by Laura Beers
“That doesn’t sound like my father.”
Her uncle offered her a look of pity. “There is a lot about your father that you didn’t know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Your father had secrets,” he said. “He hid his true nature from his closest friends and family, but he had a reputation for being a ruthless businessman.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you tried to deceive me,” she pressed.
“Your father owed money to unscrupulous people,” he explained, “and I used your dowry to pay them to leave you be.”
Emmeline pursed her lips. “Who were these men?”
“Your father was a gambler and frequented gambling hells.”
“Mr. Clarke informed me that my father had no debts when he passed away.”
Her uncle let out a sigh. “That may have been true on paper, but the gambling hell, known as The Pauper’s Game, was threatening to ruin your reputation if I didn’t pay them,” he shared. “You must see that I was trying to protect you.”
Bringing a hand up to her forehead, she said, “None of this makes any sense. I never knew my father to engage in gambling.”
“Your father showed you the version of himself that he wanted the world to see, but it was not who he truly was.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. “I have the receipt to prove that I paid off the debt from The Pauper’s Game.”
“You do?”
He extended it towards her. “Would you care to see for yourself?”
Emmeline walked closer to her uncle and accepted the paper. She opened it and reviewed the receipt, which was from The Pauper’s Game for fifteen thousand pounds and dated only a few days after her father’s death.
Her uncle gently put a hand on her shoulder. “I think in your heart you know what I am telling you is true.”
Tears came to her eyes as she pondered her father’s deceit. Was it possible that her uncle was speaking the truth?
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” she admitted softly.
“I know this must be hard for you,” he hesitated, “but I was hoping that you would be open to selling Lockhart Manor to me.”
She shook her head. “I have no intention of selling the manor.”
“I thought you would say that, but it brings us back to the pesky fact that you owe me fifteen thousand pounds since I spent it on your behalf,” he said. “If you aren’t opposed, then you can keep the money and just give me Lockhart Manor.”
“My answer—”
Her uncle spoke over her. “Discuss it with Lord Oliver, and I am sure he will see the merits of this arrangement.” He gave her a pointed look. “I believe I am being more than generous, since this estate is not worth fifteen thousand.”
“Why would you wish to purchase it then?”
He smiled. “For sentimental value.” He walked over to the door. “I shall await your word at The Foolish Oyster Inn.”
“You are welcome to stay here,” she offered.
“Thank you for the kind offer, but I do not wish to intrude.”
“You are family—”
He cut her off. “I appreciate that, but I am more than comfortable at the inn,” he said. “Besides, I enjoy eating their oysters.”
Emmeline realized that she was still holding the receipt and asked, “Would you like the receipt back?”
“You keep it,” her uncle replied, then he departed from the room.
Feeling her legs give out, Emmeline sat down onto the settee as she stared at the paper in her hand. Who was her father in truth? She had only recently discovered he had kept Lockhart Manor a secret from her. What other secrets had he been keeping from her?
Oliver slowed his horse’s gait as he reached the cobblestone streets of the village. He watched as the children played on the pavement, and he delighted in the sound of their lively chatter.
He made his way towards the mercantile, and Timothy exited the shop to secure his horse. After he dismounted, he extended the reins to the boy and stepped inside of the mercantile.
Constable Philmont stood behind the counter and greeted him, albeit tersely. “How may I help you, milord?”
“I would like to speak to you privately.”
The constable frowned his disapproval as he came around the counter and went to lock the door. “We can speak in my office,” he said, gesturing towards the back.
Oliver followed him to his office and watched as Constable Philmont walked around his desk and sat down.
“Won’t you have a seat?” the constable asked.
“I would prefer to stand for this conversation.”
The constable leaned back in his chair. “Is this about the smugglers again?”
“It is.”
“Proceed, then.”
Oliver’s alert eyes watched the constable closely as he asked, “How long have you been working with them?”
“I beg your pardon?” the constable asked, jerking forward in his seat.
“Was it a coincidence that the barrels were moved after we confided in you about the smuggled goods?”
“It was.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Neither do I, but that is what it was.”
Oliver removed his pistol from the waistband of his trousers and brought it to his side. “I am going to ask again, nicely, and I want the truth,” he said. “How long have you been working with the smugglers?”
The constable’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the pistol. “I am not working with the smugglers,” he asserted, his words taking on a panicked tone.
“You are in a perfect position to receive the smuggled goods since you own the mercantile,” Oliver pointed out.
“That may be true, but I am the constable of this village,” Constable Philmont replied. “I am no criminal.”
“I am not entirely sure that is true.”
“Why is that?” the constable asked, his eyes not straying from the pistol.
Oliver gave a half-shrug. “You don’t seem too concerned about smugglers using your shores, which makes me wonder why.”
“Frankly, I am not entirely convinced there were smugglers,” the constable said. “I know you claimed to have seen them, but I saw no proof of that on the beach.”
“My wife and I both saw them bring their rowboats ashore.”
The constable nodded. “That is why I accompanied you to the beach,” he replied. “If it had been anyone else, I would have dismissed their concerns out of hand.”
“Why is that?”
“Because smugglers using these shores is not logical,” the constable said. “All the smuggled goods would have to be carted to Town.”
“Or sold in a mercantile.”
The constable shook his head. “I do not sell smuggled goods.”
“How do I know that to be true?”
Putting his hands out, Constable Philmont encouraged, “You are welcome to look around my shop. I have nothing to hide.”
Oliver considered the constable for a moment, and he found himself believing him. The man’s genuine responses appeased his concerns.
“I believe you,” Oliver said, returning his pistol to the waistband of his trousers.
The constable let out a sigh of relief. “I should arrest you for threatening me.”
“I wasn’t threatening you.”
“No?”
Oliver smirked. “If I was threatening you, then you would have known.”
Leaning back in his chair, Constable Philmont asked, “May I ask you a question?”
“That would only be fair, considering the circumstances.”
“Why are you so invested in these smugglers?”
Oliver sat down on the chair that faced the desk. “Smuggling is against the law, and they are using my beach to do so.”
“That may be true, but you can’t go off at half-cock every time someone breaks the law.”
“I am not going
off at half-cock,” he replied.
“No?” the constable asked. “It is normal for you to interrogate constables?”
“I just needed to discover the truth.”
“And did you find what you were seeking?”
Oliver nodded. “You are not crooked.”
The constable smiled. “I am happy to hear that.”
“After we left, did you speak to anyone about the smugglers?” Oliver asked.
Constable Philmont shook his head. “No. I received the order of produce I’d been expecting from Mr. Vincent, and then I closed up the mercantile to call upon you.” He paused. “Have you considered that someone in your household staff might be working with the smugglers?”
“I had not.”
“It is entirely possible,” the constable said.
“That it is.”
The constable picked up a few pieces of paper and shuffled them before placing them down in front of him. “Unfortunately, we may never know the truth.”
“Why is that?”
“Because someone tipped off the smugglers, and I doubt they would use our shores again.”
“That’s possible, but it is foolhardy to assume.”
Constable Philmont lifted his brow. “What would you have me do, milord?” he asked. “I can’t organize the local militia because of one report of smugglers. It would have been different if we had retrieved the smuggled goods. Then, at least, I could have pointed to the barrels as proof of the smugglers.”
“I see your point, but I refuse to give up and let the smugglers win.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“I will investigate,” Oliver announced.
The constable blinked. “You?”
“Yes.”
“I mean no disrespect, milord, but you are not qualified to investigate smugglers,” the constable declared. “They are ruthless men who will kill you without hesitation.”
“I am well aware.”
“Why would you put your life in danger?”
Oliver shifted in his seat, then said, “It is a slow week for me, and I could use some excitement.”
The constable groaned. “You are going to get yourself killed.”
“I don’t believe that to be the case.”
“This is not a game, milord,” Constable Philmont asserted. “You would be a fool to pursue these smugglers.”
Rising, Oliver replied, “I have been called worse.”
The constable sighed. “If you do discover anything pertinent, I want to be informed immediately.”
“I can’t promise that.”
Constable Philmont gave him a baffled look. “May I ask why?”
“If I need to act quickly on the information, I may not have time to seek you out,” Oliver said as he walked towards the door.
“Just promise me that you will try.”
He nodded. “I can do that.”
“Thank you,” the constable replied, “and do try to avoid getting yourself killed. Your wife needs you alive.”
“You need not fret about me.”
“Why do you say that?”
Oliver opened the door and said, “A band of smugglers is something that I am well equipped to handle.”
The constable scoffed. “Pardon me if I find that a little far-fetched, milord.”
“Believe what you will, but I intend to discover who tipped off the smugglers,” he said before he departed from the room.
He wasn’t sure how he was going to accomplish that feat yet, but he had confidence he would be able to complete the task.
Chapter Seventeen
Dressed in a white wrapper, Emmeline sat in her bedchamber as she read her book by the light of the fire in the hearth.
A knock came at the door that divided her bedchamber from Oliver’s.
“Enter,” she ordered.
The door opened, and Oliver stepped into the room with his cravat undone and his shirt hung partially open. “I came to say goodnight.”
She smiled. “Goodnight, Oliver.”
He leaned his shoulder up against the doorframe. “Have you decided what you will do about Lockhart Manor?”
“I have not, but it is not up to me.”
“Why is that?”
“By law, you own Lockhart Manor—”
He cut her off. “Lockhart Manor is yours to do with however you please,” he replied. “I don’t care what the law says.”
“But if I keep Lockhart Manor, we will have to return my dowry,” she said softly.
Oliver pushed off the doorframe and came to sit down next to her. “I married you without a dowry, so I see little difference in returning the money.”
“But fifteen thousand is a small fortune.”
“It is, but you need not worry about your future,” Oliver asserted. “I have sufficient funds for us to live comfortably for the rest of our days.”
Emmeline nibbled her lower lip. “I don’t want to sell Lockhart Manor,” she admitted. “Is that selfish of me?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “Your father left you this property in his will.”
“My uncle said it was to spite him.”
“Do you believe that?”
She shook her head. “I do not,” she replied. “My father was not one to hold a grudge. At least, I thought he wasn’t.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She sighed. “What if I didn’t know my father at all?” she asked. “What if my uncle is right, and my father was a despicable person?”
“Because he lost money at a gambling hell?” Oliver asked with a frown.
“Not just for that reason, but my uncle said he was also ruthless in business.”
Oliver shifted in his seat to face her. “What do you believe to be true, Emme?” he asked.
She grew silent before saying, “I don’t believe my father was like that. He was kind, loving, and he treated others with compassion.”
“Then hold on to those memories of your father,” he encouraged. “Don’t let your uncle taint your father’s memory, especially since losing money at a gambling hell does not make someone a scoundrel.”
“You are right.”
He smirked. “You will find that I generally am,” he joked. “It is a curse that I must deal with.”
A soft laugh escaped her lips, and she brought her hand up to cover her mouth.
“I enjoy hearing you laugh,” Oliver remarked.
“The feeling is mutual.”
Oliver watched her intently before abruptly rising. “It is late, and I should let you go to bed,” he said, his words sounding hoarse.
“Thank you for making me feel better,” she remarked, looking up at him.
“That is what a dutiful husband does,” Oliver teased.
She watched as he stopped at the open door and spun back around. “Did you tell anyone about the smugglers?” he asked.
“I told my lady’s maid,” she replied. “Was I wrong in doing so?”
“Is your lady’s maid trustworthy?”
Emmeline nodded. “She is.”
“Does she have any connections to Whitstable that you are aware of?”
“Not that I know of.” She eyed him curiously. “Why do you ask?”
Oliver grew solemn as he said, “A member of our household staff may have tipped off the smugglers, allowing them time to move the smuggled goods.”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“I am not sure, but I intend to find out.” He gave her a brief smile. “Good night, Wife.”
After the door was closed, Emmeline removed the white wrapper and draped it over the back of the settee, then went to her bed and slipped between the covers.
As she laid in bed, she hoped there would be a time when Oliver would love her as much as she loved him. Because she did love him. Desperately.
She must have drifted off, because she awoke suddenly sometime later.
Emmeline sat up in her bed and saw the drapes drifting in the breeze next
to an open window. The fire had gone out, and the only light came from the moonlight streaming through the windows.
She hadn’t recalled opening a window before going to bed, but perhaps Mary had after she had helped her undress for the evening. She laid back down on her pillow and stared up at the darkened ceiling. Something felt off, but she couldn’t figure out what was wrong.
A creaking sound caused her to sit up again in alarm. She hadn’t imagined that. Her eyes roamed the room, looking for any sign of an intruder. But there was no place for someone to hide that would escape her notice.
She tossed off her covers and put her feet over the edge of the bed. She went to stand when she felt something clasp just above her right foot, and was yanked back with such force that she fell to the ground with a thud.
In the next moment, a burly man sat on top of her, forced her onto her back, and shoved a pillow over her face, muffling her screams. She started scratching at the man’s arms, but it did little to relieve the pressure. The weight of the man prevented her from moving around, and her attempts to free herself were becoming more feeble.
Just when she was about to succumb to the darkness, she heard a door slam open and the sound of a pistol discharging.
The pressure of the pillow let up, and she felt the man slump to the side. She tossed the pillow off her face just as Oliver dragged the man off her.
She sat up, gasping, as someone pounded at her door, followed by Grubbs shouting, “Are you all right, milady?”
Oliver laid the man down and walked over to the door. He opened it to reveal the butler and footmen huddled around the door. “Her Ladyship was attacked by an intruder, but I was able to shoot him before he killed her,” he announced. “I want you to send for the constable.”
Grubbs nodded as his eyes met Emmeline’s. “Yes, milord. I will send a footman at once,” he said. “Will there be anything else?”
“Not at this time,” Oliver replied, “but I must tend to my wife.”
“I will leave a footman outside your door should you require anything,” Grubbs informed him.
Oliver closed the door and turned towards her. “Are you all right?” he asked, the concern in his voice evident.
She shook her head. “No,” she replied.
He closed the distance between them and crouched down next to her. “Did the attacker say anything to you?”
