Kiss From a Rogue (8 page)

“And you have such a youthful staff.”

Her expression clouded. “Many of the young men from the village went off to fight Napoleon.”

“And didn’t come back.” Tony picked up another fallen leaf. “My elder brother nearly lost his leg, and his life, at Waterloo.”

Sylvia nodded slowly. “And most of the crew on Montgomery’s ship was from the village, as well. All hands perished when they wrecked last spring.”

“And so you have a crew and staff of tottering elders.”

Sylvia wiped the blades of her shears on her apron. “Galen and Gerald should have been pensioned off years ago, but the dear hearts won’t leave us. They’ve been here since before Jimmy was born.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “The young redhead who was none too happy to see me last night?”

“He can be a trifle impatient at times, but he means well. He is also rather—”

“Protective?”

She nodded.

“With so many vigilant defenders around, you have nothing to fear from me.” Except her own reactions, of course. She was weakening toward him. He could tell.

“You’ll stay, then?” She looked as though she hadn’t quite let herself believe it until then.

Even if he hadn’t already decided to stay in order to pursue the pretty widow, the vulnerability hiding behind her bravado would have decided the issue for him. He had no pressing plans, no reason he couldn’t delay meeting up with Alistair.

Until then, Tony would live in a house, almost alone, with a charming and beautiful widow. “I will stay, on one condition.”

It was her turn to raise her eyebrows, as Tony moved nearer, close enough to catch her lavender scent, watch the pupils flare in her expressive green eyes.

“I want you”—he tucked another wayward curl behind her ear—“to call me Tony.”

Her breathing hitched. “All right. Tony. You should probably address me as Sylvia, then. Montgomery and I were more formal, but—”

“I am not a formal man, Sylvia. My brother got the title, not me. He got the family fortune, too. All I inherited”—he leaned a little closer and tilted his chin down so that he was looking at her through his eyelashes—“was the fair face.”

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and he bent closer, intent on kissing her. Her sudden burst of laughter jolted him backward.

Damn. That trick always worked for Alistair, even when the dolt did it unconsciously.

She wagged her finger at him. “You’re trying to charm me, Mr. Sin—Tony. That won’t work.” She allowed another bubble of laughter to escape. “So, we have an agreement?” She held out her hand to shake on it.

“We do.” Tony shook her hand, then slowly, deliberately, raised her hand to his lips. Holding her gaze, he kissed the tender flesh on her inner wrist, his lips lingering on her fluttering pulse. The scent of earth and growing things, sweeter than any French perfume, washed over him. “Madam wife. Temporarily.”

That earned him another blush. She cleared her throat. “Right.” She coughed again. “As to the ‘having more work than workers’ part, Gerald is upstairs in the gold salon, where part of the ceiling collapsed. Perhaps you could lend a hand?”

“But a husband needs to spend time alone with his wife.” Tony draped his arm around Sylvia’s waist.

She froze for a heartbeat, then took a step sideways, out of reach. “
Pretend
husband.” She brandished her pruning shears. “And there is no one present now for whom we need to pretend.”

“Ah, but we do need to practice.” Tony followed Sylvia down the aisle. “We must be comfortable in each other’s presence if we are to succeed in this charade.” He lowered his voice. “Comfortable with each other’s touch.”

She shook her head. “Montgomery and I almost never touched…in public. Nothing more than my taking his arm as we walked down High Street, or his handing me in or out of the carriage.”

“But as you said, Montgomery was more formal. I, however, am a tactile man. I need to touch things that belong to me, however temporary the arrangement.”

Her chin came up again. “I do not belong to you, even less than I belonged to Montgomery.”

“An independent spirit. Forgive me, madam. I was under the impression you needed my cooperation for your scheme to succeed.”

He began walking toward the door, silently counting.

“Wait.”

He had barely reached three. Knowing it would be unwise to smile just now, he kept his expression neutral as he pivoted to face Sylvia.

“I thought you said you had only one condition.”

“One condition that you didn’t know about. After our kiss last night, surely you expected a little…physical contact? I have just embarked on a criminal career, at your behest. You had to know I’d expect some benefit.”

“Benefit?” Sylvia gaped at him. “Why, you pompous, arrogant, conceited popinjay! You, you
libertine
!”

As Sylvia blustered, Tony thought of all the fun they were going to have in the coming week.

She picked up a glass carafe from the shelf above the potting bench, intent on lobbing it at his head, no doubt, when she suddenly quieted. She stared at the carafe, and the assorted other containers on the shelf.

Choosing a better missile? Perhaps he should ease up a tad, get her more accustomed to his presence. “Something wrong?”

She sighed. “I have to go down to the inn. Jimmy was supposed to take these with him when he went to help with the casks.”

A chance to learn more about the smuggling operation, and walk about with his “wife” on his arm. Tony opened the door. “Shall we go, then?”

W
ithin minutes, Tony was striding down a winding path along the cliff to the Happy Jack Inn, Sylvia’s hand tucked in the crook of his arm. Her ever-present basket was slung over her free arm, the contents covered by a green-checked cloth. She’d refused his offer to carry it. Gray clouds still hovered above, but kept the rain to themselves.

“Are we moving the casks to a new hiding place?”

They took several steps before she replied. “Not exactly.”

Tony didn’t blame her for her reticence, though couldn’t help wishing she’d be a little more forthcoming with the details of the illegal operation in which he’d become involved. He’d never before done anything more illicit than help dismantle the headmaster’s carriage, and reassemble it inside the gent’s sitting room.

The cliff path eventually joined a road, and soon they were strolling down High Street in the middle of the village. They passed cottages with broken windows and missing thatch, and more than one whose bare rafters left the upper floors open to the sky. Viewed in the unforgiving light of day, the entire village had obviously been lacking funds for quite some time. What were they spending their smuggling profits on? Certainly not paint or lumber.

But the streets were uncluttered and free of offal, unlike London. Here, the air was swept clean by the near constant breeze fresh off the Channel. A man could breathe deeply here and not choke.

Even the most run-down cottages had well-tended gardens, though, with a profusion of vegetable patches and the occasional flower. Tony recalled that his brother’s cook occasionally served those particular blooms as edible garnish. Seemed the entire village shared Sylvia’s penchant for the practical over the ornamental.

Other pedestrians called out cheery greetings to Sylvia as they walked, and gave Tony the once-over. A preponderance of the women they passed were dressed in the gray or lavender of half-mourning. To the few who paused, Sylvia introduced him simply as “Mr. Sinclair” with no hint of the nature of their relationship.

Her grip on his sleeve tightened when a mounted rider in an outdated coat and breeches slowed to their pace, and tipped his hat. “Lady Montgomery,” the man drawled.

“Mr. Tipton,” Sylvia returned, her nose in the air, though her face had gone pale.

The rider stared pointedly at Tony.

Sylvia coughed. “Tipton, Mr. Sinclair. He and I were recently, er, married.”

Tipton’s eyebrows rose, disappearing above his hat brim. “Really? I don’t recall the banns having been read.”

“Special license,” Tony jumped in. “As soon as she consented to make me the happiest of men, I didn’t want to waste a single day.”

“Certainly understand your point of view.” Tipton cocked his head to one side. “But why would she give up the title to marry a plain mister, eh?”

“A title without a fortune is of little use.”

“You don’t say.” Tipton’s gaze grew more calculating, blatantly studying Tony’s well-tailored garments.

He let the confirmation of his wealth speak for itself. Sylvia’s knuckles were white where she gripped his sleeve, as Tipton continued to stare. Tony covered her hand with his own. He wished she had let him carry the basket—she was trembling, making the glass containers inside clank against each other. Must be an interesting story behind her acquaintance with Tipton.

Sylvia cleared her throat. “We don’t wish to keep you from your rounds any further. Good day, Mr. Tipton.” Sylvia gave a slight push on Tony’s arm, urging him forward.

The two resumed their walk, and Tipton nudged his horse into a trot.

“What was that about?” Tony said as soon as Tipton was out of earshot. “I thought everyone in the village was in on our charade.”

“That doesn’t include the Revenue agent.” Sylvia’s face was now flushed with color.

“That was a Revenue agent?” Tony stared after the figure disappearing around a bend. A man whose job it was to catch them at their illegal nighttime activities, and who would gladly see them hung for it. He could have happily gone his entire life without actually meeting one.

And here Sylvia stood, carrying paraphernalia in her basket necessary to the smuggling business. No wonder she had trembled.

Perhaps Tony hadn’t fully thought through the potentially negative aspects of pretending to be the lovely Sylvia’s new husband, before agreeing to the scheme. But unlike his decision to travel with Alistair, this time he could at least blame his rash decision on the blow to the head he’d received.

“What is he doing about in the day? Thought Revenuers only tried to catch smugglers at night, when they’re landing their cargo.”

“The cargo has to be moved sometime. Tipton is probably dead certain one was brought in last night.”

Tony couldn’t help wincing at her choice of the words “dead certain.” He cleared his throat. “So, what are we doing today?”

Sylvia entered the yard of the Happy Jack. “We’re just a couple out to have lunch at the local pub.”

Tony shrugged, and opened the door for her. At the inkeeper’s request, they took a table in the corner, the same that he had occupied with Alistair. Had that been only twenty-four hours ago? Once again his life had taken a dramatic turn in a short span.

From his father’s suicide, to Ben suddenly joining the army and leaving Tony as temporary head of the family, to setting out on tour with Alistair in order to avoid a boring job, Tony had become adept at adjusting quickly. Surely that too was a requisite skill for a successful career as a rake?

They had barely pulled their chairs up to the table when Spencer came over with one tankard and a pitcher, and poured less than a finger’s worth.

“Baxter says he knows what he’s doing, my lady, but I think you should lend a hand just the same.” Spencer set the tankard down in front of Sylvia.

Tony watched as she took a sniff from the tankard, then a sip—and delicately spat it back. She cleared her throat. “Baxter never could get the ratio right.” Sylvia pushed her chair back and stood, gesturing for Tony to do the same. “You might as well come along. In for a penny.”

Spencer finally gave his attention to Tony. “Sorry about the misunderstanding last night. No hard feelings, eh?”

“How could I say yes?”

The innkeeper laughed and gave Tony a hearty slap on his sore shoulder that made him stagger the first few steps as he followed Sylvia. She was headed for the kitchen, and he caught up just as she went down into the cellar.

Tony was glad of his coat as the temperature dropped significantly by the time they wended their way past sacks, barrels, and crates of supplies. Sylvia opened a door that Tony didn’t at first recognize was even there, it blended into the wall so well.

Inside was another room, with small casks stacked to the low ceiling, lining two walls. A worktable sat in the middle, surrounded by open barrels, and topped with glass carafes and other vessels of various sizes, as well as several packets of what looked and smelled like burnt sugar. Three men that Tony recognized from last night were arguing, but broke off when they saw the newcomers. Jimmy was nowhere in sight.

“Gentlemen,” Sylvia said.

In perfect unison, all three pulled off their caps and chorused, “My lady.”

“You’re just in the nick of time,” the eldest of them said.

“I thought we was doing right fine,” a second said.

“Not if the pitcher abovestairs is any indication,” Sylvia said.

The second man jutted his chin, preparing a protest.

“If you make it too weak, Baxter, we’ll have to find new buyers for each batch.”

Baxter lowered his chin. “Aye, m’lady.”

“Told you you was putting in too much water.” The third man finally spoke up.

“And you was putting in too much sugar, Corwin.”

Baxter gave Corwin a light punch in the arm, which Corwin returned, with more force. Baxter swung his fist back, but before he could strike, it was caught by the eldest of the three.

“Knock it off before I plant you both a facer,” the old man growled. He had to be seventy if a day, but Tony didn’t doubt he could hit both men. Baxter and Corwin also apparently believed, as they straightened their coats and looked away, grumbling under their breath.

“Thank you, Trent. Where’s Jimmy?” Sylvia pushed the containers on the table out of the way, and set down her basket.

“He said none of these was right, and went back up to fetch the proper one. Is that it, then?” Trent pointed at the glass Sylvia had just retrieved from her basket.

Before Sylvia could respond, they heard the grind of wood on stone. Daylight and a gust of fresh sea air poured in through an opening in the wall. Jimmy stepped through, then leaned his shoulder against the door to push it closed.

“There you are, Syl. Did you bring it?”

Sylvia held out the carafe. “If you’d taken the street instead of the tunnel, our paths would have crossed, and I could have saved you the trip back to the house.”

Tony folded his arms. “I thought you said the secret tunnels and corridors were hogwash.”

“
Montgomery
said the tunnels were hogwash.” She untied the strings on her bonnet and hung it on a peg near the door. “Two carafes full to each cask, and one of these.” She pulled a spoon and salt cellar out of her basket and handed them to Corwin.

As Tony watched, Baxter picked up one of the half-ankers of brandy they’d unloaded from the boats last night, and tipped the contents into a larger barrel, while Jimmy filled Sylvia’s carafe with water from a bucket, and tipped that into the barrel, too. Corwin, meanwhile, spooned burnt sugar into the salt cellar, leveled it off, and emptied the contents into the barrel.

“Isn’t that sacrilege?” The intoxicating, rich scent of brandy and sugar permeated the air.

“The distillery ships out their product in concentrated form,” Sylvia explained. “Drinking it as it comes straight from the cask can be dangerous.”

“Just ask Corwin,” Trent said, dumping in another carafe of water.

“Sick as a dog, he was,” Baxter added.

“Shaddup,” Corwin growled. He tipped the barrel back and forth, stirring the contents.

Jimmy dipped a clean glass in and held the contents up to the lamplight. “Looks about right, don’t it, Sylvia?”

“Let’s check it in the daylight.”

Jimmy opened the door. A fresh sea breeze swept through the room, clearing Tony’s head of the brandy fumes. He followed Sylvia and Jimmy outside. Weak sunlight broke through a few of the clouds. The path leading up to the door was barely visible, just a tiny break in the tall grasses whispering in the wind, clinging to the hillside that rolled away, down to the shore.

Off in the distance was the ever-present sound of crashing surf.

“Well, Mister—Tony? What do you think?”

Tony brought his gaze from the distant sea to Sylvia’s green eyes, the same color as the ocean in a spring storm. “What?”

She waved the glass under his nose. “What do you think?”

I think I could drown in your eyes.
He kept his mouth shut, and took the glass from her, brushing her fingers. He held it up to the sun, squinting.

“Did we add enough burnt sugar? Too much?” Jimmy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Wish I could have had some in my tea this morning, burnt or not.” Tony swirled the amber liquid, then held the glass under his nose. “Looks right. Smells right.” He tasted, let it slide down his throat. Sighed. “My brother would be proud to have this in his London cellar.”

“Excellent.” Sylvia took the glass from him before he could even think about drinking the rest, and went back inside and poured it into the barrel. “This first barrel is for Spencer, as usual, then start loading the cart as soon as Doyle finishes repairing it. The Seven Feathers Inn at Wool is expecting a delivery from us today. And make sure all of the barrels have a stamp—Tiplon is out riding.”

“Aye, m’lady,” the men said. Jimmy joined them, and the four settled into a routine of reconstituting the brandy and sealing it in larger barrels, complete with tax stamps.

Tony watched them for a bit, Sylvia at his side. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, leaning over to whisper in her ear, “I’d think you actually paid customs on those barrels.”

“We did, once. Or rather, Mr. Spencer did. He buys legal provisions for his inn, including brandy.”

“Illegal mixed in with the legal. Brilliant, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Her smile lit up the room as though the outside door had been opened. “Now that we have set aside payment for Mr. Spencer, let’s go upstairs and have some provisions sent up to Galen. This afternoon you shall have sugar for your tea.” She put her bonnet back on, grabbed her basket, and led the way upstairs.

They exchanged greetings with Mrs. Spencer and her daughter, baking pies in the kitchen. “The package you’re expecting is here,” Sylvia told her.

“I’ll let everyone know, my lady. Thank you.” Mrs. Spencer accepted a slip of paper from Sylvia and glanced at it before tucking it in her apron pocket. “I’ll have one of the lads deliver these later.”

“Shopping list?” Tony teased.

“Since we don’t have a grocer in the village, we buy many of our supplies through the inn.” Sylvia turned back to Mrs. Spencer. “May I see the list again? I don’t remember if I wrote down everything Galen wanted.”

The women chatted about groceries. Tony stepped toward the door. “I’m just going to get a bit of air.” Sylvia waved at him and continued discussing with Mrs. Spencer the merits of black currant versus blackberry preserves.

Tony had taken only a few steps outside when a girl peeked around the corner of the stables. “Mister!” she whispered, gesturing for him to come.

He glanced around the yard, seeing if anyone else was about.

“Mr. Sinclair!” the girl whispered again, gesturing. Still in pigtails, she couldn’t be more than eight or ten.

Tony walked over to the stables, but she disappeared by the time he turned the corner. Before he realized what had happened, an old woman grabbed him by the lapels and pushed him up against the wall. Six other women gathered in a semicircle, blocking him in. All were old enough to be his mother or grandmother, and each held a knife, knitting needles, rolling pin, or other implement he couldn’t identify but did recognize as capable of inflicting pain. Two of the women were those who had exchanged pleasantries with Sylvia on their way to the inn.