My Lady Smuggler

by Margaret Bennett

  “What about you, Miss Rosalind?” asked Tolly giving her a searching look. “Hurt much?”

  “Not much,” she lied. Truth was that her shoulder was very sore, especially when she awoke that morning. Although the stiffness worked out of it after a while, it still throbbed and even burned if she accidentally knocked it. She also suspected that the purple circles under her eyes and her pale countenance she saw in her mirror that morning told its old tale. Besides, she knew Tolly had been unlucky enough to stop several pieces of lead over the years while fighting under the Earl’s command.

  “Best you lie low for a couple of days. It’ll get better.”

  She didn’t bother to correct him but nodded in understanding. “When will the next run be?” she asked.

  “That’s not for you to worry about,” was his curt reply.

  “Of course it is,” she shot back, surprised and not a little upset by his tone. “You need me to translate.”

  “Not no more,” he barked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Major can go in your stead.”

  “What does the Earl have to say about any of this?” She was angry and hurt and didn’t intend to let Melvyrn get away with ousting her.

  “He can talk with Jacques. It’s too dangerous for a woman. Next time, you might not just get your wing clipped.”

  “You have no right to make that decision,” she replied with a deadly calm that had more effect on the old soldier than if she’d pranced around the room, screaming and carrying on.

  Throwing up his huge hands, Tolly said, “I never should have let you talk me into any of this. My men and me could have done the same without you there.”

  “And the Earl?” she prompted, knowing there was more.

  “His lordship’s the one pointed out you ain’t needed now.”

  “You can not fire me, Tolly,” she challenged, grim faced.

  When he started to refute her statement, she said, “I conceived the idea. You agreed that I would translate and help nurse the soldiers, long before the Earl ever came.”

  Her anger was so great she was shaking even as she bit her lower lip to hold back the tears. It meant so much to her to help those soldiers, young men who would not have had a chance of surviving otherwise, just like her brother.

  To hide her tears, she abruptly turned her back to him, dismissing him, saying softly, “Go home, Tolly.”

  She didn’t know when he left. Though he was a huge mountain of a man, he moved soundlessly. But after a while, she realized she was alone, truly alone. The Earl had managed to convince the one person she could trust and confide in that they could no longer work together.

  She went to bed immediately after dinner. Her shoulder ached and throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the unbearable sense of loss, the devastating feeling of being alone in this world.

  When she awoke the next morning, her pillow was still damp from all the tears she’d shed. Her shoulder didn’t feel any better, either. But her spirits had risen with the morning sun. She now knew her argument was not with her old friend, Tolly, but the Earl of Melvyrn who thought to usurp her position.

  For two days, Rosalind kept to the house, mainly, she told herself, to pamper herself so she’d be strong enough for the next run. However, she was honest enough to admit to herself that the real reason was to avoid running into the Earl. She half expected to hear the front door knocker, but fortunately, it never sounded.

  On the third day when she saw Melvyrn, holding Devon’s reins, ride up on his huge stallion, she requested Tinsley serve tea in the drawing room. Thus, she was seated on the settee with Tolly, with his massive dark head bowed, standing beside her when Melvyrn greeted her with a warm smile. “For an invalid, Miss Wensley, you appear quite well. How is the shoulder?”

  “Sore, but I expect to be totally healed before the next run,” Rosalind said. She saw Tolly shift uneasily and exchanged looks with Melvyrn.

  “Miss Wensley,” Melvyrn began after both men were seated, “I am afraid you will not be accompanying the Arrow’s crew on any more runs to France.”

  Rosalind felt her temper flare but took time to tamp it down. Taking a deep breath, she turned to Tolly. “You cannot agree with the Earl?”

  Looking down at the rug, he said, “Told you from the start it was a bad idea.”

  “But it wasn’t,” she said. “Look at all the men we have helped.”

  “Yes,” Melvyrn said, “and you should be commended for that. However, it has become far too dangerous--”

  “The other night was the first encounter we have had with soldiers,” she interjected.

  “Still, it happened probably because more soldiers have been assigned to the Shorncliffe Redoubt. Also, I’m involved now and can do the work you have done in the past.”

  “No!” Rosalind stood, fisting her hands at her sides, and ignored that both men had risen after her. She was trembling, she was so angry. “How dare you come here and tell me I cannot help our soldiers.” She tossed her chin in the air. “I will be on the next run.”

  “Why?” Melvyrn asked.

  “Why?” she repeated. “I don’t understand?”

  “Why are you driven to risk life and limb?” he asked.

  Rosalind let out a steadying breath and sank back down on the damask settee. As the men followed suit, she asked Tolly, “You did not tell him?” Tolly shook his head, and she sighed. “My brother, Edward, was an officer who served in Portugal.” She stopped, gathering her thoughts even as tears already threatened to undo her. After a moment, she said, “He was returning home to sell his commission at my father’s request and had reached Coulogne when he was ambushed and grievously wounded. For two weeks, he laid in a barn, waiting for word of a boat to take him to England. The boat came the day after Edward died, my lord.” Rosalind choked on a sob.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Wensley,” Melvyrn said.

  “My story doesn’t end there,” she said in a small voice as she squared her shoulders. “My father took Edward’s death especially hard. His health drastically declined, and he, too, died eight months later.”

  “Then you must see that your father would want you to be safe,” Melvyrn said.

  “Yes, he would.” She gave him a long pleading look. “But while he was ill, he talked almost daily about how my brother would have lived had there been a regular run or possibly a safe house. He even talked about his good friend, Jacques Embree. If Edward had known about Jacques, he could have gone to Wissant, or at least gotten word to him. Then Edward would be alive today.”

  “Have you thought about your reputation?”

  “What do I care about a good reputation? I have lost everything that is dear to me.”

  “Miss Wensley--”

  “No, my lord,” she said, shaking her head, “it does not matter what you say. I will be on the next run.” She leveled a sapient look on Melvyrn. “And should you leave without me, I will simply find another smuggling crew.”

  ~~~~~

  Looking out his study’s window, Melvyrn’s foul mood matched the ominous rain clouds that were bellowing in from the west. Over the past several days, it had rained almost every day, making his daily ride with Hector quite nasty. Even the big stallion had been more ornery than usual, fighting the bit or trying to unseat Melvyrn at odd moments. Lord Denholm, who had elected to stay over until the weather improved, rode each day with him and laughed each time Hector pulled his antics. At one point he suggested, “Might be time to trade that devil in for one you can handle, Melvyrn.”

  Their discussions, while he and Denholm sat around a cozy fire with a bracing goblet of brandy, helped Melvyrn come to grips with his feelings for the lovely Miss Wensley. He’d not seen or heard from her since that morning in the Hall’s drawing room when she audaciously demanded to be a part of the next run. How a little slip of a woman could command a nobleman such as himself and a huge burly fisherman like Tolly to do her bidding. Well, it fairly made his blood roil wit
h anger and frustration.

  Having never met the diminutive young woman, Denholm was at first incredulous that a veteran intelligence officer like Melvyrn had not penetrated her disguise.

  “How could the woman, if she is as attractive as you claim, disguise such feminine features?” Denholm demanded.

  “You forget that ex-sergeant of mine kept her away from me,” Melvyrn growled. “Then too, she wore lose clothes, a scarf about her neck, and kept her hat pulled low.”

  “You don’t really intend to let her go with you again?” Denholm asked scornfully.

  Melvyrn shrugged. “She’s safer with Tolly and me than another crew. This way, we can keep an eye on her.”

  “There’s no denying the girl’s mettle.” Denholm snorted his derision. “What am I to tell Roeburn? He’ll have an apoplexy when he learns that one of the mercy smugglers is the unattached daughter of a peer. Can’t imagine what he’ll say when I tell him the girl was shot by our soldiers.”

  “Some things are better left unsaid,” was Melvyrn’s only reply.

  Then that night, just before he and Lord Denholm left Cliffe Manor for the Chadlingtons’ ball, a courier from the War Office delivered a dispatch from the Marquess of Roeburn about the movements of Napoleon’s troops, which could well influence Wellington’s decision to confront Joseph Bonaparte in Spain sooner rather than later. He should be about arranging a run for France tomorrow night, Melvyrn thought, instead of attending the Chadlingtons’ blasted ball.

  The two noblemen arrived late at the Chadlingtons for Roeburn’s messenger had been instructed to wait for an immediate reply. Thus, when his coach rolled to a stop at the stone steps of the Chadlingtons’ Elizabethan manor house, they were greeted by an effusive Lady Chadlington.

  “Oh, Lord Melvyrn, Lord Denholm,” she tittered, “I had begun to think you both had forgotten our little ball tonight.” The gold fringe on the purple turban that covered her hair was in constant motion as she led Melvyrn down a long, stone tiled floor to a ballroom at the rear of the house. “Dear Sylvia was quite disappointed, you know,” she said, tapping Melvyrn’s arm with her fan. “You were not here for the opening dance, which you had promised to her.”

  “My apologies, Lady Chadlington,” Melvyrn replied, feeling not at all sorry. Fact was, he couldn’t remember making such a promise. “Something unexpected came up that required my immediate attention. I will certainly make it up to Miss Chadlington, however.”

  “Dear boy, of course you will.” With her purple satin gown billowing about her, Lady Chadlington preened with anticipation as she looped her arms through his. “Now, let me introduce you both to my dear friends Lord and Lady Billinger, who have come from Brighton just for tonight.”

  ~~~~~

  “La, Rosalind, you must find a new modiste,” Sylvia said as she tugged on Rosalind’s sore arm and led her over to a room just off the ballroom where refreshments were served.

  Rosalind bit her lip against the pain and drew in a deep breath before asking, “What is wrong with my gown?” While it wasn’t new, the yellow silk gown’s neckline and flounce, trimmed with embroidered rosebuds and a silver ribbon cinched below her bosom, were still in style. The off-shoulder sleeves also nicely hid the bandage covering the healing wound.

  Sylvia gave an unladylike snort. “You’ve worn it to the last two dances.”

  “Folkestone does not have a modiste,” she replied.

  “Don’t I know it,” Sylvia said snidely, rolling her lovely china blue eyes. “But really, Rosalind dear, you must leave this backwater and take in a London season and acquire some town polish. Mother and I plan to leave next week.”

  “I thought your papa didn’t want to rent a house this year?” Rosalind remembered Sylvia’s displeasure when she’d imparted that information at Squire Wilcox’s Christmas dance.

  “Well, as to that, my aunt, Lady Willis-Altson, has invited us to stay with her.” Sylvia looked around the corner into the ballroom and smiled broadly. “La, there is Lord Melvyrn. He came to dinner two nights ago, you know, and brought his friend, Lord Denholm.”

  Rosalind didn’t know. She hadn’t seen the Earl or Tolly, for that matter, for several days. As she felt a constriction in her chest, she put it down to irritation that Melvyrn would waste his time with someone as superficial as Sylvia. Following her back into the ballroom, Rosalind tried not to look in Melvyrn’s direction and was thankful when one of Squire Wilcox’s sons asked her to dance.

  Still, there was no way she could avoid Melvyrn, and several dances later he stood before her where she sat beside Mrs. Boroughs and several other matrons who were chaperoning their daughters.

  “Miss Wensley,” he said, bowing over her hand, “allow me to introduce to you my good friend, Lord Denholm.”

  Beside Melvyrn stood a tall, slender gentlemen, who stepped forward and bestowed a kiss on her outstretched hand. His chiseled jaw and cheekbones offset his aristocratic nose as hard gray eyes searched the depths of hers. “A pleasure, Miss Wensley,” he drawled, rising. “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  Rising, Rosalind allowed him to lead her to the dance floor where a new set was forming. As she expected, he was an excellent dancer, and his light banter put her at ease. Still, she caught him watching her with a calculating glint in his eyes several times. Afterwards, he led her back to Mrs. Boroughs, and Melvyrn appeared, requesting a dance.

  Nodding, she allowed him to take her elbow and lead her onto the dance floor. However, when the first stands of a waltz started up, she felt more than a little flustered. There were only a handful of couples on the floor since the waltz was still considered quite scandalous by provincial standards. But before she could refuse, she felt the heat of his hand as he placed it on her waist.

  Drawing her to him, he glided into the first steps of the dance. While he was not as tall as his friend, Rosalind noted the broad breath of his shoulders and remembered how strong and muscular they felt when he’d carried her from the stables. Though she came only to his shoulder, it felt natural, and she remembered laying her head against his chest, hearing his heart beat.

  Hoping to retard the color heating her cheeks, she frowned and focused her eyes on the diamond stickpin in his snowy cravat.

  “You look unhappy, Miss Wensley,” Melvyrn said smiling at her. “Please tell me it is not because of your partner.”

  She lifted her chin and met his deep blue eyes. To cover her confusion, she said, “No, my lord, it is the choice of dance. You must know the waltz is frowned upon by many.”

  “Ah, yes, and I can see from the fuming expression on Miss Chadlington’s face that I have chosen the wrong partner for this dance.”

  “Wrong partner?”

  “Surely, Miss Wensley, you’ve deduced the reason for my popularity with the Chadlingtons.”

  As Sylvia and her partner, Lord Denholm, danced by, Rosalind received the full glare of Sylvia’s spite. Letting out a sigh, she said, “You could have danced with her.”

  He looked at her strangely. “Not jealous?”

  Rosalind straightened her shoulders. “You flatter yourself, my lord.”

  “Ah, you’re still angry with me for being concerned over your safety,” he said with a knowing smirk.

  She shook her head. “Tolly and I have had that conversation several times, my lord.”

  “Yet you persist in putting yourself in danger?” he said in a near whisper.

  “Please, not here.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll smile for me, Miss Wensley?” She was thankful when he didn’t press for an answer and smiled as she gave herself up to the movement of the waltz. She was rewarded with a similar smile from Melvyrn.

  At the end of the dance, he led her over the Mrs. Boroughs and bowed his head close to hers. “May I call on you tomorrow morning?”

  Rosalind heard the intensity in the request and straightened her shoulders. “Come whenever, my lord.”

  When he chuckled, she looked at him sharply, and he s
aid, “I do believe, Miss Wensley, that is the first time I’ve heard a note of encouragement in your voice for me.” As she felt her cheeks burn, his laugh deepened. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Until tomorrow.” Then he straightened and raised one eyebrow. “For now, duty calls.”

  Watching his broad shoulders as he walked toward Sylvia, Rosalind shook herself mentally. She had to remind herself that the Earl of Melvyrn’s only interest in Folkestone was using the smuggling crew to pass government dispatches.

  Still, the memory of his broad chest and strong arms about her as they’d waltzed lingered even when she closed her eyes to sleep later that night.

  *** Chapter 12 ***

  After a bruising gallop with Denholm on his dark brown stallion, Melvyrn settled Hector into a leisurely trot as they took the main road to Ashford Hall. “I’ll miss racing these two each morning,” he said. “Even though Rufus loses, a good race with him takes the fire out of Hector.”

  Denholm laughed. “Still think you’d be better off trading that beast.”

  Melvyrn shook his head. “Actually, I’m thinking of racing him before letting him loose in my stables at Lincolnshire. He’s got superb bloodlines.”

  “Speaking of bloodlines,” Denholm said, giving Melvyrn a meaningful look, “Miss Wensley is quite the beauty.”

  “And difficult to manage,” Melvyrn added with a laugh.

  “No one would suspect she’d been recently shot, flesh wound or not,” Denholm said. He was thoughtful for a moment. “If you continue to stand by her smuggling activities, you might be setting up your own stable soon.”

  They reached the tree-lined lane to Ashford Hall and slowed their mounts to a walk. “It’s not something I plan to do in the near future.” Melvyrn looked at Denholm and said, “But neither do I find the idea repugnant.”

  Before Denholm could reply, Thomas called out to Melvyrn, “Good morning, your lordship.” The groom took charge of both their mounts, leading them around to the stable. As the two noblemen ascended the stone steps, Tinsley opened the door and accepted their hats and gloves, placing them on a table just inside the door. “Miss Wensley is in the study, my lord,” he said to Melvyrn and led the way.