The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  The shadow was well above her, and if it were not for the sliver of moon attempting to shine through the clouds, she wouldn’t have noticed him against the horizon. Then the man slipped away from the cliff edge into the surrounding darkness. She continued to wait, eyes straining against the dark, but she didn’t see him again.

  Who was it? The traitor?

  Digging into her coat, she drew out her pistol. The pearl handle was smooth, cool and comforting in her hand. Gripping it tight, she continued her ascent. Reaching the cliff top she crouched, alert, and scanned the horizon for the shadowy form.

  When she was certain there was no shadow that did not belong, she turned away from the cliffs and toward the building at the edge of the wood that housed Demon. Once she reached her uncle’s estate and ensured Demon was settled for the evening she entered her stillroom, carrying a short candle.

  Surveying the shelves, she contemplated whether to hide the second folio in the same barrel of rose petals. It would be better to separate the folios in case of discovery. She looked around for a suitable hiding place, mentally evaluating and discarding various drawers, pots and barrels, until she saw a small trunk in the corner.

  Grace strode to the trunk and flipped the lid. Squares of linen and muslin lay inside, ready to be sewed into sachets. Kneeling, she placed the candle on the floor. Digging beneath the fabric, she cleared a space for the folio on the floor of the trunk. After carefully replacing the fabric, she closed the lid and stood. It was as good as any other hiding place.

  She strode to the door of the stillroom and put her hand on the latch, ready for her bed, but her eyes strayed to the barrel of roses. To reassure herself that the folio had not been stolen or discovered, Grace went to the barrel, plunged her arm in and felt around. When her fingertips touched the cool, smooth leather she wilted in relief. It was still there, hidden from prying eyes and traitorous minds.

  __________

  “MISS HANNAH IS involved in treason up to her pretty neck.”

  “Hmm.” Sir Charles Flint did not look up from the documents spread across his desk. They were free of their leather bindings, which remained hidden among sweet-smelling rose petals and soft linen.

  Julian nodded toward the papers. “I’m not privy to Wellington’s plans, so I don’t know the accuracy of that information.” From his vantage point the scrawling script looked like foreign symbols. But he’d read the damning information repeatedly during the hasty trip to London and knew every word.

  “It’s accurate enough,” Sir Charles said. “Are you certain Miss Hannah is involved?”

  “I watched her hide this information in her stillroom,” he said flatly. “She’s involved.”

  Sir Charles said nothing, but his fingers skimmed the pages as though following the path of his eyes.

  Julian waited. Or tried to. Something hot and edgy seethed inside him. The documents were not enough to let him back in. They were important, but they were not enough.

  “Give me your report.”

  It was as natural as breathing. “She met with three smugglers in Jack Blackbourn’s pub. They gave her the first folio. Sir, they were nervous. Fidgety.”

  “Traitors tend to be that way. Come to think of it, so do smugglers.” Sir Charles looked up. “Is she their leader?”

  “They treated her with deference, from what I could see through the window.”

  “And the second folio?”

  “The second folio she obtained while inside an abandoned quarry used to store smuggled goods. I counted twenty-one smugglers that night. A mix of farmers and fishermen. Blackbourn himself was there as well.”

  “How did you acquire the folios, Shadow?” Paper crackled as Sir Charles shifted a page to the side.

  “I recreated the pages with false information and replaced them in the folios.” It had taken days of painstaking work. Nights of hiding in that damn stillroom while Miss Hannah slept a floor above him.

  Sir Charles’s head jerked up. “She hasn’t noticed the switch?”

  “I don’t believe so, sir. But I could not risk taking the folios altogether and alerting her or the traitor that we were getting closer.”

  “Let’s hope she doesn’t notice.” It was not a chastisement, but it was close. Sir Charles pointed a thick forefinger at the description of Alastair Whitmore in the first document. “Angel will be pleased you intercepted the information about his true identity.”

  “It keeps him out of retirement.” Julian didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his voice.

  “The accuracy of the information contained in these folios is disturbing,” Sir Charles continued. “Whoever the government traitor is has access to sensitive information. Angel’s true identity is known only to a handful of people.” Sir Charles paused, then continued more softly, “None of whom I would suspect of betraying his country.”

  “I intend to work backward from Grace Hannah. If I can determine who her contact is, I will follow the channel of communication back here to London.”

  Sir Charles leaned back and propped one elbow on the arm of his chair. “What’s your opinion of Miss Hannah?”

  “She’s not at all what she seems. It’s my experience, sir, that the quietest suspects play the deepest games.” Julian gave a short, humorless laugh. “She appears to be every inch the lady, though she is subservient in her uncle’s household. I would have guessed she was nothing more than a poor relation.”

  He wondered if he would have seen what was beneath the surface if he hadn’t been looking for it. He was trained to see what others didn’t, but she played her role so well he couldn’t be sure.

  “She is heavily involved in local smuggling,” he continued. “I don’t know her role within the smuggling gang, but she is accepted as one of them and appears to hold some position of authority.”

  “It’s a leap from smuggler to treason.”

  “True.” A fact that troubled him. “At this time, the only connection I have to the traitor is Miss Hannah and the smugglers.”

  “We could shut down the smuggling ring.” Sir Charles tapped his finger on the documents. “It would prevent any further information being carried to France.”

  “I thought about that, sir.” He had examined every angle during the long, sleepless nights at Thistledown. “Shutting down the ring would alarm the traitor here in London. He might disappear or cease operations altogether until he had safer channels of communication. If he did, we’d lose our connection to him.”

  “A good point. Although there is a question as to why the information is being held in England. Why would she hide it rather than send it to France?”

  “I don’t know.” It was another fact that plagued him. “I have no method of finding out except through Miss Hannah. We’ve developed a rapport.” The words tasted acidic in his mouth. He swallowed, felt his stomach start to burn. “I can use it.”

  Sir Charles eyed him. “Do you have any compunction about using her in that manner?”

  “There are no other options.” Julian forced himself to ignore the burn, ignore the self-loathing, and hold the older man’s gaze steadily.

  “Very well.” Sir Charles tugged on the bellpull beside his desk. “Thank you for bringing this information to London yourself rather than trusting the usual methods of transport.”

  The door opened to admit Miles Butler, Sir Charles’s clerk. He looked as eager as ever. Julian felt suddenly old.

  “Mr. Butler, I need these documents messengered over to the foreign secretary immediately.” Sir Charles pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and quill. “Just a moment and I will have a short note to accompany them.”

  “Of course, sir.” Mr. Butler brightened as he picked up the documents.

  Sir Charles sealed the letter with red wax and passed it to the clerk. “Deliver these directly to the foreign secretary yourself. Don’t let one of his clerks
delay or obstruct you. They must go to him and no one else.”

  Mr. Butler straightened, his chest swelling with obvious pride. “Yes, sir. Immediately.” He quit the room, leaving Julian and Sir Charles alone.

  “I want the foreign secretary to know what information has been leaked,” Sir Charles said. “We may be able to isolate the traitor in London.”

  “Working the information from both directions, so to speak.”

  “Precisely,” Sir Charles concluded. “Do what you must to either gain Miss Hannah’s confidence or discover her secrets. Use whichever course seems to best fit the circumstances.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was a spy. It was the only thing he knew how to be. But there were always boundaries. He was going to cross one.

  Chapter 8

  “MISS GRACIE, ANOTHER invitation has arrived.”

  Binkle laid the invitation on the corner of the escritoire in Grace’s private sitting room.

  “Has my uncle indicated whether he will attend?” She pushed away the household account ledgers, grateful for any interruption from the mundane task.

  “The picnic is being held next week by Sir Richard and his wife, Lady Elliott.”

  “Ah, then we know he will attend.” She glanced at the invitation. As usual the invitees were both Grace and her uncle. She took a fresh sheet of paper from a drawer and picked up a quill. “Thank you, Binkle. I’ll give the response to one of the footmen to deliver when I’ve finished.”

  The butler returned to his duties and Grace dipped the quill into her ink bottle. Hand poised above the paper, she hesitated. She wouldn’t attend, of course. She’d been humiliated by Clotilde Wargell at Lady Hammond’s ball.

  A voice whispered inside her, Would the Earl of Langford be attending the picnic? There was no way to know—at least not without directly questioning someone. The voice whispered again, Does it matter?

  Something about the earl mattered very much. He dispelled that dark loneliness she carried with her. Perhaps it only meant that she craved a man’s touch. She wanted to touch and to taste, to give and to take from him. The sheer enormity of that desire was, in itself, frightening.

  She wanted more. More of his mouth on hers, of his strong fingers touching her. Her breath quickened as she imagined the feel of those fingers caressing her own flesh. She wanted the darkness to dissolve in his heat.

  Grace let out a long breath and glanced down at the paper. There was a large blot of ink where it dripped from her quill. With a sigh, she decided to write around it. The cost of paper was high and Uncle would be furious if he found out she’d discarded it. She bent her head and carefully wrote:

  Lord Thaddeus Cannon and Miss Grace Hannah gratefully accept your invitation.

  She wondered if the Earl of Langford wanted to see her again. The neighbors would be shocked to find her in their midst a second time. Uncle Thaddeus, of course, would be furious.

  She shuddered and prepared herself for the battle to come.

  __________

  IT WASN’T AS bad as she feared.

  It was worse.

  “You have no right to attend, Grace,” Uncle Thaddeus roared. “You’re just a poor relation.”

  “I know, Uncle.” She shrank back against the sitting room settee. She couldn’t help it. It was as though her body itself were shrinking. Her fingers twisted in the skirt of her day gown. She’d chosen her best, but knew she would not be as fashionable as the other ladies at the picnic.

  “You’re nothing but the whelp of a baseborn laborer.” He spat the words as he leaned over her. His breath was sour and smelled of brandy and fish. “You’re nothing.”

  “I can’t help the circumstances of my birth.” Her voice sounded weak and she struggled to speak past her dry throat.

  “But you can control your conduct.” He seemed to swell and grow so that he blocked out everything. “I expect you to return to your chambers. Now. Change out of that gown and resume your duties.”

  Pushing halfway off the settee, she nearly did as he commanded. But something hot washed over her, and she sank back down. It was as if some part of her were starting to bubble and boil and rise up.

  He studied her with cold, narrowed eyes.

  She swallowed. “I must go,” she blurted out. “Lady Elliott specifically asked me to attend one of her children. He’s ill.” It was a lie. A poor one. She bit back the groan at her own audacity and hoped her deceit wasn’t discovered.

  A beat passed, then two.

  “Very well.” His tone was low and menacing. “This time, because Lady Elliott asked for you. You will not attend in the future. Is that understood?”

  Shocked he’d agreed, she nodded.

  “The carriage will leave in ten minutes,” he added. “You will be ready.” He spun on his heel and marched from the room.

  Watching his back retreat into the hall, she couldn’t quite believe she was attending. Or that she had lied while looking in Uncle Thaddeus’s eyes. Why was she suddenly taking such risks?

  Because of the blue, blue eyes of the Earl of Langford and the glorious light that filled her when he kissed her.

  __________

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Sir Richard and Lady Elliott’s country house, they were directed through the house and onto the rear terrace, where the estate’s gardens opened up. A trio of musicians was positioned on the terrace so that the breeze carried their lovely music over the gardens.

  Uncle Thaddeus shot her one final furious glare, bushy mustache twitching in disgust, before stalking down the terrace steps and leaving Grace alone to face the crowd.

  Her hands went damp with nerves inside her kid gloves as she surveyed the guests. Women in pretty muslin gowns dotted the green landscape, parasols angled above them to block out the bright late summer sun, while men buzzed around them like bees searching for nectar. Grace glanced down at her gown and lamented the dull lavender that edged toward gray. There was nothing she could do to make it attractive.

  Drawing a deep breath, she lifted her plain gray parasol, opened it above her head and strolled toward the guests. Blankets were spread on the grass before a sunlit pond. Two small rowboats bobbed on the sparkling surface of the water. Guests milled about, carrying plates of food and watching the rowers race their little boats.

  She could tell when her presence was first noted. Conversations dwindled, ceased, then began again with overtones of speculation and surprise. She could almost hear the questions. What is she doing? Why is she here?

  Uncertainty plagued her, but she continued forward, drawing on her reserve of composure. Anxiety had her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Her uncle ignored her arrival, assiduously keeping his face averted. Would the other guests speak with her or would they ignore her as well? Would she be snubbed? Given the cut direct?

  Her step faltered. She had been foolish to accept the invitation. She didn’t belong there, among the peers and barons and squires. Uncle Thaddeus was right. She was nothing.

  She nearly turned around and fled back to the house, back to Cannon Manor and safety. Then her hostess, Marie, Lady Elliott, disengaged herself from the group she was conversing with and came toward Grace across the lawns.

  “Miss Gracie.” She offered a welcoming smile. “I’m delighted you were able to attend our picnic.” As usual, Lady Elliott was sad-eyed and soft-spoken. Shadows of fatigue lay like bruises beneath her eyes.

  “Thank you for including me. And”—she cleared her throat—“thank you for your support at Lady Hammond’s ball. Mrs. Wargell is—”

  “Mean-spirited,” Lady Elliott whispered. Her eyes darted around, searching for eavesdroppers. “We all know she lured Michael Wargell away from you, and that’s why he jilted you. Otherwise you might have . . . Well.” She trailed off, shifting uncomfortably.

  “Thank you.” Grace offered a reassuring smile and raised he
r voice to its normal level. “You’ve outdone yourself, Lady Elliott.” She nodded toward tables arranged near the guests. Platters of food and bottles of sherry and wine crowded the tables. A huge punch bowl stood in the center of one table with tiers of sweets and candied treats beside it.

  “You are too kind.” Lady Elliott surveyed the tables, evaluating the display with the critical eye of a hostess. Apparently satisfied, she turned back to Grace. “I confess I did not expect you to accept my invitation.”

  “I’m glad I did.” Grace ignored the curiosity in the other woman’s eyes. “How are your children?”

  “Active, as usual,” Lady Elliott responded, and the shadows beneath her eyes deepened. In contrast, her face, already made sallow by the light yellow dress she wore, drained of any further color. “I’m not certain how Richard keeps up with those boys. I’m unable to manage it.”

  “Because they’re just that. Boys. Boys will forever be a little wild and unruly, and certainly full of mischief.”

  “They’re like their father,” Lady Elliott finished flatly.

  Grace cleared her throat and moved on to Lady Elliott’s favorite subject. “Have you taken the waters recently?”

  “I returned from Bath over a month ago. It was most restorative, as you can imagine, but with this heat I’m afraid the treatments don’t last as long. I’m still so fatigued.”

  “I know, Lady Elliott.” She laid a hand on the lady’s arm. “The heat has been oppressive this summer.”

  “It has,” Lady Elliott agreed, bringing out her fan and waving it at her wan face. “I’ve run out of the tincture you provided for me as well, and that certainly doesn’t help matters.”

  “I’ll bring another bottle tomorrow,” Grace promised.

  “Thank you, Miss Gracie. I don’t know what I would have done without your tincture these past few years. Or your company.” Lady Elliott squeezed Grace’s hand before heaving a sigh. “But enough about my trials. Please enjoy yourself.”

  She stepped back and gestured toward the other guests. As she moved away, Lady Hammond and Lady Lintell stepped forward, the former cutting across the lawns in her formidable way, the latter fluttering in her wake.