Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  “Oh, dear. Do you think they’ve gone to the barn?”

  “Nay, they’ve left entirely. They went off by the pas­ture. They must have searched the barn before they came here. That was lucky. I’ll get back and finish the job. Are you all right with Robertson?”

  “I’ll be all right. You run along, Fitch, and take a sharp look around to make sure they haven’t come back.”

  “You’d best warn your uncle what’s afoot,” Fitch said, and left.

  Mary Anne wanted to discover just exactly what Mr. Robertson had been doing and, if possible, who he was, before taking him to her uncle. She sensed that it would best be done in private, for Uncle had a way of diverting conversation to fruitless byways.

  “Let me get a cold compress for your head, Mr. Rob­ertson,” she said when she returned. “Mrs. Plummer keeps a block of ice in the pantry. I’ll chop off some splin­ters and put them in a towel.”

  Mr. Robertson had recovered enough to object. “That won’t be necessary, but a glass of wine wouldn’t go amiss. And, by the by, my name is still James,” he added with one of his charmingly intimate smiles. “As I have rescued you, and you have returned the favor by rescuing me, it’s time you and I may dispense with the formalities, n’est-ce pas?”

  All the good of his charming smile was undone by that suggestion, which caused her to narrow her eyes at him. “I always like to repay favors, Mr. Robertson. I expect there is some good reason why you were in my uncle’s stable just now.”

  “My reason can’t be unknown to you. I’m still after the silk. I know—your uncle doesn’t have it,” he said, lifting his hands to fend off her objections. “But someone does, and I still maintain that it didn’t get far from where it was first unloaded—at Horton Hall. Vulch’s men apparently feel the same way.”

  “Why did they attack you, if you were working with them?”

  “I wasn’t working with them. They’re certainly profes­sional—I hadn’t a notion they were in the stables. They must have been there when I arrived. I didn’t hear as much as a breath out of either of them. I expect they only meant to stun me and escape. Perhaps they feared your presence would throw me into a fit of gallantry and I’d try to stop them. Or perhaps they didn’t recognize me. We haven’t been introduced,” he added.

  “But you recognized them.”

  “Oh, no! Deduction leads me to conclude who they were, as the French smugglers have already left. The other party interested in recovering the stuff is Vulch. Did you recognize them?”

  “No, but Fitch said they were Vulch’s men.”

  “That would be the amiable giant who helped you?”

  “Yes, he’s our butler—footman—factotum,” she said, trying to find a word to cover Fitch’s comprehensive duties at the Hall.

  Mr. Robertson’s intelligent eyes regarded her closely. “He arrived opportunely. What was he doing out on such a night?”

  Mary Anne fluffed her wet hair and answered, “Prob­ably looking for the silk, like everyone else. Your reward is a strong incentive.”

  “Apparently not strong enough. It hasn’t produced any results. Er, were you also working for the reward, Mary Anne?”

  A flush warmed her cheeks, whether it was his question that caused it or his brash use of her Christian name, he wasn’t sure, but he knew it was demmed attrac­tive.

  Mary Anne removed her damp wrap and bustled about the kitchen for wine. Mrs. Plummer kept a few bottles in the pantry to save trips to the cellar. She brought a bottle out and struggled with the cork while thinking of a plau­sible answer.

  “Uncle asked me to check out his mount,” she said. “Fitch has so many duties that I occasionally feed the horses.”

  “At this hour of the night?”

  “I was just going to put a blanket over his mount. Bin­go’s getting old, poor old thing. The damp bothers her.’’

  “The jade your rode this morning? Breathing bothers her, I should think.”

  She poured two glasses of wine and handed Mr. Robertson one. He lifted the glass in a toast. “To prevarica­tion,” he said with a mischievous smile, and drank.

  “Yours or mine, Mr. Robertson?” she asked, and sipped her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass.

  Only her eyes were visible. Mr. Robertson noticed that they were as big as saucers and as bright as stars. He had always thought he preferred blue eyes but decided that brown eyes were warmer, more alluring. He didn’t answer for a moment.

  “How did you know I told the Vulches I was going to retire?” he asked, and smiled uneasily.

  “That wasn’t the prevarication I was referring to.”

  “Ah!”

  She waited, but he said no more. “I think there’s more going on here than a mere misplaced cargo of silk. Mr. Vulch intimated as much the first night he came here with you.”

  Mr. Robertson stirred restively in his chair but said nothing.

  “And besides, you wouldn’t have left London and come pelting down to Dymchurch before the cargo had time to reach London if empty shelves were your only concern.”

  “I don’t quite grasp the import of all this.”

  “Neither do I,” she admitted. “Your offering a reward indicates you’re a customs officer, but that can’t be it. If all you wanted to do was catch Vulch, you’d just sit tight and wait for his next cargo.” Mr. Robertson gave a ves­tigial sigh of relief.

  “So, why are you here?” she demanded. “You don’t look like a drapery merchant. At least not like the local drapers. That jacket is top of the trees.”

  “Thank you. I like it.”

  She glared. “Joseph wouldn’t be trying to curry favor with you, and you wouldn’t be sneering at Bess’s forward manners if you were—oh, you know what I mean,” she scolded as his smile stretched to a grin.

  “I hope I haven’t sneered at my hostess’s daughter! That would be rag manners, indeed.”

  “Or even French manners?” she asked archly. “A French phrase trips easily from your tongue, sir.”

  “Mais pourquoi pas? The ton—my customers—speak it!” he explained. She acknowledged that Mr. Robertson didn’t look at all French.

  “Vulch said there was more involved here than a miss­ing cargo of silk. What did he mean by that? I noticed you gave him a quelling look and he shut up on the spot.”

  “You don’t miss much!”

  “That isn’t an answer, Mr. Robertson.”

  “I wish you would sit down. My elegant draper’s man­ners dislike to remain seated while you pace, but if I stand, I’m afraid my head will fall apart.”

  Mary Anne sat across the table from him and studied him closely. “That isn’t an answer, either.” She read the indecision on his mobile face and leaned forward eagerly, hoping to hear some exciting explanation of his true iden­tity. Even as she looked, his expression changed. It was as though a shutter had closed, blocking her out.

  “The only reason I’m here is to recover that cargo,” he said firmly. “There is more to it than silk, but all I’m after is the cargo, and that’s all I can tell you. But I will add this, Miss Judson; it is highly dangerous to interfere with me. I won’t hesitate to maim or kill, if necessary, to re­cover it.”

  A chill settled about her heart. Was this implacable mask the same face that had smiled charmingly at her a moment ago? She didn’t doubt for a moment he meant exactly what he said, and her blood turned to wax to think of what might happen to her uncle.

  His voice cut into the silence like a saber. “Where is it?” he demanded.

  Mary Anne swallowed and set her glass on the table. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I haven’t seen it.”

  “You lie very badly. I would like to think it’s because you have so little experience at it. I will recover my cargo, Miss Judson, and—”

  Mrs. Plummer could take no more. She wrenched the door open and strode boldly into the room. Her head was covered by a mobcap, and a long tail of braid tumbled down her back. A flannelette robe covered her n
ightie, and below, a pair of flopping mules robbed her of some dig­nity, but the fire in her eyes more than compensated for her toilette.

  “Who do you think you’re calling a liar? I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head in my kitchen, sir! Maim and kill, is it?” she demanded, and brandished the bread knife she kept by her bedside since the perils of stolen silk were visited on the parish. “If there’s an obit­uary notice, it’ll be your own,” she warned.

  Mr. Robertson rose and gave Mrs. Plummer a bored look. “I’ll speak to Lord Edwin now, if you please, Miss Judson,” he said.

  Mary Anne wanted a private word with her uncle first. There would have to be a radical change of plans. With maiming and killing to be dealt with, he must be very certain to put himself at a distance from the transaction. But unloading the silk became more attractive every minute. There obviously wouldn’t be a moment’s peace till Mr. Robertson got what he came for.

  “I believe he’s retired,” she said loftily, “but if you’ll just wait a moment, I’ll see if I can rouse him.”

  She ran up the back stairs and went flying into Lord Edwin’s study. He was sitting at his desk, smiling over the letters just written. He was particularly pleased with the sheet of invective regarding Codey’s harassing of decent, law-abiding citizens.

  “Ah, missie, it’s you. Listen to this...”

  She batted the letter aside. “Robertson’s in the kitchen. He wants to see you. And, Uncle, he’s talking about maiming and killing to get his silk! Vulch’s men were in the stable....”

  “Not the barn! They didn’t catch Fitch!”

  “No. Don’t mention Christian’s hut till we have a chance to talk. We might want to change the plan.”

  The door was pushed open. A glacial face stared at them, and Mr. Robertson said, “What plan would that be, Miss Judson?”

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  Lord Edwin always felt he worked best under pressure. Had life permitted him more pressures, he was sure he could have been a hero. He picked up his letter and waved it toward Mr. Robertson.

  “My plan of castigating Officer Codey,” he said ur­banely. “Can’t have the likes of that jackanapes running tame through a man’s house behind his back. He searched me while I was busy elsewhere, you know. Nice of you to drop by, Mr. Robertson. I haven’t thanked you for rescu­ing this niece of mine. Well done!” That last was an in­spired touch. The sort of grace note Wellington would have added.

  Mr. Robertson ignored his simple urbanity. “I’m here about the silk, Lord Edwin.”

  “So was Codey. I think I mentioned his visit? We haven’t seen the stuff. Pity. I could use that reward.”

  Watching the exchange, Mary Anne was very glad Mr. Robertson was unaware of her uncle’s telltale habit of playing with his cheek while contemplating larceny.

  “Fifteen thousand, no questions asked,” Robertson said.

  Lord Edwin’s fingers sped up alarmingly and he looked to his niece. Mary Anne shook her head firmly. “Fifteen thousand, eh?” he said wistfully. “That’s a great deal of money. At Folkestone they only offered—or so Vulch tells me is the usual price—a thousand. Er, would that be pounds or guineas?”

  “Guineas. No questions asked.”

  Lord Edwin directed a beseeching gaze on his niece. The higher Robertson went, the more she was convinced he was a customs man. Again she shook her head and scowled fiercely to squelch her uncle’s greed. Yet, there was no relying on him, and she spoke up to conclude the meeting quickly. “If we hear anything about the silk, we’ll let you know, Mr. Robertson.”

  Mr. Robertson noticed Lord Edwin’s peeps in his niece’s direction and felt he would have better success if he could get her out of the room. “Perhaps Miss Judson could get us some coffee, and we could discuss the matter further,” he suggested.

  “Mary Anne?” Lord Edwin said hopefully.

  “Certainly, I’ll be happy to ring for Plummer.” She went to the bell pull and yanked the rope.

  To avoid the subject of selling the silk, she said, “Mr. Robertson was attacked by Vulch’s men in the stable, Un­cle.”

  “Yes, my dear, you already told me that. But they didn’t go near the—”

  “No,” she said hastily. “They didn’t come near the house.”

  But the uncle had said “go,” not “come,” Mr. Rob­ertson noted. Now where the devil had they hidden the silk? Mary Anne saw his puzzled frown and interpreted correctly what was in his mind. “You won’t want to stay away from Vulch’s too long. They’ll wonder what hap­pened to you if they happen to go to your room.”

  “I particularly told them I was retiring and didn’t wish to be disturbed unless Vulch recovered the silk. I don’t believe they’ll be calling on me.”

  Mrs. Plummer’s capped head appeared at the door. “What is it then, milord?” she asked crossly.

  “Coffee, Plummer.”

  “Oh, Uncle,” Mary Anne said. “It’s late, and Mrs. Plummer was in bed. Just wine, Mrs. Plummer.”

  “There’s wine on his desk,” Mrs. Plummer said, point­ing to the carafe.

  “Why, so there is.” Lord Edwin smiled, and poured himself a glass.

  The housekeeper grumbled herself out the door, and Mary Anne poured another glass for their unwelcome guest. She sat down to show him she meant to remain. Mr. Robertson sighed and reviewed his tactics.

  “This head is really aching like the devil,” he said. “Would it put you out very much if I remained overnight, Lord Edwin?”

  Mary Anne glared. He meant either to continue search­ing after they retired, which was bad enough, or to sneak in for a private chat with Uncle, which was worse. Uncle wouldn’t last a minute against this wily intruder. He’d be in chains before morning.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t want to stay here,” Lord Edwin informed him. “The place is a shambles. Wet attics, moldly bedchambers. You may count yourself lucky if there’s butter for your toast in the morning. A shockingly bad run place,” he said, as though running down an in­ferior hotel and not his own home.

  “I’m feeling a chill,” Mr. Robertson continued.

  “Then you certainly want to hurry back to Vulch’s nice, dry house,” Lord Edwin assured him. “I’d light a fire for you, but every grate in the house smokes.”

  Mr. Robertson made a staggering motion and stumbled toward a chair. He really was pale. Lord Edwin shot a questioning look at his niece. “Can hardly turn him out when he’s in such a state. It would be unchristian. That is—I didn’t mean to say Christian!” he whispered in a loud aside, and with a guilty start at the word that had cropped out.

  She took her decision. Robertson was incorrigible. If he left, he’d go no farther than the stable and then soon to the barn. She could at least keep an eye on him if he was in the house, but she couldn’t let him get at Uncle.

  “Very well, if you’re able to follow me, Mr. Robertson, I’ll show you upstairs,” she said stiffly, and waited till he recovered his feet before leading him off, with a warning look over her shoulder at her uncle.

  As they entered the hallway, Fitch came rushing in. “I managed to—” He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Mr. Robertson.

  Lord Edwin went racing to his study door. “In here, Fitch!” he called, and pulled the lumbering giant into his office, closing the door behind him.

  Mr. Robertson turned a sapient eye on his hostess. “Does that ease your alarm, Miss Judson? Fitch managed to secure the cargo.”

  “That’s not what he meant!”

  “You said earlier he was out looking for the silk.”

  “That was only an assumption. He was probably lock­ing up the stable.”

  “After the smugglers had escaped, sans la soie. Yes, I speak French, also Latin and Greek, which does not make me either a French spy, a Roman gladiator, or a customs man. Is it my occasional habit of dropping a French phrase that worries you? You may hear even so unexceptionable a Royalist as Prinney spout bongjaw, I promise you.”
/>   “Does the Prince of Wales often drop into your shop?”

  “Jamais. It is the custom for us drapers to take our samples to Carlton House.”

  Mary Anne took up a candelabrum from the hall table and went silently upstairs, her mind wildly scanning her options. It was easy to say you weren’t a French spy or a customs man; that didn’t make it so. If he wasn’t a cus­toms officer, who was he? She walked along the corridor, peering in to see if, by some miracle, Mrs. Plummer had made up any of the chambers. She hadn’t. Striped ticking showed on some of the beds; others had bedspreads pulled over them, but she knew there was no linen beneath them.

  “I’ll have to make up a chamber for you,” she said. To ensure his not returning below, she added, “Perhaps you could help. I dislike to disturb poor Mrs. Plummer again.”

  “By all means, let us dispense with Plummer. I don’t want a piece carved out of my hide with her bread knife.”

  Mary Anne went to the linen closet and brought out well-worn linens. With the ease of long practice she shook out the sheets and began tucking in the ends, while Mr. Robertson struggled less expertly with his side. By this time he was virtually certain the cargo was at Horton Hall. His only aim was to secure it. If the old boy was a thief, that was nothing to him. But how could he convince the girl of this? He shouldn’t have spoken so roughly earlier. He had scared the wits out of her. He must jolly her back into a trusting mood, by hinting at the truth if necessary.

  He looked across the bed where she was working briskly, firming the fit of the sheet. “You do this well, Mary Anne.” He smiled.

  She looked up, startled at his friendly tone. “I always give Mrs. Plummer a hand around the place,” she admit­ted.

  “Bess tells me you’re proficient with the beeswax and turpentine as well. A lady of many accomplishments.”

  “Not the customary ones. I don’t paint or play the piano or embroider.”

  “For which I’m sure your future husband will be eternally grateful. You also don’t lie very well,” he said, and dropped the sheet. He sat on the edge of the bed, bringing her work to a halt.