The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “Indeed, indeed.” Lady Lintell bounced slightly in her chair. “Lord Lintell and I do so enjoy your dinners, especially the music after dinner. You have such a pretty voice, Mrs. Wargell.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Mrs. Wargell gave an arch smile. “Though perhaps this evening we shall change the performances, as we have a new guest joining our little dinner. Do you sing, Gracie?”

  “Passably well.” She truly hoped she wouldn’t be required to demonstrate.

  “Oh good!” Lady Lintell clapped her hands. “I shall accompany you, Gracie. I am an excellent pianist, though I would never say such a thing about myself.”

  “No, of course you wouldn’t.” Lady Hammond’s smile was both indulgent and amused.

  “I could accompany you, as well, Grace,” Lady Elliott said tentatively. “Though I’m only passably accomplished at the piano. Perhaps you would care to join me to pick out an appropriate song?”

  Grace’s teacup clinked against the matching saucer as she set it down to follow Lady Elliott to the piano. The lady rifled through music and held up a pretty country ballad. “How about this song, Grace?”

  She barely glanced at it. “That’s fine.” They were away from the others, and unlikely to be overheard, but still Grace leaned forward and said quietly, “Lady Elliott, are you well? Your cheeks are pale.”

  “I’m just tired, Gracie.” Paper rattled as she pushed through the music. “This babe is tiring me more than the boys did.”

  “Are you sleeping well?” Grace laid her hands over Lady Elliott’s nervous fingers. “You must take care of yourself before you can take care of the babe.”

  “I’m trying to.” Her eyes were deep and tired, with huge dark circles beneath. “I’m just worried about so many things, including the babe.” Tears welled up and she sniffled.

  “Oh, Lady Elliott. Marie.” Grace rubbed little circles on her back. The poor, poor woman. “The babe will be fine, and so will you. You didn’t have any trouble with the boys and there’s no reason to think anything will go wrong this time. You need to rest. Have you been to Bath? I know how restorative you find the waters.”

  “No.” She sniffled again. “I haven’t been able to go. And Richard—well, he doesn’t know about the babe yet.” Wet eyes lifted to Grace’s. “Please don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t, though you should tell him. He may be able to ease your burden.”

  “He won’t. He’ll only make it worse,” she said vehemently, her voice low and fierce. “I hate him, Grace.”

  Shocked, Grace studied Lady Elliott’s face. It was no wonder she was in tears. To be with child and married to a man one hated would be difficult for any woman. To be in a loveless marriage was miserable enough, Grace thought wearily.

  She squeezed Lady Elliott’s hand and slid her gaze to the other guests. Lady Lintell was chattering loudly about church flowers and Lady Hammond was sipping her tea and listening. But Clotilde Wargell was staring fixedly at Grace, eyes bright with malice.

  “Lady Elliott,” Grace said, not taking her eyes from Mrs. Wargell’s. “I don’t know what to say to you, except that I want to help you. In any way I can.”

  “Oh, I wish that you could be with me during the birth, Gracie.” Lady Elliott’s whisper was perilously close to escalating into a wail.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Surprised, Grace turned away from Mrs. Wargell to look at Lady Elliott.

  “Because I probably won’t be here.” Her fingers started plucking at the lace rimming the bodice of her gown. “I don’t know where I’ll be. London, perhaps. Or Bath. But I don’t think I’ll be here.”

  “Have you ladies chosen your music? Are you ready to entertain us with your lovely talents?” Clotilde Wargell’s voice drawled as she joined them. Her eyes fastened on Lady Elliott. “Why, Lady Elliott, whatever is the matter?”

  “I’m not feeling well.” Lady Elliott dabbed at her eyes.

  “No?” Mrs. Wargell’s gaze moved to Grace. “It seems both of you are having difficult evenings. I see the roses have already faded from your wedding day, Grace.” She smiled, clever and feline, as she leaned languidly against the piano.

  Grace stiffened, sucking in her breath. “I beg your pardon?”

  “It happens in these circumstances when the groom is a worldly gentleman, such as the earl.” She waved a hand in the air, the fringe of her shawl dancing against her arm.

  “In these circumstances?” Grace narrowed her eyes.

  “You were compromised, Gracie. The whole of Devon knows it.” She stroked her finger across the piano keys. “There are any number of ways to orchestrate such a proposal.”

  Anger stirred and Grace’s blood began to heat as her pulse hammered. Lady Elliott’s small hand brushed her arm, a subtle warning. She ignored it. She was weary of heeding warnings, of pretending she didn’t care and tolerating snide comments.

  “Is that how you secured a proposal from Michael?” Grace bit out.

  Mrs. Wargell’s fingers paused in their smooth exploration of the piano keys. A moment later they resumed their path. “I never needed to do such a thing. I had many offers of marriage. So many, in fact, I had my pick of suitors.”

  “And yet you married a mere mister?”

  “For reasons that don’t concern you,” Mrs. Wargell snapped, her eyes like two dark daggers. “Unlike you, at least Michael and I are of the same class. He’s the second son of a peer.”

  “Well, I did one better, didn’t I?” Grace raised a haughty brow. “I married the peer.”

  __________

  THE ESTATE ROOM was dark and masculine. Instead of the plush pillows and delicate spindly legs of the rest of the house, this room was utilitarian and relaxing.

  Michael Wargell poured glasses of port for his guests, all of whom were ensconced in the inviting cushions of welcoming armchairs. Fragrant smoke rose to the ceiling as cheroots were passed around and lit. A fire roared in the hearth, sending out the soothing crackle and hiss of flames.

  If there was one thing Julian could say about his host, the man did know how to make a guest feel comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that Lord Hammond was already dozing in his chair, his hands propped on his protruding belly.

  “Relief to get away from the ladies, eh?” Sir Richard said as he accepted a glass of port. “All that bother with women’s sensitivity. Much easier to just speak your mind.”

  Julian nodded noncommittally and sipped from his own glass.

  “There are benefits to having a wife, however.” Wargell settled into the chair behind the desk.

  “Indeed,” Lord Lintell agreed. “Else why would a bachelor set himself up for all the inconvenience of marriage?”

  “A good question,” Julian said. He leisurely crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. His eyes scanned the desktop, searching for a scrap of paper with Wargell’s handwriting. Damn. He was too far away to see properly.

  Lord Hammond snorted in his sleep. All eyes turned toward him, then looked away again when he only slid farther down into the chair.

  “For myself, a willing wife is good to come home to after a day in the fields or hunting or talking to tenants,” Lord Lintell said. “You’ll find the same if you stay in Devon, Lord Langford.”

  “I’m certain I will.” Julian sipped again before steering the conversation back to his mission. “Mr. Wargell, I look forward to your advice on the south fields. The Agrarian Society is receptive to your ideas, you said?”

  “Yes.” Wargell sifted through a stack of documents and pulled out one.

  “It’s drainage,” barked Sir Richard. “Those fields have a drainage problem, and Mr. Wargell here has devised a solution.”

  Julian took the document Wargell proffered and skimmed it. The script was thin and spindly, and didn’t match the thick, heavy handwriting sample from the folio. Nor was it Wargell’s, as
the letter was signed by someone from the Agrarian Society. His gaze shifted to the remaining documents in front of Wargell. If he could get close enough to observe the handwriting on even one of the documents, he could make a preliminary comparison.

  “Interesting.” He set the letter onto the edge of the tabletop, gauging the weight and pivot point. Then he let go. The document fluttered to the floor between himself and the desk. “I apologize, Mr. Wargell.”

  “No need, my lord.” Wargell dismissed the apology with a wave of his glass.

  Julian stood and leaned over to retrieve the letter. As he returned it to the desktop he scanned the remaining documents littering the surface. Stepping back, he sat once more in the chair. “Did you apply your theories to your own fields?” he asked.

  The question sent the gentlemen into a bout of enthusiastic explanations, as Julian had hoped it would. He let the descriptions of ditches and labor and planting practices wash over him.

  Michael Wargell had not written the treasonous documents in the folio. His handwriting was barely legible, a mess of scratching and points and vertical lines. It didn’t mean he wasn’t connected, however.

  Julian was unaccountably disappointed. He’d wanted Wargell to be the traitor. A vision flashed into his mind, one of himself subduing Wargell and arresting him for treason. The vision vanished quickly. It was motivated by purely selfish reasons and had no basis in fact.

  Shouting erupted in the hall and ended their conversation. The sleeping Lord Hammond jerked upright, his old-fashioned wig askew.

  “I’m sorry, monsieur,” the butler called in the hall. “Mr. Wargell is not available.”

  All eyes in the estate room focused on Wargell. He’d half risen from his chair, his palms flat on the desktop.

  “Non. This is important. I must see him. Now. Maintenant!” The swift thud of boots came clearly through the open door.

  Heads swiveled to face the hall. Julian could hear the gentlemen’s collective breaths draw in and hold as they waited for the unexpected visitor to appear.

  “You cannot enter, monsieur!” The butler’s voice rose to a shout and a second set of footsteps could be heard. “Mr. Wargell has guests!”

  The footsteps stopped. Silence. Then, “I will wait. Tell him I am here and that it is urgent, s’il vous plait.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Wargell murmured, eyes on the door.

  Julian studied his host’s face. Tight. Drawn. Anger and—something else. Did the line between Wargell’s brows and the jerk in his step denote fear?

  Wargell hurried into the hall. Unintelligible whispers floated in through the doorway. When he returned, Wargell was full of apology and emphasized the urgency of the situation. He must meet with his visitor.

  It hardly mattered, Julian decided. He had the information he had come for, and more. Satisfaction rippled through him. The visitor was clearly French.

  The butler hovered in the hall to escort the remaining guests to the drawing room. Sir Richard barreled into the room ahead of Julian. Lord Lintell and Lord Hammond thumped along behind him, Lord Hammond leaning heavily on his cane.

  Julian scanned the room. The ladies were scattered on settees and chairs around the room. Discarded teacups with varying amounts of liquid sat on nearby tables. Lady Lintell’s curls bounced as she chattered to sad Lady Elliott. Lady Hammond sat back, amusement hovering around her matronly lips. Two spots of angry color rode high on Mrs. Wargell’s sharp cheekbones.

  And Grace, his cool and lovely Grace, sat perfectly composed in the middle of them. He glanced at her hands. No laced fingers, no white knuckles. One hand lay quietly in her lap, the other absently stroked the pattern on her teacup.

  When her eyes met his, something clutched in him. Her eyes had blanked again, as though she hadn’t seen him. But she’d never truly seen him, had she? There was something in him she could never understand. Something he could never show her.

  “My lords,” Mrs. Wargell purred, smoothing back her hair. “Have you finished your business?”

  “For now,” Julian said, fighting to focus. “Your husband has business to attend to, Mrs. Wargell.”

  Julian strode to the settee and offered his hand to Grace. She set her hand in his. Her fingers were warm, her skin as soft as petals. The scent of lavender and woman rose with her as he drew his wife to her feet.

  “Is something amiss?” Grace asked politely, as though he were a stranger.

  “Mr. Wargell has a visitor. One with urgent news, I understand.” He turned to face Mrs. Wargell. “Your husband indicated he will be busy for some time, so my lady wife and I shall take our leave.”

  Similar sentiments were echoed by the other guests.

  “Must you all go so soon?” Mrs. Wargell pouted.

  “For tonight.” Julian reached down and drew Mrs. Wargell to her feet, much the same way he had Grace. But there was no quiver in his belly, no arousing scent to move him. “It’s not necessary to see us to the door, Mrs. Wargell. We shall find our way and leave you to your husband.”

  “I’m certain we’ll see you in the capital, my lord. Like you, we just can’t stay away from so many worldly entertainments.” Mrs. Wargell’s voice was shrill. “I’m sure Gracie could spare you from Thistledown.”

  Before Julian could answer, Grace spoke from behind him. “His lordship and I will see you in London, then, Clotilde.”

  Turning, Julian looked at his cool and quiet wife. Amused pity filled her gray eyes—and it was directed at Mrs. Wargell.

  __________

  THE BUTLER RETRIEVED their outerwear and they left amid a whirlwind of pelisses and muffs and guests. Grace’s curiosity was bursting, but she waited until they were clipping along toward Thistledown in the carriage before she asked about the events in the estate room.

  “An interesting visitor arrived,” Julian said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, I understood that much. Who was it?” Her breath puffed out in silver clouds as she spoke. “What happened?”

  “He didn’t give a name, nor did I see him. But I did hear him speaking a combination of French and English to the butler.”

  “French?” She straightened, her anger with him forgotten. The carriage blanket fell away from her. She barely felt the cold air surround her.

  Julian tucked the carriage blanket around her again. His hands brushed against her waist and her stomach tightened in response. Time stopped for a breath. When he drew back, she shivered.

  “What did the Frenchman say?” she asked, trying to ignore the awareness of his touch. It was like ignoring her heartbeat.

  “Apparently the Frenchman entered the Wargells’ home without being let in. The butler intercepted him near the estate room. He indicated he had urgent news and would wait for Michael Wargell to be available.”

  “Incriminating.”

  “Inconclusive,” Julian corrected.

  “What did Michael say?”

  “Only that it was urgent business. He was full of apologies, though,” Julian said. “And quite concerned about something.”

  “Hmm.” She plucked at the carriage blanket. “What do you think the Frenchman wanted?”

  “I don’t know, but I do want to find out.” He pulled back the curtain and looked out at the shadowed hedgerows flying past. “This should be far enough.” He thumped the ceiling of the carriage with his fist.

  “Milord?” the coachman called from above.

  “Pull into the lane just ahead and stop.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “What do you intend?” Grace leaned forward.

  “A bit of espionage, of course.” He grinned, teeth flashing white and feral in the dark carriage.

  “Espionage. How shocking. I never would have guessed.”

  “Fear not, fair lady. I am experienced in such matters.” He flourished his hand in the air, as though h
e were about to sink into a low bow.

  She smiled before she could stop herself, and pushed away the internal voice that whispered of the door that stood between them.

  “Do be serious, Julian.”

  “We aren’t far from the Wargells’ home. Just out of view, I daresay.” He pulled back the curtains as the carriage turned into the lane. Apparently satisfied, he let them fall again. “I plan to return and attempt to observe or overhear Michael Wargell’s exchange with the Frenchman.”

  “How will you observe them?”

  “Through the windows.” His tone was as dry as the herbs hanging in her stillroom.

  “The simplest course, I suppose.” She quirked her lips. “I expected something a little more elaborate from a veteran spy.”

  The coach stopped with the jingle of harness and a call from the driver. Grace studied the shadow across from her. Julian was half reclining, one boot planted on the bench beside her and his elbow propped on his knee. If she didn’t know better, it would seem he was enjoying a casual ride through the countryside. He might have been going to a picnic.

  But she did know him. The casual position was a study in control. She could sense the restless energy caged in him, could all but feel the power he kept leashed.

  “Do you know which window belongs to Michael’s estate room?” she asked.

  “I have a reasonable guess. It’s a simple matter to count windows and memorize the layout of a house.”

  “Good. Then we can find it easily.”

  “We?” Disbelief dripped from the word.

  “I cannot sit idle in the carriage while I wait for you to return.”

  “You certainly can. And will.” All traces of laughter in his tone had died away.

  “I know how to move quickly and quietly, Julian. There’s no harm in accompanying you to the window.” This she could do. She may have difficulty finding the appropriate remark in a salon, but she could sneak around the empty countryside.

  “Grace, you’re wearing an evening gown and slippers.”

  “My cloak is lined with fur—as you should know, since you ordered it—and we’ll be back in the carriage quickly. I’m not fragile, Julian. It’s just cold. It’s not even wet.”