
“Shame on the pair of you!” Emily teased. “What would your Billy say?” she asked Molly. “And would you,” she said, pointing a finger at Harriet, “throw away Hampton’s heart for a brief romp?”
Molly smiled and Harriet giggled.
The kitchen was warm and cozy and the Gilbert daughters were hard to get away from, and it was several minutes later before Emily was able to leave.
Halfway across the muddy yard she heard someone say her name. Turning a startled face in the direction of the voice, her heart unaccountably leapt when she recognized the big man leading his horse around the corner of the inn. Lord Joslyn.
She smiled politely and said, “Milord! I did not expect to see you here.”
Leading his horse, Barnaby strolled up to her. “That’s probably,” he said with a smile, “because you have a habit of slipping away at the first opportunity.”
Her chin lifted and a belligerent sparkle in her eyes, she said, “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“What a rapper! But I’m too much a gentleman to argue with a lady.”
“Thank goodness for that,” Emily muttered, not certain whether to be pleased or offended when he laughed. Edging toward the stables, she added, “Now if you will excuse me, I must be on my way.”
“Yes, I know. Mrs. Gilbert mentioned something to that effect.”
Her head whipped around. “Mrs. Gilbert told you I was here?” she demanded incredulously.
He nodded. “Yes.” Eyes twinkling, he added, “And she suggested that since you were unescorted that I might do nicely as your groom.”
Torn between amusement and embarrassment at Mrs. Gilbert’s flagrant matchmaking, Emily set off with determined strides toward the stables. “I appreciate your offer,” she said politely, “but I have no need of a groom—I have roamed this countryside all my life and I’m quite capable of finding my way home by myself.”
“And leave me to face Mrs. Gilbert with my mission unaccomplished?” Barnaby asked in tones of horror.
Emily fought back the laugh that bubbled up in her throat and walked faster. The man was irrepressible and handsome and attractive and she feared that with very little effort he could charm her into acting like a foolish green girl. And she wasn’t about to let that happen, she reminded herself. She had too many people dependent upon her to lose her head over Lord Joslyn.
Caleb had heard their voices and appeared in the doorway of the stable with her horse. Relieved that the creaking of the saddle and the rattle of her horse’s bit covered the muted clink of the coins concealed on her person, a moment later, Emily was mounted and with Barnaby riding by her side was on her way home.
As the inn receded behind them, Emily asked, “Your man, Lamb? Where is he?”
“Ah, so you
did
know I was there,” he commented, watching the delightful blush spread across her cheeks.
did
know I was there,” he commented, watching the delightful blush spread across her cheeks.
“As I was leaving one of the Gilberts may have mentioned it,” she mumbled, keeping her gaze fixed between her horse’s ears and damning herself for the slip.
“Yes, I’m sure they did,” Barnaby agreed. “As for Lamb, he is a great favorite amongst the females—of any age—and I left him charming Mrs. Gilbert and Faith.”
Seeking a polite topic of conversation, Emily inquired, “Are your cousins still visiting at Windmere?”
“Yes. Mathew has been manfully suppressing the urge to murder me in order to step into my shoes; Tom has been annoying both myself and Simon by echoing Mathew’s pronouncements and Simon continues to throw the cat amongst the pigeons to see what will result.” He shook his head, a smile lurking in his eyes. “I sought refuge at The Crown before I did one of them harm.”
“Your presence at the inn will be a boon for Mrs. Gilbert,” Emily said. “The Ram’s Head has managed to, er, lure many of her clients away. Perhaps when they hear that Lord Joslyn patronizes The Crown some of them will return.”
“I intended to sample the charms of The Ram’s Head later this afternoon,” Barnaby admitted. “But Lamb wanted to reacquaint himself with The Crown and Mrs. Gilbert and her daughters first.”
Emily looked at him, astonished. “Do you usually allow your manservant to decide what you do?”
Barnaby laughed. “I’ve known Lamb all of my life and he is hard to persuade differently when his mind is made up.”
“But he’s your servant!”
“I wouldn’t tell him that,” he replied. “I’m quite certain he’d take great offense.”
His reply baffled her. Lord Joslyn did not appear to be a man who allowed others to direct him, yet he had deferred his own plans because of the wishes of his manservant. She tried to envision Jeffery accommodating his valet, Bundy, in such a manner, or even her father changing his plans to suit one of his servants,
any
servant, but she could not. It was unthinkable, yet Lord Joslyn apparently had done just that and thought nothing of it.
any
servant, but she could not. It was unthinkable, yet Lord Joslyn apparently had done just that and thought nothing of it.
She eyed him, noting the strong features, the firm chin and hard jaw, the powerful build. A big man, he sat his horse with a careless grace that she admired and she was, she admitted, far, far too aware of him in ways that alarmed her. Her gaze dropped down to the masculine hands holding the reins, a curious thrill racing through her as she remembered the warmth of those hands around her waist when he had tossed her into the buggy the other night.
Ignoring her silly reaction to him, she concluded that there was nothing about him that indicated a weak nature. Quite the contrary, he exuded strength and confidence and gave the impression that this was a man used to having his own way.
She looked up and realized he had been watching her as she studied him. Embarrassment flooded her and, jerking her eyes away from him, she babbled, “It’s a lovely day for January, isn’t it? Oh, you wouldn’t know, would you—this is your first January in England. Is the weather here comparable to that in, in . . . Virginia, isn’t it?”
Barnaby suppressed a laugh. She was enchanting—even when trying to keep him at a distance. He enjoyed fencing with her and seeing the vivid color come and go in that lovely face, and he had discovered that provoking that flash of temper in those long-lidded gray eyes delighted him. Emily Townsend amused, intrigued and fascinated him, and he suspected uneasily that she always would. And then there were all those fierce emotions she evoked within him, and that wasn’t counting the allure of her long, supple, luscious body. . . . She was, he admitted, a great temptation to a man that had never thought to marry. . . .
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