by Lee Rowan
“You reassure me,” Carlisle said wryly, but he smiled to take any sting out of the words.
With a fleeting smile, Brendan said, “That leaves only the matter of your immortal soul. I believe it is human malice, not God, that would condemn us, and I suspect you feel the same.”
“You state my view precisely.” Carlisle agreed, “but I would not underrate the danger of human malice.”
“Nor do I. Still, you have shown Society that you are a normal man. I have no fortune to makes me a marriage prize—I should have to make myself a fortune somehow, or hang out for a rich wife, and it is no lie to say I’m too proud for that. I’ve used that excuse for some time now, and my relatives are beginning to accept that I’m not the marrying kind. I can ride with the best of them and am a fair shot with gun or pistol, so my manhood isn’t likely to be called into question.”
He checked Galahad, and turned to look Carlisle full in the face. “I only ask you, my dearest sir—shall we see whether we cannot contrive to have at least a little of what we desire, or would you prefer that I keep my hands and other appendages to myself?”
Carlisle hesitated. He knew how difficult it must be for Brendan to phrase the question so nonchalantly, and how carefully he must have considered the matter, to present it so precisely. “I believe that a young man as attractive and talented as yourself could do better than to throw in his lot with an old horse-nurse of a soldier,” he said. “But…yes. If we can find a way, I should like to try.”
He saw the light in Brendan’s eyes, and wanted to pull him out of the saddle and into his arms. He laughed instead, but not with joy. “You see how it is? If we were ordinary lovers we might now embrace, but it is simply not possible.” He held out his hand, and Brendan took it; if anyone were watching, it would look like a handshake, even though it was much more. “I wish that I could kiss you.”
“Nightshade would take exception, I think,” Brendan said. “As well he should, but we will find time for that.” He took his hand away, slyly letting his fingertips stroke Carlisle’s palm as he released it.
That simple gesture sent a thrill through Carlisle’s entire body. Desire flared.
And there was nothing he could do about it. “You shameless flirt!”
Brendan grinned. “It’s true. But very well-mannered, sir! May I stop here for the night, then? I paid my shot at the coaching inn and just rode in this morning—about five miles, I think.”
Carlisle turned Nightshade toward the house, and Brendan followed. “You rode all the way from London?” Carlisle asked.
“I stopped twice. I might have come in last night, but my courage failed me, and I thought Galahad deserved the rest.”
“Have you eaten?” When Brendan shook his head, he said, “Neither have I. Come back to the house with me. You must stay here, of course. I hope that we may find a little time and privacy, but other matters have prior claim. “
“The murder?” Brendan asked. “How goes it with Jenkins and his rival?”
“Bowker is back in Kent,” Carlisle said. “I’m told a shipment of brandy came in last night, without Jenkins’ approval. And it’s hidden somewhere on my land.”
CHAPTER 17
Brendan turned Galahad over to Matthews, tossed the saddlebags over his own shoulder, and followed Philip back to the house. He did not know what was going to happen next, but he had his heart’s desire and was content to let destiny take its course from here.
Destiny proved to be a fine substantial breakfast, and after two days of riding and subsisting on roadhouse provender, he was very grateful to have fresh eggs and home-cured bacon. Philip’s foot touched his under the table, the only contact they dared attempt with the household staff buzzing about. It struck him that a man of substance like Philip Carlisle had less freedom, and certainly less privacy, than a couple of young men fresh out of college and dependent on parents—or, in Brendan’s case, a modest competency.
“Do you have any idea where the cache is located?” Brendan asked as soon as the room was empty of anyone but themselves.
“There are only a few places that come to mind,” Philip said. “The apple-barn, between the orchards and near the road, the gate-keeper’s cottage, but Hubert swears there’s nothing in his place, or the oast-house down near the edge of the woods.”
“Also near a road, I imagine?”
“Of course—so the wagons can be brought in to take out the hops, after they’re dried and sacked. That would be my choice—it’s not visible from the road itself, and there are paths through that woods from almost anywhere you’d care to name.”
“Including the shore?”
“I see you have perceived the pattern. Yes. The woods stretch around the boundary of my land on three sides. The climb from the shore is steep at the closest point, so their tubmen could not go far beyond the woods; they cache their goods, then return a day or two later.”
Brendan nodded. “I hate to keep quizzing you, but do you know when that is likely to happen?”
“Jenkins tells me it may be tonight—it does help to have an informer with a grudge. We had a council of war yesterday, when he brought over a barrel of ale. He intends to confront Bowker over the brandy; I mean to steal a march on him and have the Preventives ready to move in and take the Bowker contingent before there’s any more bloodshed. What would you say to a tour of my estate? We shall go armed; my plan was to take my stable hand Jem and try for a few of the rabbits that have been ravaging the spring peas. If we miss the rabbits and find contraband, so much the better.”
A secondary plan began to form in Brendan’s mind. “Tell me, sir, would either of those outbuildings be considered private places?”
Carlisle’s eyes narrowed. “If I could be certain that the smugglers had not placed a lookout on the building, yes, they could be. Did you have something in mind?”
Brendan met his look, and smiled; the Major looked slightly uncomfortable. And was that just the suggestion of a blush? If it had been, it disappeared when a footman entered, bearing a silver tray. “The post, sir. Including a letter for Mr. Townsend.”
Carlisle thanked the man and dismissed him, glancing over the two missives addressed to him. “Something from my man of business, and a letter from an old acquaintance,” he said. “Who could be writing to you at this address?”
Brendan shook his head, equally puzzled, and opened the letter. “It’s from Tony Hillyard,” he said in surprise. “He—Oh, damn me for six kinds of an idiot, it never occurred to me to ask my brother not to tell Tony where I was—I never expected he’d come looking, and of course James didn’t know he’d been involved in that other matter.”
“What does he have to say?” Carlisle asked. “More of the old problem?”
“No.” Brendan scanned the letter. “I believe he’s attempting to let me down gently—can you believe it? He’s decided to bow to his father’s command and get himself leg-shackled; he has made an offer to the lady and she has accepted—there was never much doubt of that, from what he’d told me. Well, well. I suppose the Arbor affair put the wind up him, and he has decided to at least go through the motions of respectability.”
“Who is the young lady?” Carlisle asked.
“Lady Constance, Olmstead’s daughter. She’s a few years older than he, and I think she must have been resigned to being an ape-leader. Poor girl.”
“The word is that Olmstead’s damned near on the rocks; there would have to be some sort of money trouble to make him willing to tie his daughter to a tradesman.”
“A very well-heeled tradesman, I think, if Tony’s spending habits are any indication. I do feel sorry for her, though, if she’s expecting him to be much of a husband.”
“Unless Olmstead has another daughter,” Carlisle said thoughtfully, “Master Tony may find himself under the cat’s paw. I’ve met the girl, and to say she’s a managing sort would be understating the situation.”
“Master Tony needs a minder.” Brendan replied heartlessly. “
And I have resigned that position. In his case, I think an ape-leader would be exceedingly appropriate.”
“There are marriages made in heaven,” Carlisle said, “and then there are those others…”
“Look on the bright side, sir,” Brendan said. “This marriage may save two other young people from a terrible fate. And I know, that is a horrible thing to say, and I could never say such a thing to anyone but you.”
Carlisle emptied his coffee cup. “I shall excuse your bad manners this once, young man, but in future you must watch that impertinence.”
Brendan grinned. “Yes, sir. But only if you’ll watch yours.”
Carlisle glanced at the door, as though to be sure they were alone. He put his hand over Brendan’s, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Disrespectful brat,” he said fondly.
“But discreetly disrespectful,” Brendan replied, and was rewarded with a smile that warmed him through.
With a borrowed pair of brogans and an old shooting jacket left by some long-departed guest, Brendan joined Carlisle on a long tramp around the borders of Twin Oaks. The sun was at its height by now, so they went through the orchard to the woods beyond, then made for the oast-house, keeping to the edge of the path to avoid the soggy middle.
The woods reminded Brendan of how his mother had described Ellie preparing for the ball: patches of color were strewn everywhere, some flowering trees bright with lacy blossoms. The willows, as always, were first to don their leaves, while the larger trees had not yet made up their minds whether to go full-out in spring green or try for some more modish apparel.
“Why did you build it the oast all the way out here?” Brendan asked. “It seems very remote from the rest of your estate.”
“It is, from the original property. My father and I speculated that the market for hops would increase, and not long before he died we bought some acreage on the other side of the road, part of an orchard that was not properly maintained. When the owner put it up for sale we bought it, cleared out the dead trees, and planted hops. Putting up an oast to dry the hops for shipping seemed the best course, so naturally, the closer to the fields, the better.”
“I begin to appreciate what my father does with his days,” Brendan said, “and why he never wants to leave the estate. I never realized how much work was involved.”
“Proper management does take a good deal of attention. One of the things I esteem in your brother James is that he understands the responsibility of his position.” He smiled. “I do not mean to lecture. You’ll work hard enough if you take up painting, and it may be years before you reap tangible rewards.”
“I suppose so. Still, it could only help to understand what others do. A portrait would be more meaningful if it were painted in the proper setting.” He knew it would sound like mere flattery if he were to say that he now saw Philip as part of this place, but the fleeting idea for a picture crossed his mind: Philip mounted on Queenie with the orchard in glorious bloom in the background and the woods rising behind him. That was who he was—a man striving to protect the living things in his care, despite all the death and misfortune that had surrounded him.
Of course that was too maudlin to say aloud. Brendan tucked it away in his heart and said only, “I have never seen smuggled goods. What is it we’re seeking?”
“Oh, you’ve seen them,” Carlisle assured him. “If you live in England, believe me, you’ve seen them. But if the cargo is brandy or gin, it will be in small barrels, about this size—” He held his hands a foot apart. “The spirits are concentrated for shipment and diluted at their final destination, so if you ever come across a smuggler’s tub, go easy.”
“You said you thought there might be a watch on the cache?”
“Yes, it seems likely. I’ve an idea how to set their fears to rest—you’ll see when we reach the place. The oast-house is deserted now, of course; the hops are only beginning to grow. It will be months before they are harvested and brought there to dry. You can see the oast now, if you look—between those two chestnuts.”
The stubby tower of the oast grew clearer as they approached. When they came around a bend in the path Brendan could see the long, low storage shed connected to it, which, Philip said, contained the tools that would be used at harvest time. The long fallow season made the place ideal as a storage depot for smuggling during any time but harvest.
Philip’s voice rose in volume as they approached, his gestures wide. As they reached the door, he opened it and pointed up. “See? The floors are nothing but beams and lath, so the hot air rises through the hops and dries them.” He then added, quietly, “Stand here, so you are visible from the trees, and act as though I am beside you, just within the door.”
Brendan did so. Philip stepped within and leaned his gun against the door, then darted to the far side of the oast. He opened a door at that end, vanished for ten or fifteen seconds, then reappeared, ran back, and stepped outdoors as though he gone only a little way into the building.
“What was all that about?” Brendan asked quietly. “What was in that far room?”
“Barrels,” Philip said with a satisfied nod. “Rows of barrels, at least a hundred, hidden beneath the cloth mats that we spread across the lath to keep the hops from falling through as they dry. As shipments go, it’s a small one. I suspect our Mr. Bowker is a cautious man, or has not been able to recruit many of Jenkins’ men for this double-dealing.”
“What shall we do now?”
“I will take you on a tour of the other outbuildings of the estate. Don’t frown, the only one of any significance is the apple barn, where we keep the cider-press. Like the oast-house, the place is a beehive in harvest time, and dead-quiet the rest of the year. “Ah!” He raised his gun and fired off a shot. “Missed.”
“I saw nothing.”
“Nor did I, but as we’re walking about with guns we may as well at least give the impression we’re after those rabbits.”
Brendan laughed aloud. “We should have brought a dog to sniff them out.”
“Not at all. Sniffing out rabbits would be fine, but what would we have done if we’d flushed a sentry back in the woods? There are times we’re better off with our puny human ears and noses.”
Another half-hour’s walk brought them to the barn. The door screeched as it swung open on a cloud of fragrance, the sweet perfume of apples. “We still have some of last summer’s harvest stored,” Philip said. “But the place always smells this way, even when it’s empty.”
As Brendan’s eyes adjusted to the dimness he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of one eye, and turned to see a sleek tiger cat watching him from a stairway on one side of the barn.
“The resident rat-catchers,” Philip said. “They come up to the house for a handout when the mice are scarce, and they earn every bit of their keep.”
Unlike an ordinary barn, this one had only a couple of stalls in one corner, and what Brendan guessed was a tack-room. The ceiling was lower than usual, though the barn itself had looked average height from outside. “What do you keep upstairs?” he asked.
“Apples, of course.”
“Would you show me?”
Philip shrugged, and then his eyes narrowed. “There is nothing up there but barrels. Empty, most of them.”
“Still, I imagine the view is splendid.”
“That’s true. From the topmost level one may see almost the entire estate, perhaps even a bit of the sea.”
He led the way up the narrow stair along one side of the barn. Close behind him, watching the play of muscles under the snug buckskin breeches, Brendan observed, “I was correct. From where I stand, the view is absolutely splendid.”
“Mister Townsend!”
“You said this would be a private place,” Brendan protested as they stepped out onto the next level.
“It is,” Philip said. “Still…”
There was, as Philip had informed him, nothing up here but rows of empty barrels, laid on their sides. He walked along the rows, assuring
himself that they were indeed empty. “May we go all the way to the top?”
“I suppose so. But you go first, this time!”
“Oh, gladly!” He really had not intended to tease his lover, but Major Carlisle was so very serious that the temptation was almost irresistible. He climbed as slowly as he dared, until at last a sharp swat on the arse sent him skipping up the last two steps like a naughty boy. He put his gun on the floor, and Philip did likewise. Brendan saw that he had guessed the purpose of this climb, and read both excitement and apprehension in the shaded depths of his hazel eyes.
The topmost floor was entirely empty, and he stood in the center of the floor, gazing around him. Two of the windows Philip had spoken of were boarded up, no doubt to keep out the rain, but from the other two he could see nothing but blue sky. “No prying eyes here, I think,” he said, taking Philip’s arm in a companionable way. “We can see if anyone approaches, and certainly hear them, if anyone opens that excellent door. And if we were to step over to this corner, so… I think that even a spy with a telescope could not see me do this.”
He took Philip’s face in his hands, reached up just a little to kiss his lips. He felt Philip shiver after nothing more than the merest touch, and drew back, gazing at Philip’s flushed face. “Should I say the coast is clear?”
“Smugglers say ‘the coast is clear,’” Philip corrected. “I would say that we must take any chance that presents itself. I’ve wanted to do this—” He caught Brendan in his arms and returned the kiss with such fervor that Brendan was taken off guard, pressed back against the heavy oaken wall. He was thrilled at the power of Philip’s response, and when he felt those strong, competent hands slip beneath the shooting jacket and slide it from his shoulders, he let his own arms drop to his sides. The jacket fell to the floor with a rush of cool air; the hands slid over his shoulders and down his back, heat replacing the chill.
