The Smuggler and the Society Bride (20 page)

While Lady Alicia continued to rattle on, deploring the Carlow girl's loss of reputation and prospects, Gabe scarcely heard her. Ringing over and over like a death knell in his head were those three words: Lady Honoria Carlow.

After the first shock, anger blazed through him. He could somewhat understand why she might have concealed her identity upon coming to Cornwall. When the mighty have fallen—and this would have been a fall of gargantuan proportions—they'd naturally prefer not to have a host of idle bystanders pointing and smirking at the wreckage.

By why had she not confided her true identity to him, especially after he told her he intended to come to London? She must
have known when he did so, he would inevitably discover the truth.

Aunt Foxe's odd look and final warning made more sense now: ‘Anything else that needs to be said should come directly from my niece; it's not my place to intervene' and ‘I hope you are prepared for whatever you might discover.'

Prepared, indeed! So much for his pretty daydreams of a future with Miss Foxe—no, Lady Honoria.

Lady Honoria.

He almost laughed at his idiocy. Once his tenure as the
Flying Gull's
captain was over, he'd had some hope of continuing their friendship, even with a well-connected Miss Marie Foxe. He was a gentleman's son and his brother, Sir Nigel, was thought to have made an excellent match when he wed the daughter of an Anglo-Irish viscount.

But to attempt a connection to the
daughter
of an
English
earl, a man important in government circles?

His heart protested that despite any difference in rank, there was a true connection between them, both physical and emotional. She felt it as keenly as he, that kinship of minds and yearning of the senses. A link such as he had never felt with any other, a bond that was rare and priceless.

Perhaps important back in Cornwall, common sense told him. In the eyes of the wider world, however, even for a respectable Gabriel Hawksworth returned to take up his position as the landless younger brother of an Irish baron, such a connection meant nothing; one to a Cornish free-trader less than nothing.

He was mad even to dream of a future with her.

No wonder Aunt Foxe asked him if he were prepared for what he might find.

Out of a sick feeling of despair, his anger resurged. Why, he raged again, had Miss Foxe—no,
Lady Honoria
—allowed him to come to London without warning him?

Maybe she felt his claim of pursuing vindication for her was only an idle boast that might never come to anything. Or that,
even if he acted upon his intentions, he would be unable to turn up anything to vindicate her.

Well, to be fair, he hadn't made it clear that he intended to leave for London immediately nor that he was going to consult with her aunt. Without the connection Aunt Foxe had provided to Lady Alicia, he might well have never discovered the circumstances behind the old scandal—or stumbled upon her true identity.

Grudgingly, he admitted he could understand her not wishing to disclose her real name if nothing could be done to ameliorate her position. And after all that had happened to her, she'd certainly earned the right to be cautious.

Not that it mattered. There could not be anything between them now anyway.

Unless…unless her reputation could not be restored, and she was irretrievably banished from Society. In that case, they might create a world of their own—one where she was not above the touch of the younger brother of a man of small title—even a free-trader. He tried to push the ignoble hope from his head.

He'd push it all from his mind. He still needed to track down the Gypsy and force him to reveal who had hired him to assist in her downfall. And then confront that man.

A righteous anger sizzled in him at the satisfying thought of being able to deal with both the Gypsy and the disgusting, worthless maggot who had deliberately set about to destroy the reputation and honour of an innocent woman.

‘Mr Hawksworth, are you all right?' Lady Alicia's concerned voice recalled him.

Gabe shook himself back to the present. ‘Quite fine, your ladyship,' he responded. ‘Just pondering my next step.'

‘You spoke of trying to redress the wrong done to Lady Honoria. You mean to pursue that?'

‘I do, ma'am.'

‘A lofty aim, sir. Though I fear I have told you nothing that might assist you in that endeavour.'

‘On the contrary, Lady Alicia, you have been most helpful. Thank you again for receiving someone who was wholly unknown to you.' After draining his wine glass, he rose and bowed to her, indicating his intention to take his leave. After an exchange of politenesses and a promise to let her know what eventually happened in his quest to exonerate Lady Honoria, Gabe fled from the room.

 

The disturbing news of Miss Foxe's true identity adding fuel to his frustration and anger, Gabe decided to go immediately to discover what further information he could glean from the jeweller at Phillips, hoping it would be enough for him to track down the Gypsy.

A short hackney ride brought him to Bond Street and Mr Phillip's establishment. As he would have expected of a shop frequented by a Lady Honoria Carlow, he thought, his lip curling, the premises were large and elegantly furnished, with a tasteful assortment of well-designed and undoubtedly expensive jewellery on display.

He walked in, telling the clerk who came to assist him that he had private business to discuss with Mr Phillips alone. Fortunately for his state of restlessness and general irritation, he wasn't kept waiting long. A tall, slim, officious-looking individual, Mr Phillips appeared soon after, escorting him to his office when he repeated that his business was confidential.

‘With what might I assist you, Mr…' the jeweller began.

‘Hawksworth,' Gabe supplied. ‘I recently encountered a gem trader who encouraged me to invest in some diamonds. They appeared to be fine stones, but as I'm no expert, before purchasing any, I wished to consult someone who was. He claimed he had done business with you. A tall, slim, elegant man, slightly foreign in appearance. A Mr Ste—'

‘Steven Hebden,' Mr Phillips interrupted. ‘Yes, I've bought any number of stones from him.'

At that wholly unexpected name, Gabe's heart stopped,
then kicked back into motion. Shocked to his core for the second time in a day, Gabe said, ‘Hebden is his name, you say? Steven Hebden?'

‘Yes, that's right. I can understand your caution, for he does have a slightly—unusual air about him, but I've never known him to deal in any but the highest quality gems. Resides on Bloomsbury Square, I believe. I've sent him notes there on several occasions, when I wished to purchase more gems.'

The jeweller gave him an ingratiating smile. ‘You're interested in investing in diamonds, you said? Might I suggest that acquiring stones already set would constitute an equally sound investment? I presently have some very fine diamond pieces, guaranteed to please the most discriminating taste.'

‘I'm somewhat pressed today; perhaps another time,' Gabe replied, still struggling to assimilate the astounding news. ‘Do you recall which house on Bloomsbury Square?' He placed a guinea on the man's desk.

Swiftly pocketing the coin, the jeweller said, ‘Check with my clerk. He's the one who delivered the notes.'

‘Thank you for the information, sir,' Gabe said, and bowed himself out. After a brief consultation with the clerk, he exited the shop and paced quickly to the nearest hackney stand.

After giving the jarvey the direction to Bloomsbury Square, Gabe let his mind turn over the startling news he'd just received. Hebden! The Gypsy used the name Hebden? Why would he do that…unless the murdered baron's son had not perished in the foundling home fire after all!

Lady Alicia said that the Gypsy woman—perhaps Hebden? Beshaley's mother?—had cursed all the families before leaping to her death. Having seen the Gypsy temperament at close hand, Gabe had no trouble believing that the grown son of a murdered father and a mother pushed to take her own life would believe himself to be the instrument to exact vengeance upon the families she had indicted in her curse.

Would he have acted alone? Was he solely responsible for destroying an innocent girl's life?

Whether or not the Gypsy felt justified in his vengeance, Gabe had a very different notion of honour—and he was about to demonstrate it to him, underscoring its vehemence with his fists.

The London streets seemed more crowded, the transit more dawdling than ever. Gabe was about to stick his head out the window and demand the jarvey pick up the pace when, in a shriek of brakes and squeal of leather, the coach jerked to a stop.

‘This be the house, guv'nor,' the jarvey announced.

Tossing him a handful of coins, Gabe leapt from the vehicle and headed for the entry.

A slow-burning anger, fired to a hotter flame by irritation, anticipation—and the heartache he was trying to suppress over the revelation of Miss Foxe's true status—made Gabe ply the knocker with more than customary vigour. As he stood, nearly prancing in impatience to confront the Gypsy and find some answers at last, the door slowly opened, revealing a tall, swarthy man in a green coat of oriental cut, his head concealed beneath a turban.

‘I wish to see Mr Hebden—or Mr Beshaley—immediately, on a matter of great urgency.'

Making no reply, the tall Indian studied him, remaining silent long enough that, piqued and insulted, Gabe's anger surged higher still. Inspecting him back, Gabe noted the dagger with a jewelled hilt tucked into the sash beneath the man's Bengal coat.

‘A thousand apologies, Sahib, but Master Stephen Sahib is not here,' the man said at last.

‘Not here—or not receiving guests?' Gabe demanded.

‘Not in the house.'

‘Indeed?' Gabe asked, not at all sure he could believe the man. How like Beshaley, to employ this exotic Eastern hulk of a butler! ‘How about I have a look around, just to be sure.'

The Indian shrugged. ‘The Sahib may try to have a look. And I will stop him.' He moved one hand to the hilt of his dagger.

The butler appeared well-conditioned, light on his feet and looked as if he knew how to use that dagger. All the irritation, impatience, fury and despair churning in Gabe's gut fired him to enthusiasm at the prospect of a good fight. The blood lust roaring through his veins, his fists tingling, he could almost taste the satisfaction of letting fly.

But his cause wouldn't be advanced by having the constable called on him for brawling at a gentleman's home, nor would it recommend him to Miss Foxe's—he really must stop thinking of her as Miss Foxe—distinguished family, if he ever met them, which didn't appear likely.

Regretfully, he made himself step back. ‘When do you expect your master to return?' he bit out, irritated further at having to deny himself a good, satisfying row.

‘I do not know, Sahib,' the hulk responded.

‘You must have some indication,' Gabe responded angrily. ‘Later today? Tomorrow? Not until next week?'

Totally impassive in the face of Gabe's anger, the turbaned man simply shook his head. ‘I do not know, Sahib,' he repeated.

‘Or more likely, you will not say,' Gabe muttered. It would be useless to leave a message; if he wished to confront the Gypsy, he would have to return and try to catch him later.

‘Very well,' he told the man. ‘But I will be back.'

The Indian gave him a glimmer of a smile. ‘You would be a worthy opponent, I think, Sahib. Perhaps another time?'

‘Perhaps,' Gabe said, amused despite himself, and he turned to walk away.

He'd accomplished a great deal today: discovering that the woman who fascinated him was far above his station, that her ruin might have been engineered by the half-Gypsy bastard of a long-dead English lord, and that a dagger-wielding Indian servant considered him a suitable opponent.

But despite all his anger, impatience and urgency, he was not going to be able to solve today the mystery of Lady Honoria's disgrace.

A
week later, Honoria set out in the morning for Father Gryffd's school. She ought to be excited and hopeful, and truly she was, for Eva was making great progress with her pastels and Honoria was finding working with the girls to be quite satisfying.

Who could have imagined such a thing? she asked herself wryly. The impatient Lady Honoria, who'd been barely able to tolerate a two-hour session with her governess, spending her mornings as school mistress to a handful of village girls. If any of her London acquaintances heard of it, they'd dismiss the account as sheer fabrication.

Still, a restless dissatisfaction and a deep yearning she couldn't seem to conquer kept crowding in on her determined cheerfulness. A restlesness and yearning that was directly connected to the absence of one Captain Gabriel Hawksworth.

Though she knew after their discussion at the cove that he intended to do some investigating, she'd been surprised and dismayed to discover he'd left Cornwall without a word of goodbye. She'd been even more dismayed—and just a tad jealous—when Aunt Foxe revealed that he had, however, called upon
her
before his departure.

Her aunt had quickly reassured her that she had not divulged
Honoria's identity, even after the captain stated that he meant to go to London. Her real name, Aunt Foxe asserted, was a fact that her niece probably should have revealed to the captain at the same time she trusted him with the other details about her circumstances. Since she had chosen not to, Aunt Foxe had not felt it her place to enlighten him.

However, as he sought information about the old family scandal, she had referred him to her friend Lady Alicia. By now, most likely he had learned everything there was to know about those events—and been given Honoria's real name.

Aunt Foxe had added that she would not be at all surprised if the young man were angry and perhaps hurt, injured by Honoria's failure to trust him with that final bit of information. For she was certain the captain had a decided
tendre
for Honoria.

Did he?
Honoria wondered for perhaps the thousandth time as she urged the mare to a canter down the road toward Sennlack. And if he did, would that warmth of feeling survive discovering she had been less than honest with him about her status?

Her uncertainty over that answer added another layer to the growing sense of impatience and anxiety she was trying to suppress. She kept thinking back to that moment in the cove when, after revealing everything else about that most shameful episode of her life, she'd teetered on the brink of giving her name as well.

But a caution forged of painful experience had restrained her. Would time show that to have been a dreadful mistake? If she'd known he'd be leaving immediately for London, would she have had the courage to confess her deception?

Far more important to her now than solving the mystery of her ruin was retaining the good opinion of the man who had held her so tenderly and kissed her with such fierce passion in the crystalline cove beneath the stone church.

She'd had more than a week to ponder the nature of her feelings for the captain and realize how very unique and
powerful they were. Never had she felt so strong a connection to any other man.

Never longed for his company. Never sat dreamily recalling an expression, a word, a smile. Never woke in the night with the memory of his mouth on hers making her whole body tingle with awareness and need.

Never wanted to put into practice the instructions she'd been clandestinely reading in books slipped out of Aunt Foxe's library.

Though even as recalling those suggestions set desire coiling in her belly, a troubling doubt hovered at the back of her mind. If she ever had the opportunity—and could summon the boldness—to touch him in the manner those books suggested, would the fear and distress burned into her soul by Lord Barwick's attack recur and strike her unawares, as it had the first time she'd kissed him? Make her shrink away from him again, embarrassing, disappointing and frustrating them both?

Well, she concluded testily as the vicarage appeared in the distance, at this rate she'd probably not need to worry about that. The captain must not be missing her as keenly as she was missing him, for he'd already been gone nearly two weeks, ample time to have posted to London and back, and there was still no word of his return.

In fact, Tamsyn had confided to her this morning that the
Flying Gull
had left her moorings over three days ago. Which meant the captain must have quit London to meet his ship at some other port.
To make another smuggling run?
she wondered, anxiety of a different sort filtering through her pique.

Tamsyn had brushed aside her inquiry about what might happen if his ship were captured, saying there weren't no way the Hawk could ever be taken by sea, such a fearsome good sailor he was. However, Honoria's experiences having taught her even the powerful could be brought low, she couldn't share the maid's blithe optimism.

Oh, enough!
she told herself as she rode into the stable yard at the vicarage. After putting off the expedition in order to wait upon the captain's return, she'd decided to take Eva to Captain Hawksworth's cove to sketch today. Hopefully the fresh sea air and the beauty of the spot would inspire not only Eva's drawing, but she herself to a more positive frame of mind.

Though how that could be possible, when every colour and wave, boulder and crag would remind her of the intimacy they'd shared and the kiss that had rocked her to her soul, she wasn't sure.

A kiss that, given his long absence, obviously hadn't had had the same world-shaking effect upon the captain.

With a sigh, she dismounted, handed the reins to the waiting servant and paced to the classroom.

She checked on the threshold, for the room was deserted. Surprised and a bit alarmed, she proceeded on to the vicarage, where the housekeeper answered her rap.

‘Good morning, Mrs Wells,' she began. ‘Did I forget today was to be a holiday?'

‘Oh, miss, you ain't heard the news? Let me call the Father, then, afore he sets out!'

Even more alarmed now, Honoria paced the parlour while the housekeeper fetched the vicar. He hurried in a few moments later, an anxious expression on his kind face.

‘What's amiss?' she cried. ‘Has something happened to the children?'

‘No. One of the miners rode down from the coast to say he saw free-traders transporting a cargo this morning in broad daylight! I thought after the last time, when there was that altercation with the new revenue agent, the local entrepreneurs had agreed 'twas too dangerous to do so during the day, but certain of them must have decided to proceed anyway. I'm very much afraid the riding officers may have caught wind of it and there might be a confrontation.'

He looked at Honoria apologetically. ‘So many of the families, men and women, are involved in carrying the cargo off
the beach that the girls stayed home this morning.' He paused, frowning. ‘Although that doesn't explain why Eva has not come. Perhaps she heard of the excitement and wanted to go watch.'

‘Might that not be dangerous?' Honoria asked. ‘Especially if the riding officers do turn up?'

‘Dangerous indeed,' the vicar replied. ‘That's why I intend to ride out. If it appears there might be bloodshed, perhaps I can try to prevent it.'

‘And get your own head blown off in the process?' Honoria asked, thinking darkly of John Kessel. She doubted the innkeeper's son would hesitate to shoot a clergyman if he stood between Kessel and making a profit on his run.

‘I expect I'm not musket-proof,' the vicar conceded with a smile, ‘but I'll leave that up to the Almighty. I just know I must go and do what I can to help.'

A sudden thought struck dread in Honoria's gut. ‘Is…is Captain Hawksworth landing goods, do you know?'

The vicar looked at her with concern. ‘I'm sorry, lass, I don't know. Tamsyn did tell me the
Flying Gull
left the harbour several days ago, so it's quite possible his ship is involved in this run.'

Fear more intense than anything Honoria had experienced save the night of her ruin constricted her breathing and clawed a gash in her stomach. ‘Then I'm coming, too,' she announced.

‘My dear, that certainly wouldn't be wise—' he began.

She cut him off. ‘I'll trail behind if you don't want me riding with you, but coming I am. I'm not a fool; I've no intention of involving myself with the landing party and will choose a safe observation spot behind some rocks or something and watch at a distance. But if Gabe—Captain Hawksworth is involved, I must be there to see what happens.'

The vicar must have read the resolution in her eyes, for he simply nodded. ‘Very well. Let's get the horses.'

‘Do you know where the cargo is to be landed?' she asked as they paced toward the stables.

‘South along the coast. There's a tor on the moor and beyond it, an old stone hut. During the first wave of free-trading in the last century, someone dug a tunnel from the beach up to the hut. The place hasn't been used for quite a while, which is why the lander chose it this time, thinking the riding officers might not know about it.'

Trying to dissipate some of the fear clogging her mind, Honoria was about to joke that the reverend knew an uncommon amount about the transport of smuggled goods when it clicked in her mind that the place he'd just described sounded uncannily like the spot reached from Eva's beach.

Another wave of fear clenched in her gut, sharper than the first. ‘Who is the lander?' she asked urgently.

The vicar hesitated, but apparently deciding that having already displayed such extensive knowledge of the run, it would be rather silly to profess ignorance now, he replied, ‘John Kessel. He's the lander on most of the runs for his brother's ships.'

They'd reached the stables now. Collecting her mare, Honoria exhaled a shaky breath and tried to tell herself there was no connection between Eva's failure to appear at the vicarage and the fact that her sister's lover was directing smuggled goods to be brought ashore through an area that sounded very much like Eva's secret tunnel.

They mounted swiftly and rode out of Sennlack, heading south. With the day overcast and a stiff wind blowing that would have carried their words away, neither attempted to converse. The wind's force, Honoria thought, would also drive the waves higher, so that the breakers bearing the ships through the narrow cove opening would be particularly dangerous.

Would revenue agents be waiting on the beach or beyond the tunnel to confront them, ready to fire on the free-traders if they offered any resistance? Which, with John Kessel in charge, they almost certainly would.

Was Gabe one of the captains who'd be fired upon?

The miles seemed to creep by under the hooves of their horses. While foreboding took up residence in her mind and dread occupied her stomach, Honoria realized the truth that she'd been trying to evade for the last week and more.

She loved Gabriel Hawksworth—a free-trader, a man about whose family and past she knew almost nothing, whose future over the next several hours might include anything from a sackful of gold coins as profit on the venture, capture and imprisonment in some dank prison before going on trial for his life, or a ball between the eyes from the pistol of a determined riding officer.

She also realized that, whatever his birth or current occupation, in the depths of his soul he was a gentleman, possessed of more honour, compassion and concern for his fellow men than a ballroom full of high-born Corinthians. That her position as Lady Honoria, earl's daughter, was nothing compared to the fierce joy that flooded her at the idea of being able to share her life with the man she loved, whatever his position.

If he cared for her as she cared for him, she could wish for nothing more glorious than making a life with him, wherever he wished to go, whatever he wished to do.

Though she devoutly hoped he'd meant it when he said that his time as a free-trader was nearly done. She wanted to enjoy his teasing wit, his incisive commentary, his intense blue-eyed gaze and bone-melting kisses for a very long time without having to worry that around the next bend waited a revenue agent with a levelled pistol, or somewhere beyond the next cove sailed a Royal Navy ship eager to force his vessel onto the rocks.

Though her hopes and desires were leaping ahead of reality as quickly as a smuggler's lugger outrunning a revenuer cutter. She knew the strong connection—and potent desire—between them was mutual, but whether the captain was interested in anything more permanent than a brief liaison, she had no idea. If he cared about her enough to journey all the way to London
to try to find evidence to exonerate her, that must mean he entertained some strong feelings for her, mustn't it?

Or might it only mean he was once again displaying that deeply engrained sense of fairness that was so much the hallmark of a true gentleman?

Had she ruined any tender feelings he might hold for her by withholding the secret of her name? But surely, if he cared for her, he would be willing to forgive her that one bit of caution.

Those doubts, fear of what they might discover at the landing sight and a wild euphoria at admitting her love for Gabe cycled endlessly through her mind as they rode south. But though she thought she'd worried over every contingency they might encounter, she was still not prepared for what she perceived when they rounded the crest of the next hill and made out the ant-like line of men and women laden with casks and barrels, emerging from the stone hut and loading their cargo onto farm carts.

By the door of the hut, guarding access to the tunnel, stood Eva.

At the sight, Honoria's resolve to remain hidden dissolved. Appalled and furious that the child was involved—and certain she knew who had involved her—Honoria touched her heels to the mare's flanks and spurred her toward the distant hut at a gallop, heedless of the vicar's warning cry behind her.