The Smuggler Wore Silk (6 page)

She urged Demon into a canter as they broke the cover of trees and entered a long field. She looked behind her once, twice, and although she thought she saw a lone horseman, she couldn’t be certain.

When Demon finally entered the stable yard, Grace breathed a sigh of relief. A young groom staggered sleepily out of the stables. After dismounting, she handed him the reins and strode to the rear kitchen door. She knocked softly and waited, looking once more to the trees behind her. She could still feel eyes on her.

“Is all well, Miss Gracie?” A bleary-eyed Binkle swung open the door and let her in.

“I’m not sure. I have to think on it.”

“If there’s anything the staff can do, please inform us.” He secured the door, latching it tightly.

“Thank you, Binkle. I will.”

The shape of the leather folio pressed against her side. She needed to hide it while she decided how best to proceed. Only one place came to mind: her stillroom. She possessed the only key.

Grace hurried to her room and retrieved the ring of keys she carried with her during the day. After descending the rear servants’ stair, she delicately picked her way through the silent halls until she came to the stillroom. She slid the key into the lock and slipped into the room, locking the door again behind her. Pausing a moment, she breathed deep. The combined scent of spices mixed with dried flowers soothed her. This was her room, her space. She knew every jar, every bottle, every sachet.

Using the pale moonlight gleaming through the window as a guide, she located the tinderbox on her workbench and quickly lit a candle. Lifting the candle high, she peered into the dark corners and perused the shelves and cabinets and cubbyholes. Her gaze fell on a short barrel of rose petals harvested that summer for use in perfumes, oils and potions.

She strode forward and lifted the lid of the barrel. Pulse pounding, she used her hands to dig through the mass. Clouds of sweet, fragrant air floated into the room. She settled the folio at the bottom of the barrel, then covered it with the delicate petals before replacing the lid.

Chased by fear, Grace snuffed the candle and darted from the stillroom. The folio buried beneath innocent rose petals contained a life and horror of its own.

J
ULIAN SURVEYED THE
revelers filling Lady Hammond’s salon over the rim of his punch glass. Silks, satins and muslins in an array of brilliant jewel tones and soft pastels twirled around the floor, accented by brilliant diamonds, bold rubies and cool sapphires. He did a quick study for familiar faces. He noted a few he’d seen in London over the past few years. But he saw no spies, no foreign agents he recognized. Nor did he see Grace Hannah. The guests appeared to be nothing more than local landowners and gentry mingling over music and food and laughter. Whether the traitor was in their midst remained to be seen.

Terrace doors were propped open to circulate a breeze, but the humid September night intensified the heavy scents of perfumed women and potted flowers. His clothes clung to his skin in the moist air. Drawing a deep breath for fortification, Julian resigned himself to a hot, uncomfortable evening. He pasted on his charming Wandering Earl smile and prepared for the assault.

It wasn’t long in coming. His hostess, Lady Hammond, wide of girth and well-endowed, cleaved through the crowd, her bosom leading the way across the congested floor. “My lord!” she called.

“Lady Hammond.” Julian bowed over the hand she offered. “I can’t say how much I appreciate your invitation.”

“Nonsense. I consider it my duty to introduce you. Come.”

She took his arm and led him from group to group in a circuit around the room. Almost every group included an eligible young lady. It was the same each time: Lady Hammond would perform the requisite introductions, the young lady would say something witty and speculative gazes would flick his way to see if he approved. Society was certainly predictable. Already the gossips were considering who could be his prospective bride.

He suffered through another round of introductions to a pair of matrons, a Lady Lintell and her companion, Mrs. Parker. He made polite responses to polite questions—are you enjoying the weather?—and fixed his smile more firmly as Lady Lintell’s incessant chatter began to grate. Then, abruptly, his attention focused in on their conversation.

“My goodness. Whatever is Miss Gracie doing here?” The words were delivered by the rail-thin Lady Lintell. “It’s been—well. I don’t even
know
how many years since Miss Gracie joined us.”

“At least seven years, Minnie.” Lady Hammond followed Lady Lintell’s gaze. “Long overdue.”

“Quite overdue.” Mrs. Parker stood on tiptoe to see over the crowds. Julian doubted it would help, as she wasn’t even as tall as his shoulder. “It’s a shame she never attends.”

“I wonder why?” Julian said, more to himself than to the older matron.

Lady Lintell leaned close, her eyes bright with a conspirator’s light. “Now, I don’t know, but it’s been said Lord Cannon won’t allow her to attend. Why, everyone
knows
he just works that girl to the bone without giving her a
thing
in return. Not that Miss Gracie complains, mind you,” she added. “She takes her duties seriously and is always willing to lend a hand. Why, just yesterday she sent another bottle of tonic over to my husband for his cough.”

“Last week Miss Gracie brought one of her special teas to my daughter, who is in the family way,” Lady Hammond explained. “I am glad to see Miss Gracie finally joining us.”

“I suppose it
has
been seven years since Mr. Wargell jilted her. Poor Miss Gracie. It really wasn’t well done of him, you know.” Lady Lintell’s fan tapped Julian’s arm. “She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you see the lady just inside the door wearing the white dress? That’s Miss Grace Hannah.” She frowned. “Really, if Lord Cannon is going to finally let that girl out of the manor, he ought to outfit her properly. That gown is
quite
unfashionable. Although, what does a man know about fashion, after all?” She squeaked and looked up at Julian. “Oh, my lord! Not you, of course! You’re quite well-informed about ladies’ clothing. Er, well—”

“Don’t concern yourself, Lady Lintell.” Julian laughed. “For I can see that no one has such a discerning eye as yourself.”

“Oh, my lord, you are too kind.” She preened, her long face bobbing on her long neck.

“As it happens, I have made Miss Hannah’s acquaintance,” Julian said, bringing the conversation back to the topic he wanted to discuss. “Three times.”

“Is that so?” Lady Hammond turned shrewd eyes toward Julian.

“She even promised me the first dance. As I hear the musicians beginning to warm up, I believe it is time I seek my partner. If you’ll excuse me, ladies.” He bowed and left them, though their curious twitters and whispers followed him as he crossed the floor to Miss Hannah.

Lady Lintell was correct about Miss Hannah’s gown. The diaphanous muslin was unadorned, the waistline a little too high, the sleeves too long. Still, it was flattering.

She stood beside Lord Cannon while he spoke to another man leaning on a cane. What was the expression on Miss Hannah’s face? He supposed she meant to be expressionless. Yet he could see beyond that blank face to the defiant angle of her head, her proud shoulders and the intense gaze that pretended to see nothing. Julian recognized nerves as well in the elegant fingers that clutched a small silver reticule.

Then she saw him, her unfathomable silver eyes meeting his. Her mouth set. Ah. He made her nervous. Good.

“Lord Cannon, Miss Hannah.” Julian bowed. “Please excuse me for interrupting your conversation, but I’ve come to claim my partner for the first dance.”

“Are you certain?” Lord Cannon barked. “You could ask another chit. Grace won’t cause a scene.”

“Why would I ask another lady? I’ve already asked Miss Hannah.” Julian cocked his head. What an interesting development. “It would be ungentlemanly if I withdrew my invitation now.”

“She’s damaged goods.” The second old man leaned forward, cracking his cane on the parquet floor as he spoke. “Jilted. Ruined.
Compromised.
”

The hurt didn’t show on Miss Hannah’s blanked features, but Julian knew she felt it. Her shoulders were nearly up to her ears and if he wasn’t mistaken, she’d stopped breathing.

Temper reared up. He grasped his quizzing glass and brought it to his eye, surveying the cadaverous stranger with disdain. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Lord Stuart Paget.” Lord Paget’s narrowed eyes flicked toward Miss Hannah, then back again. “She has no reputation.”

“She’s an embarrassment,” Lord Cannon added, rocking back on his heels. “It has to be said, my lord.”

“No. It doesn’t. And as long as Miss Hannah is my partner, I suggest you refrain from discussing any such embarrassment.” He wanted to launch his fist into Cannon’s face. “Miss Hannah, the couples will be lining up shortly. Shall we go?” He offered his arm. She stared at it as though it were a coiled snake preparing to strike.

She searched his face. Then, with a deep breath, accepted his arm. They moved away, and Julian heard Cannon and Paget blustering and bristling behind them.

“You don’t have to dance with me. I won’t mind.” Miss Hannah stared straight ahead. “I’ve probably forgotten the steps in any case.” Her cheeks flushed.

“I
will
mind,” he bit out. Then he realized he was all but dragging her onto the dance floor. Keep it easy, he instructed himself. Flirtation. He waited a beat. “At any rate, if I’m going to compete with Jack Blackbourn, I need to begin consorting with fast women. What kind of smuggler would I be if I consorted with virtuous spinsters?”

She abruptly stopped walking and stared at him. Then she laughed, long and merrily. The delighted sound filled him with a rush of pure lust. The sort that grabbed a man by the throat and refused to let go.

“My lord, you may just compete with our Jack after all.” She glanced at the dancers as they began to line up. A smile flirted with the corners of her mouth. “It seems it’s time to begin the dance, my lord smuggler. I only hope your reputation survives consorting with fast women.”

“If it doesn’t,” he returned as they took their places, “at least this smuggler will keep his lady consort content.” He was rewarded with a faint blush high on her cheekbones.

Whispers rippled through the surrounding crowd as they took their place on the floor. Was it himself or Miss Hannah that set tongues wagging?

The lively violins started a country dance. He and Grace came together, separated, came together again. Her eyes, silver-bright, remained fastened on his.

Woven through the whispers was one clear word:
Gracie.
She must hear it. How could she not? Yet her face stayed blank, her eyes focused on his. It must have cost her dearly to appear so unaware.

“You haven’t forgotten the steps, fair lady.”

“It’s said dancing will come back to you quickly,” she murmured.

“And does it?” Their hands touched, a fleeting brush of glove on glove that resonated through him.

“If one concentrates.”

“Alas. I’m clearly not distraction enough if you can concentrate so thoroughly on the steps of the dance. I must try harder.” They separated again, then came together once more at the head of the line.

“Not wise, my lord. If I stop concentrating I may tread on your toes.”

“My boots are sturdy.”

“So are my slippers.”

He laughed aloud and spun her down the avenue created by the other dancers until they reached the end and took their places once more.

When the song had ended and the couples dispersed, he smiled at her. “Would you care for a walk on the terrace, Miss Hannah? Or would you prefer I return you to your uncle?”

She cocked her head, as though listening to the whispers. “The terrace, please.”

They exited through ornate glass doors and walked the length of the terrace, away from the crowded rooms of the manor house.

She withdrew her arm when they reached the farthest end and stood at the top of the steps leading down to the gardens. He leaned against the balustrade and took a moment to search the darkness. No sound out of the ordinary. No shadow that didn’t belong.

Satisfied, he turned to look at her. She, too, stared into the darkness. The quiet and serene Miss Hannah with a core of passion. A smuggler and a rebel.

“The moonlight suits you, fair lady.” The silver light slanted over her delicate features, turning them into a beautiful study of light and shadow.

“Oh, moonlight flatters everyone. It’s soft and vague and smooths out rough edges.”

How could such a lovely face show such loneliness? It was her eyes. They seemed lost. Something stirred in him, answering the call of her loneliness. He pushed it away, trying desperately to remember she was only an assignment.

“The night is liberating, is it not?” She tipped her face up to the sky.

“I would have said the night is secretive.”

“It’s both, I suppose.” Looking out to the moon-washed gardens, she continued. “It’s the darkness, I think. In the dark, nothing is quite what it seems. Anything, anyone, could be hiding. The possibilities are
endless.”

She seemed lost in the darkness. He waited, feeling like he was balancing on the edge of a knife, and wondered which way she would pull him. She drew a deep breath, held it. When she exhaled, it was as though some long-forgotten need was being given life.

“Let’s walk, my lord. Let’s throw caution to the wind, walk the paths and test the possibilities.” She skipped lightly down the stairs, then looked at him over one slender shoulder.

He could do nothing but follow.

Her gown was a beacon in the dark, floating around her as she guided him down the garden paths. The night was still, without the slightest breeze to stir the leaves, so that it seemed the only living thing was Miss Hannah. Heat lay heavy on the foliage, drawing out the heady scents of blooming summer flowers. Their sweet bouquet enveloped him, drew him in.

“What do you think is hiding in the dark, Miss Hannah?” He gestured toward the garden. “What unseen delights await?”

She crouched, then stood again with a thin stalk of late-blooming lavender. She twirled the lavender and studied the quiet gardens. “Perhaps a chivalric knight is waiting to rescue a maiden.”

“With his sword drawn and ready and his charger prancing among the rhododendrons,” he finished, watching the moonlight play over her features. She was a romantic at heart, he realized.

“But perhaps it’s a dashing highwayman, waiting to waylay the guests and steal kisses from beautiful maidens.” She laughed.

“Or perhaps a faerie queen waits for her lover among the blossoms and blooms.” He stepped closer, whispering in her ear. “Every pleasure,
any
pleasure, may be waiting in the dark.”

She tilted her head to watch him through long gold lashes. One corner of her full mouth rose slowly up, then the other. Lust arrowed through him and wiped all thoughts of his assignment from his mind. Had he seen her smile before? Not like that. The slow half smile was seductive and sultry.

Here was the passionate woman he’d kissed.

“Perhaps a smuggling earl awaits in the dark,” she whispered.

“Ah yes. My second career.” He plucked the lavender from her fingers and held it to his nose, breathed deep. And smelled
her
. He struggled to focus. “Perhaps I’ll buy my own ship and hire a crew to smuggle goods from France. Then I would truly thrill the local ladies.”

“But you wouldn’t be a smuggler as much as you would be a captain, would you?”

“Ah, not just a captain—a
smuggling
captain. And if I were a smuggling captain I could sail the seven seas, collecting gold and riches from the far corners of the world.”

“You could, but that wouldn’t thrill the local ladies, would it? If you’re off sailing the seas and collecting gold you wouldn’t be here in Devon to dazzle them with your exploits.” She angled her head, pursed her lips in a playful pout.

“I did promise to keep my consort content, did I not? I must impress her with my fantastic deeds.” He stepped forward so that they were only inches apart and tried to battle back desire. “I’d come to her in the deepest night, when others slept and they were alone. No one to hear. No one to see.”