Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  Well, you couldn’t expect a day to be perfect.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  Mary Anne’s hand hovered over the shawl. No, she wouldn’t bother wearing it to impress Joseph. She’d save it for the assembly. She went downstairs still wearing her afternoon gown and saw Joseph standing in the doorway of the saloon, waiting for her. He had a fine physique, tall and well formed, but when he smiled, there was no light in his pale gray eyes. His sluggish complexion compared unfavorably to the weathered hues of Mr. Robertson. There was no hint of chestnut in his black hair and no charm in his whole body.

  “Good evening, Mary Anne. I came to wish you a happy birthday.” He smiled. She saw the telltale box in his fingers. It looked the size of a ring box, and something in her tightened to revulsion.

  “You shouldn’t have bothered, Joseph,” she answered coolly.

  “It’s no bother. I’ve already been here once today. Fitch told me you were out. I didn’t know you were planning an outing or I would have arranged to go with you.”

  “It wasn’t planned. We decided on the spur of the mo­ment.”

  “That’s Lord Edwin all over—dashing off half-cocked.”

  She gave him a scathing look and took up her seat on a chair so he couldn’t sit too close to her.

  “You ought to have a chaperon,” Joseph said.

  “Mrs. Plummer will be here shortly. I believe she’s gone to make tea.”

  With the proprieties arranged, Joseph sat on the end of the sofa closest to her chair. “I’ve bought you a little something,” he said, and handed her the box.

  “Thank you.” She accepted it with a heavy heart. “What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You’ll have to open it and see.”

  She pulled at the strings and slowly undid the paper. It was a ring, as she feared, but it was a very plain little ring, with a row of tiny seed pearls across the top. Actu­ally a pretty ring, but before trying it on, she wanted to make sure it came burdened with no symbolism.

  Mr. Horton, who had a very good opinion of himself, misunderstood her drooping lips. “Not what you expected, I daresay,” he said in a consoling way. “I would like to have given you an engagement ring, Mary Anne, but—”

  “No! No, it’s—it’s lovely, Joseph,” she said quickly, and put it on.

  “As I was saying, I wanted to give you an engage­ment ring, but Mama feels till I have paid off the mortgage, it would be premature. As you have no dowry, you know...”

  “We’re not engaged. Why on earth would you think of giving me an engagement ring?”

  “I think you know my feelings, at any rate.”

  Mrs. Plummer arrived with the tea tray, and Joseph’s tepid lovemaking came to a halt. “Where is Lord Edwin tonight?” he asked.

  As he spoke, there was a knock at the door, causing everyone to jump. Night callers at Horton Hall were rare.

  The most usual one was already with them. “Who can that be?” Mr. Horton asked. He sounded rather peevish. “And where is Fitch? I don’t know how you put up with this place, Mrs. Plummer. A butler who is never around when you need him. Only your poor self to try to keep this shambles of a house from falling apart.”

  Commiseration from any other source than Joseph Hor­ton was as welcome as desert rain. Coming from him, it was considered an impertinence. Mrs. Plummer went to answer the door without a word, and Mr. Horton cast a condemning glance around the room.

  “I saw a sheet of lead on the ground this afternoon, too. It’s fallen off the roof. I mean to have a word with Lord Edwin about that. He might at least keep a roof on my inheritance.”

  Mary Anne had stopped listening to him, or he might have received a rebuke for this comment. She had dis­cerned the unmistakable accents of Mr. Robertson at the doorway and could hardly believe her ears. She wildly conjectured what could have happened. The Vulches weren’t home, and Mr. Robertson had come here! Oh, dear, would he expect to stay the night? Her mind flew to unaired bedrooms, half of them with mildewed carpets, and none of them made up.

  As she sat transfixed, she heard another voice, Mr. Vulch’s. “Could I have a word with Lord Edwin, Mrs. Plummer?” he said in his pained way. Why the richest and most powerful man in the parish should have such a whining manner was hard to understand. Vulch didn’t look important. He looked like a lackey, with his dilapidated face, pouchy eyes, and shifty manner.

  Mrs. Plummer showed the guests in. Mary Anne turned instinctively to Mr. Robertson. He looked exactly as she remembered him. He even wore the same expression—one of warm interest. Like a true gentleman, he hardly ex­amined the sad disrepair of the chamber.

  “Joseph, this is Mr. Robertson,” she said, flustered. “Mr. Horton is my cousin,” she explained to the guest.

  “Robertson, you say?” Joseph asked. He was examin­ing the caller with a questioning look. “Have we met be­fore, sir?”

  “Mr. Robertson is from London,” Mary Anne said.

  Joseph went up to London as often as he could find an excuse. The face before him certainly looked familiar, yet not familiar enough that he could put a name to it.

  Mr. Robertson smiled blandly and said, “Perhaps you’ve been in my shop. I run the Robertson Drapery Shop on Bond Street.”

  “Drapery shop!” Joseph exclaimed, while his eyes made a quick but accurate assessment of the man’s toilette. If this fellow was a draper, he was a yahoo.

  “It’s a family business. My father, and his father before him, sold draperies. First from a simple monger’s wagon, but in ‘79, my father hired a store,” Mr. Robertson said, and seemed prepared to continue in this vein.

  Mary Anne was pleased that he made no effort to con­ceal his origins and annoyed that Joseph had stiffened to a perfect board of disapproval.

  “Very interesting, I’m sure,” Joseph said satirically.

  “We have our woolens on sale at the moment—out of season, you know. I could put you in the way of some excellent worsted if—”

  Joseph lifted his brows and pinched his nose. “I’m not in the habit of haggling for wool during a social visit, Mr. Robinson.”

  “That’s ‘Robertson,’” Mary Anne said angrily. Re­ally, she was as annoyed with Robertson as with Joseph. His manners had been much better at the inn. She sensed he was just doing it to roast the toplofty Joseph.

  Naturally she was curious to hear what had brought this party calling, and soon learned that it was Lord Edwin they wished to see. He was sent for, and till he arrived, the mismatched group sat chatting of the weather and other bland nothings. She observed Joseph’s surreptitious ex­amination of Mr. Robertson. Mr. Robertson also noticed it and began sprinkling his conversation with a few low phrases.

  “I’ve a dandy bargain you might want to get in on, Miss Judson,” he said. “Kerseymere—a touch out of fashion, which is why I could let you have a few ells for an old song.”

  “I don’t get up to London very often,” she parried.

  “I could ship it to you, P.O.B. Dymchurch.”

  “Miss Judson has already told you she isn’t interested!” Joseph said.

  “Nay, she only told me she doesn’t get up to London very often. A pity,” he said, with a laughing look at her.

  When Lord Edwin joined the party, Joseph stood up and made his apologies. “I don’t like to leave Mama alone too long,” he gave as an excuse. It had, in fact, just occurred to him that with Mr. Vulch there, Miss Vulch might be happy for his company. His conscience told him he owed an offer to Mary Anne—a penniless cousin, after all, and what would come of her when Lord Edwin stuck his spoon in the wall? Another corner of his mind whispered that Miss Vulch was the most eligible parti in the county, and not at all averse to him, if her smiles were any indication of her feelings.

  As Joseph headed for the door, Mr. Robertson jumped up and went after him. “Mr. Horton! Did I give you the address of my shop in London?” he called.

  Mary Anne bit back her smile and waited till he re­turned.
“That was doing it pretty brown, Mr. Robertson,” she said. “Literally running after business.”

  “I didn’t want to disappoint him. He’s not so immune to a bargain as he would like the world to believe. He’s agreed to accept some samples of my stuff.”

  “I trust they will be better than the genteel sample of hawking you purveyed this evening.”

  “I’ll send ye a batch, too, if ye’d care to sample my wares,” he said, with a laughing eye that made her flush.

  Vulch had only waited till the front door closed before turning his drooping eyes to Lord Edwin. “Now that he’s gone, we can get on with it. We want to know what hap­pened to that cargo of silk, Lord Eddie.” There was a hint of anger, or accusation, in his manner.

  Lord Edwin blinked in astonishment. “We would all like to know that. Just between us and the bedpost, you have it safely put away, eh, Vulch? Had your fellows spirit it off in the dark of night.”

  “No, sir, I did not. I don’t have it. It wasn’t unloaded when those fool Frenchies abandoned ship. It went astray at your very doorstep between one o’clock this morning and five-thirty when Codey got aboard and searched the lugger.”

  “Well, it didn’t go astray here!” Lord Edwin assured him. He felt truly outraged that his character should be assailed by this commoner. That the implied charge was true didn’t detract a jot from his anger. His dark eyes flashed with a noble fire, and his nostrils flared.

  Mary Anne shared his outrage. “Mr. Vulch, are you suggesting my uncle had something to do with the disap­pearance of the silk?” she demanded.

  Mr. Robertson examined their host and decided he was out in his reading of Lord Edwin. The man didn’t have the silk. Perhaps it was common knowledge that the stuff came a thousand ells to a cargo. “I’m sure that wasn’t Mr. Vulch’s meaning,” he said calmly. “We only came to inquire if you had seen or heard anything that might indicate who took it.”

  Lord Edwin turned a curious eye on Robertson. “Noth­ing,” he said firmly. “I told you I would mention your reward of ten percent to anyone I met.”

  “We had hoped you might have seen or heard the dis­turbance when the goods were stolen,” Mr. Robertson continued. “Horses or the sound of a wagon. If we even had an idea which direction the thieves took...”

  Lord Edwin shook his head. “If Vulch don’t have it, I fancy it was pirated by another ship. Where you ought to turn your investigation is to the docks. Take my word for it, the silk will have the scent of fish when you find it.”

  Robertson listened with interest, but Vulch, more inti­mate with Lord Edwin’s rudimentary conscience, was still unconvinced. “You won’t mind if we have a look around your place tomorrow?”

  “Codey’s been over the place with a fine-tooth comb and found nothing.” Lord Edwin stretched his arms along the back of the sofa, the perfect picture of ease, and said, “I wish I could offer you a glass of brandy, but unfortu­nately this niece of mine won’t let me have smuggled mer­chandise in the house.” He gave Vulch an accusing glance with this pious speech.

  Mary Anne blinked to learn she was the cause of his deprivation. With a mind to the cake in the kitchen, she said, “Perhaps the gentlemen would like some tea instead, Uncle.”

  “An excellent idea. Ring for Plummer.”

  “I’ll speak to her,” Mary Anne said, and hopped up. She wanted to oversee this important tea herself, and make sure all the best china was used.

  During the interim Vulch and Lord Edwin fell into a political argument, and when the tea came, Mary Anne found she had Mr. Robertson to herself. After a little small talk, he said, “I expect all the smuggling lore is as well known as an old ballad here on the coast. Who the smugglers are, what amounts are brought in, what price is got for the goods, and so on?”

  “One hears talk,” she agreed. “They usually bring in twenty barrels to a load.”

  “And the silk?”

  “We don’t hear so much about that,” she replied. “Un­cle isn’t interested in the silk, you see.”

  “Yet he knew a thousand ells were on the lugger,” he pointed out.

  She gave him a curious, thoughtful look. “Yes, he did. It was being discussed at the inn. That must be where he heard it.”

  “I also audited the gossip at the inn. No one mentioned the quantity. Another manner of learning it suggests it­self,” he said leadingly. “It was abandoned on your un­cle’s very doorstep. Before you fly into the boughs, let me make clear I’m not suggesting your uncle took it. Only that he might have seen or overheard something—from his servants perhaps, or a friend that he wouldn’t willingly betray.”

  He stopped, looking to see if the lady took um­brage at this lesser charge. Her expression was difficult to interpret. She wasn’t outraged, at least, but more... thoughtful.

  Oh, Lord, she thought. All day Uncle’s been behaving most strangely. All those trips to drapers in Folkestone and the other towns. The meetings in private offices with store managers. Uncle had stolen the cargo! Somewhere on the few acres that comprised this estate he had con­cealed stolen merchandise. It was true, he mentioned a thousand ells, and how did he know that if he didn’t have it? It explained his good humor all day long, and his delight to learn Mr. Robertson was a drapery merchant.

  “He said he had not,” she answered with some composure. “There was a dreadful storm, you know. The rain and thunder would have made hearing impossible, even if he had been awake. And, naturally, he wouldn’t go out on such a night, so how could he have seen anything? I cer­tainly heard nothing,” she added.

  As she spoke, her mind ran off in other directions. What has he done with it? Where has he hidden the cargo? A thousand ells of silk must be very cumbersome. Oh, dear, and if he’s caught, we’re ruined. She felt as if she were sitting on a keg of gunpowder that might go off at any moment and blow them all to oblivion.

  Of one thing she was very sure. Lord Edwin must not get caught in his thievery. She would endeavor to persuade him to return the stolen goods—a bootless chore, she feared—but she would do anything in her power to protect him. Devotion to her uncle was not the only motive for her tacit vow. Of equal importance was that Mr. Robertson not learn her uncle was a thief.

  “Is it remotely possible your servants might be in­volved?” he asked.

  “I shouldn’t think Fitch would do it alone, and Mrs. Plummer would hardly turn smuggler,” she answered, smiling to think of portly Plummer striking out to sea. Fitch, of course, would have had to do the hard labor.

  “And the others?” he pressed.

  “Others?” Mary Anne blinked in confusion. “Oh, there are no others. We hobble along on two servants. Uncle hasn’t much money,” she confided. “A younger son, you know, and Whitehall has been very mean about withhold­ing his pension.”

  “He’s in the basket, then?”

  “Always,” she answered bluntly. “But that is not to say he is a thief!”

  “Well, someone in the neighborhood is,” Robertson said. “How about that chap who was leaving when we arrived?”

  “Joseph Horton, my uncle’s heir. No,” she said, smil­ing at the incongruity of it. “Joseph hasn’t the gumption to say boo to a goose.”

  Little dimples appeared at the corner of her lips when she smiled in that particular way. Mr. Robertson found himself smiling, too. “I gather it was your fair self Joseph was calling on, then, and protecting so feverishly from a merchant.”

  She looked at the little pearl ring and said, “Yes,” in a dispirited way. “He often calls on me. I fear he’s quite immune to a snub.”

  “Merchants’ manners!”

  Raised voices on the other side of the room interrupted their conversation. “By God, you don’t fool me, Horton!” Mr. Vulch shouted. “You’ve got my stuff, and I’ll have a search warrant here tomorrow to search you from attics to cellars. And a guard posted to see it isn’t moved, too. You’re going to get caught red-handed. You may count yourself fortunate if you don’t hang for this.
”

  Lord Edwin jumped to his feet. His narrow face was red with anger. “Call in the law to recover your smuggled goods that have no right being in the country? I think not, my good fellow. By God, the world is in a fine state when a smuggler calls a nobleman a thief in his own house. I’ll thank you and your merchant friend to vacate my premises. Immediately!”

  “There’s more at stake here than a cargo of smuggled silk!” Vulch shouted.

  Mr. Robertson’s face pinched in alarm, and he jumped up from the sofa. “That’ll do, Vulch!” he exclaimed. His tone was not that of a merchant come begging for help. It had the accent of authority. Vulch looked at him, and a look of guilty anger was on his face.

  Mary Anne looked from one to the other, wondering. What did Mr. Robertson mean? And why did Vulch fall silent at his command?

  “We’ll go now,” Mr. Robertson said stiffly.

  Lord Edwin sniffed and turned his head aside, as though he could no longer tolerate the sight of his guests. Mr. Robertson had the sangfroid to thank his hostess before leaving.

  With a twinkling smile he added, “I rather think this precludes my calling on you tomorrow, as I hoped to do. I shall be loitering in front of the inn at Dymchurch to­morrow afternoon at two, however, if you find you need to make a few purchases. Ribbons, silk...” he added daringly.

  A gurgle of laughter caught in her throat. The gentle­men left, and Mary Anne turned a sapient eye on her un­cle. “Where did you hide it?” she asked.

  “Hide what?”

  “The silk. Where is it, Uncle? Your best bet is to dump it in the sea and let the tide wash it out.”

  “Now my own niece is accusing me! I resent that very much, Mary Anne,” Lord Edwin said with a glare that combined pain and indignation in equal quantity. Of shame there was not a trace.

  “I was sure you had taken it,” she said uncertainly. “How did you know the shipment was a thousand ells?”

  “It always is. I’ve heard Vulch bragging about his hauls till I’m tired to death of it.”