The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “And those interruptions.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, focused there with that intense concentration she found so arousing. “Already my wife has turned wanton on me.”

  “Perhaps she has.” She smiled. “Perhaps she’s only waiting for her smuggling captain to take her away.”

  “Then he shall do so, at the first opportunity.” He pushed his empty plate away and raised his brows. “I would suggest directly after breakfast.”

  She cocked her head, as though giving serious consideration to his proposal. “I have heard that strenuous activity after eating is bad for the digestion.”

  “Ah. Perhaps just before luncheon, then.” His smile was seductive. “We can work up an appetite.”

  She laughed, delighted she could flirt with her husband this way. “What will we do in the interim?”

  “I have a few estate matters to see to—much to my dismay as I would rather be with my wife. But you are free to do as you wish. There’s always the gardens, of course, as I know you love them. Redecorating, perhaps? There’s any number of rooms that require updating. Many of them haven’t been cleaned in years.”

  The mood was light and a laugh shone in his eyes. But she had to ask. “I wondered what—” She stopped, unsure of herself.

  “Grace?”

  Picking up her fork she fiddled with the poached egg. Nerves jumped in her belly. “What about the countess’s bedchamber?”

  He went utterly still as a chill settled in his eyes. “That room is not to be disturbed.” His voice was cold, devoid of emotion.

  “Julian—”

  “No. That room must be left closed.”

  He curled his fingers around her arm. His touch wasn’t rough, his grip wasn’t painful. Still, his fingers were tight with the force of his command. She shook her arm slightly, and it seemed to bring him back to himself. Shoving back from the table, he stood and began to pace.

  Unsure of her next step, Grace stayed seated and smoothed out a wrinkle in the table linens. “Clearly, this subject is troubling to you.” She glanced up. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “It’s private.”

  “You refuse to share it with me,” she said flatly.

  He laughed. A short, harsh and humorless sound. “With a wife of twenty-four hours? Hardly.”

  Pain sliced through her. “Don’t be cruel. And please, don’t exclude me. Tell me something.”

  “All you need know is that you’re not to go in there.”

  “Am I to be blocked from your personal concerns?” Temper bubbled, as did confusion. She controlled the first, standing slowly and carefully, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. The confusion, she knew, was as visible on her face as her furrowed brow.

  “You can use whatever room in this house you like, but not that one.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only answer you’ll get.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “You don’t need to.” Julian strode to the door, looked back. “You only need to obey.” Then he was gone.

  Fury erupted. It seethed and sparked in her. She wanted to rage at him, to bully him into telling her why she couldn’t go in the countess’s bedchamber. But he wasn’t there. He’d left without a backward glance.

  Picking up a piece of toast, she hurled it down the table. It struck his chair with a satisfying thwack and crumbled onto the seat.

  She stared at it for a moment, shocked she’d done such a thing. Pressing her fingers against her eyes, she dropped into her own chair. She was becoming a raving lunatic, and all because her husband wouldn’t tell her his secret. He had dismissed her. Excluded her.

  Made her nothing again.

  The fury died. Cold to the marrow, she hunched her shoulders. Nothing. It was a dark pit where hopelessness and loneliness would suck her dry. No. She wouldn’t go there again. She wouldn’t fall into that deep hole. Grace breathed deep and pulled herself out of the dark. She wasn’t nothing. She had to be more than nothing.

  When the door opened Grace whipped her head around, expecting to see Julian. But it was only Starkweather. Concern etched his homely face, turning deep wrinkles into chasms.

  “What’s happened?” she asked, rising.

  “Lord Paget’s upstairs maid has been taken ill. A fever, according to the groom that delivered the message.”

  Grace rose quickly, setting aside all thoughts of the mysterious countess’s suite. “Have a mount readied, please. I’ll retrieve my supplies.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She hurried to the grand staircase leading to the second floor. Grasping her skirts in one hand, she pulled them up to midcalf. Skipping steps, she reached the earl’s suite within minutes. She threw off her gown and quickly changed into her breeches.

  Locating her medicine satchel, she rummaged through its contents and cursed the fact that she’d had to leave so many essential ingredients in the stillroom at Cannon Manor. She knew her uncle didn’t need them, of course. But he’d forbidden her to take anything from the manor that she hadn’t arrived with aside from her clothes. Now she was missing so many critical herbs and tonics and poultices.

  At least Lord Paget’s servants would have personal medications she could draw from. The apothecary in Beer would have more. She’d simply have to make do.

  When she exited Thistledown she was shocked to discover her beloved Demon saddled and waiting for her.

  “How did you get here?” she crooned to the stallion when he nudged her shoulder. “How did Julian persuade Uncle Thaddeus to give you away?” She rubbed his forelock, then his muscled shoulder. Demon nickered softly and huffed into her hair.

  With regret, she ended the reunion. A groom was saddled and waiting as well.

  “You don’t need to accompany me,” she said to the groom as she fastened her satchel to Demon’s saddle.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Gracie.” He flushed. “I mean, my lady.”

  “You can continue with Miss Gracie, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, Miss Gracie,” he said. “His lordship said as how we should accompany you if you have need to go out.”

  “I don’t need a keeper,” Grace muttered as she mounted and settled herself astride the stallion.

  “No, my lady.”

  It wasn’t worth an argument. Fighting the groom for following orders would be a useless endeavor. She wheeled Demon around and set out at a brisk trot.

  Lord Paget’s upstairs maid did have a fever, as well as aches and a general malaise. Influenza was Grace’s diagnosis. The maid was appropriately quarantined, made as comfortable as Grace could manage and given instructions to rest.

  Grace left the girl’s room knowing she had done her best. Time would tell whether the maid would recover or worsen. Grace sighed and pulled the door to the tiny bedchamber closed. She used the servants’ stairs to return to the main level of the house. Intending to leave through the servants’ door at the bottom of the staircase, Grace turned right toward the rear of the house. But a thought flitted through her mind, bringing her feet to a halt.

  She was in Lord Paget’s house. If he were a traitor, this house would hold the evidence. Looking around, she tried to get her bearings. Paget’s study was not far away. It would be the logical place to start. She could search it, quickly and quietly, with none the wiser.

  Turning on her heel, Grace hurried to Paget’s study and was relieved she saw no one during the short walk. Pausing outside the door, she took a deep breath to calm the drumming of her heart. She placed her ear against the door and listened for sounds that might indicate the room was occupied. Nothing. But then, if Paget were reading or scratching out correspondence she wouldn’t hear anything.

  And the longer she stood here listening, the higher the odds that she would be seen.

  Trying not to think abo
ut being caught, she pushed open the door and slipped into the room. Relief washed through her. It was unoccupied. She waited only a moment to steady herself, taking in the dark green colors and masculine furniture before rushing to the desk.

  She pulled open the first drawer and rifled through stacks of stationery. What was she looking for? She had no idea, but hoped she would recognize it when she saw it. The stationery was blank, however. Beside it lay a wax seal and jack. Stationery waiting to be used, Grace concluded.

  She shoved the drawer closed and pulled open the one below. A few scraps of paper lay on top. They were scribbled notes, seemingly unimportant. Correspond with boot maker and Discuss vote with Viscount Lyndon. She picked one up. Was it the same handwriting as that in the folios found in the smuggling caves? It was difficult to tell without having the original handwriting in front of her.

  She stared at the paper in her hand. It was only a few words, a quick note from Lord Paget to himself. A reminder. Something small and easily misplaced. Unimportant.

  She tucked it into her coat pocket without compunction.

  Turning her attention to a third drawer, she pulled it open as well. It was near the bottom of the desk and deeper than the other drawers. A stack of ledgers lay within. She removed the first ledger, opened it and scanned the long, tidy columns of figures. Frowning over the numbers and descriptions, she ran her finger down one of the columns. It appeared to be related to investments on the Exchange.

  It seemed innocent, but perhaps the others were not. She laid the first ledger on the desktop and retrieved the second, once more running her fingers down the long column of numbers.

  “And what,” a thin, oily voice drawled, “is the new Countess of Langford doing in my study?”

  Heart thudding, Grace slowly looked up and directly into the cold eyes of Lord Stuart Paget. He stood in the doorway, elegant in unrelieved black, a walking cane gripped in one bony hand.

  “Um. Well. I was just—” Her mind went completely blank. She could think of absolutely nothing to explain her presence.

  She should have concocted an excuse before she began the search.

  Paget strode into the room. Her hand trembled as she dropped the ledger on the tabletop. She retreated a step as he rounded the desk, eyes full of menace. He must be propelled by fury, she thought wildly, as he was barely using his cane.

  A bony hand snaked out and gripped her forearm, skeletal fingers pinching her skin. She yelped when he swung her around, pinning her between him and the wall. He brought the walking cane up and pressed it against her throat. Her breath turned to ragged gasps. She stopped struggling, working instead to maintain her breathing despite the pressure.

  He leaned in until their faces were only inches apart. She wanted to scream for help, but the cane prevented her from making any sound besides a moan.

  “What are you doing here?” His breath was sour and unpleasant and hot on her face.

  Inspiration struck. “I had a message, sir,” she croaked. The pressure on her throat eased slightly and she took a breath. “From my husband. I was—” What? What? Panic reared its head, but she beat it back and forced herself to think. “I was only looking for paper to leave you a message.”

  She could see uncertainty flitting behind his eyes. “My husband wants to host a dinner party for my uncle to thank him for caring for me for so many years. We thought—” She swallowed. “We thought to include you.”

  Paget’s eyes narrowed as he searched her face. She did her best to remain impassive, calling on all of her control to keep the suffocating fear from showing on her face.

  “I don’t quite believe you, Miss Gracie.” Paget’s gaze flicked to the side and Grace saw he was looking at her medicine satchel. Abruptly, he stepped back, the cane dropping to the floor.

  She breathed deep, rubbing the ache in her neck.

  Paget scooped up her bag. After a quick flick at the latch to open it, he upended it and dumped the contents on the floor.

  Grace couldn’t hold back her distressed cry. Vials and packets and bottles scattered. A roll of linen bandages unraveled and a jar of dried herbs shattered, sending up the bitter scent of betony.

  She crouched, scrabbling to rescue her belongings. A sharp whistle of wind sounded near her ear and the cane swept down to block her, the point resting close to her searching fingers. Slowly, she straightened and met Paget’s gaze. He held her eyes for a moment, then turned back to the floor as he used his cane to push through her belongings.

  “Take off your coat,” he barked.

  “Lord Paget, I—”

  “Now.”

  Her fingers fumbled as she reached for the coat. She prayed he only asked that the coat be removed. If he asked for more, she would run, would scream. Would fight.

  Then something fierce and strong washed through her, and her fingers stilled. “No. I will not.”

  Shock passed over Paget’s face, followed quickly by rage. “You will remove—”

  Locking her shaking knees, Grace dug deep for courage. She lifted her chin and simply opened the coat. “Do you think I’ve stolen something from you? A set of silver spoons, perhaps? A candlestick? Do you think I need your paltry possessions now that I’m a countess?” She snorted derisively, hoping desperately that he believed her. “You can see the inner pockets of my coat.” She ran her hand down the smooth inner lining. “There are no bulges, no lumps. I’ve stolen nothing.”

  Please, don’t let him find the note.

  She stood there, the coat open for inspection but still on her shoulders. His eyes searched the surface of the material, leaving no inch unexamined. Then his gaze returned to her face, eyes narrowed.

  “Satisfied?” she snapped, surprising even herself with the force of her words. She closed the coat, fighting for calm as she redid the buttons. She prayed he wouldn’t see her fingers shaking.

  “Not entirely.” He threw the bag at her. She bobbled it, but managed to loop a finger around the handle. Dropping to her knees she began to shove the bottles and vials into it. The bandages went into the satchel in a jumble of fabric. Shards of glass nicked her fingers as she struggled to sweep the betony and its broken bottle into the bag.

  “Leave it,” Paget said, disgust dripping from his words. He stalked past her and threw open the study door. “I don’t know why you’re here. But make no mistake, my lady, I will be watching you.”

  She fled. Her heart was still pounding when she rode into Thistledown’s courtyard.

  __________

  THE DARK MARK discolored the delicate flesh above her collarbone. No matter what accessory she wore, it was visible. The bruise couldn’t be hidden. Nor could she hide the truth from Julian.

  She glanced at the door to the adjoining countess’s suite. It wasn’t lies driving a wedge between them. It was half-truths and omissions and secrets.

  Leaving their shared chamber, Grace made her way through the east wing until she reached the drawing room. Julian was already there, a glass of brandy in his hand and the fire leaping at his feet. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast when they’d parted in anger.

  He left his post near the fire when she entered, a smile on his lips. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. Still, he brought her fingers to his mouth.

  “Ah, fair lady, after a tedious day, your beauty and—” The flattering words and charming smile died away. His gaze focused on her throat and his eyes went hard. “What happened?” he demanded. His fingers flexed, tightening on hers.

  Her free hand fluttered up, ineffectively hiding the mark. “We may be able to determine if one of our suspects is the traitor.”

  “Tell me.” His tone went flat, his face grim.

  She tried to tug her fingers from his grasp, but they only tightened further. He held her gaze, his eyes a sharp blue. Then his fingers released and she pulled her hand free.

  “I went to Lo
rd Paget’s.” Stepping away, she paced the room and succinctly told him about her confrontation with Lord Paget.

  Fear and panic still writhed in her belly.

  She heard his breath draw in, then slowly blow out. She turned to face him. His face was impassive, eyes cold. A muscle jumped in his jaw, but it was the only outward sign of his reaction.

  “I will kill him.” The words were very measured, very controlled. And all the more frightening because of it.

  “Julian.”

  “I will kill him for touching you.” He slapped his glass onto the nearest table, sending gold liquid over the rim. He strode toward the door with terrifying purpose.

  “Stop!” Alarmed, thinking only of stopping him, Grace darted forward and put herself between Julian and the door.

  “Step aside, Grace.”

  “No. Think. If you go to him now it will only make it worse.” She saw his gaze fall to her throat. Stepping forward, she placed a hand on his rigid arm, spoke softly. “Paget let me leave. The damage is only bruises. Only bruises.”

  “I would have no marks on you, Grace.” He stroked his fingers over the purpled flesh, his touch the barest flutter of butterfly wings. “Does it pain you?”

  “No,” she lied. “I put ointment on it.” She studied the angry flush of his cheeks. His gaze lingered on her bruised neck, and she watched as he struggled for control.

  Whatever else stood between them, she knew one thing.

  “Thank you for caring so much,” she whispered, setting her hand against his cheek.

  He turned his face into her cupped palm, breathed deep. Something intense flashed in his eyes before he buried it.

  “Thank you for caring, Julian,” she said again.

  “I can’t help it, damn it.”

  The frustration in his voice made her smile. “Let’s go in to dinner. We can talk about what I found today and what to do next.” She held out her hand, certain the storm had passed.

  She was wrong. He yanked her forward until she was pressed tight against him. His mouth found hers, firm and wild and furious. Fire sizzled from his mouth down to her toes, filling her. He walked her backward until she was pressed against the door, pinned by his hard, lean body.