The Smuggler Wore Silk (21 page)

“Don’t let him upset you, Grace.” In the glass, she saw him step forward. His hands, warm and heavy, slid around her waist.

“He won’t upset me. Not any longer.” She shivered at the tender touch of Julian’s lips on her shoulder. “Let’s not think about him. I’ve already given Uncle Thaddeus too much of my time.”

“As you wish.” His lips pressed against her neck now, the kiss soft and sweet. “I have a gift for you. I’d hoped for a little more time yet, so it’s not quite finished.”

“A gift?” She turned in his arms, stared. “Why?”

“You look so shocked.” He laughed, and she could feel the tension in his arms melt away. “I’m giving you a gift because you’ll like it. Because you need it today.” Taking her hand, he drew her out of the study and into the hall.

“I don’t need a gift.”

“Of course you do. Everyone needs gifts.” He led her through the halls to the rear of the house. “And you need some quiet time before our excursion this evening.”

“The smuggling caves.” She’d forgotten. Breathing deep, she forced herself to think of their mission. “I agreed I would introduce you to the smugglers. I’ll keep my promise.”

“Thank you.” He kissed her fingers and pulled her into the kitchen.

The warm scent of baking bread flavored the air. Elaborately shaped loaves marched in a straight line across a counter, their braided and pinched designs baked to a delicious golden color. Two newly hired serving girls worked at another counter, their hands buried in dough and young faces dusted in flour. The cook, also new, stood over them with crossed arms and called out instructions—the dictator of her territory.

Julian wrapped an arm around Grace’s waist. When the kitchen door slapped closed behind them, the serving girls ceased mid-knead to stare.

“My lord!” Cook croaked. Her mouth continued to open and close soundlessly, as though shock had taken her voice away while the rest of her still answered.

“Hello, Cook,” Julian answered cheerfully. He leaned over one of the finished loaves, sniffed. “Ah, gingerbread. My favorite.”

“Yes, my lord.” Cook’s eyes flicked toward Grace. “Miss Gracie—er, her ladyship—mentioned you liked gingerbread.”

“And yours is excellent. In fact, I’ve noticed what wonderful breads and cakes and scones have been put out of this kitchen of late. I’ve taken quite a fancy to them, I must say. Would they be your particular recipes, Cook?”

“They are.” Cook flushed, her cheeks turning rosy and round with pleasure. “But I’ve had help, my lord,” she added, gesturing to the girls. One turned ashen with nerves while the other flushed as much as Cook had.

“And fine help you’ve had, clearly. I’ve not had such delicious scones in some time, and I thank you for the treat.”

All three females beamed at him. Grace studied Julian’s face. He meant every word.

“And now,” he continued, “I have a present for my wife. If you’ll please excuse us?”

He drew Grace toward an ordinary, inconspicuous door set into a corner of the room. He stopped before the door and took her hands in his. He seemed excited, she thought. Even eager.

“Close your eyes,” he commanded.

“Julian—”

“Just close your eyes.”

She sent her eyes heavenward before closing them. Still, she did as he instructed, tipping her face up so he could see she wasn’t peeking through her lashes.

“Now let me lead you,” he said.

She could hear the knob turn in the door. Wood scraped against wood just before she heard the quick squeak of a hinge as the door opened. He pulled her over the threshold and as she stepped through the door, a mixture of scents assailed her. Dust, damp, age. The tang of herbs and the sweetness of dried flowers. Yet each scent seemed faint and faded.

“May I open my eyes?”

He brought her fingers to his lips, let his mouth linger there for a moment. “Yes.”

Her eyes fluttered open. The gray clouds had cleared and sunlight streamed in through mullioned windows. Bright beams turned the floating dust to glitter. It gilded long wooden tables and tall shelves, and sparkled on glass jars and bottles.

She had visited this room only once, but she recognized it. Thistledown’s stillroom was large and spacious, although it had been in disrepair when she’d last seen it. Now it was free of decades of clutter and dust. An ancient still sat in one corner and a large cooking fireplace dominated a wall. Pots and buckets and iron kettles were organized with ruthless precision.

“Mrs. Starkweather and I spent the last fortnight getting it ready for you. It’s been at least twenty-five years since this room was used—more, probably, as my mother didn’t work in here.” Julian gestured toward the rows of shelving. “It took days to clear out the dust and cobwebs, and I added anything I thought you might need or want. There are bottles, jars, two sets of mortar and pestle—I didn’t know how many you would like or what type. Mrs. Starkweather indicated that the sets produced by Wedgewood are unlikely to stain or hold odors, so I purchased Wedgewood. If you’d prefer something else we can buy it in the village or send off to London.”

He put one large, warm hand into hers. Pulling her toward a corner of the room he gestured to the books and ledgers stacked on a wooden table. “I’m sure you have your own copies of most of these books.” His hand rested on the top of one stack. “
The English Physician
by Culpeper, Gerard’s
Herbal
,” he recited, running his finger down the spines. “Some of them include handwritten notations that I thought you might find useful. Also, apparently one of my long-dead ancestors dabbled extensively with the medicinal uses of plants, as there are several journals containing various recipes. I thought you might like to add your own recipes, so I purchased empty volumes so you could record—”

Tears gathered and spilled onto her cheeks. She couldn’t help them. Something in her tightened painfully, then released in a wild burst.

“Fair lady, I hope those are tears of joy.” When she sniffled, he offered his silk handkerchief with a flourish.

Mortified, Grace accepted the silk square and swiped at the gathering tears. “I love it, Julian.”

“Are you certain?” His brow rose, one dubious question mark. “A lady’s tears are a bit difficult to interpret.”

“I’m certain.” She followed the words with a watery laugh.

He took her free hand in his and raised it to his lips, then stepped forward until the only thing that separated them was their joined hands. His eyes turned serious, all laughter dying away. “I want you to feel comfortable here. It’s a simple matter to rearrange it to suit your preferences.”

“It’s perfect,” she whispered.

“Good.” He touched his lips to hers. “Now come upstairs.”

Her heart thumped, two bright leaps of anticipation. Still, she protested. “It’s not yet noon.”

“Which has no bearing on the situation.” He laughed, punctuating it with a fast, searing kiss. “Come upstairs,” he asked again. His hands slid down her arms until his fingers twined with hers, then he leaned in to take her mouth once more, deep and warm and seductive. “Come upstairs and I’ll take you away.”

So much stood between them, she thought. So many secrets. But still he gave her what she needed.

Drawing back, she smiled at him. “Where will we go today?”

__________

T
HE SCENTS OF
hay and animal and dust filled the air of Cannon Manor’s stables. Julian studied the stalls and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Nearly all of the stalls housed horses, from yearlings to mares to geldings. Blood tells, he thought. Every one of the animals had the lines of a Thoroughbred.

Grooms and stable boys moved up and down the aisles carrying tack and buckets and sacks of feed. Lord Cannon marched between them, barking orders. He stopped when he saw Julian, his mustache bristling and eyes narrowing.

“A word with you, Lord Cannon,” Julian said dangerously, pinning the man with his gaze.

“Langford. Uh—” His eyes slid right, left. “I’m late for an engagement.”

“Now.”
Julian almost purred it. “Outside.” He didn’t stop to see if Cannon followed him out of the stables. He would, Julian thought, because every bully knew when he was bested.

The cold October wind whistled down from the north, clawing at his greatcoat. He ignored it, slipping around the side of the stable. Cannon followed a moment later, rounding the corner belly first.

Julian let his fist fly, propelled by the dark rage that seethed inside him. He snorted, annoyed when one short arm punch set Cannon flat on his back.

“God’s teeth!” Cannon sputtered through the blood that poured from his nose as he struggled to sit up.

Julian hauled him up by the lapels of his coat, his rage unalleviated by the lack of fight.
Hit me
, his mind screamed.
Give me an opening.

“Langford—oomph!” Cannon’s eyes rolled back in his head as Julian slammed him against the side of the stables.

“If you touch her—if you even think of touching her again—I’ll give you more than that one fist.” Julian leaned close, whispered. “I’ll hunt you down like the beast you are.”

“Grace—” The word was only a croak.

“
Is my
wife
.” Julian bared his teeth. “Don’t forget it.”

He let go and watched in disgust as Cannon slid uselessly to the ground.

Lord Langford—

The foreign secretary has granted permission for you to be reinstated. You will be geographically limited in future missions. However, there is some need for you on the Continent at this time. Complete your mission in Devon as quickly as possible and return to London for further instructions.

Yours respectfully,

Sir Charles Flint

Exhilaration roared through Julian.

He was back.

He propped the missive against his inkwell and looked up at Angel and Miles Butler, the bearers of good tidings.

“You know?” Julian asked, meeting Angel’s eyes.

“Sir Charles told me.” Angel nodded and the gold hair that had earned him his code name fell over his eyes. “It will be good to have you on the Continent again. We need you there.”

“Sir Charles is quite pleased.” Mr. Butler leaned forward and flashed an enthusiastic smile. “I am, as well.”

Julian could feel the cage door being opened. He’d been given freedom again. The freedom to travel, to work, to be useful to the government. His mind sharpened, focusing on Angel’s next words.

“Sir Charles hoped we’d achieved more progress. He’s pursuing some leads in the Foreign Office, but would like us to continue searching for the middleman in Devon. He instructed I return here and continue assisting you.”

Restless energy flickered to life inside Julian. He rose and began to pace the estate room. “Unfortunately, there’s not much to assist with.” Julian recited the details of Grace’s failed foray into Lord Stuart Paget’s study. “Otherwise, I have little information—though I hope to obtain more tonight. Grace is introducing me to the smugglers.”

“I haven’t discovered anything from my smuggling contacts farther up the coast, either,” Angel added. “There are rumors that someone has been asking questions and loitering around the fishing boats, but I haven’t been able to pin down a description.”

“We’re at a standstill, then. Again.”

Frustrated, Julian looked out the window and saw Grace walking the garden paths. Just the sight of her calmed him again, and he let out a long breath. The chill wind whipped color in her cheeks and tugged at the carefully bound hair peeking from beneath her bonnet. She looked so lovely surrounded by the faded leaves and dark evergreen shrubs.

He felt a pang of regret. Of grief. Then panic. When he returned to spying, she would stay behind.

“What are you going to do with her when you return to the Continent?” Angel asked softly, as though he’d read Julian’s mind.

“I don’t know.”

“She can’t go with you.”

“No,” he replied, but his mind was whirring. Grace was no prim society lady—she was a smuggler that wore breeches and carried a pistol. Nor was she faint of heart. Perhaps he could take her with him, at least some of the time. She
must
come with him.

Because the thought of being without her was agony.

For the first time in a decade, he wondered what it would be like to
not
be a spy.

“My father tried to take my mother with him,” Mr. Butler said softly. “They thought it would work well, as he was a double agent and she a French émigré. But it was a disaster. She simply couldn’t bear being away from her friends, her life. Her child. The constant strain of maintaining a façade wore on her.” Julian could hear the grief in Butler’s quiet words.

Outside, Grace crouched beside a flower bed, the material of her heavy skirts pooling around her legs. Her fingers rooted around and came up with a clump of soil and—presumably—weed. Tossing it aside, she stood again and tipped her face up to the sky. He could see her chest rise and fall as she breathed deep. Her eyes drifted closed and a contented smile played around her lips.

No, he could not take her with him. He would have to make a choice.

Marriage, or espionage.

__________

M
OONLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH
clouds and cast a faint glow over the mouth of the smuggling caves. Julian studied the entrance, then turned and studied his wife. She watched him steadily.

“You gave me your word.” The line of her mouth was tight and determined.

“I’ll keep it.” Julian heard the bite in his own voice. She only wanted reassurance, he reminded himself, and leveled his tone. “They’re safe from me, Grace. Smuggling doesn’t interest me. I’m here to find a traitor.”

He caught the gleam of her eyes as she scanned his face. Apparently satisfied, she turned into the low opening that marked the entrance to the smuggling caves. Bent nearly double, he slipped through tunnels cut into limestone cliffs, his eyes on his wife’s very attractive bottom.

When the tunnels opened into a large, cavernous space, he straightened and looked around. Only a few meager candles flickered in the cave. The dancing light cast shadows over barrels and casks, but it failed to reach the high ceilings or penetrate the dark corners.

“Jem and Thomas are already here,” Grace said.

They started to cross the cave and the two men rose from the low barrels they had been seated on. Julian recognized young Jem easily enough, as he’d brought the man’s daughter into the world. The other man was thin and somber. He’d been at the pub the night Grace received the first folio.

Julian performed a quick visual scan, searching for anything that might be a weapon. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he didn’t relax. When a man relaxed, someone slid a knife in his gullet.

“Why did you bring him, Miss Gracie?” Jem’s voice echoed through the room. He sent a sharp look in Julian’s direction. Apparently there would not be any camaraderie over the birth of his daughter.

“It’s all right. His lordship can be trusted.” Grace drew a deep, bracing breath. “He’s with the Foreign Office.”

It wasn’t quite the truth, but close enough. There was no office for what he did.

Thomas bristled, his narrow face going taut. “You brought us someone from the government? You brought him
here
?”

“We’re caught for certain,” Jem moaned. “He’ll have us all taken in to the revenue officers.”

“I have no interest in smuggling, Jem.” Julian angled his body between the men and Grace. “I won’t be turning you in to the revenue officers. I make no promises if you get yourselves caught, but
I
won’t be arresting you. I’m looking for someone far worse than a smuggler.” He met each man’s eyes in turn, let them see purpose there.

“A traitor,” Thomas spat. “And he’s been in these here caves again.”

Grace’s hand shot out, gripping Thomas’s arm. “What’s happened?”

“The caves were searched,” Thomas replied, placing a hand over hers and squeezing lightly.

“Are you sure?” Julian narrowed his eyes.

“Aye,” he said firmly.

“How can you be certain it was the traitor? A common thief could have been here.” Grace whirled away, her gaze probing the shadows of the cave. “Was anything stolen?”

“Not even a single bottle of French brandy.” Jem shook his head, disgust ripe on his face.

“Which means he’s not a common thief. He was here for a specific reason,” Julian said softly.

“But if nothing was stolen—and presumably you didn’t find any more folios—how do you know the caves were searched?” Grace asked.

“Things weren’t as we left them.” Jem gestured vaguely toward a trunk with casks stacked on it. “Two casks were moved. It looked like they were moved so someone could get into a trunk. I checked the trunk and the silks were all mussed.”

“The fabric might have become disorganized during transport,” Julian pointed out.

“Not like this. These were tumbled about, like someone started digging at the bottom.” Jem scratched his head. “What made me notice it was the casks. I put them in front of the trunk last night and had a little rest on one of them while I ate the cold meat and ale my Fanny packed. I was the last to leave the caves last night and first back tonight.” Jem gestured toward the wooden casks, stacked now on top of the trunk.

Julian turned to look at the offending items. Just simple, innocuous wooden casks, worn and scarred.

“Have you noticed items out of place before?” he asked.

“I was telling Jem about that before you and Miss Gracie came, milord,” Thomas interjected. “I’d not thought about it before. What’s a few trunks or barrels moved around? There’s men in and out nearly every night. But it
has
happened before—as many as five or six times.”

“I haven’t noticed it before, but I thought to ask John the blacksmith.” Jem frowned. “I passed him in the street and he said he was coming to the caves early. Had a row with his missus and was thinking to hide for a few hours. Though he was looking forward to going home, as his missus always apologized by—ahem.” Jem flushed, looked at Grace, then away. “Apologized.”

Julian tried to hold back his chuckle. He’d known his share of angry women.

“John’s not turned up,” Jem concluded. “He’s running nearly a half hour behind now.”

Julian’s instincts stirred, a quick shift of awareness that had something hard settling in his belly. “Jem, I want you to think carefully.” He tried not to let his suspicions sound in his voice.

Still, the young father’s eyes widened. “Milord?”

“How long ago did you see John?”

“Nearly two hours now.”

“Julian?” Grace’s single word was full of questions.

He didn’t even turn to look at her. He didn’t want her to see the premonition in his eyes. “John indicated he was coming straight here, to the caves. Is that correct, Jem?” Julian continued.

“Aye.” Jem’s green eyes flicked around the cave. “I thought he’d be here when I arrived.”

“What do you think—” Thomas began.

“I’m not thinking anything yet.” Julian counted the number of tunnels that fanned out from the cavern they stood in. “How far back do these caves go?” he asked, nodding at the nearest tunnel opening.

It was Grace who answered. Although her voice was even, he heard the subtle fear in it. “The natural caves extend about a half mile, perhaps a little more. From there they intersect the quarries. Some of the quarries are still in use, but others are abandoned.”

“Search them,” he commanded, looking to both Thomas and Jem. “Search the natural caves and the abandoned quarries. Don’t concern yourselves with the working quarries yet.”

With grim faces, the two men disappeared into tunnels, each with a lit lantern held aloft. Julian reached for one of the dozen lanterns lining the wall and used a candle to light it.

“Grace?” He held out a hand to her. Icy fingers slid between his.

“What if—” she began.

“Don’t think about it. Just search.” It was the only advice he could give her. “Shut out your fear, shut out the worry. Just do what needs to be done.”

He heard her swallow, felt her fingers jerk once in his. Then she tipped up her chin and strode forward.

Lantern light glimmered gold on limestone walls as he and Grace started down one of the tunnels. Though she could walk upright, the ceiling was just low enough he had to duck his head and hunch his shoulders. The air was cool and damp, and settled into his bones.

“Tell me of John. Is he often late?” Julian asked.

“No.” She made a choking sound. “He’s one of the most reliable smugglers.”

Don’t think. Just search.
He held the lantern higher to penetrate small side galleries and offshoots. Water dripped somewhere, pinging against rock. Her fingers began to warm in his.

Then they heard a shout. Another. Her fingers dropped away as they ran back to the mouth of the tunnel. Beside him, Grace’s breathing was ragged. Her boots rang on the stone floor nearly in unison with his.

Jem stood in the opening to one the tunnels. All color had drained from his face and his mouth was set in a severe line. “I found John.” He spun around and led them through the tunnel.

Julian smelled death before he saw it. Violent death had its own scent, one he knew well. Blood, tinged with something foul and sickly. He stepped in front of Grace to block her view of what lay ahead.

“Stay here,” he commanded.

She didn’t even answer. She simply raised a brow as if to say,
Are you mutton-headed?
and ducked around him.

He swore, whirled and tried to grab her shoulders—but it was too late. A sharp cry ripped from her throat before she moved two paces. With her face drained of color, her cheekbones seemed to sharpen. Panic edged into her breathing so that it became shallow and quick.

“Breathe, Grace. In and out.” Now Julian did block her view, and he saw her eyes were glassy.

“But John—”

“Can’t be helped now.” He’d only caught a glimpse of the blacksmith’s body, but that was all he needed to see. “In and out.
Now.
”

She did breathe. Long, slow, deep breaths. He watched her struggle, saw her throat constrict and her lips press together. But she battled back the horror and the nausea.

She shouldn’t have seen this
, was all he could think. He should have forced her to stay behind until he’d investigated the situation. He’d seen murder many times before. While he never became hardened to it, it had lost its ability to shock him. But she was innocent to that knowledge.

Or she had been.

He studied her colorless cheeks and the eyes that seemed too large for her face. Espionage didn’t belong in her life.

When he was certain she’d found control, he left her and went to John’s body.

The cause of death was clear. A blow to the head. Julian crouched down and felt the man’s skin, then studied the weapon, the wound. The blood. The blacksmith hadn’t been dead long at all. The killer could have been in the caves with them.

“Did he fall?” Grace’s voice quavered. Her hand touched his shoulder, rested there. “Did he fall and hurt his head?”

It would be better if he lied. Death was always ignominious, but murder was devastating to those left behind. He could spare her the pain of that.

The fingers on his shoulder dug into his flesh like sharp daggers, and he knew she understood the truth. Her mind was only trying to deny it.

“No. He did not fall.” Julian gestured to a chunk of limestone tossed a few feet away. Blood smeared it. “Someone deliberately used
that
as a weapon.”