by Erica Ridley
“Good afternoon, Miss Shelling!”
Jack Skeffington’s twins were trundling iron hoops in front of their house.
Eve lifted a hand to wave reflexively, then paused when Duenna barked.
Duenna never barked at the Skeffingtons. They’d lived here just as long as Eve had.
A cheroot-smoking, wind-chapped, unshaven man hefting a distinctive wooden box trudged up the front step and disappeared into the house.
“Who was that?” Eve asked with curiosity.
“Redmire,” Frederick replied instantly. “He’s a—”
Annie smacked her brother in the stomach, causing him to double over with a soft oof.
“—a businessman,” she finished, smiling up at Eve angelically. “Redmire is Papa’s investment associate, visiting from abroad.”
There was definitely more to that story, but Eve didn’t have time to pursue it. She had a gazette to print tomorrow morning, which meant she needed a new front page tonight. She’d come back to the Skeffingtons later.
“That’s nice, dears. Have a good afternoon.”
Eve tried to hurry Duenna down the street toward the le Duc property, but a passing squirrel sent Duenna shooting off in the opposite direction toward the park.
“Blast.” Eve picked up her skirts and chased after her dog.
Only when the squirrel had taken refuge high overhead, were Eve and her bullmastiff finally on their way toward the le Ducs. No, not the le Ducs…
Toward Bastien. A smile teased her lips.
He hadn’t left her mind for a moment after the wondrous evening they’d shared in each other’s arms. Tonight she would be too busy setting the paper, and tomorrow printing it, but the day after that… Her cheeks flushed with anticipation.
Once the Gazette had shipped, Eve could think of several ways she and Bastien could warm up the winter nights.
This time when she passed the Skeffington house, the children were no longer outside. In fact, the winding dirt road was empty. Eve supposed it was teatime. Perhaps she ought to have brought a basket to share with the le Ducs.
Neither Bastien nor Lucien was in the smithy, so she headed on back to their cottage and knocked upon the door.
No one answered.
Her fingernails bit into her palms. She hadn’t considered the possibility of not finding them in time to write her story.
“Roowwff!” Duenna scampered around the corner of the cottage and out of sight.
“Not the pig again,” Eve groaned, and took off after her.
When she rounded the corner, Duenna was nowhere to be seen… but voices floated out from one of the rooms. Eve paused. The window Bastien had spoken to her through yesterday was still cracked open. She wasn’t going to eavesdrop, but she could try to determine his voice. If he was home, she’d knock on the front door again.
A blur of lilting French sounded from behind the window.
That was… Lucien? Maybe?
A matching rumble of melodic French came in response, followed by what sounded like the snick of two ivory billiards cues hitting each other.
That one had been… Bastien? Perhaps? Speaking in French changed more than the words. Their tone became deeper, more liquid, like honey dripping from a spoon or chocolate melting in a pot.
The important thing was not how seductive Bastien sounded when he spoke French, she reminded herself. The important thing was that he was here, and she should go knock so they could talk about her article.
Eve stepped away from the window and moved toward the front door, only to freeze at the sight of Jack Skeffington lumbering down the path from the smithy to the cottage with a heavy box in his arms.
She gasped and flattened herself against the house where he couldn’t see her. She hadn’t been eavesdropping—wouldn’t have been able to understand a single word even if she tried—but “skulking under the neighbor’s window” was not attractive, regardless of her excuses.
His knock on the front door was much louder than hers. Nor did he wait for a butler to heed his call. He simply barged on in and kicked the door shut behind him.
“Well, if I’d known that was all I needed to do,” Eve muttered.
But she didn’t move from her hiding spot. She couldn’t. Not yet. If Jack was merely dropping off that box and turning around, he’d catch her coming around the corner. And of course, there was still Duenna to deal with. No, the best course of action was—
The box. What was in the box? It was the same size and shape and had the same distinctive markings as the box Redmire-the-business-associate had lugged in from his carriage. It had to be the same box. But of what?
New cue balls, perhaps? Everyone knew Jack played billiards with the le Ducs every week or two. People liked to tease him that he was the only Englishman Lucien le Duc could stand.
Father had not been teasing when he said things like that. That would change when the article came out, she promised herself. Father would see the le Ducs as more than just foreigners and blacksmiths, but well-rounded people with pasts and futures, tragedies and dreams. As neighbors.
A door squeaked, followed by a blur of French. Lucien?
“That’s right, you ill-tempered goat,” came Jack’s voice. “We’re back in business.”
Eve grinned to herself as she imagined Lucien’s expression.
“Redmire is a genius,” came Bastien’s voice. “Is that champagne, or just brandy?”
Eve frowned. Both substances were illegal, but that hadn’t stopped most aristocrats from indulging anyway. Perhaps the box that Redmire delivered had been Jack’s parting gift for the le Duc family. Something French, to show his support.
Lucien let loose with another stream of French.
“Obviously we’ll drink it no matter what,” Bastien replied, with a tone that heavily implied he was rolling his eyes at his brother. “You can’t fault a man for wanting to know if we’re a little wealthier or a lot wealthier.”
Eve’s skin went cold. Why would they… Surely he couldn’t mean…
A cork popped, followed by the sound of Jack’s voice. “A lot wealthier.”
Glasses clinked.
Eve’s shoulders sagged against the house.
“I hated not being able to pay you last month,” Jack continued. “But I promised I’d resolve the situation, and I did. We’ll ship twice as much this month, which means—”
Which meant he and the le Ducs were smugglers.
They weren’t innocent, good-hearted, down-on-their-luck blacksmiths. They were pretending to be whilst secretly circumventing two different countries’ laws for their own profit. Smuggling was considered treason against the Crown.
Her heart clanged. Her palms were cold and sweaty. Hadn’t Father warned her enough about men who hid their true selves? This wasn’t some minor omission of the truth. This was a lie on the scale of prison-for-the-rest-of-his-life. Right there in Newgate with her previous beau.
Who knew what else he was capable of? Certainly not trusting her. Her eyes stung. Well, she’d just learned she couldn’t trust him, either.
And she’d spent half the night naked in his embrace.
A series of tubes rattled overhead, startling her. Almost instantly, the pig began to snort… and Duenna began to bark.
Chapter 13
“What’s wrong?” Lucien demanded, setting down his glass to stalk closer.
Bastien let out a breath. No matter how wide one smiled or how much champagne one drank, his older brother could always see through to the real Bastien.
“I’m happy about the money,” he answered in French. He dug into his waistcoat pocket. “You’ll be happy about these, too.”
Lucien’s eyes widened at the sight of the tickets.
“Ocean passage?” He clutched them to his chest as though the scraps of paper were a bouquet of roses.
Bastien should have felt the same way. Would have felt the same way. But looking at them made him feel far more gut-punched than giddy. As it turned out, some
where between sending for tickets home and receiving them in the post…
He’d fallen in love.
“Stop.” Lucien narrowed his eyes. “Why are you not prancing around the room with me?”
Bastien placed his hands on his hips. “Dandies don’t prance.”
“You prance more than the Harpers’ prize pony.” Lucien set the tickets on the billiards table, thought better of it, and tucked them carefully into an inner pocket. “Why did you put on the spangled waistcoat if you are not going to prance?”
Because the spangled waistcoat was Bastien’s favorite waistcoat. It was the nicest thing he owned, next to his new jacket—which he was also wearing. This outfit wasn’t for him, but for Eve.
She hadn’t asked for any promises. Hadn’t delivered any ultimatums. Hadn’t demanded he choose between her and his home country.
He was choosing anyway. And he chose her.
Bastien drew a deep breath and stood up straight. “I’m going to—”
“What’s that?” Jack set down his champagne and put his hand to his ear.
“Feeding tubes,” Lucien answered in French. “Uncle Jasper must be sending Chef his supper.”
“Not that,” Jack replied in English. He frowned. “It sounds like a dog. Do you have a dog?”
They did not have a dog. Eve had a dog.
Was she here?
Bastien abandoned his champagne and tore out of the billiards room without a word of explanation. Jack and Lucien shouldn’t be the first people to hear about the feelings threatening to burst from Bastien’s heart. The first person should be Eve.
He caught up with her just as she was dragging Duenna away from Chef’s pen.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he blurted out. “I wanted to tell you—”
“—that you’re a smuggler?” Her eyes flashed with anger and betrayal.
“W-what?” he stammered, his pulse skipping.
“Sorry, I don’t know the French word for that. Here are some more English words: gaol, criminal, illegal, treasonous.” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, here’s another one: liar.”
He drew up short. “I never lied to you.”
Her laugh was short and humorless. “If you dare say to me, ‘I would have told you I’m a criminal who smuggles illegal contraband in order to line my own pockets despite any risk to my neck, if only you had asked.’ I swear I shall kill you.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “You’re right. I didn’t tell you and I wasn’t going to. How I support my family is none of your business.”
Except, he’d been about to make it her business, hadn’t he? If he’d proposed marriage to her and then she found out…
“It’s my business now.” He hadn’t trusted her, and now she couldn’t trust him. No, worse… she couldn’t trust herself. All the old guilt about her role in the events leading to her mother’s death came roaring back. She had sworn never to fall for a duplicitous scoundrel ever again. Her voice shook. “I came here planning to write a front page story about you, and I suppose I found a bigger one than I expected.”
“What?” he spluttered. “You can’t publish treason!”
“Oh, do you make all the rules now?” She drew herself up straighter. “The last time I checked, you don’t control me.”
Bastien’s temples throbbed. He’d thought his worst fear was that she, too, would deem him not good enough. This was a hundred times worse. If she breathed a word of this before he and Lucien boarded that boat, there would be no smithy and no France. Just gaol. And possibly a noose.
“Eve.” He reached for her. “Stop and think for a second.”
“Like you stopped and thought?” She skipped out of reach, eyebrows shooting skyward. “Smuggling is illegal and helps fund lawlessness. Whose side are you on?”
Her belittling words ripped a fresh hole in his chest. Did she think he didn’t know that illegal activity funded people who did illegal things? She had never been in a position where she had no choice but to make a hard decision at great personal risk.
Bastien would do anything for those he loved. Anything. He would personally sneak through caves and smuggle each bottle of brandy by hand if that’s what it would have taken to keep a roof over their heads, food in his sister’s belly, clothes on their backs. Of course he knew he was risking his life. His uncle had done the same for him. Those were risks he was willing to take for his family.
He wasn’t going to let her throw it all away just to have her name in some quarterly Christmas gazette.
“You will ruin more than my life if you print this,” he growled. “You’ll ruin my brother’s life. My sister’s life. Jack’s life. His children.”
She met his gaze. Her eyes were tortured. “Journalists don’t pick the news.”
“I wasn’t clear.” He gave a brittle smile. “If you even attempt to hurt my family, I will destroy you.”
Family. He had wanted that word to include Eve.
He had been foolish.
The world had already shown him what he could and could not do and be and have.
Others did not think his family deserved the privileges they had, so they tried to run. Others did not think his parents deserved their lives or their heads, so they took them. And now Eve did not think the family he had left deserved what little they had either, and intended to snatch their happiness and their future away with a stroke of her pen.
This was Bastien’s fault. His family was in danger because he’d fallen in love with an Englishwoman. He slammed his fist against the doorframe.
Once again, they’d have to run.
Chapter 14
Eve did not spend the night setting type for the printing press as she’d planned. She spent the long, endless hours slumped against the empty wooden table with her head in her hands.
It was time to print the Gazette. The first batch needed to be distributed the day after tomorrow. And her front page still had a gaping hole where the smithy article had once lived.
She should be happy. Over the moon. She had what she wanted, didn’t she? A story that people would notice. A way for her to finally be noticed. Actual journalism, credited to her name. Wasn’t that the dream? Wasn’t publishing articles like this exactly what she’d always thought she wanted to do for the rest of her life?
Along the way, she’d managed to fall in love with a criminal and a liar, but if she was disappointed, that was her own stupid fault.
From the time she was young, Father had warned her that men always had something to hide. She’d ignored him and welcomed a lying blackguard into their home, forfeiting her mother’s life. Had that not been proof enough?
Barricading herself from romance by throwing herself into her love of journalism only underscored the matter. She read every single newspaper she could get her hands on, and every day of the week was more of the same: people everywhere put their wants above others’ needs to disastrous effect. Men might be the bulk of the villains, but crime did not belong to them alone.
It had been foolish of her to believe Bastien to be any different. Willfully naive. He was Cressmouth’s most dashing rake, and she hadn’t even bothered to ask if he spent his time away from her off in the arms of someone else. How was that for first-rate investigative skills?
She hadn’t wanted to know if there was something to hide. She was a turtle in her shell; an ostrich with her head in the sand. Part of her had always assumed he wasn’t perfect. As long as she never found out just how much, she could enjoy him while she had him, and then pick up the pieces of her heart after he was gone, none the wiser.
Except now she was wiser. And it was torture.
The door to the printing house creaked open and Duenna scampered inside, followed by Eve’s father.
She didn’t lift her head from her hands.
He placed a small plate of toast and cheese on the table before her and leaned on his walking-stick. “You didn’t come home last night.”
“I was here,” she mumbled, gesturing vague
ly in the direction of the press.
He walked over to the type for the front page. “Where’s your article?”
“You dumped the letters back into the bucket.” Was her tone bitter? Why, yes it was.
If only she could go back to how it was when Le Duc Brothers are the Heart of Christmas was the most pressing thing on her mind.
“I meant your new article.” Father pulled out a wooden stool and sat heavily across from her. “I told you to find something else to write about.”
At this, she looked up.
“I did find something else,” she said, her tone polite enough to shatter glass. “Did you know Jack Skeffington has a taste for champagne and French brandy?”
Father blinked. “I… cannot claim to be shocked by this. His wine cellar is almost as legendary as the—”
“Did you know he and the le Ducs smuggle champagne and French brandy in some sort of long-term, intricate operation that stretches over who knows how much of England?”
Father’s outraged expression indicated that no, he did not.
“That’s against the law,” he spluttered. “Society is built on rules. The government has made it extremely clear that—”
Eve did not listen to his tirade. She’d been subjected to variations on this theme for most of her life, and had already spent a sleepless night giving herself much the same talk.
There were rules. She did not want her country to descend into lawlessness. Bad enough that English soldiers were dying left and right abroad. She had no wish to encourage reckless criminal behavior here at home.
Nor, if she was being honest, did she have any desire to see a handful of her favorite people gaoled or hanged in public squares because she’d written a front-page article that exposed them.
Becoming a respected journalist had been her ambition for her entire adult life, yet she was just now starting to understand what that would mean. If she was forced to choose between the man she loved and realizing her one chance at a story of a lifetime…
“You’re old,” she said to her father.
