Indiscreet

by Candace Camp

  Benedict bowed his head in recognition of the accolade and started to rise. Chevington waved him back down. “No. Sit. I have something else I want to say to you.” He glanced around the room. “Jenkins?”

  “Yes, my lord?” Benedict had forgotten about the old servant, but he came forward now to pick up the chess set.

  “Take that away and go find yourself something to do,” Chevington commanded.

  Jenkins frowned. “But, my lord…” He glanced from the Earl to Benedict and back again. “Are you wanting to sleep? Shall I see Mr. Lassiter out?”

  “No, dammit, I have no desire to sleep. That’s all I ever do. And Mr. Lassiter can find his own way out, I’m sure. I want to talk to him—alone.”

  “Of course, my lord,” Jenkins said frostily, pulling himself as straight as he could stand. He shuffled away with the chess set. Chevington watched him put the set away in its cabinet, then shuffle on to the door, turning back for a last look before he went out and closed it behind him.

  The Earl let out his breath in a noisy sigh. “I’ll hear about that for a week, I’m sure. Worse than a wife.” He shook his head. “Ah, well, can’t be helped.” He turned toward Benedict and studied him for a moment. “I have to talk to you.”

  “Yes, sir?” Benedict straightened, alerted by something in the man’s tone.

  “First—” the old man pointed a long, bony finger at him and fixed his piercing gaze upon him “—can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “Even from Camilla?”

  “Why, yes, if need be.”

  “Good. Then open that window.”

  Benedict was glad to do so. The room was overly warm, and he had felt stifled most of the time he was there. He pulled the casement window back, letting in a soft stirring of pleasant spring air. He turned back toward the bed, but the old man gestured toward the mahogany wardrobe standing on the other side of the window.

  “Go open the second drawer,” Chevington instructed. “And reach to the back, under the clothes.”

  Benedict did as he directed, and his hand fell upon a small box. He pulled it out and carried it back to the bed. Chevington, smiling, opened it to reveal several cigars nestled inside. The Earl released a long sigh of pleasure and pulled out one of the cigars. He rolled it between his fingers and ran it back and forth beneath his nose, breathing in its scent.

  “Ah…nothing like a good cigar to help a man think…or talk, or just about anything.” He proffered the box to Benedict. “Care for one?”

  “Thank you.” Benedict reached forward and took one, while the Earl pulled out small scissors from the table beside his bed.

  “So you’re not going to scold me for smoking a cigar?” the Earl asked as they went through the ritual of snipping off the ends and lighting their cigars.

  “No, sir. I would think it is your decision to make.”

  “Good for you. They yammer at me if I even mention a smoke or a glass of brandy. But I say, what good is it to keep on living if you have to live like this?”

  “You have a point.” Benedict thought of living his days cooped up in one room without a single vice to lighten his time. It was enough to make him shudder.

  They sat together in companionable silence for a time, puffing at their cigars. After a while, Chevington said casually, “Military, aren’t you?”

  Benedict glanced at him, a little surprised. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I was. Light Horse. I served in the Peninsula until a few months ago.”

  The old man nodded sagely. “Thought you had the bearing. What made you leave?”

  “A ball in the thigh.” He did not mention the other two, more minor wounds. “Worse was the infection—couldn’t get back to my lines right away. Laid me up for weeks. I cashiered out. There were…personal matters I had to see to, also.”

  “So is that how Camilla met you—convalescing in Bath?”

  Benedict nodded. He had been speaking about his real past, but he could see that it meshed nicely with Camilla’s tale. “Hard to remain unhealthy when she’s about.”

  Chevington puffed thoughtfully on his cigar. Finally he said, “I think that you are just the man I need.”

  “Indeed, sir?” Benedict wondered where this could be going.

  “Yes. Ordinarily, of course, I would take care of it. But they’ve got me so laid up here that I haven’t been able to. Things are slipping from my grasp.”

  “Your estate, sir? I would think your heir would be the one you should talk to.”

  “No. Not the estate. The farm agent’s a good man, and he keeps me informed. Marlin’s the same. I don’t worry about investments and such. And Anthony’s just a pup. I can’t expect him to handle it. Besides, I’m afraid he’s— Well, I shall let you find out for yourself. You see, that’s the problem, I don’t know enough. I don’t know anything.”

  “About what?”

  “About what’s going on here.” He frowned in frustration. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something wrong. Something damned havey-cavey. And I’m afraid of what’s going to happen.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BENEDICT’S PULSE QUICKENED, though he was careful not to show any excitement. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir. What makes you think something is wrong?”

  “I hear things. I can’t get out and around and see for myself, but I have plenty of friends here, and they visit me. And Jenkins and Purdle keep me up to date about what’s happening in the Park.”

  “What is happening?”

  The old man pursed his lips, struggling to put it into words. “There is a feeling around the place, an edginess. There’s something different. It has to do, I think, with Nat Crowder’s death.”

  “Nat Crowder?” Benedict asked, confused. “Who is he?”

  “A local man. A steady sort, good provider. The sort of man you could deal with. He was a cabinetmaker, not superior. But he was a damned good smuggler. He died a while back, and ever since then…well, there’s just been something odd.” The Earl looked up at Benedict. “Maybe you don’t understand about the smuggling. Outsiders often don’t. They think that the men are all a band of criminals.” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose they are, for that matter, but they are not bad men. Not all of them. Locals look at it differently. It’s something that has gone on here for years—generations, for that matter. The Crowders have been smugglers, I think, clear back to Nat’s great-grandfather. But to the people around Edgecombe, it’s considered an honest enough occupation. Who are they hurting, after all? If the damn taxes weren’t so high, no one would have to smuggle.”

  It was an old and common argument, Benedict knew. In the past, the taxes on both tea and tobacco had been so high that an ordinary man could not afford the goods unless they were smuggled. He knew that people spoke of Sam the smuggler just as they would Sam the baker or Sam the tailor. Even the rector of his church had purchased smuggled tea and thought nothing wrong of it. Why, the colonists had even revolted at being forced to pay the tea tax.

  “Still, there is a difference, don’t you think, when you’re talking about smuggling in liquor from France when we are at war with them?” Benedict argued. “Then it’s a betrayal of your country.” As soon as he said the words, he felt hypocritical. After all, he and Jermyn had made use of the very same smugglers for Gideon.

  The old man snorted, obviously enjoying a good argument. “As if a man is going to give up his brandy because Boney’s on a rampage. Besides, the smuggling works both ways. We’re sneaking English cotton into France despite the emperor’s embargo on English goods, and they can’t get enough of it. There’s no harm there, is there—thwarting Bonaparte and his attempt to cripple England’s trade?”

  Benedict smiled. “I can scarcely argue with that.”

  “Of course not. It all works out. Any
way, what I’m saying is that smuggling is accepted hereabouts. Nobody likes the government coming in and telling us what to do. Outsiders’ interference isn’t appreciated.”

  “But I am an outsider,” Benedict pointed out. “And you are asking me to interfere, aren’t you?”

  Chevington shook his head. “You’re not an outsider if you’re a member of my family, which you are now. Especially not if I let it be known that I have approved of you, that you are acting under my aegis, so to speak.”

  “You are a powerful man, it seems.”

  He shrugged. “I am Chevington, of Chevington Park,” he said simply. “The people look to us. To me.”

  “I’m not sure what it is you want me to do.”

  “Find out what’s going on. Just talk to people. Talk to Purdle, ask around in the village.”

  Benedict nodded. “This Nat Crowder…” Benedict tried to keep his voice casual. Inside, his heart was racing. He had heard nothing about this in the village. But a dead smuggler might very well have a great deal of significance. “How did he die?”

  “No one knows. He was found at the bottom of the cliffs one morning, his neck broken. He knew those cliffs like the back of his hand.”

  “Mmm. Seems suspicious. You think someone killed him?”

  The Earl shrugged. “Those cliffs are treacherous, and a fall can happen at any time. Who is to say what happened? But it makes me uneasy. It is said that Nat’s death made the smugglers leaderless. Yet they continue operating. I think they have a new leader.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard no names. I have no information about him at all. I think he is feared. I also think that there are very few who know who he is.”

  “Is that usually the way it is?”

  “No. As I told you, it’s practically a local institution. The smugglers are all from around here, and they talk. Everyone talks. Usually it’s pretty much common knowledge who is involved with the smuggling, even who the leader is. As it was with Nat Crowder.”

  Benedict nodded thoughtfully. “Tell me this, why do you want to know? What do you plan to do with the answers if I can find them?”

  “I told you. The Chevingtons have always taken care of Edgecombe. I consider it my responsibility.”

  Benedict considered the old man. He was sure that the Earl did feel a responsibility to the locals, whom he no doubt considered “his people.” It was a feeling he himself had about the area of Lincolnshire where the Rawdon country estate lay. His uncle and grandfather had held the belief even more strongly. Still, he could not keep from thinking that there was something more behind Chevington’s concern. It seemed to be a problem that worried him unduly. What did it really matter to him if there was a power struggle among the smugglers, or even a new leader?

  However, Chevington said no more, simply looked at him. Finally Benedict nodded. “All right. I will see what I can find out for you.”

  They finished their cigars, and Benedict put them out, tossing the butts and the ashes into the bushes below. Then he replaced the cigars in their hiding place and closed the window.

  “Come back,” the Earl commanded, a twinkle in his eye. “We’ll have another game.”

  “I will.”

  Benedict walked out into the hall and, finding only the offended Jenkins sitting there waiting, he made his way downstairs to the public rooms. He found Camilla in a sitting room that was smaller and more comfortable than the formal drawing room where they had met her family the evening before. She looked up at him and smiled, and he was struck anew, here in the daylight, by how very pretty she was. Her skin was cream and rose, dewy-fresh, and when she smiled, her face seemed to light up. His eyes fell to her breasts, emphasized by the high waist of her dress, their creamy tops hidden by the modest ruffle of lace. It was not difficult, he realized, to look as if he were a new bridegroom. The first thing he felt upon seeing her had been a swift rush of desire.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear,” he said, tamping down the feeling and coming across to bend over her hand. He turned to her companion. “Viscountess.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Lassiter,” Lydia answered sweetly. “Camilla has just been telling me about your marriage. A most affecting story.”

  He felt sure it had been. He wondered what the story was. He cast a look toward Camilla, hoping for help, but she merely smiled. “I see,” he finally replied, which, while hardly truthful, was vague enough, he hoped, to do for any contingency.

  “Yes. Your poor mother, so sad.”

  “Yes.” He sat down on the couch beside Camilla and gave her aunt a smile that he hoped was both pleasant and sad as he wondered what tragedy Camilla had seen fit to inflict on him.

  “But I must say, I find you admirable to stay by her side throughout it all.”

  “Thank you. I could have done no less.”

  “Of course not.” Lydia beamed on him. “I told Camilla she could have trusted me with the whole story long ago. But, then, I know how you young people are. And, of course, with your wicked uncle, I can understand how you might not trust one’s relatives.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, completely at sea. He sat forward. “My lady, if you will excuse us, I had hoped that I could persuade Camilla to show me the gardens.”

  “Of course. They aren’t in full bloom yet, but, then, I am sure you will enjoy them anyway, as long as Camilla is with you.”

  “Indeed.”

  He stood up, offering Camilla his arm, and she rose lithely to take it. There was a twinkle in her eyes that told him she was enjoying his confusion. However lovely she was, she was equally annoying, he reminded himself.

  Just as they started toward the door, Camilla’s dandyish cousin languidly entered the room. “Ah, my dear coz. And Mr. Lassiter,” he drawled. “My goodness, everyone seems to be up before me. They say it’s the country air—so refreshing. Personally, I find I rarely sleep well in the country. All that noise, you know, owls hooting, roosters crowing… There’s such an inordinate number of birds around.”

  “I am sure it must be very trying for you, Cousin Bertram,” Camilla said sympathetically. “You must tell Aunt Lydia all about it. Benedict and I are just going out for a stroll in the garden.”

  “Ah, yes, exercise. That’s another tiresome thing about the country. People are forever tramping about, it seems. Well, I won’t keep you from your bucolic amusements.” He moved out of the doorway toward Lydia, then stopped, studying them, one finger up beside his mouth. “You know, Mr. Lassiter, I keep having the oddest feeling that I know you. Have we met before?”

  “I doubt it,” Camilla interjected hastily. “Benedict lives in Bath.”

  “All your life?” Bertram’s expression indicated disbelief that one could actually live in Bath for that long.

  “Yes,” Camilla answered.

  “No,” Benedict replied at the same time.

  Benedict put his free hand over Camilla’s on his arm and squeezed it, smiling down at her. “Now, dear, I haven’t always been in Bath. There was, ah, the family estate.”

  “Yes, dear,” Lydia added. “He must have resided with his uncle.”

  “You are right. How silly of me.”

  “Of course,” Benedict went on, “my life did not really begin until Bath, where I met you.”

  He heard Lydia let out a soft, fluttering sigh behind him. Cousin Bertram, on the other hand, looked faintly ill. With a polite nod to him, Benedict swept Camilla out of the room before Cousin Bertram could begin to ponder the idea that he had seen Benedict before.

  “Do you know him?” Camilla whispered as she guided him through the house to the door leading into the gardens.

  Benedict shook his head. “I didn’t recognize him. I suppose he could have seen me before.”

  “Cousin Bertram acts like a fool, but h
e’s actually quite smart. If he does know you, I am sure that he will come up with it. You never worked for him, did you?”

  Benedict shook his head.

  “Or stole anything from him?”

  “Why do you persist in this belief that I am a thief?” Benedict asked, exasperated.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps it is because you stole my carriage.”

  “I did not steal it. I merely drove it.”

  “Without my permission.”

  He shrugged off this minor point. “I could have met him when I was younger. I don’t remember him. I have been out of the country the last few years, so—”

  Camilla drew in a breath, her eyes rounding. “You mean you had to leave the country?”

  He frowned. “Your opinion of me is gratifying. No, I did not have to leave the country. I was in the army. As I told your grandfather. So whatever this ‘affecting’ history is that you have given me, you had better work that into it.”

  “Oh, dear, this is getting complicated. Well, if it comes up, I shall just tell Lydia that you joined the military after you thought I no longer loved you. Why do you look at me like that?” Camilla stepped away from him uneasily.

  “Like what?”

  “As if you might put your hands around my throat and squeeze.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I just wondered what possessed you to say such a thing.”

  “Well, I had to come up with some explanation for why we married so quickly and why Aunt Lydia had never even heard of you.”

  He sighed, opening the door for her, and they stepped outside. “All right. Tell me what sort of a sorry past you have given me. I am sure I no doubt played the fool in it.”

  “No—although you were duped, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “So was I.” They started along the graveled path leading into the formal flower garden. “I told Aunt Lydia that we met in Bath many years ago, when I went there with the Barringtons. Those are some cousins of my father’s, and Aunt Lydia never sees them, for they are dead bores. So I knew that they were perfect, for Lydia will never check out the story, and I was seventeen at the time I went there with them, which is a perfect age to fall madly, hopelessly, in love, don’t you think?”