The Smuggler Wore Silk (24 page)

Michael Wargell had not written the treasonous documents in the folio. His handwriting was barely legible, a mess of scratching and points and vertical lines. It didn’t mean he wasn’t connected, however.

Julian was unaccountably disappointed. He’d
wanted
Wargell to be the traitor. A vision flashed into his mind, one of himself subduing Wargell and arresting him for treason. The vision vanished quickly. It was motivated by purely selfish reasons and had no basis in fact.

Shouting erupted in the hall and ended their conversation. The sleeping Lord Hammond jerked upright, his old-fashioned wig askew.

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” the butler called in the hall. “Mr. Wargell is not available.”

All eyes in the estate room focused on Wargell. He’d half risen from his chair, his palms flat on the desktop.

“
Non
. This is important. I must see him. Now.
Maintenant!
” The swift thud of boots came clearly through the open door.

Heads swiveled to face the hall. Julian could hear the gentlemen’s collective breaths draw in and hold as they waited for the unexpected visitor to appear.

“You cannot enter,
monsieur
!” The butler’s voice rose to a shout and a second set of footsteps could be heard. “Mr. Wargell has guests!”

The footsteps stopped. Silence. Then, “I will wait. Tell him I am here and that it is urgent,
s’il vous plait
.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Wargell murmured, eyes on the door.

Julian studied his host’s face. Tight. Drawn. Anger and—something else. Did the line between Wargell’s brows and the jerk in his step denote fear?

Wargell hurried into the hall. Unintelligible whispers floated in through the doorway. When he returned, Wargell was full of apology and emphasized the urgency of the situation. He must meet with his visitor.

It hardly mattered, Julian decided. He had the information he had come for, and more. Satisfaction rippled through him. The visitor was clearly French.

The butler hovered in the hall to escort the remaining guests to the drawing room. Sir Richard barreled into the room ahead of Julian. Lord Lintell and Lord Hammond thumped along behind him, Lord Hammond leaning heavily on his cane.

Julian scanned the room. The ladies were scattered on settees and chairs around the room. Discarded teacups with varying amounts of liquid sat on nearby tables. Lady Lintell’s curls bounced as she chattered to sad Lady Elliott. Lady Hammond sat back, amusement hovering around her matronly lips. Two spots of angry color rode high on Mrs. Wargell’s sharp cheekbones.

And Grace, his cool and lovely Grace, sat perfectly composed in the middle of them. He glanced at her hands. No laced fingers, no white knuckles. One hand lay quietly in her lap, the other absently stroked the pattern on her teacup.

When her eyes met his, something clutched in him. Her eyes had blanked again, as though she hadn’t seen him. But she’d never truly seen him, had she? There was something in him she could never understand. Something he could never show her.

“My lords,” Mrs. Wargell purred, smoothing back her hair. “Have you finished your business?”

“For now,” Julian said, fighting to focus. “Your husband has business to attend to, Mrs. Wargell.”

Julian strode to the settee and offered his hand to Grace. She set her hand in his. Her fingers were warm, her skin as soft as petals. The scent of lavender and woman rose with her as he drew his wife to her feet.

“Is something amiss?” Grace asked politely, as though he were a stranger.

“Mr. Wargell has a visitor. One with urgent news, I understand.” He turned to face Mrs. Wargell. “Your husband indicated he will be busy for some time, so my lady wife and I shall take our leave.”

Similar sentiments were echoed by the other guests.

“Must you all go so soon?” Mrs. Wargell pouted.

“For tonight.” Julian reached down and drew Mrs. Wargell to her feet, much the same way he had Grace. But there was no quiver in his belly, no arousing scent to move him. “It’s not necessary to see us to the door, Mrs. Wargell. We shall find our way and leave you to your husband.”

“I’m certain we’ll see you in the capital, my lord. Like you, we just can’t stay away from so many worldly entertainments.” Mrs. Wargell’s voice was shrill. “I’m sure Gracie could spare you from Thistledown.”

Before Julian could answer, Grace spoke from behind him. “His lordship and I will see you in London, then,
Clotilde
.”

Turning, Julian looked at his cool and quiet wife. Amused pity filled her gray eyes—and it was directed at Mrs. Wargell.

__________

T
HE BUTLER RETRIEVED
their outerwear and they left amid a whirlwind of pelisses and muffs and guests. Grace’s curiosity was bursting, but she waited until they were clipping along toward Thistledown in the carriage before she asked about the events in the estate room.

“An interesting visitor arrived,” Julian said thoughtfully.

“Yes, I understood that much. Who was it?” Her breath puffed out in silver clouds as she spoke. “What happened?”

“He didn’t give a name, nor did I see him. But I did hear him speaking a combination of French and English to the butler.”

“French?” She straightened, her anger with him forgotten. The carriage blanket fell away from her. She barely felt the cold air surround her.

Julian tucked the carriage blanket around her again. His hands brushed against her waist and her stomach tightened in response. Time stopped for a breath. When he drew back, she shivered.

“What did the Frenchman say?” she asked, trying to ignore the awareness of his touch. It was like ignoring her heartbeat.

“Apparently the Frenchman entered the Wargells’ home without being let in. The butler intercepted him near the estate room. He indicated he had urgent news and would wait for Michael Wargell to be available.”

“Incriminating.”

“Inconclusive,” Julian corrected.

“What did Michael say?”

“Only that it was urgent business. He was full of apologies, though,” Julian said. “And quite concerned about something.”

“Hmm.” She plucked at the carriage blanket. “What do you think the Frenchman wanted?”

“I don’t know, but I do want to find out.” He pulled back the curtain and looked out at the shadowed hedgerows flying past. “This should be far enough.” He thumped the ceiling of the carriage with his fist.

“Milord?” the coachman called from above.

“Pull into the lane just ahead and stop.”

“Aye, milord.”

“What do you intend?” Grace leaned forward.

“A bit of espionage, of course.” He grinned, teeth flashing white and feral in the dark carriage.

“Espionage. How shocking. I never would have guessed.”

“Fear not, fair lady. I am experienced in such matters.” He flourished his hand in the air, as though he were about to sink into a low bow.

She smiled before she could stop herself, and pushed away the internal voice that whispered of the door that stood between them.

“Do be serious, Julian.”

“We aren’t far from the Wargells’ home. Just out of view, I daresay.” He pulled back the curtains as the carriage turned into the lane. Apparently satisfied, he let them fall again. “I plan to return and attempt to observe or overhear Michael Wargell’s exchange with the Frenchman.”

“How will you observe them?”

“Through the windows.” His tone was as dry as the herbs hanging in her stillroom.

“The simplest course, I suppose.” She quirked her lips. “I expected something a little more elaborate from a veteran spy.”

The coach stopped with the jingle of harness and a call from the driver. Grace studied the shadow across from her. Julian was half reclining, one boot planted on the bench beside her and his elbow propped on his knee. If she didn’t know better, it would seem he was enjoying a casual ride through the countryside. He might have been going to a picnic.

But she did know him. The casual position was a study in control. She could sense the restless energy caged in him, could all but feel the power he kept leashed.

“Do you know which window belongs to Michael’s estate room?” she asked.

“I have a reasonable guess. It’s a simple matter to count windows and memorize the layout of a house.”

“Good. Then we can find it easily.”

“
We?
” Disbelief dripped from the word.

“I cannot sit idle in the carriage while I wait for you to return.”

“You certainly can. And will.” All traces of laughter in his tone had died away.

“I know how to move quickly and quietly, Julian. There’s no harm in accompanying you to the window.” This she could do. She may have difficulty finding the appropriate remark in a salon, but she could sneak around the empty countryside.

“Grace, you’re wearing an evening gown and slippers.”

“My cloak is lined with fur—as you should know, since you ordered it—and we’ll be back in the carriage quickly. I’m not fragile, Julian. It’s just cold. It’s not even wet.”

“This isn’t a lark.”

“It’s also not dangerous. Aside from that, you have no method of restricting me to the carriage. I’ll simply follow you.”

He was silent and she wondered what he was thinking. She wished she could see his face clearly.

“I’ll expect you to be quiet, and to follow my commands without question.” His tone was hard, and tolerated no argument.

Exhilaration rushed through her. “I will.”

He pushed open the carriage door and let in a rush of frigid air. She barely felt the cold as excitement sent her pulse pounding.

He helped her out of the carriage before calling up to the coachman. “If we don’t return within thirty minutes, come looking for us near the Wargells’ home.”

To her surprise, the coachman didn’t show even a flicker of hesitation. Then again, she mused, he was Julian’s coachman from London and presumably had obeyed similar strange requests. She supposed a spy needed a discreet driver.

“Follow me.” He pulled Grace down the lane. Dry leaves crunched beneath their feet. Wind rushed through the trees, sounding like so many whispering voices. When they reached the drive connecting the Wargells’ home to the public lane, he stopped and looked both ways. As it was late for country hours, there was no sign of any other travelers.

“We’ll walk beside the drive as long as we can,” he said. “When we come into view of the house we’ll need to circle around to the side gardens.”

Grace nodded her understanding.

He offered his hand. She hesitated, breathed in. Out. Then placed her hand into his. Even through their gloves, she could feel the heat sing up her arm. Closing her eyes, she forced it out of her mind.

Walking on the grass beside the drive, they made no noise as they hurried toward the house. The sky was clear, the stars brilliant pinpricks against the black, but there was no moon to shed light on their path. Despite her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she could barely make out the direction of the path.

Julian must have been able to, however, for he guided them well. Within minutes she could see the candlelight in the windows of the house. The golden glow illuminated the gravel path that rounded the side of the house and led to the gardens. She started in that direction but Julian pulled her away.

“Your feet will make noise on the gravel,” he whispered into her ear. “We’ll cross the lawn.”

They did so, once again striding beside the path but not using it. There were six windows on this side of the house. Candlelight lit four of them and two were dark. Julian passed the first two without pausing. On the third window, he slowed.

Grace looked through the mullioned glass and into the drawing room. Mrs. Wargell reclined against a chaise much as she had during their visit, except now she flipped through
La Belle Assemblée
.

Julian stepped away from her and moved on to the next window. He crooked a finger, beckoning to her. She lifted her skirts and jogged ahead to meet him. The fourth window was dark, so they moved on to the fifth—and saw Michael Wargell.

He sat in an armchair in what Grace assumed was the estate room, elbows propped on knees, shoulders slumped. A half-empty brandy glass dangled from one hand. Even as they watched, he hung his head so low it sagged nearly between his knees.

“Apparently he did not receive good news,” Julian said.

“No.” She glanced at Julian. “I’m sorry we missed the Frenchman.”

“I thought we might. Wargell was probably speaking with him before we even left the house. If the Frenchman was smart he would conclude his business quickly and leave.”

“Assuming his business was illicit, of course.”

Michael stood abruptly, interrupting their whispers. He tossed back his brandy in a single gulp and set the glass aside. He strode from the room and turned to the left. Julian pulled Grace in the same direction down the path. When they stood outside the drawing room, they stopped and peered in once more.

Michael Wargell stood in the doorway, watching his wife turn the pages of
La Belle Assemblée
. She looked up and tossed the publication aside. She opened her arms and he was across the room in three strides. Dropping to his knees, he set his face against her breast. She ran her fingers through his hair, twisting the ends around her fingers.

He spoke, though Grace couldn’t hear the words. Mrs. Wargell responded by gently kissing the top of his head. She laid her cheek where her lips had been, her face turned toward the window.

Grace gasped as understanding dawned. Mrs. Wargell’s lashes fluttered closed, and she murmured something to her husband. The love there, the intensity of it, had Grace’s throat clogging with tears. Shock rippled through her. All these years, she hadn’t known why Michael had turned from her.

“It’s a love match,” she whispered.

“So it seems.”

Michael tipped his face up and kissed his wife hungrily. She responded in kind, cupping his face in her hands. His drew up and pressed her back against the chaise, his hands on her breasts, her belly. She arched her back to meet him, her lips opening on a cry.

“I believe it’s time to go,” Julian breathed in her ear.