Silken Secrets

by Joan Smith

  “By God, you’ll hang from the gibbet for this!” Mr. Robertson growled, and stepped forward to grab Fitch’s arm.

  Staring into the barn, Mary Anne felt a shot of alarm. Fitch would kill him! Then it occurred to her that Mr. Robertson carried a pistol, and she looked harder for ev­idence that he meant to use it.

  Fitch shoved him off. He wouldn’t have done that if Mr. Robertson had drawn his pistol. “How the bloody hell were we supposed to know?” Fitch demanded.

  “You weren’t! If you weren’t a parcel of thieving scoun­drels, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  She still didn’t see any pistol, but the two men were squaring off for a fistfight. Poor Mr. Robertson! She stood ready to call Fitch off if he became too rough. While she stood biting her knuckle to keep from crying out, Mr. Robertson’s fist flashed out and caught Fitch on the corner of the jaw. He fell back, but it would take more than a fist to fell that giant. Mr. Robertson’s fist rose again, this time catching Fitch in the stomach. There was a pained grunt; then Fitch straightened up and leveled a murderous scowl at his opponent.

  As he danced around Robertson, fists raised and pawing the air, he said, “I ought to warn you, lad, I’m no amateur with my dabs. I’ve flattened many an opponent, and it’ll be a pleasure to do the same to you.”

  On this menacing speech he lifted a clenched fist the size of a ham hock, and an ugly thud rent the air. Mr. Robertson dodged and caught the blow on the corner of his chin, which was all that saved him from collapse. Even the grazing blow left his head singing. He shook his head and sized up his opponent. He knew he was outweighed by seven or eight stone. Fitch was ungainly and slow on his feet, like most large men, but he had some science. So had Mr. Robertson, but he felt instinctively that the less gentlemanly brawling tactics learned in back alleys would be more effective here. He joined his two hands together and threw them with all his strength in the pit of Fitch’s stomach. The giant stumbled, and Mr. Robertson rushed in with a shower of blows. It was like hitting a wall. The man was solid muscle.

  Fitch didn’t fall, but he kept being pushed back into the barn, like a man retreating from the onslaught of a midge or an unwelcome bee. Belle came running forward to see the excitement and butted against the back of his knees. Seeing this unexpected advantage, Robertson gave a hard shove, and Fitch fell over the goat. There was a loud thump as his head struck a beam. Robertson kicked the goat aside and went to check the damage.

  His satisfied snort told Mary Anne that Fitch was mo­mentarily stunned. She stood uncertainly while Robertson looked around for something to tie Fitch up with. Yes, that’s what he was doing. He ran after Belle and began untying the rope from her neck. There never was any point tying Belle up. Ropes were one of her favorite treats.

  “You’ll hang from the gibbet,” he had said. And so would Uncle. She couldn’t let him get away. She looked all around, trying to think of a weapon. At the edge of the circle of light in the barn was a piece of wood, of the sort Fitch chopped for the kitchen grate. The effectual Mr. Robertson had already got the rope from Belle’s neck and was going to tie Fitch up. This was her chance, while he was bent over, his attention distracted. She whirled around the corner of the barn, snatched up the piece of wood, and inched silently forward. Instinct fought against her. She didn’t want to hurt Mr. Robertson, but she couldn’t let him hang Fitch and Uncle—and possibly herself. She lifted the piece of wood and brought it down on his head. The blow sounded dreadfully loud. Oh, God, had she killed him?

  Fitch grunted to life and sat up. “Hey, what are you doing here, missie?” he demanded. In this moment of stress, all formality of servant and mistress was abandoned.

  “Tie him up quickly, Fitch, before he wakes up,” she said, and grabbed the rope from Robertson’s hands.

  “Aye, I will, then, till we have time to consult Lord Eddie. Best go and get him, missie.”

  “See if he has a gun, Fitch.”

  Fitch rifled Robertson’s pockets and drew out the pistol. He smiled at it. “He fights fair, I’ll say that for ‘un,” he said, and stuck the pistol in his waistband. “You’d best get along,” he said to Mary Anne.

  “Yes,” she said, and ran off to the house, glad to put distance between herself and her crime.

  She went first to her uncle’s study, since he hadn’t been in his room earlier. Nothing. Next she pelted up to his bedchamber, hoping he was there, since he wasn’t with Fitch and he wasn’t in his study. His room was still vacant. She tried to think, but what whirled in her brain was the awful image of Mr. Robertson and the echo of that hollow thump as she had hit him. Why had she done such a horrid thing? Yet, what else could she do?

  She rushed into the hallway and went to Mr. Robertson’s door. It was locked. Fitch said the window didn’t open. How had he gotten out? The man was a magician. Popping out of locked rooms and making Uncle disappear. In desperation she pulled a key from the door across the hall and opened Robertson’s room, because she didn’t know where else to look. And there on the bed, the flick­ering flame of a single candle playing over his inert face, making him look dreadfully like a corpse, was Uncle Ed­win.

  Her first awful thought was that Robertson had killed him, till she spotted the empty wine bottles. Only asleep, then. Robertson had discovered their trick and played one of his own. Who could she turn to for help? Mrs. Plummer was worse than useless. She had already proclaimed her­self deaf and blind in the matter. Vulch occurred to her, only to be rejected. He was Robertson’s colleague. Jo­seph? Her flesh crawled to think what hold that would give him over Uncle and herself.

  She would consult with Fitch. Maybe he could think of someone. She ran back downstairs, out the front door, pell-mell into the black night. Her terror mounted as she ran. She imagined someone was following her. Wasn’t that a footfall? She looked over her shoulder. Surely something moved, there in the black night. She picked up the pace and told herself it was only nerves. No one was following her.

  She could think of no possible extrication from this coil but for Uncle, Fitch, and herself to run far away and never come back. And Uncle wasn’t even awake. They’d have to carry him down to the carriage. How far could they get before Robertson, the magician, freed himself and came after them?

  How had they got into such a dreadful scrape? It was all Uncle’s larcenous stealing of the cargo. For a thousand pounds he had ruined the reputation of the family and put all their lives in jeopardy. A tear scalded her eye as she ran. She wouldn’t be going to the spring assembly. The highlight of the social year snatched from her. And she wouldn’t be waltzing with Mr. Robertson in her new shawl. He’d be standing up with Bess Vulch. Wouldn’t Bess smirk to hear this tale!

  Fitch was pacing back and forth in front of the barn. “Where’s Lord Eddie?” he demanded.

  “Sound asleep. He must have drunk the doctored wine, Fitch. What are we to do?”

  From the bowels of the barn, a bored voice cut into the night. “For starters, you can untie me!” Mr. Robertson called.

  Mary Anne winced. She couldn’t bear to face him, yet she couldn’t stay away. She peered into the barn. Fitch, in an excess of eagerness, had trussed Mr. Robertson up like a goose for the oven. His knees were pulled against his chest, the same rope also binding his arms behind his back. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable there in the dust, with a dribble of blood oozing from the corner of his mouth and his stylish black hair falling over his forehead.

  “Oh, Fitch! Must you tie him like that?” she ex­claimed.

  “The rope was too short to do it any other way.”

  “May I suggest—another rope?” Mr. Robertson called.

  “We can at least tie him up more comfortably,” Mary Anne said, and with a leery look at Fitch, she went un­certainly into the barn.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Mr. Robertson looked up from his ignominious position in the dust. The shadows of night lent a murderous touch to his scowl and the dark eyes that raked her. “I s
hall be eternally grateful for your help, Miss Judson,” he said ironically.

  Mary Anne looked at him, the finest gentleman who had ever come to Dymchurch, and with her help, he had ended up in this situation. Frustration simmered to a boil till she could no longer contain it. “It’s all your own fault! I tried to help you. If you had drunk the wine as you were supposed to...”

  “Accessory to stealing wasn’t enough for you? You pre­fer the gibbet to Bridewell, I assume. You know my po­sition here. Whatever your henchmen’s guilt, you are guilty of nothing less than treason!”

  “Miss Judson had nothing to do with it!” Fitch an­nounced. “As to the gibbet, they’ve got to catch us before they can hang us.”

  “Unless you plan to escalate your crimes to include murdering an officer of the Crown, I shall personally make it my aim to see you’re caught,” Mr. Robertson said, and smiled grimly. “There’ll be a whole regiment scouring the countryside for me by morning.”

  His words smote her cruelly. Mary Anne felt the blood drain from her face. She turned to Fitch. “It’s a message from France,” he explained aside. “Belle ate it, you see.”

  “Ate the message from France?” He nodded. “Oh, dear,” she said, and felt quite weak. “Are you sure, Fitch?”

  “He said it should be in the bale marked with a V. That’s the one Belle tore open,” Fitch replied. “We’ve pawed through the silk a dozen times. It’s gone.”

  They looked to the ground, where even now Belle was nibbling at the cargo. It was an oilskin wrapping that en­gaged her interest at this point. She had the corner of it in her mouth and was wagging her head in an effort to detach a piece.

  “If you’d put the silk in the loft as Uncle wanted, this wouldn’t have happened,” Mary Anne scolded, and im­mediately regretted it. “I’m sorry, Fitch. It’s not your fault. Are you sure the message isn’t in one of the other bales?”

  “We opened a couple more. It ain’t here. It’s always in the bale marked with a V, he says. Old Belle ate herself free while I was loading up and got at the bale. Pity.”

  The gig was half-loaded. “Let’s open the rest of it, just to be sure,” she said.

  “I suggest you use your time more fruitfully and untie me,” Mr. Robertson said imperiously. “The message is not in any of the other bales. They all come directly from the merchants. Mrs. Lalonde marks hers with a V and sends it along separately via one of the smugglers, who adds it to the lot.”

  Mary Anne looked at him uncertainly. She was sure his legs and arms must be sound asleep by this time, but she was afraid if they untied him, he’d overpower Fitch and escape.

  “It’s your own fault!” she charged again, because she could think of nothing sensible to say.

  “Sorry I couldn’t oblige you in the matter of the lau­danum, but I had duties to perform. Every moment you delay me adds to your guilt. It is crucial that I get to London at once and report this.”

  Mary Anne turned her back to him for some private talk with Fitch. “Perhaps we should just let him go,” she said doubtfully.

  “Lord Eddie’d have my head on a platter if I did. I’ll go and see if I can rouse him up. You’ll be safe here. I tied the customer up right and tight.”

  “Couldn’t you at least loosen his feet? He looks so ter­ribly uncomfortable.”

  “Maybe it’ll teach him some manners. At least it won’t kill him for ten minutes.” Fitch laughed and lumbered off into the night, leaving Mary Anne behind to guard the troublesome prisoner.

  They eyed each other warily. “What was in the mes­sage?” she asked. Mr. Robertson began surreptitiously moving his wrists back and forth behind his back, trying to loosen the bindings.

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be so distraught at its loss. It contained whatever military matters Mrs. Lalonde was able to discover for us. Perhaps the imminent invasion of England by Boney,” he added to frighten her. “If the country falls into his clutches due to your efforts...”

  “I’m not the one who stole the silk! I didn’t know a thing about it till tonight.”

  “What were you doing, going to visit the Frenchies in the meadow yesterday morning?” He stirred restively, as though to get comfortable, while he continued wrenching his wrists back and forth. The friction of the rough rope scraped the skin from his wrists, but the rope was loos­ening a little.

  “I wasn’t visiting them!”

  “Were you not? You were all but embracing the ring­leader when I so inconveniently interrupted you. Were you reporting your success in intercepting the message, Miss Judson? Are you working for the enemy?”

  She stared, unable to conceive he really believed such a thing. Nor did he, but he wished to show her the extent of the case that could be made against her if she didn’t cooperate and free him. Fitch had bound him so tightly, it seemed impossible to work loose. He felt instinctively she was the likeliest one to give in.

  “Certainly not! You saw for yourself that I cried for help! I had no idea they were there.”

  “I rather think that cry for help came after you spotted me, however. You looked very relieved when I later told you the Frenchies had been allowed to escape.”

  “Of course I was relieved. No one likes to think there are Frenchmen prowling the neighborhood.”

  “I might be able to convince the courts you’re telling the truth if you help me,” he tempted.

  “Uncle will decide. He’ll be here in a minute.”

  “He won’t be here before morning, and we both know it. Yes, I know it’s my own fault for letting him drink my wine. I wonder what the judge will think of your trying to poison me.”

  “There wasn’t enough laudanum in it to kill you. We just wanted time to—to...”

  “Yes?” he encouraged. His hands were beginning to go numb from the rope, and his wrists were cut to raw flesh. “What was your plan?”

  “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you now, since you already think the worst of us. Uncle wanted to sell the stuff to you, but he didn’t want it to be done here on his property. Fitch was moving it to Christian’s hut, where the Frenchies were yesterday. Fitch was going to wear a mask and arrange the sale. It was only the money Uncle wanted, not the message.”

  Mr. Robertson sighed at their naiveté. He would have recognized Fitch in a second. There weren’t two such gi­ants in all of Kent. He could almost feel sorry for these innocent crooks—especially Mary Anne—but this wasn’t the moment to be soft. “Only the money. Only stealing,” he said satirically. “Lord Edwin will add great luster to the family name when this gets out.”

  “He was only stealing from the Frenchies!” she pointed out. “Vulch hadn’t paid for the silk. Why, it’s an English­man’s duty to get what he can from the French at this time. They’d just buy cannons with the blunt.”

  “And Lord Edwin will buy brandy—to return the money to French coffers. That sort of rationalization cuts no ice with me. The man is a common thief at best.” On this lofty speech he turned his head aside and began looking around the barn for weapons to defend himself when Fitch returned, as Fitch had taken his pistol.

  The fight went out of her at the condemning phrase. It was true. Uncle was a thief, and Mr. Robertson rightfully despised him—and her. They were beneath reproach. All she could do to redeem herself in his eyes was to show him she was at least a ladylike thief.

  “Would you like some water?” she asked after a mo­ment. “There’s a pump outside that’s used for the cow. The water’s perfectly clean.”

  “More to the point, I’d like you to loosen this rope. My feet at least.’’

  “You could run away if I did.”

  “My hands, then.”

  “Then you could untie your feet.” She frowned in per­plexity, hoping to convey that she’d help him if she could. Surely he could see her position.

  “Some compromise must be possible. Tie my feet up with another rope, and at least get me out of this knot,” he suggested.

  He did loo
k very uncomfortable. She looked around the barn for another rope. “I don’t see any,” she said.

  “Use my cravat.”

  His lovely white cravat was covered with dust and a few drops that looked black but must be blood. “Well, I sup­pose there wouldn’t be any harm in that,” she said, and went forward warily to undo his cravat.

  She felt self-conscious touching him. An air of intimacy built around them as his breaths fanned her cheek and her hand brushed his chin. Her fingers trembled as she fum­bled with the linen.

  When he spoke, his voice was low-pitched, very close to her ear. His words were mundane in the extreme, but she felt goose bumps lift the hair on her arms. “Would you mind wiping that blood from my mouth?” he asked. “It’s like Chinese torture, feeling it trickle slowly.”

  She drew the cravat away carefully, as though it would scrape his neck, and dabbed at the congealing blood. “Your lip’s split,” she said. “I should really wash it.”

  “You could wet the cravat at the pump,” he suggested, and looked up at the rush light, stuck into one of the stalls. It wasn’t placed very high. Perhaps he could hobble on his knees and dislodge it while she was at the pump. If he could burn the ropes off...

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” she said, and hopped up.

  The trouble was, he didn’t remember seeing any pump outside. If it was a few yards away, he might have time. But almost instantly he heard the squawking of a pump handle and realized she was just outside the door. She was back even before he had managed to get on his knees.

  “This may hurt a little,” she warned, and knelt down in the dust to daub tenderly at the cut.