The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  It felt like fate.

  She turned and saw Anna Blackbourn standing to one side of the chapel, her children flanking their mother like young, protective sentinels. Anna waved a greeting and Grace responded with a quick nod and a smile. What was it like, she wondered, to know your husband was living within miles of you and yet unable to come home? She stole a quick glance at Julian, standing straight and tall and strong as he helped her into his waiting carriage—their carriage now, she supposed.

  They were husband and wife. No longer was she simply Grace Hannah. She was Grace, Countess of Langford.

  How odd.

  As the carriage rumbled out of the village, she settled her plain light yellow skirts, smoothing them over her lap. Looking out the window, she watched the stone cottages and buildings pass by. Nerves leapt within her. She couldn’t quite bring herself to look at Julian.

  His presence filled the carriage. She could smell leather and man, could hear his light breathing. Could all but taste him.

  It was the first time she’d seen him since they’d made love. And all she could think about was the feel of his skin against hers.

  “Grace.”

  She swallowed hard, met his eyes.

  “You can relax now.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your shoulders are nearly covering your ears and your hands are gripped together like a vise. You’re nervous and uncomfortable.” He smiled sensuously. “I don’t mind making you a little nervous, but uncomfortable doesn’t exactly assuage my male pride.”

  “Um.” Where was that witty conversation he claimed to enjoy? Deliberately, she relaxed her shoulders and loosed her hands. Her fingers were cramped. She stretched them out, studied them. “The ceremony was nice.”

  “The ceremony was boring.”

  She smothered a laugh, and felt her muscles relax. “The vicar sounded quite monotonous, didn’t he?”

  “I nearly fell asleep at my own wedding. Though I did perk up at that bit about the wife obeying the husband.” He leaned back against the seat and watched her from beneath his lashes. “Any chance of that happening, my smuggling wife?”

  “Hm. I think I would prefer to remain silent.”

  “I thought as much.” His eyes laughed into hers.

  He shifted against the seat and she saw something press against his coat pocket. She recognized the shape.

  “You brought a pistol to our wedding.”

  “Is that an accusation?”

  “No. A statement.”

  “I’m a spy, Grace.” His face was unreadable. “I always have a weapon. More than one, typically.”

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. She probably shouldn’t be comforted by it, either. Glancing out the window, she saw they would soon be at Thistledown. “Will there be many people attending the wedding breakfast?”

  “A fair number. Your uncle invited an interesting cast of characters.” His tone changed, smoothed out and lowered so that it sounded just a touch menacing.

  She stilled. “They’re all invited, aren’t they? All of your suspects. Lord Paget, Sir Richard and Lady Elliott. The Wargells.”

  “Yes.” The eyes that had focused so intently on her as she’d walked down the aisle were now serious and sober. A predator lurked in their depths.

  “I should have guessed,” she murmured, shivering slightly at his abrupt change. “They are his closest friends.”

  “You have a friendship with Lady Elliott, correct?”

  “Of a sort.”

  “Use your friendship with her.”

  “I can’t.” Something hard and acidic settled in her belly. “I couldn’t possibly. It would be deceitful.”

  “That is, unfortunately, the essence of espionage. We need to find a connection from London to the caves, and that connection might involve Sir Richard.” He paused. “I went to the caves, Grace.”

  “What?” She jerked as shock arrowed through her.

  “I was attempting to find Jack, but the caves showed no sign of occupation—beyond some smuggled goods, of course.”

  Thank goodness for Old Mick’s cabin. Her stomach tightened as her promise to Jack rang in her ears.

  “He could be hiding anywhere,” she said, hoping she sounded normal. The words were like knives in her throat. But she’d made a promise. “He may not even be in Devon.”

  “Perhaps not.” Julian’s lids lowered. He studied her through thin slits of blue. “It seemed the most likely place for him to hide.”

  A lie by omission was still a lie. That fact hadn’t changed in the days since she’d seen Jack.

  Pushing away the sickness in her belly, she looked out the window. “What do you want me to do with Lady Elliott?”

  He remained silent. She wanted to turn her head and search his face to discern what he was thinking. But she was afraid her mask wouldn’t hold and he would see the lie in her eyes. Instead, she watched the blur of green and gold and orange leaves fly past the carriage window.

  “I want you to find a connection,” he finally answered. “Ask her questions about London, what they do there, even Sir Richard’s family and close friends. Anything that might tie him to the Foreign Office.”

  She nodded, but didn’t turn. The carriage seemed hot, despite the chilled fall air outside.

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “About what?” Surprised, she faced him.

  “I brought treason into our wedding day. And now your hands are linked together again.”

  She looked down, saw he was correct. But it wasn’t treason on her wedding day that caused the strain. It was secrets and lies.

  Suddenly he was there, beside her on the seat instead of across from her. His scent enveloped her as he reached for her hand and brought it to his lips. The gesture warmed her. His lips pressed against her fingers and sent her pulse skittering.

  “Ah, fair lady, forgive me.”

  “It’s nothing, Julian.”

  “But it is. A lady deserves a wedding day free of unhappiness. I’ve failed in my husbandly duties and it’s only the first day. The first hour. Alas, I must throw myself upon your mercy and beg forgiveness.”

  She laughed, glad to let treason melt away in his absurd words. She wouldn’t be able to bear their wedding celebration otherwise.

  __________

  "I FEEL QUITE on display,” Grace murmured in his ear as they moved through the crowds in the salons of Thistledown.

  “So we are.” Julian glanced down at his bride. “We’re the latest on-dit in a quiet village.”

  “I suppose it was a shock.” She leaned close so the scent of lavender and woman rose to entice him. “The poor relation marrying the earl.”

  “And with a special license because we couldn’t wait for the banns to be complete.”

  As they paraded through the salons, Julian scrutinized the room, memorizing faces, cataloging groups, couples. Every one of the guests was the potential traitor. Still, some were more likely than others.

  One of the men that topped his list stood near the main entrance, stiffly accepting congratulations as guests entered the drawing rooms. Lord Thaddeus Cannon’s formal attire strained across his generous stomach, putting great pressure on the large brass buttons of his coat. Julian realized he had rarely seen his bride’s uncle wearing anything but hunting clothes, which explained why the formal coat sat awkwardly on Cannon’s sloping shoulders. A scowl threatened to form between his brows, and the thick brown mustache that dominated his face twitched. Julian supposed it was the barely concealed irritation and impatience that made Cannon’s movements quick and jerky as he shook hands and chatted with the guests.

  Julian’s attention shifted as a shout of “Congratulations!” boomed into his ear. He swung around to face the well-wisher and was met with another of his suspects, Sir Richard Elliott. His wife,
Marie, Lady Elliott, stood beside him, her eyes downcast.

  Sir Richard shook back his shaggy mane of hair and offered his wide palm to shake. “Finally caught in the parson’s mousetrap, eh?” Sir Richard pumped Julian’s hand enthusiastically. “Well, our Miss Gracie is better than most. You’ve a fine woman there.”

  Julian glanced down at Grace. She had leaned in, placed her hand on Lady Elliott’s arm and was earnestly talking to the petite woman. Lady Elliott’s eyes flicked up at Grace, then toward Sir Richard, then back down to her feet. Whatever Grace was saying must have had some effect, as a smile tugged at Lady Elliot’s mouth.

  “I do have a fine woman,” Julian answered, his gaze still on Grace.

  “A fine woman is a good thing. Goes right along with a fine glass of brandy and a fine horse.” Sir Richard slapped him on the back and grinned. “In fact, I just purchased a new hunter last week. Bought him at Tattersall’s for a song.”

  Instinct tightened his gut. “Ah, you’ve been to London recently,” Julian commented. Beside him, Grace stiffened and turned her head, cocking an ear in their direction. He continued, “What’s the news from the capital, then? Any recent social or political scandal—not that I pay much attention to politics, but I do enjoy a good scandal,” Julian confided, keeping his manner easy. Too much interest would cause suspicion.

  “I don’t pay attention to either one—society or politics,” Sir Richard said with a dismissive wave. “I leave all that to my cousin. He’s an undersecretary of something. For myself, I just went to Tattersall’s, spent a few hours at my club, visited my boot maker and returned home.” The big man rocked back on his heels, puffed out his chest. “Let me just tell you about the new hunter. This one’s a beauty!”

  While Julian asked the appropriate questions and traded the appropriate congratulations on Sir Richard’s newest acquisition, he struggled to listen to Grace’s conversation with Lady Elliott.

  “Did you accompany Sir Richard to London?” he heard Grace ask.

  “Oh no,” the lady answered. “The city air isn’t good for my constitution. Especially now. I went to Bath to take the waters instead.”

  “It seems to have done you some good,” Grace commented. “You’ve got roses in your cheeks.”

  He glanced over. Grace was right. Lady Elliott’s eyes still held the residual sadness she carried everywhere with her, but she looked healthier. Happier, even, than previous times he had met her. The waters must have agreed with her.

  Julian turned back to Sir Richard and his new hunter, but he barely heard the man’s enthusiastic description. Sir Richard had a cousin in the government. Although he appeared unfamiliar and uncaring about his cousin’s position it could easily be a pretense. Undersecretary of what? With a few well-placed questions he could easily find out.

  His thoughts were interrupted as another group of guests congratulated them on their marriage. Sir Richard and Lady Elliott moved away a few minutes later, then the new group was replaced by yet more guests. Then they, too, moved on and Julian found himself momentarily alone with his new bride. Once more treason would overlay their relationship.

  “Grace?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. He looked down, placed his hand over the long feminine fingers that lay on his sleeve. He gave those fingers an apologetic caress.

  Silver eyes locked on his. Resignation filled their depths, as did comprehension. “What do you need?”

  “Fair lady, you are the most understanding of wives.” He lifted her fingers, pressed them against his lips. His other hand slid around her waist and pulled her close to his side. He let his fingers linger, let them stroke just at the edge of her belly. He heard her breath catch, and smiled in satisfaction.

  “I need more interaction with Lord Paget and Michael Wargell while I have the opportunity. Then, when our guests leave”—he placed his mouth by her ear and whispered—“it will be just you and me, Grace.”

  Her quiver sent lust spearing through him. He knew what she felt like, had touched that delicate skin. And knew that beneath the cool exterior lay a deep well of passion. He wanted it. Fiercely.

  “I intend to hold you to that promise.” She scanned the room, then nodded toward a corner of the salon. “Clotilde Wargell is on the settee wearing the bright gold gown.”

  The crowd parted and Julian glimpsed a woman with auburn hair, her head tilted toward a female companion to give the appearance of listening. But the bored and superior expression on the woman’s exquisite features told Julian she didn’t care what her companion was saying. She was one of a group of seated women chattering to each other while their male counterparts stood slightly apart, conversing on some heavy topic.

  “Michael is standing near the fireplace, holding the brandy glass.”

  Julian looked down at Grace. Her voice was flat, her face devoid of expression. He hated to hurt her, but it had to be done.

  Julian studied Grace’s former betrothed. Handsome, his dark hair just beginning to gray, and as bored as his wife. He hadn’t paid close attention the first time they’d met as he’d only known Wargell as the man who’d jilted and compromised Grace. Not a gentlemanly act, of course, but no reason to suspect him of treason.

  “Yes, I remember them,” he said. “Do they have any political or diplomatic connections that you are aware of?”

  “No, but Clotilde Wargell and I are not close acquaintances. As for Michael—I couldn’t say. He never mentioned it.”

  Which made Julian wonder exactly what they had talked about. Then he thought of his night with Grace, of their lovemaking. He knew what they hadn’t talked about—or done. Possessiveness swept through him. For all the gossip about her reputation, he knew the truth. She was his, and his alone.

  He caught her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. “Let’s act as a proper bride and groom and greet our guests.”

  He escorted her toward the group of seated women, exchanged brief greetings and then joined the men near the fireplace. Julian focused his attention on Michael Wargell.

  “Congratulations on your marriage to Grace, Langford,” Wargell said smoothly.

  “Thank you.” He inclined his head, holding Wargell’s cold eyes with his own. Not by even a flicker did Wargell convey any awkwardness about his relationship with Grace.

  “Will you be returning to London now that the nuptials are complete?” Wargell glanced at Grace, just one quick, searching look.

  It set Julian’s teeth on edge.

  “I can’t imagine you’ll be able to persuade Grace to travel to London.” Wargell returned his gaze to Julian’s. “She’s too entrenched here in Beer.”

  “Is that why you cried off? Because she wouldn’t travel to London?” Julian kept his voice low. Control seemed a dangerously tenuous thing at that moment.

  The men around them fell silent. He could sense their eyes on him, could feel the tension thick in the air.

  Wargell said nothing for a moment. He stood there, the brandy glass clutched in his hand, his face devoid of any expression. “We wouldn’t have suited,” he said sharply. “She’s not what she seems.”

  “No.” He narrowed his eyes. “She’s more than she seems. But then, a gentleman would know that.”

  Wargell’s mouth opened. Closed. He tossed back the brandy. “Clotilde and I—”

  “You look like two bulls fighting over a cow.” Lord Stuart Paget slid between them and punctuated his words by the loud crack of a cane on the floor. “Don’t make a scene. It’s bad enough you hosted this wedding breakfast to flaunt your mistakes, Langford.”

  Julian’s fist clenched, and he barely restrained himself from plowing it into Lord Paget’s gaunt face. He swallowed the fury and waited until the roaring in his ears subsided.

  “I would suggest you refrain from calling my marriage a mistake on my wedding day.” Forcing his
fist to relax, Julian smiled at Paget. Or at least he tried to. He was certain it appeared more as a snarl than a smile. “That would be the height of impropriety.”

  “I’m telling you what I see. Half the guests are trying to hear what the two of you are saying. Keep it polite.” He leaned on the cane, narrowed eyes flicking back and forth between them.

  Julian looked at Grace. She was watching him, her silver gaze enigmatic, though she was far enough away she couldn’t hear what was being said. But her hands were gripped together, their fingers bone white. He became once more conscious of the nervously silent men around him. Good. Let them be nervous.

  He turned back to Wargell. “I think we know where we stand,” he said softly. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene, would we? Excuse me, gentlemen.”

  Grace still stood near the settee, listening to Clotilde Wargell. He stalked toward them, temper still pushing at him.

  It spiked when he heard Mrs. Wargell’s sly tone. “Of course, we all know the earl compromised you, my lady. If he hadn’t you would still be just Miss Gracie, wouldn’t you?”

  He reached out, snagged Grace’s fingers and brought them to his lips. He kept his eyes on hers, let the desire he felt for her burn from them and saw her cheeks turn pink.

  “Fair lady,” he murmured over her fingertips. “My world had grown dim without your shining beauty by my side.”

  Her blush deepened. “My lord, you remember Mrs. Clotilde Wargell?”

  Julian gave the beautiful woman a perfunctory nod. “My apologies, Mrs. Wargell. I find myself blinded by my bride.”

  He wrapped an arm around Grace’s waist and drew her to his side.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Wargell’s eyes glittered. “Any man would be.”

  “Not so.” He could feel Grace trying to pull away from him and used the advantage of superior strength to draw her closer. “I find the men here to be remarkably shortsighted.” He raised Grace’s hand and kissed her fingers once more, this time lingering over them. Then he turned and stared straight into Clotilde Wargell’s eyes.