Randall's Romance (Behind Closed Doors)

by Lee Brazil

  Kicking his heels in the magistrate's study gave Randall plenty of opportunity for reflecting upon the foolishness of his recent actions, not the least of which he counted as promising not to seek out his highwayman. Thinking with his prick instead of his head, he supposed. Still, the pleasant ache in his backside was a reminder of the physical pleasure he and Danny had shared, but pleasure of that sort wasn't enough in general to make him obey another man so easily. Or want to kill whatever bastard had soured that other man's trust and faith in humanity. In lieu of any solid information about his highwayman, or the man's mysterious past, he chose instead to dwell on the animosity he'd felt towards Haytor ever since he and Cecy had fallen out.

  Frowning at the twinge in his ankle, he crossed the room and pulled aside the heavy velvet drapes to peer out at the choppy sea. Opening the drapes revealed a neat little padded window seat from which the magistrate had an excellent view of the water and a large portion of the beach itself. Strange that he didn't post someone here to keep watch. Impatiently surveying the room, Randall began to pace. A pair of plain black opera glasses lay in the window seat and he scooped them up upon his return to the window. Upon peering out the window, he was astonished to see how far he could see from this vantage. Perhaps he'd ask Lord Haytor for permission to post a sentry here.

  Or maybe not. His glance fell on an object that appeared out of place, a carriage lamp of sorts with a sliding closure that seemed to rotate somehow. Knowing that it was customary for smugglers to rely on signals from land to indicate that the coast was clear, Randall recognized the significance of the items at once. Such a lantern was perfect for signaling the smugglers.

  Perhaps he'd best take advantage of the man's absence to get a closer look at Haytor's study. He'd long known of Haytor's financial problems, and it wouldn't' be the first time that financial need and French gold had come together. His heart rate increased slightly, Randall crept over to the magistrate's large oak desk. The surface contents were innocuous enough, with an inkwell, a stack of writing paper, a ledger that proved to be household accounts, a few nibs and quills.

  Biting his lip, Randall cast a cautious glance at the door. He lifted the blotter and peeked beneath. Nothing. Shook out the pages of a leather bound volume on husbandry. A dried rose fell to the desk.

  Damn it! Hoping that Haytor hadn't marked any particular page with the memento, he tucked it back between the leaves of the book, noting a scrap of ribbon in a shade of green that reminded him of Cecy's eyes tied clumsily about the flower. Who'd have thought Haytor was a sentimental sort? His resolve to despise the man faded a bit, until he remembered he might well be a traitor. Keeping half his attention focused on the door and any indication that someone was approaching, he tried the top drawer. Locked. Hastily he worked his way down the remaining drawers. All were locked.

  Where would you hide incriminating evidence if you were the local magistrate and involved in treason? Snorting softly, Randall left the desk and crossed to a chair by the window. He crossed his booted feet at the ankle and rested his chin in his palm. Not in the same room where I interviewed the local exciseman. The man might be a traitor, but he was hardly stupid.

  And neither was Perry. If Perry trusted Lord Haytor, then Randall must do so as well, besides, if he was going to trust someone who held him up, tied him up, stole his father's watch after promising not to, and ...fucked him into unconsciousness, then he might as well trust Haytor as well.

  "My apologies for keeping you waiting, My Lord." A tall gentleman stepped into the room, face impassive.

  "That's quite all right." Randall rose, stepping forward to shake the man's proffered hand. "I'm sorry for disturbing you after missing my appointment yesterday. I was indisposed." Pushing aside the memories of just why he'd ended up missing the meeting after all, he let his glance stray tellingly to the opera glasses and the lantern in the window seat. "I've come at my brother Peregrine's behest to look into an urgent matter for the home office."

  Haytor noted the direction of his gaze. A supercilious brow rose, the thin lips twisted with mirthless amusement. "You have something to ask me, Gretton?"

  Blunt bastard. So be it. "You are aware, I'm sure that the fine for signaling is quite steep at one hundred pounds."

  His nostril flared, and his lips pinched together in a thin line. "As the local magistrate, I am well aware of the fines and penalties for most offenses. Do you have any other business to discuss, or is this a social call?"

  "I don't like you. Cecy told me about you. I say anyone who behaves as you have done is without honor and lower than a dog. I'd have cheerfully killed you then, but Cecy wouldn't let me. Now, Peregrine is my superior and the acting head of my family, however. He says you can be trusted. "

  The amusement vanished in a flash. "Lady Cecily is well, I trust? Why would you bring her here, into danger?"

  "Who said I had any choice in the matter? Just as Peregrine sent me here, he sent Cecy. Surely it wouldn't surprise you to learn that her rebellious bent and shameless courting of scandal do not meet with his approval?"

  "Ah. Then you do have some business other than my private matters to discuss?" The magistrate seated himself behind the massive desk and waved Randall to a chair. He picked up a pen and drew a sheet of clean foolscap across the desk.

  Hiding his surprising urgent need to do violence to this man, Randall seated himself warily. "Last month Perry lost an entire cell of agents who've been operating in France for the past five years. Four men, each speaking French like a native, decimated, brutally assassinated. The only way the French could have known their identities was if they were told. Perry suspects there's a traitor in the home office. He's taking care of things that end."

  "And how can I help?"

  "You have connections with the smugglers. It's the Home Office's considered opinion that the most likely way classified information, such as the names and locations of our spies, and troops, travels across the Channel is through the smugglers."

  The pen hit the foolscap with a definite splatter. Haytor jerked his head up and glared fiercely at Randall. "Are you accusing me of treason, Gretton?"

  Feeling a bitter pleasure at the man's outrage, Randall continued poking at him. "You do have a certain...intimate friendship with an émigré." He stared at the magistrate in calm challenge.

  "The vicomte Philippe de Caen is an old and valued family friend. England is littered with émigrés right now, and damn near all of them are impoverished. None of them have access to classified files, at least, Philippe has not. Having a friendship with an émigré is not treasonous."

  "I'll be blunt with you. De Caen is known to be in smuggling. They've been watching him for a while now. If Perry weren't certain he was more interested in gold than troop movements, I wouldn't be here." Crossing his legs at the ankle, Randall slouched back in the chair and waited to see how Haytor responded to that volley.

  "And yet, you felt the need to suggest it, anyway." His lip curled in a sneer, his hand flattened on the desk.

  "I need to know if there have been any live cargo smuggled over with the barrels of goods. The government, in this instance has no interest in your brandy or lace. Someone is carrying these shipments, or sending sealed packets for delivery. The only way that person can come and go, or send information is via the gentlemen. Have you, or your men, heard of human cargo, or been asked to carry a packet?"

  "I couldn't say. Philippe...I'll ask. I'm certain that if he knew, he wouldn't have..." It wasn't confusion or dismay that made the man hesitant. No, his eyes were narrowed in thought, and he seemed to be considering Randall's inquiry. "I can only ask. I don't interfere much with the local gentlemen, as there is plenty of more dangerous outlawry in these parts. I'll send word to you when I find anything."

  Taking his dismissal at face value, Randall nodded shortly. "Thank you for your time, Caleb." The friendly term slipped out, and Randall realized he still valued this old friendship. "You might call on Cecy, while she's here. I once h
oped to call you brother."

  "I think not." The man's gaze drifted over to the window, and he stared off at the distant sea. "That ship has long since sailed."

  Chapter Eight

  His dark clothing may have kept Jason from being visible, but it did little to keep the nippy evening chill from his bones. The scent of Randall Gretton's cologne still clung to the black mask, a constant reminder of the man's smile, his eyes, the fire his touch evoked.

  Grains of sand whispered softly under foot as Jason crept carefully toward the position he'd marked earlier in the week, a shallow cavern that overlooked the beach. It was too small to be of use to the smugglers, and hidden partially behind an outcropping of rock. The rock was cold were he pressed against it, seeking to blend into the background.

  Scraggly shore plants and bits of debris grabbed at his clothes and stabbed his shins. He bit back his curses and persevered. If he were lucky, he'd be able to hear the smugglers without giving himself away.

  Creeping up and down the coast spying on gang after gang of smugglers in the hopes of finding the one that was trading secrets as well as lace and brandy was about to pay off. The information he'd found in Gravesend's study had sent him here, now he just needed to bide his time and catch the villain himself.

  Once the mastermind had been taken down, he could head back to London, take out Gravesend, and reveal himself to Peregrine Gretton. And reconnect with his brother.

  Pleasure can wait, he chided himself. Justice takes precedence. You owe it to your men, the men who trusted you to lead them, to protect them. "So close." He inched his way along the outcropping of rock. Catching a glimpse of the flashing light in the window at the big house overlooking the water had been a stroke of luck. From here, he could see the ship with her own signal out in the distance.

  The wind carried an occasional snatch of garbled conversation to him, but so far he'd been able to distinguish only the rough talk of the locals. What he wanted, was a dulcet toned aristocrat with a French accent. Clouds masked the sliver of moon, providing some cover, but these were by far the boldest gang of smuggler's he'd encountered in his travels.

  They seemed to have not the least concern for the proximity of Randall Gretton's home, or the excise men at his command. And why would that be unless they had the protection of someone high up? Perhaps the man he sought held a position of power in the British government...

  A few more feet...his cave, little more than a depression in the surface of the rock was just ahead.

  Click.

  He froze, mind darting rapidly through the possibilities. That tiny click sounded alarmingly loud amid the hushed noises of the night. His hand went to his own weapon. "Please, this isn't what it seems." He kept his voice calm, hoped the sudden rapid throb of his heart wasn't audible. Jason started to turn but a mocking, all too familiar voice stopped him.

  "That's enough of that, my friend. I should have put two and two together and realized you were no ordinary highway man." An edge of something hard in Gretton's voice caused an unpleasant churning in Jason's gut.

  "I never said I was." He drew in a steadying breath, removed his hand form his weapon and raised both of them in the air. "I know this seems strange, but...could we just walk ahead here a bit?" Did the man know what was happening on the beach not fifty feet from them? "I'd hate for our friends over there to take exception to our presence." He jerked his head in the direction of the men working diligently to haul in barrels of cargo.

  "Your friends, you mean. Danny...I trusted you. I realize I had no reason to do so, but damn it! Don't you care that the information you're trading is causing the deaths of good British soldiers?" The disgust in that dulcet voice hurt.

  "Please," Jason cast a swift glance at the rough looking smugglers. "Inside the cave, and we can talk. I promise, I'm not going to try anything."

  To his relief, Gretton grunted and nudged him in the back with the gun. "Go on then. I'm right behind you. I warn you, if you signal them in any way, I will kill you."

  They advanced quietly into the rocky depression. Stepping inside, Jason realized his mistake. His eyes widened. What had appeared to be a faint depression in the rock, perfect for hiding in, was in fact a fair sized cave with caverns cutting off the main room to the left and the right. Damn. "This may not be such a good idea, after all." He ventured, turning around to find himself nose to nose with Randall Gretton's pistol.

  "Why? Afraid you won't be able to talk, or seduce your way out of it?"

  Wincing at the jab, Jason shook his head. "No, I thought this place was a small sheltered spot that I could hide in while I watched the smugglers. I didn't expect it to be such a large space."

  "What does it matter?" Gretton's brows drew together between the stormy blue eyes.

  "It's not safe. Where do you think they're going to stash those barrels? How many caves do you think are nearby?"

  "They could bury them in the sand, load them on a wagon. Quit stalling. I want to know what you're doing here if you're not one of them."

  Huffing impatiently, Jason growled softly. "Did you see any carts or men digging? No? Neither did I. They're going to roll those barrels in here, and if they find us, there will be hell to pay."

  "Right. Nice try."

  "Oh, sacre bleu!" Swift as lightning, he snatched the pistol from Gretton's grip and tossed it across the cave. He followed up that foolish bravado by pulling the man into his arms and crushing his open mouth in a fierce, angry kiss. Instantly lust that had been simmering since he recognized Randall's voice exploded in a surge of need and want.

  After a muffled protest, Randall melted against him, kissed him back with an ardor equal to his own. As though realizing what he was doing, he shoved Jason away and stumbled back a few steps himself, putting some distance between them.

  Heart racing, blood roaring in his ears, Jason pulled back and stared at the man in front of him in the dim light. His eyes glittered, his moist mouth beckoned, his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. "No! Keep your distance, Danny. You wanted to talk, now talk."

  Unreasonable fury at hearing the name he'd himself insisted on Randall using rushed through Jason. He tugged off his mask and sent it flying after the pistol. "I am part French, my mother was a ballerina, a dancer in the opera. She was a beautiful woman, and as all beautiful women do, she caught the eye of a wealthy man. He used her, tossed her aside, and left her with child when he returned to his home, England. So I am also, part British. I was raised in Britain, schooled there. My loyalties lie with my father's country, though he certainly never felt any loyalty to me or to my mother."

  Pausing for breath, he noted that Gretton was looking him over, searching his features intently. A liquid heat simmered in his belly, he pushed it aside. It was time to tell the truth, to clear the air. "I might be a cousin of yours. I hope that doesn't bother you?"

  "Come here." Gretton commanded in a low, gravelly voice. Jason stepped obediently closer, unsure why he found himself unable to refuse.

  "My name is Jason Dancourt." He breathed softly when he came to a stop at last, so close he could feel the heat of Randall's body through the layers of their clothes.

  Cold fingers combed through his hair, smoothing it back behind his ear. Randall traced the curve of his ear to the lobe, fingering it curiously. "All the Gretton's have unattached lobes. Yours are attached..."

  "I am aware. My father refused to believe my mother when she said she'd never slept with another man. That was his excuse for putting her aside as well, the ear lobes." He shrugged, taking a chance and wrapping an arm around the trim waist, jerking Gretton close so their bodies were tight together. Randall could no more hide his passion than Jason could, and as their pricks aligned, he gasped out another protest.

  "Not the place, Jason."

  "I know." Reluctantly Jason released Randall and allowed him to retreat further into the darkness of the cave. "I am not a smuggler."

  "I know."

  "You do? A minute ago you were
prepared to see me hanged as a traitor for smuggling information to the enemy." He raised an inquiring brow. "What changed your mind?"

  "My brother Peregrine sent me here. He wanted me to look into something for him. It seems there's a leak at the home office, and a traitor is selling information to the French. Some of that information led to the death of an entire squad of Perry's men, among them one Jason Dancourt."

  "I wanted him to think me dead. I didn't know who I could trust; I just knew that someone from home had betrayed us."

  "You may rest assured that he does, indeed think you dead. We actually buried you in the family plot. On the edges, to be sure, but never the less, your tenuous hold on the family name has been acknowledged in your death if Uncle Sebastian hadn't the courage or honor to do so in his lifetime."

  Startled, Jason opened his mouth to speak but Randall cut him off.

  "I'm here to find and shut down the avenue of information. I take it that is your intent as well?"

  "In part, I intend to avenge my men. Doing so should ensure that the information highway is closed as well."

  "And you think that these gentlemen on the beach tonight are connected to our traitors?"

  It warmed him a little, humbled him, how readily Gretton accepted his word. "I'm fairly certain of it. I found a diary of sorts at Gravesend's and it indicated that this town was a key location. There are, of course, a number of smuggling gangs working the area, but I've spent the last two weeks watching, and all the rest have proven to be mundane brandy smugglers. A bit of tobacco, the occasional trinket. None of them deals in people, and despite their shipping ventures, all of them appear to be stalwart supporters of the crown and country."

  "You are correct. According to my source, this group has occasionally brought in a bit of human cargo. They have dealings with some Frenchman who comes over with them at times. They are paid well, and don't ask questions."