Winter Garden (3 page)

“Please,” she replied, laying her spoon on the saucer.

He placed his cup and saucer on the table and sat back, leaning his elbow on the chair's padded armrest. “How much do you know already?”

She shrugged, taking a sudden great interest in her steaming tea as she lifted her cup and lightly sipped. “Only that there is a rumor of smuggling activity operating from or through Winter Garden. Beyond that, I know nothing.”

Cautiously he asked, “What did Riley Liddle tell you about me?”

She glanced at him sideways through her lashes as she took another swallow. What remained of the setting sun shone through the west window, casting a stream of light across his face and body, the scar at his mouth. A thick, dark curl hung low over his forehead, but he didn't appear to notice these things, remaining curiously focused on her.

Madeleine placed her cup and saucer next to his on the table, then angled her body so that she faced him directly, folding her hands properly in her lap, trying her best to push from her mind the sexual thoughts brought out only moments ago. As he apparently had.

“He said only that you were a large man, thirty-nine years old. That you have been living here at the cottage for several weeks without learning anything. That you requested help and would be the one to give me details. That's all really. I only saw him for a few minutes yesterday.”

“I see.” He rubbed the backs of his fingers along his chin, scratching the skin with his day's growth of beard. “Do you know what's being smuggled?”

Her brows rose. “No, although I assume it to be something important or valuable. I'd never be requested to come here from the south of France to investigate a trivial matter.”

“Opium,” he revealed quietly.

Madeleine stilled as a cold darkness swept through her. Of all the memories of her childhood to leave a lasting black impression, her experiences with the effects of opium abuse caused the greatest pain. But he didn't need to know that.

“Opium,” she repeated softly. “How does one smuggle something legal to own and conveniently purchased?”

“By stealing it randomly, before it's properly taxed and distributed.” He grew focused as he collected his thoughts to carry on. “Our suspicions first surfaced about eighteen months ago when it came to our attention that very small supplies were disappearing soon after arrival in Portsmouth. Intelligence was slow to start an investigation because the amount taken was not, in the beginning, worth the effort. During the last four or five months, however, this amount has steadily increased to a point that it can no longer be ignored. The loss is becoming valuable. So, an official inquiry began, but after a few weeks of learning nothing, the decision was made to send me here to integrate myself into the town and work covertly.”

Intrigued, Madeleine sat forward, forearms laying flat along her thighs, hands folded together. “They think the opium is being smuggled through Winter Garden?”

He leaned toward her over the armrest, eyes bright, face taut. “The trail leads to the
vicinity
of Winter Garden, where it subsequently vanishes. Normally we should be able to see activity, or hear something useful through infiltration and boastful gossip, but so far nothing.” His lids narrowed shrewdly. “I think the opium is being brought here because the village is unsuspecting, and once here it's divided and transported north into England proper for sale and distribution. The reasons are unclear, and we're completely ignorant of the means, but we believe whoever is taking the risk is selling it to be smoked, not drunk, and that he—or perhaps even she—is making a profit by selling to a select clientele. I also believe that the operation is maintained, or at the very least organized, by someone who lives here permanently, since shipments have been taken during summer months. But the two questions yet to be answered are who, and how this person is able to carry out the dispersion in absolute secrecy.”

Madeleine reached again for her tea, starting to feel the slow burn of anticipation envelop her as it did so often at the beginning of a new assignment. “Since the opium is stolen, it's undoubtedly a lucrative operation for the supplier,” she speculated aloud, staring at the table in front of her. “He wouldn't take such a great risk otherwise, and because there is no initial expenditure, the income from the sale would be entirely his. But he is not working alone. The process is too complicated.” She took a long sip from her cup. “He is aware of shipments coming into port, organizes the theft, somehow arranges for it to be brought here, then ships it out again to sell to those in need, for either a low cost or the price of discretion. Maybe both. And if his
clients are addicted, and wealthy, the income could be substantial.” She looked back at him, eyes sparkling. “Remarkable operation. And smart.”

“It's also very dangerous.”

She agreed with a nod. “So he must be quite arrogant or desperate. Any suspects?”

Thomas sat back once more, relaxing as he studied her. “I've got two of them, but no proof, and I'm not sure how to go about getting it. That's why I requested assistance.”

“I see.” She leaned her shoulder on the soft sofa cushion and swallowed the rapidly cooling contents of her cup. “And they are?”

“Lady Claire Childress, a widow whose husband died of mysterious causes two years ago. And Richard Sharon, Baron Rothebury.”

Her lips turned up in droll amusement. “A lady and a baron—both members of the gentry.”

He tilted his head, his thick brows lifting in question. “You don't think the aristocracy can be as deceptive and greedy as the middle and lower classes, Madeleine?”

She smiled fully at that, beginning, for the first time since they'd met, to feel comfortable in his presence. “I know from experience that they can, Thomas. In fact, they usually have more opportunity and desire for riches since they are closer at grasping those things, especially if they have come from wealth and have somehow lost it. It's also true that anyone can cheaply buy laudanum, but not everyone of good birth wants an addiction to be known. It's likely that the smuggler is selling to his, or her, social class.”

He dropped his chin in acknowledgment of her rea
sonable deductions. “My thoughts exactly.”

A warmth of communication passed between them. “Why these two?”

He paused to consider that. “Lady Claire is…harsh. You'll understand when you meet her. It wouldn't be above her to lead a group of smugglers, but that's just my opinion. She recently began refurbishing her estate, although she's had only a small income provided her by her late husband. I don't know where she's getting the money to do so.” He pursed his lips, thinking, then said softly, “I also think she's an addict.”

The partial smile died on her mouth. Madeleine turned to face the tea table, gently placing her empty cup and saucer on top of it as thoughts and memories she'd so long kept hidden deep within came gushing to the surface, surprising her with an intensity she thought had cooled. “And the baron?” she carried on, voice steady, giving nothing away.

He pulled his leg up from the footstool and planted both feet on the floor to sit forward, elbows on knees, fingers tapping together in front of him. “The baron is a more likely suspect,” he disclosed, finally moving his gaze from her and resting it on the fireplace. “Partly because he's a mystery and smooth as oil. I met him only once. He didn't like me, although I'm not sure why.”

“Perhaps you intimidate him,” she offered more seriously than jovially.

“Rothebury is certainly nothing like me,” he acknowledged with a trace of annoyance. “He's handsome, charming, full of good humor. The ladies adore him. He's also thirty-two years old, unmarried, and consid
ered Winter Garden's most eligible prize.”

Madeleine eyed him candidly. “Is that why I was sent for, Thomas?”

He turned his head sharply and stared hard at her. “No.”

The force of that one quietly spoken word took her a little by surprise. In truth, during all the years she'd worked for the government she'd never used her body for information. Her charms absolutely, but her body never. She'd been with her share of men, but never for personal or professional gain of any kind. It soothed her a little to know Thomas Blackwood didn't expect this of her, and had even seemed a bit irritated that she'd mentioned it.

“You are to work with me, Madeleine,” he explained coolly. “I need the help of a professional, and being a woman is an advantage on two fronts. First, you'll be more perceptive where Lady Claire is concerned. Second, the baron will be more receptive to you. Flirt if you must, but don't consider compromising yourself. It's not worth it.”

His concern for her was a little overwhelming, and quite unnecessary. “I'm very good at taking care of myself,” she maintained, composed and sitting erect. “I think I can handle the baron.”

He continued to regard her for a moment or two, then looked back to the grate, apparently deciding not to argue.

“You can start with Lady Claire,” he said at last. “If we can rule her out as a suspect, we can work on the baron with fresh energy.”

“And you?”

“I'm going to concentrate on Rothebury's property, his house, and get closer to it and him if I can without
being observed. I want to determine his doings and dealings, who visits regularly and at what time of day.”

“Spy on him rather than integrate yourself into his life,” she said pensively. “Is that prudent under the circumstances?”

His lips drew back into a half smile. “He'll never become a friend, if that's what you mean, so I can't have a go at him from that angle. The man has no close friends and keeps the villagers at a distance to a certain degree unless he's formally entertaining many at once. I've stayed in the background until now, just getting acquainted with the area and people, but since you're here to help, I think we can finally move in and become a little more aggressive in approach.”

That was logical, she supposed, although the risk of being discovered was always greater when working in shadow rather than in open, friendly confrontation.

“Have you given thought to my identity?”

He hesitated just long enough for her to realize he had, and that he was uncomfortable with it. That piqued her curiosity.

“Thomas?”

With his hands on his thighs, he pushed himself to a standing position, very stiffly, and she took note of the tiny grimace along the lines of his mouth, through the tightness of his jaw. His injuries pained him, perhaps only a little, but pained him they did.

“I've given it considerable thought, Madeleine,” he quietly replied, walking slowly to the mantel, peering down to the music box, running his fingertips along the wooden edge. Seconds later he turned back to her. “Have you?”

She hadn't expected him to ask her, accepting in
stead that he would have it planned and ready to adopt. He seemed intent on her opinion, though, and maybe it was something they could decide together.

Standing to meet his gaze levelly, she murmured, “I thought perhaps a companion of some kind, but you're really a bit too…robust to need one. After meeting you that doesn't seem plausible.”

His cheek twitched in mild amusement. “No.”

She gave him a dash of a smile in return as she looked his enormous, masculine body up and down. The top half of him was in perfect shape, but he did have a limp, an obvious injury, one undoubtedly noticed by villagers. Posing as his nurse might be believed, although she didn't really look like much of one. Still, it was the best she could think of.

“Your mistress?” she suggested instead in a deep whisper.

She had no idea where that had come from. Neither did he. He actually looked stunned.

Madeleine reached up with one hand and covered her throat with her palm, hoping he couldn't see the pounding pulse she could feel beneath her fingertips, wrapping herself with her free arm in a measure of defense. But she never took her eyes from his face.

His lids thinned, and once again she felt that same strange magnetic pull from him, charging the air between them, palpable and thick.

“I don't think that would be believed, either, Madeleine,” he whispered huskily, and very slowly.

She was on the verge of asking why, as it seemed perfectly reasonable to her, when he carried on with a more logical concern.

“It might also give us problems socially, and we need
to be free to accept invitations.”

She should have considered that before blurting her thoughts. Word would spread that they lived together and alone, however, and eventually people would suspect a deeper involvement between them. Certainly he'd thought of that.

“Of course, you're right,” she agreed with a shade of embarrassment. She sighed, sagging a little. “Have you any ideas, Thomas?”

He stared sharply into her eyes with obvious reluctance. Then he groaned softly and raised a palm, wiping it harshly over his face.

“I fought in the Opium War, Madeleine,” he revealed soberly. “That's where I received my injuries.” He shifted his body uncomfortably on the rug. “I thought maybe you could pose as the French translator of my memoirs.”

Sympathy coursed through her. She understood so intimately the pain of a past one could never change. He'd fought in a war of questionable merit, sustaining injuries that had left him maimed, and he'd been averse to tell her. And the Opium War had ended six years ago, which meant that if his legs hadn't healed by now, he would live with his suffering for the rest of his life. Tragic, and yet he carried on, just as she had in her life when faced with misery.

“You don't really look much like a translator,” he proceeded when she didn't comment, “but it's the best I can think of. Certainly better than posing as a companion, and it will probably be believed.”