Silken Secrets (9 page)

Next she turned her full attention to him and said in the same stage whisper, “Didn’t I tell you she would be here, James? But you mustn’t take the compliment wholly to yourself. Joseph is also an attraction. I expect to see you both with daggers drawn over Miss Judson before the night is out.”

Mary Anne noted with interest that Mr. Robertson’s name was James, and Bess, the bold creature, was making free of it already.

Mr. Robertson hardly knew how to reply to this artless performance. He bowed and smiled, and said he feared they were in for rain.

“I fear so,” Miss Judson agreed, “and we came in the gig, too.”

“Speaking of rigs,” Joseph said, pitching his words across Bess to Robertson, “that is a mighty fine curricle you’re driving, Mr. Robertson. Sixteen miles an hour, I fancy?”

“Fifteen at least, on a good open stretch of road,” Mr. Robertson replied.

“Ho, with that pair of grays, I fancy seventeen or eighteen isn’t above them. They have got Alvanley’s beat.”

“Actually they are Alvanley’s old team. He sold them to me last winter,” Mr. Robertson said.

“By Jove!” Joseph smiled. “I expect you’re a member of the F.H.C. With that team, you could pass anything on the road.”

“No, the Four-in-Hand Club decrees that the pace must not exceed a trot. Passing another coach on the road is prohibited. The driving is very carefully regulated.”

“I should think so!” Joseph said. “I have seen you fellows assemble at Hanover Square for your dart to Salt Hill. They say your dinners at the Windmill are a regular brawl.”

“Only port wine is served,” Mr. Robertson said. “We
do
have to drive back as well, you know.”

“Exactly!” Joseph nodded.

“So you are a notable whip, James, and a model of sobriety. I trust a certain someone is taking notes of all this,” Bess said, directing her words toward Miss Judson.

When Joseph leaned forward to resume the conversation, Bess took him by the arm and restrained him. “We must be discreet, Joseph,” she said playfully. “Privacy—that is what they will want. I’m sure they wish us both at Jericho.”

Certainly Mary Anne wished one of them there. Bess was impossible, but Joseph’s behavior was equally strange. It seemed he was buttering Mr. Robertson up very lavishly. Why was he at such pains to ingratiate a drapery merchant? She cast a puzzled frown at Mr. Robertson.

“You didn’t bring a pen!” he accused playfully. “Never mind, I’ll have a judge write up my character and post it down to you. I trust you are also a fan of the F.H.C.?”

“I haven’t the least notion what you’re talking about,” she said, blinking.

“That doesn’t stop Joseph from agreeing with me,” he murmured with an ironic flicker of his eyes toward that gentleman.

Mary Anne chastened his irony with a blank stare. “F.H.C.—it sounds like a government commission.”

“And you, Miss Judson, sound like my maiden aunts. A lady is always deaf to a gentleman’s solecisms. Very well, we shall discuss governmental ABC’s, if you wish. Agencies, boards, and commissions, the letters stand for, at Whitehall.”

“How do you know that? What dealings do
you
have at Whitehall?”

“Though a lowly merchant, I am allowed to sit in the visitors’ gallery and watch the elite squander my tax money,” he answered with an easy smile that concealed his gaffe.

Mrs. Vulch nodded contentedly to see how clever her daughter was growing and what a gossoon Miss Judson was, throwing her bonnet at a drapery merchant while an excellent parti went to waste. Amazing how the girl could turn out looking half-decent in that old gown that might have been rescued from Noah’s ark.

To cement the partners, she had dinner called five minutes early and made sure to seat Miss Judson away from Joseph, beside Mr. Robertson. Mrs. Vulch’s frequent admonitions to her daughter not to talk across the table were not entirely obeyed, but the distance severely limited Mr. Robertson’s access to Bess.

“I see you’ve recovered from the morning’s excitement,” Mr. Robertson said to Mary Anne.

“I’m feeling much better,” she admitted.

“And looking admirable. What is your excuse for not being at Dymchurch at two this afternoon?” he asked. “Before you contrive some wildly improbably tale, I must warn you, Bess told me of her visit. You were at home, miss, taking a dust cloth to the furniture! Had you been in hands with your modiste or coiffeur, I could understand, but I assure you I’m not used to playing second fiddle to a dust cloth.”

It was hard to be angry with Bess for relaying the menial nature of her afternoon’s occupation when Mr. Robertson smiled so charmingly. “Uncle had the carriage out, and he doesn’t like me to drive into Dymchurch alone in the gig,” she explained.

“Uncles can be a sad trial, but in this case, I’m bound to say I agree with Lord Edwin. I’m happy to see the little argument the other evening was a tempest in a teapot. I made sure your uncle wouldn’t accept the Vulches’ invitation this evening.”

“Well,” she confided, “we were only having chicken stew at home, and besides, Uncle’s all out of brandy.”

Mr. Robertson hid the unsteadiness of his lips with his fork. “Then it wasn’t just the lure of being teased by Bess and the presence of Joseph Horton that drew you hither?”

“No.” She scowled and promptly changed the subject. “Have you had any luck in finding your silk, Mr. Robertson?” she asked.

“Not directly, but I could tell you ten or a dozen places where it is
not
hidden, which is a sort of negative success, if one is an optimist. It limits the places it could be.”

“You can positively strike Horton Hall off your list as well. We had a visit from Codey this afternoon. He went through the house with a fine-tooth comb. Vulch used his connections with Whitehall to get a search warrant. A Lord Dicaire obliged him.”

Mr. Robertson was well aware of the visit and made some commiserating remarks about the nuisance of customs men. “I hope whoever took it has got it stored in a dry place. That sky looked as if it was brewing up a good storm.”

“How long can you afford to keep looking for the cargo, Mr. Robertson?” she asked. Her hope was to discover whether he would be in town for the assembly.

“There’s no point returning to London without it. My shelves are empty.”

“But shouldn’t you be trying to secure another cargo? There are dozens of smugglers here on the cost who might oblige you.”

“That, of course, is why I’m remaining for a few days. I’m making contact with other importers. You sound remarkably eager to be rid of me, ma’am.”

“That was not my meaning!” she exclaimed, chagrined to be so misunderstood till she saw the secret light of laughter in his eyes.

“I feel half the town would relish the sight of my back. Your Joseph has already wondered aloud two or three times why I linger so long. Mrs. Vulch fears I have designs on her well-dowered daughter. And, of course, Lord Edwin has invited me in no uncertain terms to depart his house. Once Vulch becomes tired of my phiz, I shall have no recourse but to pay for my rack and manger at the inn.”

“I shouldn’t think Mr. Vulch would treat a good customer so shabbily,” she told him.

“I figure he’ll tolerate me for another twenty-four hours. You might be interested to know the French smugglers are returning to France this evening. Vulch was instrumental in getting their lugger freed from customs.”

“Vulch?” she asked. “He wouldn’t have that much clout. It was no doubt Lord Dicaire.”

“Perhaps he was instrumental. Their leaving means, in case you wonder why I mention it to you, that you should be able to take your usual ride tomorrow morning without fear of being molested. Do you usually ride around ten o’clock?”

Mary Anne knew from his questioning smile that it was an invitation to meet him. “Yes, if the weather holds up.”

“I, too, am in the habit of taking my constitutional at that hour. Shall we make it your uncle’s meadow?”

“You can come to the house, Mr. Robertson. I don’t like to sneak behind my uncle’s back. I assure you, it isn’t necessary.”

He cleared his throat and glanced along the table to Lord Edwin. “There is the little matter of my being hinted away,” he mentioned.

“It wasn’t you he was angry with. He and Vulch have ring-round fights, but they’re really very good friends.”

From along the table. Lord Edwin was heard to exclaim, “Rubbish!” and they both looked to hear what new argument had arisen.

“You see,” Mrs. Vulch told him, “that
was
a clap of thunder just now.”

As though to confirm her assertion, another roll of thunder reverberated in the heavens, and a flash of lightning was seen beyond the window, but why should this far-from-unusual occurrence send Lord Edwin into an apoplexy?

“I’d rather have it at night than destroying the day. At least it shan’t keep us from shopping,” Mrs. Vulch said unconcernedly, and lifted her fork. The spring lamb was delicious.

“We came in the gig,” Mary Anne said, feeling this was why Uncle was upset.

The lovely spring lamb went untasted by Lord Edwin, though not uneaten. Now, how the deuce was Fitch to get the cargo loaded and delivered to Folkestone in the teeth of a howling storm? The stuff would be worthless if it got wet, and a wrapping of oilskin paper couldn’t protect it from this downpour.

Mr. Robertson noticed the man’s agitation. “I’ll be happy to drive you home if it is the open carriage that worries you.”

“But your curricle is open, too, Mr. Robertson,” Bess reminded him. “Joseph will be driving right past the door. I’m sure he’ll be happy to deliver them home.”

Mrs. Vulch shot a killing glance across the table. “Your papa will provide for his guests’ comfort, Bess,” she said in a voice like vinegar.

Toward the end of dinner there was a hiatus in the bad weather. The storm wasn’t over, but Lord Edwin felt if he and his niece left at once, they’d get home before the skies opened again. With a longing look at the brandy decanter sitting on the sideboard with the port, he excused himself and his niece and said they would dart back to the Hall at once.

Mr. Robertson soon said his good-nights and went upstairs, and Mrs. Vulch had the satisfaction of seeing Joseph Horton settle in by the grate with Bess for a hand of cards. She removed her husband to the far corner of the room to allow the young couple some privacy.

“I don’t know why you were in such a hurry to leave,” Mary Anne scolded as they drove through the night, with the trees under which they drove showering them quite as thoroughly as actual rain would do. “We seldom get invited out to dinner, Uncle. Why didn’t you accept Mrs. Vulch’s offer of a drive home in their carriage?”

“It’s my attics I’m worried about,” he told her, but she knew well enough that the sodden attics hadn’t concerned him during all the years they had been leaking. Why now?

He let her off at the door, and she scampered in while he took the gig around to the stable. Mrs. Plummer met her at the door. “You’re back early! Did your uncle and Vulch come to blows again?”

“No, Uncle was in a great yank to get home while the rain had let up. I don’t know why Fitch couldn’t have driven us.”

“You left your shawl behind,” she said.

“Uncle left it behind.”

“What did he hide it under the sofa cushions for? Lucky I happened to see the fringe hanging out and rescued it before it was a parcel of wrinkles.”

“Hid it? Why would he do that?”

“I haven’t a notion. He’s acting queerly of late. And Fitch is as bad. He’s gone and hired Jeremy Black’s boat. It’s sitting down at the dock, partly hidden in the reeds. I was at the window looking at the lightning and happened to see him pulling in. It gave me a turn. I thought it was the Frenchies, and I here alone.”

“The Frenchies have gone home. Vulch arranged to get their lugger freed. No doubt his friend Lord Dicaire gave him a hand. But what would Fitch want with the boat? He couldn’t plan to go fishing on a night like this.”

“They’re up to something,” Mrs. Plummer scolded.

“I suspected as much when Uncle darted home without even having a glass of brandy. Where’s Fitch now?”

“He didn’t come in at all. He seems to be loading the hay from the old hay wain onto that boat he borrowed.”

Mary Anne blinked. “What?”

“I only got the odd glimpse through the window when the lightning flashed, but it looked as if he was putting hay onto the boat.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Wet hay at that. Oh, there’s something odd afoot here, missie, and I mean to find out what it is as soon as ever Fitch comes in.”

They went to the window and stared through the shadows down to the shore. With no moon, visibility was nearly nonexistent, but they thought they saw some movement in the rushes.

“I’m going to put on some older clothes and see what he’s up to,” Mary Anne decided.

“Why don’t you wait and ask your uncle when he comes in?”

“Because he won’t come in, and wouldn’t tell the truth if he did. He’ll join Fitch. This has something to do with his eagerness to get home. And he nearly choked on the lamb when Mrs. Vulch was talking about the storm,” she added as she ran toward the stairs.

She threw her silk shawl on the bed. It called up a memory of that rather peculiar trip to Folkestone, with Uncle talking to all the drapers in their private offices. He’d bought the shawl at Folkestone, but he’d visited plenty of other shops after that. You didn’t have a private conference only to discuss the purchase of a length of silk, which had been his excuse.

She disliked to acknowledge, even to herself, what she was thinking. The cargo of silk abandoned at their doorstep. Uncle’s rare good humor the next morning. He
had
stolen the silk! While Codey searched the stables and icehouse and barn and house, the silk had sat under the load of hay on the old hay wain. And now Uncle had hired this boat to take it away and sell it to one of the merchants he had visited. Good God, if he was caught, he’d hang.

That’s why Fitch had brought Jeremy Black’s boat here and why Uncle had been on the fidgets when he learned about the storm. Almost before she had digested this dreadful idea, the image of Mr. Robertson cropped into her head. What would he think to learn her uncle was a thief? She must keep it from him.