by Brenda Joyce
She was older and wiser now. He had rescued her, her husband and her daughter, and she had been somewhat smitten with him—not because he was undeniably attractive, but out of gratitude. Although she had paid him for his services—even if it was less than he had initially asked for—she owed him for the lives of her and her family. That cast him as a hero.
Trembling, she fastened the clasp of her pearl necklace, regarding herself in the mirror, surprised that she did not look half as haggard as she had yesterday. Her eyes held a new light, one that was almost a sparkle, and her cheeks were flushed.
Well, she certainly had her work cut out for her. She had no idea how to locate Jack Greystone, but now that she had thought about it, she was resolved. She trusted him with her life and she even trusted him, perhaps foolishly, with Henri’s gold. He was the man for the task at hand.
Before there had been fear and panic. Now, there was hope.
* * *
EVERYONE KNEW THAT the road between Bodmin and London was heavily used by smugglers to transport their cargoes north to the towns just outside of the city, where the black market thrived. Having been raised at Faraday Hall, just outside of Fowey, Evelyn certainly knew it, too. Smuggling was a way of life in Cornwall. Her uncle had been “investing” in local smuggling ventures ever since she could recall. As a child, she had thrilled when the call went out that the smugglers were about to drop anchor, often in the cove just below the house. As long as the revenue men were not nearby, the smugglers would boldly berth in plain sight and in broad daylight, and everyone from the parish would turn out to help them unload their valuable cargo.
Farmers would loan their horses and donkeys to help move the goods inland; young tubsmen would pack ankers from the beach to the waiting wagons, huffing and puffing with their load; batsmen would be spread about, bats held high, just in case the preventive men appeared....
Children would cling to their mother’s skirts. Casks of beer would be opened. There would be music, dancing, drinking and a great celebration, for the free trade was profitable for everyone.
Now, in hindsight, Evelyn knew what had brought Henri to Cornwall and her uncle’s home in the first place. He had been investing in the free trade, as well, as so many merchants and noblemen were wont to do. It wasn’t always easy making a profit, but when profits were made, they were vast.
She suddenly recalled standing with Henri in his wine cellars, in their château in Nantes, perhaps a year after giving birth to Aimee. He had insisted she come down to the cellar with him. His mood had been jovial, she now recalled, and she had been in that first flush of motherhood.
“Do you see this, my darling?” Still dashing and handsome, exquisitely dressed in a satin coat and breeches with white stockings, he had swept his hand across the rows of barrels lining his cellar. “You are looking at a fortune, my dear.”
She had been puzzled, but pleased to find him in such good spirits. “What is in the barrels? They look like the barrels the smugglers in Fowey used.”
He had laughed. “How clever you are!” Henri had explained that they were the very same kinds of casks used by smugglers everywhere, and that they were filled with liquid gold. He had untapped a barrel and poured clear liquid into the glass he held. She now knew that the liquid was unfiltered, undiluted, one-hundred-proof alcohol, which in no way resembled the brandy he drank every night, and had been drinking a moment ago.
“You can’t drink it this way,” he had explained. “It will truly kill you.”
She hadn’t understood. He had explained that after it arrived at its final destination in England, it would be colored with caramel and diluted.
And he had hugged her. “I intend to keep you in your silks, satins and diamonds, always,” he had said. “You will never lack for anything, my dear.”
Like her uncle, and a great many of her neighbors, Henri had financed and invested in various smugglers, both before and after their marriage. She knew he had stopped those investments when they had left France. There hadn’t been enough in their coffers for him to finance those ventures anymore; he had become averse to taking risks.
He had intended to make certain that she had the resources with which to raise her daughter in luxury, but he had failed. Instead, she was the one fighting for enough funds to raise Aimee. She was the one seated in a carriage now, about to enter the kind of establishment no lady should ever enter alone, because she had to locate a smuggler, in order to provide for her daughter.
The Black Briar Inn was just ahead on the road, and Evelyn stared. Her heart skipped. She had taken the single horse curricle by herself, ignoring Laurent’s protestations. If she was going to locate Jack Greystone, she would have to begin making inquiries somewhere, and the inn seemed like the most logical starting point. Surely John Trim knew Greystone—or knew of him. Surely Greystone had, at some time or another, used the coves in and around Fowey to land his cargoes. If he had, they would have had to traverse this road in order to reach London’s black markets.
There was no other dwelling in sight. The inn sat upon the Bodmin Moor and the road to London in absolute isolation—a two-storied whitewashed building, with a slate-gray roof, a white brick stable adjacent. Two saddled horses and three wagons were parked in the stone courtyard. Trim had customers.
Evelyn braked her gig and slowly got out, tying her mare to the railing in front of the inn. As she patted the mare, a young boy of eleven or twelve came running out of the adjacent stables. Evelyn told him she wouldn’t be long, and asked him to water the mare for her.
Evelyn pulled her black wool cloak closed, while removing her hood. As she crossed the front steps of the inn, she pulled off her gloves. She could hear men speaking in casual conversation as she pushed open the front door.
There was some tension as she stepped directly inside the inn’s taproom. She realized she hadn’t been inside an inn’s public rooms in years—not since she had briefly paused with her family in Brest, before fleeing France.
Eight men were seated at one of the long trestle tables in the room, and all conversation ceased the moment she shut the front door behind her. One of the men was John Trim, the proprietor, and he leaped to his feet instantly.
Her heart raced. She felt terribly out of place in the common room. “Mr. Trim?”
“Lady D’Orsay?” His shock vanished as he came forward, beaming. “This is a surprise! Come, do sit down, and let me get the missus.” He guided her toward a small table with four chairs.
“Thank you. Mr. Trim, I was hoping for a private word, if possible.” She was aware now of the silence in the room, that all eyes were trained upon them, and that every word she uttered was being heeded.
Trim’s dark brows rose, and he nodded. He led her into a small private dining room. “Please, have a seat, and I will be back in one minute,” he said, and rushed out.
Evelyn sat down, rather ruefully, certain he was racing to his wife to tell her that she had called. She laid her gloves down on the dining table, glancing around the simple room. A brick fireplace was on one wall, several paintings of the sea on the others. He had left the door open, and she could see into the common room if she wished to do so.
She had no intention of explaining to Trim why she wished to engage a smuggler, and a specific smuggler at that. But she did not expect him to press her.
Trim returned, smiling. “The missus is bringing tea.”
“That is so kind of you.” Evelyn smiled as he took a seat, now clutching her reticule tightly. “Mr. Trim, I was wondering if you are acquainted with Jack Greystone.”
Trim was so taken aback that his eyes widened and his brows shot up, and Evelyn knew his answer was yes. “Everyone knows of Greystone, Lady D’Orsay. He is the greatest smuggler Cornwall has ever seen.”
She was aware of her heart racing. “Do you know him personally, sir? Has he passed through this inn?”
His expression of surprise was as comical as before. “My lady, I mean no disrespect, by why do you
ask?”
He was wary, but of course he was—smugglers were hardly free men. “I must locate him. I cannot explain why, exactly, but I am in need of his services.”
Trim blinked.
She smiled grimly. “Greystone got my family out of France, almost four years ago. I prefer not to say why I must speak with him now, but it is an urgent matter.”
“And it isn’t my concern, of course,” Trim said. “Yes, Lady D’Orsay, he has passed through my inn, once or twice. But I will be honest with you—I haven’t seen him in several years.”
Her disappointment was immediate. “Do you know how I can find him?”
“No, I do not. The rumor is that Greystone lives in an abandoned castle on a deserted island, in the utmost secrecy.”
“That is hardly helpful,” Evelyn mused. “I must find him, sir.”
“I don’t know if you can. There’s been a bounty on his head, which would explain why he lives on that island. He is wanted by the British authorities, Lady D’Orsay.”
Evelyn was slightly amused. “Aren’t all free traders wanted by the preventive men?” Smuggling had been a capital offense for as long as Evelyn could recall. Bounties were hardly uncommon. However, a great many smugglers got off scot-free, once they agreed to serve in His Majesty’s navy, or find a few friends to do so in their stead. A smuggler might be able to plead down his case, as well, if he had the right solicitor. Many smugglers were deported, but they often returned, illicitly, of course. No smuggler took a bounty very seriously.
Trim shook his head grimly. “You don’t understand. He has been running the British blockade. If His Majesty’s men catch him, he will hang—not for smuggling, but for treason.”
Evelyn froze. He was running King George’s blockade of France? He was supplying the French in a time of war? Suddenly she was cold. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, he’s running the blockade, Lady D’Orsay—they say he brags often and openly about it. And that is treason.”
Evelyn was shaken. “Is he a spy, then, too?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She stared, but rather than seeing Trim before her, she saw Jack Greystone at the helm of his ship. So many Cornish smugglers were spies for the French. But he had helped them escape France. Surely a French spy would not have done that.
She did not know why she was so dismayed. “I must speak with him, Mr. Trim, and if you can help me, I will forever appreciate it.”
“I will do my best. I will make some inquiries on your behalf. But my understanding is that he lies very low, to avoid His Majesty’s Men. If he is not at sea, he is on his island. I do know that, once in a while, he has been seen in Fowey. You might try the White Hart Inn.”
Faraday Hall was just outside Fowey. Was it possible that her uncle might know, or know of, Greystone?
“You might also go to London,” Trim said as his wife entered the room with a tray filled with tea and refreshments. “His two sisters live there, and so does his brother, or so I have heard.”
* * *
EVELYN STARED AT the letter she was trying to write.
Dear Lady Paget,
I hope I am not offending you by writing to you now. We have never met, and you may find my request presumptuous, but it has come to my attention that you are Jack Greystone’s sister. I was briefly acquainted with him several years ago, and am currently trying to contact him. If you could help me do so, I would be greatly in your debt.
Sincerely,
Lady Evelyn D’Orsay
It did not seem right—it seemed terribly forward and bold. Evelyn laid her quill down and tore the parchment into shreds.
Any woman receiving such a missive would instantly dismiss it. If she received such a letter, she would assume that some lovesick woman was pursuing her brother! Yet Evelyn could not state why she wished to locate Greystone, and therein lay the problem.
She might have to go to London, and boldly call on either the Countess of Bedford or the Countess of St Just, Evelyn thought grimly. As she did not know either woman, the notion was daunting. However, she had learned that Lady Paget was married to a man with French relations, so she might be able to use that as some kind of entrée. But before she took such a trip, which would require some expenses and take several days, she would leave no stone unturned in Cornwall.
She felt some despair. Having already spent the past week unearthing a great many Cornish stones she did not have very many left to turn over.
Greystone had a bounty on his head. If caught, there would be no pleading down the charges of smuggling, no simple transportation. If caught, he could be imprisoned indefinitely—habeas corpus had been suspended last May—or he could hang, as John Trim had said. And that meant…Jack Greystone was in hiding.
Of course he was. She happened to know firsthand how clever, resourceful and adept he was. She had no doubt that he was also an extremely wary man. A few days ago, she had been so hopeful, and so certain, that she would be able to find him and convince him to aid her in recovering the gold in France. Now she was filled with doubt. It almost felt as though she was looking for a needle in a haystack. If he did not wish to be found, would she ever be able to locate him?
She had spent the past week asking everyone she thought could be even remotely helpful about him. She had gone to the various shopkeepers in the local village, one by one, but while everyone knew of him, no one knew him personally. He was most definitely notorious, and held in the highest esteem by the local Cornish people.
Then she had turned her attention to Fowey. She had spoken to the owner of the White Hart Inn, as John Trim had suggested, but he had been purposefully unhelpful.
She had spent two days in town, speaking with the shopkeepers and merchants there, but to no avail. She was beginning to think that there were very few stones left to turn. Of course, there did remain one—and it was a rock.
She was going to have to call on her uncle.
* * *
EVELYN STARED AT the imposing front entrance of her aunt and uncle’s home. A tall square stone house, the front entrance was in the style of a temple, with large columns supporting a pediment. She inhaled. She had not been back to Faraday Hall since her marriage, almost nine years ago.
As she slowly got out of the gig, she thought about her childhood: her aunt’s constant harping, Lucille’s cruelty, and spending most of her time by herself, doing various chores. A wave of loneliness swept over her. It was accompanied by a wave of grief. How had she survived such a lonely childhood? Her husband had changed all of that, by taking her away from this place, by giving her Aimee. But in that moment, as she stood there looking at the entrance of the house, she felt just as lonely as she had as a child. In that moment, she missed Henri, and realized how alone she was, even though she was a mother, and Laurent, Adelaide and Bette were as loyal and beloved as family.
It was foolish nonsense, she decided, shaking herself free of such despondency.
Evelyn rapped on the front door, using the brass-ring knocker. A moment passed before Thomas answered. The butler, whom she had known for years, took one look at her and gasped. “Miss Evelyn?” he asked.
She smiled at the short, bald manservant. “Yes, Thomas, it is I—Evelyn.”
He flushed and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Countess!”
She smiled, and in doing so, shook off the last vestiges of her past. “You must not bow to me,” she said.
She meant it. The staff had always been kind to her—far kinder than her own family.
A few moments later, she was escorted in to see her uncle, and she was relieved that her aunt was not at home. Robert greeted her warmly, surprising her. “I am so glad you have called. I have been meaning to send Enid to do so, to see how you are faring,” he said. “But you look well, Evelyn, considering what you are going through.”
She wondered if she had misjudged her uncle, if his indifference had been nothing more than that. “We are managing, and do not put Aunt Enid out, please, not on
my account. I have decided to ask you for help, if your offer stands.”
He gestured for her to sit in one of the two chairs before his desk. A tall window was behind it, and through it, she could see the gardens behind the house, and the sea, just above the treetops. He turned to the butler, asking for tea and cakes. Then he sat down behind his desk. “I would love to help you if I can.”
“Will you keep what I am about to tell you in confidence?” she asked. “I am in an unusual position, and I hardly wish to have anyone know—not even my aunt.”
His smile was amused. “I keep a great many confidences from my wife, Evelyn, and I hardly failed to notice that she did not care for you greatly when you were a child.” He sighed. “I have never understood the ladies.”
She had no comment to make on that sore subject. “I am sure you have noticed that I am currently somewhat short on funds. However, Henri left a fortune for me and Aimee—at our home in France. The time has come for me to find a way to retrieve the family heirlooms he has left us, and I have decided to hire someone to do so.” She had decided not to tell her uncle that she meant to go with Greystone to France to retrieve the fortune there.
“I am relieved to hear that D’Orsay left something for you, but by God, how will you ever convince anyone to go to France now to retrieve the valuables? And are you sure that whatever Henri left for you, it is worth the risk?”
“It is quieter in France now than when we left, isn’t it?”
“It is hardly quiet! The countryside remains up in arms over the secularization of the clergy. Mobs continually attack the priests who have taken the new oaths required of them while opposing mobs attack the priests who have refused to do so. Vigilantes hunt down the terrorists, or what remains of them. The need for revenge remains as strong as ever—it is just directed at different groups. How will you find someone capable of getting to France—and then getting to your country home there? And again, what if nothing remains of the heirlooms? There has been a great deal of looting and theft in the great châteaus.”
