Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  “I daresay you’d like to go and have a cose with Miss Vulch.”

  “I always enjoy Bess’s company.” This wasn’t the mo­ment to warn her uncle that Joseph Horton would be of the party.

  It would get in the evening pleasantly till it was time to see Fitch off. “Very well, then, you may write up an ac­ceptance for Fitch to deliver.”

  “Oh, and Uncle, I forgot to tell you. Codey was here with a search warrant from Lord Dicaire in London. They rooted through the entire house. I think you should write a letter of complaint to the papers.”

  Lord Edwin looked interested, no more. He liked writ­ing letters of complaint to the journals. This suggestion was given to distract his mind from Vulch’s perfidy, which might yet endanger the dinner party. She waited with bated breath to hear what he would say and was surprised to hear a tinny laugh issue from his throat.

  “Maybe that will convince the old wether I’m innocent. I wish I had been here to see Codey’s face.”

  “Mrs. Plummer was perfectly uncivil to him, I’m happy to say. Did you convince the roofer to fix the roof on tick?” she remembered to ask.

  “Eh? What’s that? Oh, the roof. No, he wasn’t home. I’ll see him tomorrow. No hurry.”

  Mary Anne happily hastened to the desk to write up the acceptance to the Vulches’ dinner party. She had her new shawl to wear. She hadn’t thought to mention that to Bess.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  While his niece arranged her toilette, Lord Edwin went haring off after Fitch to notify him of developments.

  “They’ve been and searched the house,” Lord Edwin said, smiling. “That’s pretty good evidence they have no idea where the silk is. We should have easy sailing tonight. I’m dining with old Vulture, but shall get away early to give you a hand with the loading.”

  Fitch was undeceived as to what form the “help” would take. “Nay, stay as late as you like, and sop up a tot of his brandy for me whilst you’re there. I’ll not be leaving till midnight. I’ll load her up while Codey has his nightly draught at the tavern.”

  “I wish I could go to Folkestone with you, Fitch, but someone must be here in case of trouble at this end. Re­member, now, you sleep on the boat and get to McNally’s Drapery Shop first thing in the morning to let him know the cargo’s in. I’ll be over later in the morning to collect payment.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Fitch grinned.

  Above stairs, Miss Judson decided that while Joseph did not merit her new silk shawl, Mr. Robertson did, espe­cially as he might not still be in Dymchurch to see it at the assembly. She also wore her best blue silk gown and made a very pretty picture as she took stock of herself at her dim minor before going below.

  The sight of his niece flaunting the ill-gotten shawl threw Lord Edwin into a pelter when she came down. Very likely Vulch knew the Frenchies’ habit of including one worked piece of silk as a sample. To see his niece wrapped in that obviously new shawl would rekindle his suspicions.

  “Do you like it, Uncle?” she asked, and made a pir­ouette to show off the embroidered back of the shawl.

  “Licked to a splinter. Very pretty, my dear,” he said, but in a strangled voice. Egad, how could he get the thing off her back without raising suspicion? “But you’ll want your wrap for the trip, eh? Just carry the shawl and put it on when you arrive.”

  “It’s not that chilly. I’ll be fine in the carriage,” she replied.

  “It smells like a storm brewing, and we’re taking the gig,” he improvised hastily. “Fitch has some—some work to do while we’re away and isn’t free to drive us. Since we’ll be in the open carriage, I wish you would wear your wrap.”

  “Couldn’t Jem drive us? My hair will be blown to pieces.”

  “Jem is busy,” Lord Edwin said firmly.

  “What is Fitch doing?”

  “He’s hammering some boards up in the attic ceiling. Just get your wrap and let us be off. Give me your shawl. I’ll carry it for you.”

  Mary Anne thought she would be warm enough in the gig, but to protect her toilette from dust, she agreed to wear her wrap. Her uncle removed the shawl and sent her upstairs. “I’ll be awaiting you in the gig,” he called after her. Then he took the shawl into the saloon and hid it under the sofa cushions.

  She was desolate to discover, when they reached Vulches’, that Uncle had forgotten the shawl at home. But the delightful accents of Mr. Robertson coming from the saloon soon put it out of her mind. She went on trembling knees to make her curtsy to the assembled crowd. She noticed that Bess was at Mr. Robertson’s elbow.

  That, she thought, must account for Joseph’s having added himself to the other end of the sofa. There he sat, guarding the heiress, as wary as a dog at his meal. Mr. Robertson sat between them. He rose when she entered. Joseph and Mr. Vulch rose, too.

  As soon as the greetings were over, Bess invited Mary Anne to sit on the chair closest to her. In a carrying voice she said, “I’ve been waiting this age for you! I’m so happy you could come. Doesn’t she look lovely, Mr. Robertson? I see what has been detaining you, Mary Anne—your toilette.” Her head turned from one to the other at these playful sallies.

  “I meant to wear a new shawl I got for my birthday,” Mary Anne said.

  “You wanted to put me in the shade, sly wretch! Never mind, I’m sure your old shawl is enough to eclipse me entirely.’’ She gave Joseph a glance from the corner of her eye but heard no denial of this statement. “I knew you would make a special effort when I told you who would be here,” she said with a meaningful nod of her head in Mr. Robertson’s direction. Behind her fingers, but in a perfectly carrying voice, she added, “You see, I have saved you a chair beside him.” The speech was accom­panied by a knowing smirk and a quick dart of her eyes toward Mr. Robertson.

  Next she turned her full attention to him and said in the same stage whisper, “Didn’t I tell you she would be here, James? But you mustn’t take the compliment wholly to yourself. Joseph is also an attraction. I expect to see you both with daggers drawn over Miss Judson before the night is out.”

  Mary Anne noted with interest that Mr. Robertson’s name was James, and Bess, the bold creature, was making free of it already.

  Mr. Robertson hardly knew how to reply to this artless performance. He bowed and smiled, and said he feared they were in for rain.

  “I fear so,” Miss Judson agreed, “and we came in the gig, too.”

  “Speaking of rigs,” Joseph said, pitching his words across Bess to Robertson, “that is a mighty fine curricle you’re driving, Mr. Robertson. Sixteen miles an hour, I fancy?”

  “Fifteen at least, on a good open stretch of road,” Mr. Robertson replied.

  “Ho, with that pair of grays, I fancy seventeen or eigh­teen isn’t above them. They have got Alvanley’s beat.”

  “Actually they are Alvanley’s old team. He sold them to me last winter,” Mr. Robertson said.

  “By Jove!” Joseph smiled. “I expect you’re a member of the F.H.C. With that team, you could pass anything on the road.”

  “No, the Four-in-Hand Club decrees that the pace must not exceed a trot. Passing another coach on the road is prohibited. The driving is very carefully regulated.”

  “I should think so!” Joseph said. “I have seen you fellows assemble at Hanover Square for your dart to Salt Hill. They say your dinners at the Windmill are a regular brawl.”

  “Only port wine is served,” Mr. Robertson said. “We do have to drive back as well, you know.”

  “Exactly!” Joseph nodded.

  “So you are a notable whip, James, and a model of sobriety. I trust a certain someone is taking notes of all this,” Bess said, directing her words toward Miss Judson.

  When Joseph leaned forward to resume the conversa­tion, Bess took him by the arm and restrained him. “We must be discreet, Joseph,” she said playfully. “Privacy—that is what they will want. I’m sure they wish us both at Jericho.”

  Certainly Mary Anne wishe
d one of them there. Bess was impossible, but Joseph’s behavior was equally strange. It seemed he was buttering Mr. Robertson up very lav­ishly. Why was he at such pains to ingratiate a drapery merchant? She cast a puzzled frown at Mr. Robertson.

  “You didn’t bring a pen!” he accused playfully. “Never mind, I’ll have a judge write up my character and post it down to you. I trust you are also a fan of the F.H.C.?”

  “I haven’t the least notion what you’re talking about,” she said, blinking.

  “That doesn’t stop Joseph from agreeing with me,” he murmured with an ironic flicker of his eyes toward that gentleman.

  Mary Anne chastened his irony with a blank stare. “F.H.C.—it sounds like a government commission.”

  “And you, Miss Judson, sound like my maiden aunts. A lady is always deaf to a gentleman’s solecisms. Very well, we shall discuss governmental ABC’s, if you wish. Agencies, boards, and commissions, the letters stand for, at Whitehall.”

  “How do you know that? What dealings do you have at Whitehall?”

  “Though a lowly merchant, I am allowed to sit in the visitors’ gallery and watch the elite squander my tax money,” he answered with an easy smile that concealed his gaffe.

  Mrs. Vulch nodded contentedly to see how clever her daughter was growing and what a gossoon Miss Judson was, throwing her bonnet at a drapery merchant while an excellent parti went to waste. Amazing how the girl could turn out looking half-decent in that old gown that might have been rescued from Noah’s ark.

  To cement the partners, she had dinner called five min­utes early and made sure to seat Miss Judson away from Joseph, beside Mr. Robertson. Mrs. Vulch’s frequent ad­monitions to her daughter not to talk across the table were not entirely obeyed, but the distance severely limited Mr. Robertson’s access to Bess.

  “I see you’ve recovered from the morning’s excite­ment,” Mr. Robertson said to Mary Anne.

  “I’m feeling much better,” she admitted.

  “And looking admirable. What is your excuse for not being at Dymchurch at two this afternoon?” he asked. “Before you contrive some wildly improbably tale, I must warn you, Bess told me of her visit. You were at home, miss, taking a dust cloth to the furniture! Had you been in hands with your modiste or coiffeur, I could understand, but I assure you I’m not used to playing second fiddle to a dust cloth.”

  It was hard to be angry with Bess for relaying the me­nial nature of her afternoon’s occupation when Mr. Rob­ertson smiled so charmingly. “Uncle had the carriage out, and he doesn’t like me to drive into Dymchurch alone in the gig,” she explained.

  “Uncles can be a sad trial, but in this case, I’m bound to say I agree with Lord Edwin. I’m happy to see the little argument the other evening was a tempest in a teapot. I made sure your uncle wouldn’t accept the Vulches’ invi­tation this evening.”

  “Well,” she confided, “we were only having chicken stew at home, and besides, Uncle’s all out of brandy.”

  Mr. Robertson hid the unsteadiness of his lips with his fork. “Then it wasn’t just the lure of being teased by Bess and the presence of Joseph Horton that drew you hither?”

  “No.” She scowled and promptly changed the subject. “Have you had any luck in finding your silk, Mr. Robertson?” she asked.

  “Not directly, but I could tell you ten or a dozen places where it is not hidden, which is a sort of negative success, if one is an optimist. It limits the places it could be.”

  “You can positively strike Horton Hall off your list as well. We had a visit from Codey this afternoon. He went through the house with a fine-tooth comb. Vulch used his connections with Whitehall to get a search warrant. A Lord Dicaire obliged him.”

  Mr. Robertson was well aware of the visit and made some commiserating remarks about the nuisance of cus­toms men. “I hope whoever took it has got it stored in a dry place. That sky looked as if it was brewing up a good storm.”

  “How long can you afford to keep looking for the cargo, Mr. Robertson?” she asked. Her hope was to discover whether he would be in town for the assembly.

  “There’s no point returning to London without it. My shelves are empty.”

  “But shouldn’t you be trying to secure another cargo? There are dozens of smugglers here on the cost who might oblige you.”

  “That, of course, is why I’m remaining for a few days. I’m making contact with other importers. You sound re­markably eager to be rid of me, ma’am.”

  “That was not my meaning!” she exclaimed, chagrined to be so misunderstood till she saw the secret light of laughter in his eyes.

  “I feel half the town would relish the sight of my back. Your Joseph has already wondered aloud two or three times why I linger so long. Mrs. Vulch fears I have designs on her well-dowered daughter. And, of course, Lord Edwin has invited me in no uncertain terms to depart his house. Once Vulch becomes tired of my phiz, I shall have no recourse but to pay for my rack and manger at the inn.”

  “I shouldn’t think Mr. Vulch would treat a good cus­tomer so shabbily,” she told him.

  “I figure he’ll tolerate me for another twenty-four hours. You might be interested to know the French smugglers are returning to France this evening. Vulch was instrumental in getting their lugger freed from customs.”

  “Vulch?” she asked. “He wouldn’t have that much clout. It was no doubt Lord Dicaire.”

  “Perhaps he was instrumental. Their leaving means, in case you wonder why I mention it to you, that you should be able to take your usual ride tomorrow morning without fear of being molested. Do you usually ride around ten o’clock?”

  Mary Anne knew from his questioning smile that it was an invitation to meet him. “Yes, if the weather holds up.”

  “I, too, am in the habit of taking my constitutional at that hour. Shall we make it your uncle’s meadow?”

  “You can come to the house, Mr. Robertson. I don’t like to sneak behind my uncle’s back. I assure you, it isn’t necessary.”

  He cleared his throat and glanced along the table to Lord Edwin. “There is the little matter of my being hinted away,” he mentioned.

  “It wasn’t you he was angry with. He and Vulch have ring-round fights, but they’re really very good friends.”

  From along the table. Lord Edwin was heard to ex­claim, “Rubbish!” and they both looked to hear what new argument had arisen.

  “You see,” Mrs. Vulch told him, “that was a clap of thunder just now.”

  As though to confirm her assertion, another roll of thunder reverberated in the heavens, and a flash of lightning was seen beyond the window, but why should this far-from-unusual occurrence send Lord Edwin into an apo­plexy?

  “I’d rather have it at night than destroying the day. At least it shan’t keep us from shopping,” Mrs. Vulch said unconcernedly, and lifted her fork. The spring lamb was delicious.

  “We came in the gig,” Mary Anne said, feeling this was why Uncle was upset.

  The lovely spring lamb went untasted by Lord Edwin, though not uneaten. Now, how the deuce was Fitch to get the cargo loaded and delivered to Folkestone in the teeth of a howling storm? The stuff would be worthless if it got wet, and a wrapping of oilskin paper couldn’t protect it from this downpour.

  Mr. Robertson noticed the man’s agitation. “I’ll be happy to drive you home if it is the open carriage that worries you.”

  “But your curricle is open, too, Mr. Robertson,” Bess reminded him. “Joseph will be driving right past the door. I’m sure he’ll be happy to deliver them home.”

  Mrs. Vulch shot a killing glance across the table. “Your papa will provide for his guests’ comfort, Bess,” she said in a voice like vinegar.

  Toward the end of dinner there was a hiatus in the bad weather. The storm wasn’t over, but Lord Edwin felt if he and his niece left at once, they’d get home before the skies opened again. With a longing look at the brandy decanter sitting on the sideboard with the port, he excused himself and his niece and said t
hey would dart back to the Hall at once.

  Mr. Robertson soon said his good-nights and went up­stairs, and Mrs. Vulch had the satisfaction of seeing Jo­seph Horton settle in by the grate with Bess for a hand of cards. She removed her husband to the far corner of the room to allow the young couple some privacy.

  “I don’t know why you were in such a hurry to leave,” Mary Anne scolded as they drove through the night, with the trees under which they drove showering them quite as thoroughly as actual rain would do. “We seldom get in­vited out to dinner, Uncle. Why didn’t you accept Mrs. Vulch’s offer of a drive home in their carriage?”

  “It’s my attics I’m worried about,” he told her, but she knew well enough that the sodden attics hadn’t concerned him during all the years they had been leaking. Why now?

  He let her off at the door, and she scampered in while he took the gig around to the stable. Mrs. Plummer met her at the door. “You’re back early! Did your uncle and Vulch come to blows again?”

  “No, Uncle was in a great yank to get home while the rain had let up. I don’t know why Fitch couldn’t have driven us.”

  “You left your shawl behind,” she said.

  “Uncle left it behind.”

  “What did he hide it under the sofa cushions for? Lucky I happened to see the fringe hanging out and rescued it before it was a parcel of wrinkles.”

  “Hid it? Why would he do that?”

  “I haven’t a notion. He’s acting queerly of late. And Fitch is as bad. He’s gone and hired Jeremy Black’s boat. It’s sitting down at the dock, partly hidden in the reeds. I was at the window looking at the lightning and happened to see him pulling in. It gave me a turn. I thought it was the Frenchies, and I here alone.”

  “The Frenchies have gone home. Vulch arranged to get their lugger freed. No doubt his friend Lord Dicaire gave him a hand. But what would Fitch want with the boat? He couldn’t plan to go fishing on a night like this.”