Arthur pulled back, leaving her breathless. He brushed a finger over her lips, then pulled her into an embrace. “I missed you, Daphne. More than I can say. I am so very proud that you went to Paris, that you followed your heart—but please . . . don’t leave again.”
“I won’t.” She nestled into his arms, thinking no promise had ever felt truer.
After a moment, he pulled away, his smile returning. “Would you care for a tour of The Grande Hotel by the Sea?”
“Very much.” His grin was contagious. Daphne took his arm, and he put his hat on his head, leading her back through the dining room and into the hotel lobby.
He strolled with his head held high, greeting guests they encountered. “Not much has changed, Daphne, since you left, with a few notable exceptions . . .”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Fawcett and Mary Coombs are wed.”
Daphne smiled at the news. “How lovely.” The couple was perfect. She a baker, and he . . . well, an eater of baked things.
“And Little Ronald says my name now, quite regularly. His mother claims the sound is just babbling, but he and I both know differently.”
Daphne put her other hand onto his arm, holding it tighter and resting her head on his shoulder.
Arthur paused and turned her to face him. “Are you happy, Daphne?”
She shrugged and looked to the side, trying to look dispassionate, but couldn’t hold the expression, and she smiled. “I am. Fine, you win. I am supremely happy.”
Arthur gave an exaggerated smug smile and a bow. “I told you, once I put my mind to something, I do not fail.”
Daphne took his arm once again, turning him to continue their walk through the lobby. “Don’t go getting a big head.”
Arthur laughed. “And now I’m putting my mind to a new goal.” He tipped his hat to a couple they passed.
“And what goal is that?”
“Marrying the hotel’s pastry chef.”
Daphne gave an indignant scoff, even as her heart tripped. “Do you think I would be so easily . . . won . . . by a fancy kitchen and some pretty glassware?” She felt the blush return but held her head high as if she’d not noticed.
Arthur’s mouth pulled in a smirk, and he covered her hand with his. “Dearest Daphne, you will never be easily won, and as for myself, I relish the challenge.”
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“I want to see if I can find some fossils before the tide comes in.”
From behind her, fifteen-year-old Caroline scoffed. “Really, Julia. Why do you care so much about things that have been dead for thousands of years?” Her tone shifted slightly as she added to either Mrs. Fields or their friend Andrew, “Thousands, correct?”
Judging by her flirtatious tone, Julia suspected that Andrew was the recipient of the question. “I believe so,” Mrs. Fields said, hazarding an answer anyway, her bygone duties never far from mind.
“Yes, thousands.” Andrew had a smile in his voice.
Julia turned about, still walking but backward, and grinned at her little sister and Andrew, her lifelong friend. Unsurprisingly, Caroline was gazing admiringly at Andrew, to whom Caroline had taken quite a fancy, as if she’d only recently discovered that he was a handsome man rather than someone she’d known literally all her life.
“Science is fascinating!” Julia declared.
“Ugh. I cannot and will not ever understand you,” Caroline declared. “Here we are at the most exciting place in England, with an invitation to attend a ball at the Royal Pavilion, and instead of finding the amazing pavilion interesting, instead of anticipating seeing the Prince Regent in attendance, you’d rather look at ancient fossils.”
Julia slowed her step until she was in line with the trailing group of three. “Don’t forget the chalk and flint cliffs. I find those utterly fascinating too.” She glanced at Andrew and caught his amused smile. She smiled back knowingly.
Yes, the India-inspired Royal Pavilion was an impressive structure, and she did have a modicum of curiosity about seeing it up close and going inside. Yet she’d passed the stage of young womanhood when one’s universe was comprised of handsome beaus and the next social event.
Julia remembered talking nonstop to her mother at the same age, so she felt quite sure that Caroline, too, would mature beyond the thrall of such superficial excitements.
In the meantime, bless Andrew for indulging Caroline’s demand for attention, and especially her demand for male attention.
Heaven knew that Julia was at her wit’s end listening to Caroline’s gushing monologues about handsome young men, the most sought-after styles in dresses and hats, and other frippery.
She just hoped that Caroline wouldn’t be heartbroken when “her” beau, Andrew, picked someone a bit older to marry.
They walked along in silence, listening to the lapping of the waves, breathing the salty breeze, and admiring the shore, with its alabaster cliffs on the left and a stony beach and shining waters on the right of the path. To be truthful, Julia and Andrew walked in silence, but Caroline did not. She couldn’t stop talking, especially about the ball at the Royal Pavilion later that week.
“I hear there are dragons in every room,” she cooed.
“Dragons, you say?” Andrew said, sounding properly impressed.
“Not real ones, silly.” Caroline swatted his shoulder with her free hand, clearly taking care not to remove her other hand from the crook of his elbow. “In the décor. I hear there are chandeliers with swooping dragons in gold and bright walls of all colors, just like in India.”
“Hmm,” Julia said thoughtfully. “I was unaware of India being so full of dragons and color.”
Caroline stopped walking, making the other two stop as well. She gave Julia a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. “Mock all you wish, dear sister. Enjoy your fossils and chalky cliff. All I know is that I am going to thoroughly enjoy myself at the ball tonight. You don’t have to attend if you’d rather make rubbings of your fossils. I’m sure Mother wouldn’t mind at all that you’re ignoring what might be the biggest social event of your life.”
The twinge of pain in her voice made Julia immediately contrite. “Forgive me, Caroline,” she said. “I didn’t mean to tease. That wasn’t kind of me.”
“Well—th-thank you,” Caroline said, clearly not expecting that response. “And I suppose I should apologize for poking fun at your interests. I’m sure science is quite . . . fascinating . . . to persons of a specific mind.”
It was a touching attempt at an apology, and Julia wanted to encourage that kind of behavior in the future—it boded well for her sister.
She stepped in front of Andrew and reached for her sister’s hands. Caroline reluctantly removed one hand from Andrew’s elbow and allowed Julia to take them between her own.
“I have an idea,” Julia said. “You’re surely fatigued after our long walk. You and Andrew rest here for a spell, and I’ll investigate the shoreline a bit farther on. I won’t be long, and then we can all return to the inn in time for tea and for Mother to take us with her to visit friends of hers who are also on holiday in Brighton. That is, if such a plan is amenable to Andrew.”
“It is,” Andrew said hastily. “I would like to hunt for fossils before we leave Brighton, but I’m happy to cut the trip short today for your dear sister’s sake.” He n
odded toward Mrs. Fields, the family’s longtime governess, and added, “And for Mrs. Fields’s sake too.”
The somewhat portly middle-aged woman smiled gratefully. “My feet are a bit tired. Thank you.”
“My pleasure, Mrs. Fields,” he said with a nod that approximated a bow. “And Caroline and I—we’ll have a rousing good time while we wait, won’t we?” he added cheerfully.
“I suppose,” Caroline said dully.
Julia pointed to a log that had washed ashore. “There. That is the perfect place to rest your feet while you wait for me. I won’t be long.”
The governess made tracks through the sand as she scurried to the log and sat with a grunt of relief. For her part, Caroline sighed, then walked over to the washed-up log and plopped herself down in what was a rather dramatic show of resignation.
Good enough. Julia threw Andrew a grateful look and made the sign meaning thank you to him as she walked away. Many years ago, Andrew had suggested learning deaf signs as a way to communicate secretly, and what little she remembered still proved useful at times. In response, Andrew made a sign that meant you’re welcome, and then he waved.
Julia returned to the path, carrying the bag in which she kept her rubbing and other adventure tools, as she thought of them. Alone, she could walk at the pace she preferred, which was much more quickly than before. She didn’t intend to go far, only to the end of the visible stretch of beach, but when she came to the spot where the cliff curved, hiding what lay beyond, the sound of men’s voices drifted to her around the bend.
If Julia Hughes was one thing, she was curious, and about far more than science. Anything unexpected or unknown piqued her interest, and the conversation around the bend definitely qualified. The tones of at least two different voices pulled her forward.
The first words she could make out clearly came from a scruffy, low voice. “Ye expect me to keep the shipment here, where it could be found at any moment? Are ye daft, man? Have me sent right back to the workhouse up the road, ye will. I doubt they’ve had time to sweep it out since I was released, so they’ll toss me back in when they find me guarding a stash o’—”
“Hush, man,” a second voice interjected, one far more cultured and educated. The first broke off, muddled, as if the second person had covered his mouth.
Julia’s eyes widened, and her step came up short. Were these dangerous men? Would they hurt her if they knew she was there?
“You mustn’t say such things aloud,” the second man said. “Not if you know what’s best for you and the crew. That kind of thoughtlessness will land you right back in your cell, no question, but it won’t be me sending you there. It’ll be your own stupidity.”
Despite the logical arguments in her head telling her to go back to Andrew and the others posthaste, she stepped forward and peered around the corner. The scruffy voice belonged to an equally scruffy and unkempt man who appeared to be in his forties, unshaved and uncouth. The other man, however, wore a proper coat, trousers, boots, and a cravat. His hair was neatly styled, pulled back into a ribbon. Even after a mere glance, she knew she’d never forget their faces.
The handsome man shifted, and, fearing he’d spot her, Julia pulled herself out of sight, then backed up a few more steps to be sure they wouldn’t see her, but she moved oh so slowly to remain unheard as well as unseen.
Now that she couldn’t see the men directly, Julia could not make her feet move. What should she do? Thank heavens that Caroline hadn’t come this far. But what should Julia herself do?
Leave, certainly.
Yet she remained, wanting to remain and flee in equal amounts, the two desires battling each other. In the end, her deep-seated curiosity won, thanks to her hiding place in the crook of the cliff. She had to find out who the younger, stronger of the men was, had to learn what crimes the older man was guilty of. Most importantly, she simply had to discover what they were up to here on the shore of Brighton, days before a ball with the Prince Regent.
Julia stood just out of sight, back pressed to the white cliffside, listening. The men weren’t talking, which made her chest constrict with worry. Had they seen her? She held her breath, half expecting either—or both—of the men to march her way and threaten her.
Finally, the younger man spoke. “Did you hear something just now?”
He must have removed his hand from the older man’s dirty face, because the latter replied. “A ’course I did, yeh simple git—yer voice, mine, the birds squawking about, and the water makin’ its noises.” The words were impudent, though he’d lowered his voice slightly, as if agreeing with the wealthy-looking man that they needed to be discreet.
Would the younger come to search out the noise? The noise she knew well was made by her own slippers, her own weight shifting pebbles under her feet. Julia scarcely dared breathe, as if that, too, would create sound and raise suspicion.
These men were criminals, the older one by his own admission a moment ago. The younger one, though . . . he didn’t look the part of a criminal, not at all. He looked like a landed gentleman, possibly even a titled one. Could he be a duke or earl, or even a relatively speaking lowly baron? Such men had morals and standards.
Had the noble-looking man said anything that implicated him in a crime? She didn’t think so; that was the older man. She tried to remember precisely what she’d heard.
I should hurry back to the safety of being with Andrew and Caroline, admiring the sun glinting off the water, she thought. This was no place for a gentlewoman to be walking alone and unchaperoned, vulnerable to who knew what all. Apparently, to criminals.
Would they hurt her if they knew she had seen them and was listening? Perhaps she could quietly slip away, one careful step at a time, until there would be no one for them to spy even if they did round the corner; she would have returned to the others with no one the wiser.
Her harried thoughts and indecision made her miss a portion of the conversation between the men, which had begun again. She deliberately abandoned thoughts of Andrew and Caroline and leaned in to hear every word she could from around the bend.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Silas, I don’t feel good about this; we’re too close to the Prince Regent, we are.”
“You will call me Mr. Hayward,” the gentleman said. “And I’m telling you that the Prince Regent will support us in our endeavor.”
Julia’s interest was suddenly piqued even further. Could these men be involved with the war efforts in some fashion? Perhaps they were here to deliver an important communiqué.
But the older man dashed that idea with his next words. “The Prince Regent likes his wine as French as the next man, I’ve no doubt. But smuggling it across the Channel, so near the pavilion? Are ye daft? Ye’ve left me with half a dozen crates of French port right here in the open. How d’ya suppose I go about hiding them so they aren’t seized before we can sell ’em?”
“Durham, stop worrying,” Silas—rather, Mr. Hayward—said. His tone was coaxing. “They’re already sold. That’s the beauty of this: we aren’t bringing in large amounts of goods that could hamper the war efforts. No, no, we’re providing a service to the noble classes, the lords in government, and even the Prince Regent himself—to those who need good port as they make critical decisions for the rest of us.”
Durham snorted. “I mightn’t have the book learning you got, but I’m no imbecile. Parliament and the Prince Regent don’t need booze to run the country. Fer that matter, getting them all sloshed would only help France. So don’t pretend that what we’re doin’ is somehow noble or patriotic. This is to line our pockets, it is—or rather, it’s to line yours.”
Mr. Hayward cleared his throat, and if the regular crunching of sand and gravel was any indication, he began pacing. “You will benefit too, my friend,” he said. “You already have. Don’t forget.”
“Yeah, yeah. But a few days free don’t mean nothin’ if I end up right back in my cell.”
“You won’t,” Mr. Hayward assured his partner. “And th
e . . . more sensitive element of our campaign will bring us nothing but reward from the Prince Regent when he realizes that we’ve identified a supposed ally who has traitorous intent.”
The older man humphed. “I have half a mind to walk back up the street and ask to go back in so I don’t have to be arrested and sentenced again.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Someone—likely Durham—spat. “Trust yeh? Hah. Not without some reason to. Give me a way to know I can trust yeh—or I might just trot myself right over to the pavilion now and tell Prinny himself what I know.”
Sudden shuffling and grunts registered. Had Durham attacked Silas? The other way around? Julia’s heart began pounding. She’d always prided herself on being an independent woman, unafraid of anyone or anything, but her bravado had evaporated, leaving her wishing she hadn’t gone on ahead alone. Wishing that she could at least call out to Andrew and Caroline without being detected, so she could have the safety of their presence. The idea of being a lone woman near smugglers made her feel as vulnerable as a kitten.
They probably have weapons, too. The thought was utterly unhelpful, but it appeared of its own accord. Knives? Guns? The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and a shiver zipped through her.
“You’ll tell no one a thing,” Mr. Hayward said, his voice threatening.
Gasps for air followed. Was Durham being choked? Julia’s hands flew to her own neck as if her turn was next. She waited, listening and trying to determine the best course of action, all while pressing herself against the cliffside.
“I need—assurance,” Durham squeaked out.
After a moment for Mr. Hayward to contemplate, Julia heard stumbling and a gasp of air. Slowly, she peeked ever so slightly around the cliff with just one eye. She couldn’t not look, but at the same time, she prayed she wouldn’t be spotted.
Mr. Hayward was walking her direction, but with his face downturned, so he didn’t see her. His hand stroked his chin in deep thought. She froze, certain he was about to spot her. With a sudden movement, he spun around, spraying pebbles and sand—and allowing Julia to breathe again. He reached into his waistcoat pocket, then held out whatever he’d plucked from it. Durham sat on the ground, one hand rubbing his neck where Mr. Hayward had gripped it.
A Week in Brighton Page 9
