A Christmas Charade (11 page)

“That’s what I meant to do.”

She cast a look around, at the spot where she had lain unconscious, and which suddenly seemed much closer to the water than she remembered it; at the abandoned cloak, brand new but now beyond salvation; at the surging water beyond the landing stage.

And she realized that two things had changed since she first stepped onto the landing stage and was knocked senseless. The tide was coming in. Fast. And the boat was gone.”

She felt the pressure of his arm against her back, heard his voice urging her on.

She looked up at him. “A boat—I took it for a revenue cutter—it was anchored here when I arrived. It’s gone!

“The devil you say!”

He steered her off the landing stage and toward the carriage track. His eyes swept the estuary as far as he could see, but there was nothing. No revenue cutter. No boat at all. But, then, he had not expected to see anything.

After a moment, she said, “It was very strange, I realize now. There was no one aboard, and I should think that at least one preventive officer would have been left to guard the boat. And besides, a preventive officer would hardly hit me over the head, would he?”

Clive had a fairly good notion that the boat in question was a smuggling vessel and Miss Gore-Langton’s attacker a free-trader.

Anger boiled in him that they had dared lay a hand on her, but he said, “One never knows what the excisemen might or might not do. I’ll come back later and have a look around.”

“Oh, no! I don’t think—”

He felt her sway and, fearing she was about to swoon, caught her up in his arms and carried her. She murmured some unintelligible protest, which he ignored, and after a while she subsided. She was not unconscious but looked up at him with a troubled frown.

“Don’t go back,” she said. “It’s dangerous.”

“Hush, Elizabeth! No more talk. Must save my breath for the climb.”

The carriage track was not steep, but it was very rough, and even though his fair burden was slight, he was beginning to feel a little breathless. He was damnably out of shape!

About halfway up the track, Elizabeth insisted that she walk again. Since she was shivering, despite the coat, he did not try to dissuade her. The cloak had not completely saved her gown from getting damp. Walking might exhaust her, but at least it would get her warm.

When the western gate came in sight, he picked her up again and thus entered the castle yard with Elizabeth in his arms—a mistake, he found, for Sam Nutley was waiting to tell him I told you so.

“Hold your tongue, Sam!” he said before the head groom could open his mouth. “Have one of the local lads ride for a physician. And saddle Rambunctious.”

At this last order, Miss Gore-Langton again muttered something about “dangerous” and “don’t go!” But since her teeth were chattering and she was shaking all over, he did not bother to reply but made all haste to the castle.

He lowered his burden onto a settle by the fire in the Great Hall, sent one footman running for the housekeeper, and told another to take hot water to Miss Gore-Langton’s room. By the time Mrs. Rodwell arrived breathlessly in the hall and exclaimed over Miss Gore-Langton’s disheveled state, the young lady had recovered sufficiently to beg Clive once more not to return to the estuary.

She was so persistent, that he wondered if she was withholding information from him.

He asked, “Why? What do you think will happen to me if I look around on my own property?”

“The same fate that befell me,” she said, shivering.

Mrs. Rodwell instantly pounced on her. “That’s enough talk, my dear. You come with me, and don’t you worry none about his grace. He’s well able to take care of himself. And any questions he may have, he can ask
after
Dr. Wimple has seen you.” She shot a look at Clive. “The physician has been sent for, I hope?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly.

Miss Gore-Langton rose from the settle. She gave a weak chuckle. “I did not think
you’d
stand in awe of Mrs. Rodwell.”

“Oh, I do. She was my nurse, and I still quake at the prospect of a tongue lashing.”

Miss Gore-Langton slipped her arms out of his coat and handed it to him. “Thank you. I believe you saved my life.”

“Nonsense. You would not have stayed unconscious very long once the tidewater started nipping at your feet.”

“The temperature in December not being conducive to sea bathing?” Again she chuckled.

It was a rich, surprisingly deep sound he found delightful. And he could not help but admire her pluck. When another woman would have been in hysterics, or at least tearful, she could still see a certain humor in a potentially dangerous situation.

“Hush, now!” Mrs. Rodwell clasped Elizabeth’s elbow. “I don’t know what happened to put you in this state, my dear. And I don’t want to know! Not until I’ve seen you into bed with hot bricks and a nice tisane.”

He watched until they disappeared in the passage leading to the east wing. He saw Elizabeth sway once and started after her, but the housekeeper had already placed a plump arm around her waist. There was no need to be concerned. He was certain Elizabeth was not seriously hurt, and Mrs. Rodwell was more than able to deal with her.

Pulling on his coat, Clive strode toward the front door. Before he was halfway there, he was hailed by his uncle, emerging from the south wing passage.

“Clive, my boy!” Huffing a little, Lord Decimus trundled toward his nephew. “A word with you, if you please.”

Instinct urged Clive to hurry back to the landing stage immediately. Manners dictated that he stay and greet his elderly relative, who usually did not leave his room before noon.

“Good morning, Decimus. I trust you slept well? Or is your early appearance due to a lumpy mattress?”

“No, no, my boy. The mattress is fine. In fact, the whole chamber is what you young people call bang up to the knocker.”

Clive did not think of himself as “young people”; neither did he indulge in such flash terms as “bang up to the knocker.”

Curbing his impatience, he said, “Thank you. How can I be of service?”

Decimus’s cherubic face puckered into a frown. “I’m not sure, though, that restoring the south wing wasn’t a foolish waste. Must have cost a pretty penny, and there are plenty of rooms without the south wing and the second story—if you want to live here, that is—which, I confess, has me in a puzzle. Why would you want to be at Stenton when you have a perfectly comfortable house in London?”

“I hadn’t planned on staying permanently. But, pardon me, Decimus. I’m in a bit of a rush. Why—”

“Not planned on it!” Decimus sputtered. He peered shortsightedly into his nephew’s face. “Dash it, Clive! Have you gone mad? Why waste your blunt on Stenton if you don’t mean to live here? If you have money to burn, you might make me another loan!”

Clive could not help but grin. Making Decimus a loan was indeed burning money. His uncle kept strict tally of the amounts borrowed from Clive, even calculated the interest. But whether he’d ever be able to repay the loans was another matter.

“Under the hatches again, Decimus? Is that why you wanted to speak to me?”

“Of course I’m under the hatches. What else would bring me to this forsaken place?”

Clive raised a quizzing brow. “Family?”

“No,” Decimus replied without a moment’s hesitation. “Shouldn’t think so at all. And neither is family or the south wing what I wanted to talk to you about.”

He drew himself up, a move that gave him the looks of a plump pouter pigeon. “It’s that butler of yours!”

The accusatory note in Decimus’s voice fairly took Clive aback. “Lud! You knew Symes when he was a footman at Stenton House. What the deuce did he do to make you call him
that butler?
”

“Don’t know that he did anything.” Decimus narrowed his eyes. “But if you ask me, I think it’s damned fishy that every time I inquire about the delivery, he says it has not yet been made. Stap me! That’s impossible!”

Clive remembered that Nicholas had said something about Decimus questioning the butler regarding a shipment of wine.

“Are you talking about a wine delivery, Decimus? I cannot believe you sent some of your own store. After you’ve assured me over and over again that my cellars are as well stocked as my father’s were?”

But Decimus wasn’t listening. “Symes won’t convince me that
nothing
has arrived,” he said indignantly. “Why, you’ve been here since Tuesday. Today is Saturday. Symes himself has been here a fortnight or more. No, no, my boy! The ‘gentlemen’ are never backward. And never stingy. They pay immediately and generously.”

Excitement made Decimus breathless. He could only wave pudgy hands, but it was quite unnecessary for him to say anything else.

“Great Scot, sir! You’re talking about smuggled wine! Delivered by free-traders.”

“They prefer to be called ‘gentleman’ traders. You had better remember that, my boy, when you speak of them hereabout.”

Clive stared at his uncle, who had taken an enameled snuffbox from his coat pocket, flicked open the lid, and delicately inhaled a pinch of snuff.
Decimus and the free-traders!
He had not counted on that complication.

Or was it a complication? Like Elizabeth earlier, Clive began to see some humor in the situation.

“Tell me, Decimus. When and how did you get in touch with the smug—the ‘gentleman’ traders?”

Having sneezed twice, Decimus once more peered shortsightedly at his nephew. “So you don’t know about the arrangement, eh?”

“What arrangement?”

“Didn’t I mention it when you and Harry were nippers and pestered me to tell you about Stenton?”

“You said nothing about smugglers.”

Decimus shrugged. “In any case, your father should’ve told you.”

“Please get to the point. What should I have been told?”

“That we Rowlands have always closed our eyes and ears when the ‘gentlemen’ land in the estuary and store their goods in the cave. It’s for a short while only, until the moon is bright enough so the casks can be carried overland. And for the use of the landing stage and the cave, the ‘gentlemen’ leave a keg of wine or cognac at the kitchen door, sometimes tea or a dress length of silk as well.”

Clive took a deep breath.

“What cave, Decimus?” he asked quietly.

“The hidden cave below the west wall, Clive, my boy. Where your father and I used to play at pirates and smugglers.”

“How appropriate,” said Clive, still very quietly. “The west wall is long. Can you be more specific?”

“I’d show you if it weren’t for my gouty foot.” Decimus tried to peer at his foot over the expanse of his stomach but gave it up as futile.

He directed an amiable smile at Clive. “The cave is in the cliffs below the western gate and the southwest tower. Rather more toward the tower than the gate, I think. Or is it the other way around? But you’ll find it, my boy. Unlike me, you have a pair of devilish sharp eyes in your head.”

“Thank you,” Clive said dryly.

He caught sight of his brother-in-law and Nicholas entering the Great Hall.

Recalling the morning he and Nick had scrambled over rocks and boulders all along the south side of the castle in search of just such a cave as Decimus knew on the west side, recalling Nick’s grumbling about the wind, the cold, the damp, the scratched boots, Clive started to laugh. The irony of the situation was even more exquisite than he had at first perceived.

But he must count himself fortunate that the Home Office did not have a say in this tangle of a mission he had agreed to undertake. The Home Secretary would most certainly have ordered him to put a stop to the smuggling. And then where would he be? He, a Rowland bound by tradition to turn a blind eye on the illegal traffic in the estuary.

The recollection of his mission sobered Clive, but a glint of laughter still lurked in his eyes as he hailed the two men. There was no point in trying to keep George Wilmott or any of the guests in ignorance of the smugglers’ activities. Not when Decimus knew.

And not—his look grew steely—when Miss Gore-Langton lay upstairs with a bump on her head. He could ignore smuggling but not an attack on one of his guests.

“Nick! George! Come and let Decimus tell you about the smugglers who pay in wine and cognac for the use of my landing stage and a cave in the cliffs.”

The gentlemen obligingly veered from the direct path to the breakfast parlor.

“A smugglers’ cave.” Even at a distance, indignation but also a hint of concern were clearly discernible on Nicholas’s face. “And Lord Decimus knew. Fancy that! Before long, everyone will know.”

“Indeed,” said Decimus. “It’s too good a story to keep to myself. I must tell Sir John. They don’t have smugglers in Hertfordshire.”

Clive met and held Nicholas’s eye. “The sooner the story is told the better. And I doubt it’ll evoke the interest you seem to fear, Nick. Only the children—”

“What the deuce?” Nicholas raised a quizzing glass to his eye and stared at Clive’s muddied boots and buckskins. He shuddered. “I was about to apologize for oversleeping, but I can see I wouldn’t have liked it at all if I had accompanied you this morning.”

Lord Wilmott, always good-natured, said, “If you’re planning on breaking your fast, Clive, may I suggest a change of raiment? Fanny is already down, and she’ll rake you over the coals and say you need a wife to keep you in order if you show yourself in the breakfast parlor looking like that.”

“What’s amiss?” asked Decimus, but no one paid him any heed.

Clive grinned at his brother-in-law. “Don’t worry, George. I’ll change—just as soon as I return.”

“Return from where?” Decimus had followed Nicholas’s example and put a glass to his eye, through which he examined his nephew’s nether garments. “Clive, my boy, I don’t know where you mean to go, but you cannot go out looking like a mudlark!”

“Can I not?” Clive’s smile turned grim. “But I’m going to the landing stage, where I muddied my boots in the first place.”

“Ah!” Decimus nodded wisely. “The boards have rotted and you fell into the bog.”

“Not at all, sir. The planks, apparently, have been kept in good repair by the smugglers. I had to wade through the bog to rescue Miss Gore-Langton, who was knocked senseless and dumped among the reeds by your friends, the ‘gentlemen.’ ”