My Lady Smuggler

by Margaret Bennett

  Before the major-demo could toad-eat him, Melvyrn acquainted him with Bailey. “My valet will see to all my needs, Hixon. Anything you want from me, apply through Bailey.” Ignoring Hixon’s disappointed expression, Melvyrn climbed the flagstone steps and greeted the short row of servants lined up on the long terrace.

  Afterwards, he retired to his study, a masculine room with cherry wainscoting and bookshelves with a burgundy settee and chairs grouped around the gray stone fireplace, and a large cherry desk that looked out on the front lawn. Gilmore joined him and soon was explaining the estate’s accounts. While discussing the tenants, Melvyrn asked, “How big is the village?”

  “Folkestone is not large, a several hundred or so homes, but since the War Office built the Shorncliffe Redoubt and with revenuers about, it sees more traffic of late.”

  “Revenuers mean smuggling,” Melvyrn ventured cautiously. “Is there much of that going on around here?”

  Turning his back to Melvyrn, Gilmore picked up a ledger and said, “Not that I’m aware of, my lord.”

  Melvyrn didn’t reply. Gilmore’s actions spoke volumes, and Melvyrn decided to keep an eye on his bailiff.

  Later that evening, Melvyrn quizzed Bailey as the valet assisted him in taking off his form-fitting jacket. “How’s everything in the servants’ quarters?”

  “Nothing unusual, milord. Though the housekeeper’s niece’s daughter, now there’s a rare article of womanhood.”

  Melvyrn chuckled. “At it already, Bailey?” It amazed Melvyrn how his tall, heavy set, and nearly bald valet succeeded as a lothario.

  “Man’s got to have company now and again, milord.”

  “Did you see or hear anything that would indicate something unusual was afoot?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Were you able to ask about the neighbors?”

  “I did. ‘Course, it’s a mite early for any confidences, you understand. To the likes of them, I’m a puffed up Londoner. They ain’t likely to take to a stranger early on, begging your pardon, milord.”

  “I understand, Bailey.” Melvyrn hadn’t really expected much on the first day. There always existed that clash between the more sophisticated town servants and their country counterparts. Still, the valet’s report was disturbing. For one, time was a factor. If the locals did, in fact, hold a secret, like a village full of smugglers, it would be even harder for his likeable and loquacious valet to break the social barrier. “Don’t push too hard, Bailey. We don’t want to make them suspicious.”

  “That I won’t,” Bailey replied with a wily smile. “I figure playing the lovesick swan, they’ll cozen up to me sooner. Them higher ups like Hixon don’t want one of their own making a bloody fool of himself over some lowly wench like the scullery maid, Janey, be she ever an eyeful.”

  ~~~~~

  The next morning, though up before dawn, Melvyrn kept to his rooms. To foster the invalid image, he sent Bailey down to the kitchen for a breakfast tray. “Be sure you tell the other servants that I slept fitfully.”

  “Huh,” Bailey tossed over his shoulder with one hand on the door knob. “They’ll hear more than that. Kept me up all hours, you did, calling out like a delirious halfwit for most the night.”

  An hour passed before the valet returned carrying a tray covered with a linen towel. “Here you go, milord,” Bailey called out cheerfully.

  Melvyrn laid aside his correspondence and rose from the small writing desk. “About time. A man could starve to death waiting on you.”

  Bailey set the tray on top of a lacquered cabinet and slipped off the towel to reveal tea and toast. “Got just what you requested, milord. An invalid’s breakfast.” When Melvyrn groaned his disgust, the valet’s face split in a broad grin as he opened a dresser drawer and lifted out a covered dish. “I twigged two biscuits, cheese and an apple after dinner last night to help fortify you some. Even got a flask of home brew to wash it all down.”

  “You’re a wizard, Bailey. A paltry diet like this,” Melvyrn said, pointing to the tray, “will have me as weak as a babe by day’s end.”

  “Well now, your staff don’t have to starve just because the lord of the manor don’t happen to be in prime form. Anyways, the housekeeper’s taken a liking to me since I’ve got me eyes on a family member. Aims to fatten me up for the slaughter is what she plans to do.”

  “Stow it, you old flirt,” Melvyrn laughed. “Bring that food over here before I perish from hunger. One more thing, Bailey. I need to slip out for a bit this morning. Tell Grimsley to saddle Hector and meet me in the woods behind the barn in an hour. He can use the excuse that he’s got to exercise the stallion.”

  “Why would you be wanting to blow our cover so early in the game?” Bailey wore a confused expression. “Folks around here are bound to see you.”

  “I’m supposed to be recovering from a fever, not dying,” Melvyrn said testily. “Besides, I haven’t a choice. There’s a man in Folkestone I need to find.”

  Bailey shook his head. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord, but that ain’t smart, especially after all the trouble we’re going through to make you appear sickly.”

  Melvyrn considered the valet through narrowed eyes for an uncomfortable moment. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said before giving the valet a sly grin. “We’re of a size, wouldn’t you say, Bailey?”

  *** Chapter 2 ***

  Melvyrn gave Hector his head, and the temperamental stallion immediately quickened his trot to a canter across the top of the cliffs. Up here, Melvyrn was glad Bailey’d insisted he wear the heavy woolen coat, for the wind blowing off the water had a cold bite. Below the steep, sloping cliffs, he could hear the sea crashing on the pebbly beach. Using a circumventive route to reach Folkestone, he hoped to avoid being seen by the locals and causing talk. Although he knew Hector alone would cause comment, Melvyrn refused to ride an inferior mount.

  Coming to a small copse, Melvyrn spotted a well worn trail among the trees and guided the stallion toward it. As he entered the grove, the oaks and wild hedge bushes broke the wind blowing off the Channel, and the sunlight, diffused by the canopy of early spring leaves, dappled` the spinney’s floor.

  Hector rounded a clump of wild ligustrum, and Melvyrn saw a young girl bent over in the middle of the path. Quickly, he pulled back on the reins, and the stallion reared, his massive hooves clawing the air.

  The girl stood rooted. Her mouth opened in surprise, but Melvyrn never heard her scream though frightened eyes comprised most of her countenance. An instant later, a black nose, then the furry brown and white head of a Springer spaniel puppy poked through the front of her cloak. Using skill and brute strength, Melvyrn kept Hector on his hind legs, forcing the stallion back several paces until the horse’s front legs could return safely to the ground. Patting Hector’s quivering neck, Melvyrn murmured soothing words as his gaze remained on the girl who appeared, on closer inspection, to be a lovely young woman.

  She pulled the dog closer to her body, wrapping her cloak protectively around the squirming ball of fur. A smile split Melvyrn’s face as he thought of the pup’s enviable position, tucked neatly under the attractive young lady’s bosom.

  “Running someone over is hardly a laughing matter.” Her tone was sharp and her countenance changed from one of fright to indignation, adding even more expression to her eyes. Blue, he thought, slate blue eyes like the North Sea. Under the dark blue hood of her cloak, light brown curls framed a small delicate face.

  He schooled his expression to disguise his thoughts. “Please forgive me, Miss. But I see your, er, friend, now there is a beauty and a fine hunting breed.”

  “Silas is not a hunter,” she huffed with a haughty lift of her small, straight nose.

  Melvyrn quirked an eyebrow. “He’s already too big for a lap dog.” He watched, fascinated, as the young woman lovingly stroked the pup, cradling it closer to her body. As if suddenly conscientious of where she was, she stepped off the path and turned into the woods. Before she disappeared, he ask
ed, “Where are you going in these woods?”

  But she ignored his query. Not detoured, Melvyrn turned Hector into the bramble to follow her. He’d heard the cultured tones of her speech and was intrigued. “Do you live around here?” he asked, thinking she was a local squire’s daughter. From the rear, his eyes feasted on a pleasing view as she’d wrapped her cloak tightly about her to cover the puppy. “I nearly ran you over back there. Could you at least explain why you are in these woods?”

  She didn’t slow her pace but tossed over her shoulder, “Looking for herbs.”

  She appeared too young for his interest. Still, what harm could come of an innocent dalliance. It was unlikely he’d see her again. Besides, he might learn something.

  She stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “Sir, are you following me?”

  Melvyrn smiled. By Jove, she was pretty. Her dainty chin tilted up arrogantly, letting him see her eyes. Though still large, they no longer dominated her slightly tanned face. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from embarrassment or exertion he couldn’t tell. He watched her struggle to hold the squirming spaniel. “It might be easier if you put the pup down.”

  She gave him a rueful look. “I cannot.”

  “Oh?” he asked, leaning forward and putting his arm across Hector’s withers.

  “He chases rabbits.”

  Melvyrn’s sense of the ridiculous got the better of him as he rose up, laughing, and her small chin took on a haughty tilt. He was again conscious of her erect stance and delicate bone structure and said, “Blood will always tell.”

  When she whirled around and began walking further into the woods, Melvyrn wondered if he’d insulted her. He nudged Hector to keep apace with her. He was buying trouble and he knew it. “What sort of herbs are you seeking?”

  “Comfrey,” she said, trudging along.

  “I admit my knowledge of herbs is limited, but isn’t that for wounds?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is someone in your family hurt?”

  She stopped and he guided Hector next to her. Most people were leery of the stallion’s size, but she appeared unfazed as she looked up at him. “No, I keep it on hand in case one of the farm workers is injured.”

  “Which farm is that?” He tried to keep his tone neutral.

  “I must be getting back before I am missed.” Her small chin came up and her slate blue eyes held a challenge. “Please leave me be.”

  Melvyrn studied her. She never flinched under his scrutiny but met his eyes with a self assurance he found hard to fathom in a young woman alone in a spinney with a complete stranger. Nor was there any coyness in her demeanor. Certainly, she was unlike any debutante his sisters had tried to foist upon him. “Can you tell me where you live?” he asked one last time.

  “We’ve not been introduced, sir,” she countered. “All this has been most improper.”

  So she was a member of his class. His eyes narrowed as he tried to memorize her features, though he thought he’d have little trouble recalling them. In particular, he found her full, faintly tinted pink lips fascinating and wondered what her smile would look like. She appeared so delicate as the squirming Silas pushed up under her breasts, exposing more of them above the yellow bodice. He saw the blush rise up from the neck of her gown and realized he’d been staring.

  “My apologies, Miss. I meant no offense. It is my hope that we will meet again.” He gave her his best smile, the one he saved for his nieces and nephews. It did little good.

  “That is unlikely,” she said dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me . . . .” Hefting the pup on her hip, she turned on her heel and worked her way through the trees.

  Melvyrn made no further objection but watched as she disappeared into the woods. Then he turned Hector and headed back to the trail to proceed to Folkestone.

  A short distance from the village, he tied the stallion to a low-hanging branch and made the rest of the trek on foot to the village’s only tavern. He pulled Bailey’s knit cap low on his forehead and trusted to luck that no one would recognize him.

  A white and blue faded sign hung over the entrance to the Eight Bells Inn, a two-story, gray stone structure. Melvyrn opened the door and quickly located the taproom, which faced the street, off a long, dark hallway. A short, stout, middle-aged man came through an archway that, from the sounds, led to the kitchen. Assuming the man to be the proprietor, Melvyrn ordered ale. He chose a seat at a scarred planked table by a window that overlooked the main street. When the man returned, Melvyrn asked for Luther Tolliver’s direction.

  With squinty eyes he gazed at Melvyrn and asked, “What would yer be wantin’ him for?”

  “Tolly’s an old friend of mine.”

  “Don’t say much,” the innkeeper challenged. “You got a name?”

  “Phillips,” he replied, giving a variation of his middle name.

  “Brothers,” the proprietor said. “Bart Brothers.”

  Melvyrn took a sip of his ale, then let his gaze scan about the taproom. With the revenuers roaming the area for smugglers, he knew it wasn’t likely the innkeeper would volunteer information. Besides that, contraband brandy and spices which the innkeeper undoubtedly bought from the Gentlemen ensured a steady business. At length, Melvyrn’s unhurried manner paid off.

  Wiping down another table, the man asked, “How do you come to know Tolly?”

  “We served together in Portugal,” Melvyrn said. He considered palming the innkeeper a gold coin, then thought better of it. That was something a government agent might try.

  The innkeeper took his time mulling this over. “Yeah, Tolly talks about them he met during the war.” Giving Melvyrn another squinty stare, he said, “Turn east after you leave here. It’ll be the last house at the end of the street.”

  Minutes later, Melvyrn stood in front of a neat little cottage, set slightly back from the road. It didn’t look any different from the other stone houses with wood-shingled roofs. Seeing no one out front, Melvyrn didn’t bother knocking on the door when he heard a banging sound coming from the rear. He crossed the tiny lawn and picked his way through a small kitchen garden on the side of the cottage.

  Seated on an upended wooden crate sat one of the biggest men Melvyrn had ever known. His barrel chest widened into massive shoulders that supported a large, black bushy head. Two beefy hands worked at separating a pile of wooden blocks with grooved pulleys and metal hooks at each end.

  “Well met, Tolly,” Melvyrn called out.

  When Luther Tolliver’s dark brown, nearly black eyes flew up and solemnly regarded his, Melvyrn instantly recognized the respect his sergeant held for him. But Melvyrn also saw something else, a wariness expressed by Tolly’s closed expression. This mountain of a man, who feared no one or any thing, was definitely on his guard. “How have you been?”

  “Fine.” Tolly stood and held out a hand. He’d never been a loquacious man, and Melvyrn knew he had his work cut out for him.

  Accepting his hand, Melvyrn motioned for Tolly to be seated again. “I won’t mince words with you,” he said. “This is no social call, as you’ve undoubtedly guessed, though I admit to thinking of you more than once after I’d heard you were sent home.”

  “Same here.” Tolly’s dark eyes never left Melvyrn’s.

  “Fact is, Tolly, I need your help. Word has reached the War Office that there’s a ring of smugglers operating out of Folkestone. Knowing you, I figured if there was one, you’d know about it.”

  When the fisherman didn’t answer, Melvyrn walked over to another wooden crate, upended it, and sat down facing his old friend. He glanced down at the pile of pulleys. “You own a boat?” At Tolly’s nod, he said, “The War Office sent me down. No one knows much about me since I came here only once as a lad. I’m at Cliffe Manor, supposedly recovering from a bout of yellow fever.”

  “Never knew’d you caught the fever, Major,” Tolly said, falling into the old familiar address he’d used for Melvyrn in the army.

  “I didn’t. It’s a ploy to
keep most of the gentry away from the Manor.” Melvyrn tried to read his old sergeant. He’d trusted this man with his life more than once, and regarding Tolly’s forthright gaze, he decided he’d do so again. “I need to infiltrate your crew, Tolly,” he said, taking a chance that in a village this small Tolly was in on the smuggling. “The government wants to use your fishing boat to relay dispatches to and from the continent.”

  Melvyrn paused and waited for a response. But the huge fisherman only stared back at him. Finally, Melvyrn broke the silence. “You’re not saying much?”

  “Don’t see the point. Seeing you’s a surprise, too.” A huge grin split the solemn face, his large teeth showing white against his black bristly beard and head. “Never thought to be no government agent, either.” His eyes glinted with merriment when Melvyrn let out a laugh.

  “So, Tolly, do I call you Captain?”

  The smile slowly left Tolly’s face. “Well now, that I don’t know.”

  Melvyrn arched one eyebrow in question. When the fisherman returned the look with a shake of his bushy head, he began to have doubts about the situation. Maybe Tolly wasn’t the captain of the fishing boat. If not, that meant his old sergeant could be somehow enmeshed with a French spy network. But this scenario just did not fit with what Melvyrn knew of the man’s character.

  “Come on, Tolly. Out with it,” Melvyrn growled, deciding to tackle the issue head on. “You’re in cahoots with the ring they call the ‘mercy smugglers,’ aren’t you?”

  Hesitating only for a moment, the burly seaman seemed to increase in size as he sat straighter, squaring his massive shoulders. “Aye, that I am.”

  “Are you the leader?”

  “Aye. I could take you on a run, let you see how we work. But that ain’t the problem.”

  “Then, what the devil is? If you vouch for me, isn’t your word good enough for your men?”

  “Damn well better be or I’d be lopping off some heads!” Tolly bellowed. Melvyrn leveled his eyes on him, and Tolly shifted his considerable bulk uneasily. “It ain’t for me to decide, Major.”