The Smuggler Wore Silk (14 page)

“How can you be sure?”

“We can’t, but the penmanship was superb and took skill and tutelage. Certainly not the penmanship of a laborer or farmer. The men I know can barely read and write. That writing originated from someone of the upper class. Or at least someone with a tutor or governess and formal training, so at least somewhat well off. None of the smugglers—” She broke off, corrected herself. “None of my
friends
have any such formal training.”

“I can agree that the folio did not originate with one of your
friends
, but one of them could have placed the folio in the cave at someone else’s direction.”

Her shoulders slumped.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “a farmer or laborer wouldn’t be directly connected with someone in the Foreign Office, and the information in the folios originated there. There must be a middleman with ties to the Foreign Office to transport the information here to Beer, then to the smuggling quarries.”

“And the folio?” Grace slid her gaze toward his coat pocket. “What will you do with it?”

“I’ll keep it.”

“I have a second one hidden in my stillroom.”

“No, you don’t.” He grinned, satisfied she hadn’t discovered the switch. He hadn’t lost his touch. “I replaced it with modified information within hours of when you hid it. Much as I replaced this one,” he added. “I’ve had the originals for weeks now. You’ve had forged replicas.”

“In other words, I’ve been worried about someone stealing useless information.”

“Yes.”

Grace sighed. “All that worry, wasted.”

“True,” he agreed. “Are the smugglers searching for additional folios?”

“They’re checking every trunk, barrel and cask we transport to ensure no more information passes through France. At least not through us.”

“Damn.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“What is wrong?”

“I’ve made a tactical error.” He glanced over his shoulder as Demon huffed out a breath.

“What?”

He should have foreseen it. He wasn’t green as grass, as young Miles Butler was. Though he felt like it at the moment. He’d sent the folios to London, believing Grace was the traitor and he was thwarting her. He’d never considered she had intercepted the traitor herself. Grimly, he said, “You’ve interrupted the traitor’s avenue of communication. If the information isn’t received in France, he’ll know he’s been discovered.”

“Will he run?”

It was hard to know. Some men ran. Some went to ground. He might even find a new avenue of communication. “Are there any other smugglers in the area he might use?”

“He could go to any smuggler along the coast,” she said as they turned onto Cannon Manor’s drive. “There are hundreds of smugglers. Two dozen in Beer alone.”

“But he has a middleman,” Julian murmured. He wouldn’t groom another pawn if this one hadn’t been discovered yet. “He’ll stay in this area. Perhaps not Beer, but Seaton, Sidmouth, maybe up to Lyme Regis.” Somewhere the middleman could travel in short in just a few hours so as not to be missed.

“That’s still a great deal of coastline.”

“I need assistance,” he said. “Another set of eyes and ears with contacts in the smuggling channels that can ask questions without being recognized.” He reached out absently, fingering a wisp of her hair. Behind them, Demon huffed out another breath.

“I’d ask Jack, but he’s in prison.” She shivered when his fingers brushed against her neck. “And the best way to free him is to find the real traitor.”

“I know an agent with ties to smugglers farther up the coast toward Weymouth, Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight,” Julian mused. “Angel may be able to penetrate the ranks here.”

“Angel.” She gripped the hand entwined in her hair. “His name appeared in the first folio.”

“And he’s grateful his name and identity were not given to the French. I suppose he has you to thank for that.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. Still, Julian himself had not been spared.

They were nearing the manor house. A groom came running out. He’d clearly been waiting.

“My lord. Miss Gracie,” the groom said, nodding politely as he took the reins from Julian. Whatever he was thinking of this midnight assignation, he didn’t let on. He led the horse toward the stables.

“The kitchen door is open,” Grace said, nodding toward the side of the house. They started down the gravel path leading toward the kitchen.

“The smugglers aren’t the only potential middlemen,” she said quietly. “There are other men that know the location of the smuggling quarries.
Gentlemen
,” she corrected.

He turned to look at her. Moonlight shone on hunched shoulders. She kept her eyes on the pathway and he wished he could see her face.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “How would others not know of the quarries? They’ve been mined for centuries.”

“We don’t actually use the quarries,” she answered. “We store the cargo in the natural caves on the sea cliffs and then use a cliff path to take the cargo to the beach. From there we ferry the goods out to the luggers waiting to sail to France. The smuggling caves connect to the quarries through a series of natural tunnels, which lead to man-made tunnels that are part of the quarries. Some of the quarries are still in operation, in fact. Everyone knows of the quarries, but few know of the natural caves.”

“Who knows of the natural caves, then?”

She said nothing for a moment. They rounded the side of the house.

“Grace. Tell me,” he prompted.

She drew a deep breath. “Lord Stuart Paget, Sir Richard Elliott and my uncle.” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “They formed a sort of Hellfire Club when they were young. Jack said they used the caves as a meeting place when he first started smuggling. I’m sure any of them could have guessed that the smuggled goods would still be stored there. It’s a convenient spot and, thus far, the revenue officers haven’t discovered it.”

“Then we have a list of potential suspects.” He narrowed his eyes. “I presume you would be able to recognize your uncle’s handwriting if you saw it.”

“Yes. He did not write the information in the folios.”

“And the other two? Would you recognize their handwriting?”

“No. But there’s another,” she whispered. She folded her hands together and stared at her clenched fingers. “Michael Wargell knows of the caves.” She looked out into the night. “He knows
I
store smuggled goods there.”

“M
Y LORD, YOU
have a visitor.”

Starkweather’s words shattered Julian’s plans of a quiet brandy while he strategized. Irritation flared. He’d spent a miserable morning and the better part of the afternoon in Beer trying to glean information on Jack’s arrest. Now he wanted nothing more than to lounge in an armchair beside a roaring fire and think about the information Grace had given him.

He paused at the door to the library, his hand on the knob. “Who is it, Starkweather?”

“I don’t know his name, my lord. He refused to give it.” Starkweather’s brows drew together. “Nervous fellow, actually. He indicated he would wait as long as it took for you to return to Thistledown. He’s in the salon.”

Julian’s hand tightened on the doorknob of his private library, then fell away. It must be someone from London about the traitor. Spinning on his heel, he strode through the halls until he came to the salon. He quietly pushed open the door and scanned the room.

Miles Butler, Sir Charles’s clerk, was helping himself to smuggled brandy. His fashionable clothes were dusty and wrinkled. The man’s hands shook as he raised the decanter and splashed the amber liquid into a glass.

“Mr. Butler.”

Butler jerked, spilling the brandy onto the table. “Langford,” he yelped. “I didn’t hear you come in.” He swung around and Julian saw disheveled and tangled hair instead of the artfully tousled curls he normally sported. Julian narrowed his eyes. If he wasn’t mistaken, there were circles of fatigue under Butler’s eyes as well.

“What news do you have?” Julian said, closing the door and striding across the room. He raised a brow as Butler downed the brandy in one gulp. “That doesn’t bode well.”

“Blackbourn has escaped.” Trembling fingers raked through Butler’s hair.

“
You
arrested him?” His irritation doubled. The boy had no business arresting anyone.

“On Sir Charles’s orders, of course!” Butler added defensively. “More or less.” He set down his glass on the side table and refilled it. The liquor glowed gold in the sunlight streaming in the windows. “There were rumors in London that Blackbourn was active and willing to transport anything—
anything
—to and from France. I was to question him. But when the agents with me found the evidence in his lodgings—” He broke off, sinking into a deep armchair as though he couldn’t quite hold himself up.

Julian strode to the armchair, leaned over Butler. “What evidence? I searched his cottage myself and found nothing.” He knew he hadn’t missed anything. But a few days had passed since his own search.

“They found documents containing troop and armament counts.” Butler scrubbed a hand over his face.

“How were they bound?” he demanded.

“In leather and tied with a narrow leather strip.” Wary, Butler stared up at him. “It was accurate information. Or at least as much as I could surmise, since I’m only privy to certain information.”

It was the same.
The thrill of the hunt rushed through him. “Where are the folios now? We need to take them to Sir Charles immediately.”

“We can’t.” Butler propped his elbows on his knees. “Blackbourn took the records when he escaped.”

Shock pierced through the thrill, followed closely by disbelief. Julian closed his eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to refrain from verbally skewering Butler. When he opened his eyes again, Butler had dropped his head into his hands and was staring dejectedly at the floor.

Julian shook his head and lowered into an armchair. Idiot boy. He was no match for the wily Jack Blackbourn. He tamped down on his anger. “How and when did he escape? Did you search for him?”

“Of course!” Butler’s head snapped up. “I haven’t slept all night or all day today. We made it as far as Dorchester and stopped at an inn. I don’t even know how he managed to escape. The others went to the common room and I locked Blackbourn into the room we’d procured. When I returned, he was gone.” Butler gulped what remained of the brandy in his glass. “We looked all over Dorchester before starting back to Beer. But he could have gone anywhere!”

“Was the door unlocked when you returned?”

“No. It was still locked.” His brows drew together. “I don’t understand how he could have escaped.”

“The window?” Julian asked drily.

“I don’t think so. We were on the second floor,” Butler said slowly, entirely missing Julian’s sarcasm.

“Just so I understand, Sir Charles did not give you orders to arrest Jack, correct?” Julian pushed up from the armchair and strode across the room. It looked like he would be having his brandy after all.

“No. Yes. Well, that is, I was to question him, and if he—” Butler stared into his empty glass. “I only thought to prove myself. My father, you see. He was a hero, my mother said, and Sir Charles has said the same. He was a double agent working in France.” Butler raised unhappy eyes to Julian. “It is difficult to live in the shadow of one’s father.”

A pang of sympathy struck Julian. Yes, he understood what it was to live in the shadow of another—though Butler lived in the shadow of a hero. Julian lived in the shadow of a murderer.

“How am I going to explain to Sir Charles?” Butler groaned, falling back in the chair. “What am I going to do? I let the traitor escape. We have to find him!”

“Quiet,” Julian said. The man was nearly wailing. “You won’t find Blackbourn. He can hide for months when he wants to. However, I don’t think he’s the traitor.”

“You don’t?” Butler straightened, his eyes bright with combined relief and hope. “But he escaped. Why would he run if he were innocent?”

“Because evidence against him was found in his home,” Julian explained, struggling to control his impatience. He tapped a finger on the arm of his chair, considered. “Although if he is innocent, there’s a question as to how the evidence came to be in his lodgings.”

“Do you think he’ll return to Beer? We could assign someone to watch his pub in the event he returns.”

“One thing Blackbourn is not is foolish.” Julian snorted. “He’ll not return to the pub until his name is cleared. Still, I think I may know where to find him,” he finished, thinking of the smuggling caves.

“Where?” Butler jumped to his feet. “We must go. Immediately.”

“
I
will go,” Julian corrected sharply as he stood. He strode to the door, Butler trotting behind him. Did the boy truly believe he would be accompanying him after the Blackbourn debacle?

“But, Lord Langford—”

“Mr. Butler, I have a personal connection and will be able to easily explain my presence.” He narrowed his eyes at the other man. “
You
, I cannot explain away.”

He left Thistledown at a gallop and traveled cross-country to the cliffs. After settling his mount in the same lean-to Grace had once housed Demon, he scrambled down the cliff path to the smuggling caves.

The rough tunnels were empty of smugglers, not surprising given it was the middle of the day. Still, there were signs that a shipment of goods had arrived. Water pooled in the craggy floor of the cave mouth, still fresh from recent treks in and out. Barrels of silk, casks of wine and trunks of tobacco were stacked up against the walls of the inner chamber.

There was no evidence of Blackbourn. Julian had hoped for the remnants of a small fire, perhaps food or blankets. But if Blackbourn was using the caves as a hiding place, he’d left nothing behind.

__________

G
RACE STARED AT
the curtains of her centuries-old four-poster bed, listening to the wind wail and the rain drum against her window. She turned over, fluffed the pillow and tried to settle.

Her body felt taut, her skin stretched tight over nerves. Yet perhaps it was only the storm. Bursts of bright lightning flashed outside, the streaks of blue light stealing between the slim crack of the curtains. Riotous thunder and furious winds rattled the mullioned windows and shook the four-poster. The roiling storm echoed the roiling of worry, confusion and fear inside her.

She should be
doing
something for Jack, not lying in bed. Yet there was nothing to be done except find the traitor, and she didn’t know how to go about it. Forcing her muscles to relax, she rolled over again and tried to think about something else.

Julian. Of course. What else was there to think about? Anticipation—even excitement—layered over her fear for Jack. She would be married soon. Part of her wanted to refuse, but she’d been over that before.

Yet marriage to the Earl of Langford was not as troubling as it had been. She’d questioned whether she truly knew him. Was he a coldhearted, ruthless spy, or a charming aristocrat? The answer was both. Just as she was both a poor relation and a smuggler.

More, he knew her secrets and still he
liked
her. Or he liked her wit, and that was simply a reflection of her. The true her, the one she’d forgotten she’d buried. During their confrontation in the woods she hadn’t once questioned what to say, or held her tongue, or bowed to Julian’s wishes. She’d simply been herself. And he
liked
her. It was liberating.

Although she did have one more secret, one that would have to be revealed before their wedding night.

She stilled as a peculiar sound filtered through the raging storm. It was the scrape of something grating roughly against stone. She waited, but the sound did not repeat. Instead, a new sound emerged from the storm, a quiet click as out of place as the scrape. The partially drawn curtains around her bed moved, fluttered, then quieted again.

Someone else was in the room, a shadow beyond the confines of her bed.

Lying quietly, she scanned the darkened room. She thought there was a movement in the corner, but all she could see were shadows among deeper shadows.

She licked her lips as fear flickered in her belly. She buried it—she had no intention of hiding beneath the bedclothes. With a sharp, decisive movement, she pushed back the heavy winter coverlet. Kneeling at the edge of the bed, she knew she was fully revealed by the bright slash of lightning that lit the room.

A voice purred out of the shadows. “Do my eyes deceive me? Or is temptation personified in my lady smuggler?”

“Julian.” Her heart bumped once, then raced. “How did you get in here?”

“Down from the roof. You don’t have a convenient trellis or tree near your window.”

He stepped forward, his broad shoulders blocking the window. His head turned so that when the lightning flashed she could see the outline of his firm jaw, the lean cheekbones. Even the shape of his sensual lips as they moved in a slow smile.

“It’s nearly midnight.” She couldn’t seem to move. Still kneeling on the bed, she simply watched him prowl toward her.

“Midnight is the time for spying, fair lady. And the time for lovers.”

Lovers.
Her breath caught, her lungs seizing. How could passion strike so quickly? How could her skin be so hot? “You’re spying on me. Again.”

“Not tonight.” He laughed quietly, as though he knew exactly how her body felt. “I have to leave for London. I need to convey information to my superiors but I can’t trust the usual methods of communication. However, I need to leave now in order to get to London and back before our wedding.”

“What’s so important you need to go in the dead of night?” Rain drummed against the windows and she could hear the wind’s angry cry as it whipped around the manor.

“Jack has escaped.”

“Jack?” She stiffened. “What’s happened?” She gripped the bedclothes, her fingers twisting in the soft fabric.

“Calm yourself.” He held up a hand as though to stem the tide of her fear. “He’s escaped—unharmed. He’ll be safe enough. He’s escaped from the authorities before and remained well hidden.”

“Yes, Jack knows how to hide,” she said, subsiding. Julian was right. “But why are you required in London?” She sat back on her heels. Lightning flashed and a moment later thunder rumbled.

“The men who arrested Jack were sent by my commander.”

“Oh, God.”

“They were acting on their own authority, unfortunately. And the evidence disappeared with Blackbourn, so he appears guilty. The situation is complicated, and I must speak with my commander directly.” He stepped forward, his legs bumping against the edge of the mattress.

She wanted to scramble back in retreat, even as her body strained forward. “Do you think you can exonerate him?” Their eyes were at an even height, their lips entirely too close.

“I don’t know. And to be honest, I’m not certain he is innocent.”

“I told you—”

“And I accepted your explanations. I can’t prove them until I find the real traitor,” he said. “I need to inform my commander about our investigation.”

“I know,” she breathed. Inches. Only inches between them. His heat, his scent, enveloped her. Desire filled her, a low thrum that echoed the beat of the rain.

She could hear his ragged breath in the darkness, could sense the rigid control of his muscles. Some force passed between them, powerful, sexual and as elemental as the storm outside.

“Only two weeks, Grace, until the banns are complete and we’re married.” He reached out, drew a finger across her cheek. His touch was as gentle as the flutter of butterfly wings.

“Yes.” She turned into his hand, let her lips drift across his palm. Her lips tingled as the rough skin of his palm sensitized them. “The smuggler and the spy.”

“Husband and wife.” His palm lay against her cheek, his fingers delving into the hair bound back at her temples. “Take your hair down,” he rasped.

Lightning flashed and illuminated the sharp angles of his face. He looked fierce, nearly grim, his eyes intense. Unable to do anything else, she lifted her hands to the pins holding up her hair. His hand fell away from her face, but his gaze never left hers. She could see his chest rising and falling, hear his breathing quicken.

Power coursed through her. Beneath the charming aristocrat, beneath the spy, was a man that wanted her. Desperately. It was heady knowledge that for all his silver-tongued seduction, he wanted her.

She smiled at him, one slow, knowing siren’s smile. And let her hair tumble around her.