Rogue of the Borders (27 page)

“Is he one of us?”

“I am not sure, but your Dr. Morrison has worked with our Comte de Grasse Tilly. The comte trusts him completely.”

Shane knew their French comte played an important role in keeping many of their activities hidden from authorities only too eager to betray the cause of the common people for coin in their own pockets. “I will see to it then.” Shane switched the subject. “Have ye heard anything more about Richard Reneau?”

Alain shook his head. “Our man returned with no more information than you already knew. Up until six months ago, no one there seemed to have heard of him.”

Another mystery, but one that would have to wait.

“I do not mean to sound inhospitable,” Remy said as he stood, “but the sooner those documents leave France, the safer they will be.”

“I understand,” Shane replied, only too eager to take his own leave. He needed to talk to Sherrington about Abigail. The sooner he got to London, the better.

The weather continued to improve, the seas flattening and the wind cooperating with a steady breeze on the beam. Even the Thames seemed to have less traffic than usual, making maneuvering the bends in the river much easier. As eager as his men were for the full week of shore leave, they made quick work of docking, securing lines and debarking.

Walter Avery waited on the quay, the Customs agent beside him.

“Looks like the man is eager to take his shipment,” Donald said.

“Aye. He’ll still have to wait until the crates are counted.” Generally, the buyers waited in the Customs House for the paperwork to be cleared and then brought their wagons around to load. “He won’t be able to open a bottle until the duty has been paid.”

Donald grinned at Shane. “Just thinkin’ about it does make a man thirsty. Once the business is settled, we should have a dram.”

“Aye, we can do that,” Shane said as they both went down the gangplank and he greeted the customs agent. “My quartermaster has the paperwork. Do ye want to go back to the office?”

“I need to inspect the shipment before we look at the papers.”

Shane shrugged. “Suit yourself. I can open the crates now or after ye look over the invoice.”

The man looked uncomfortable. “You will need to remove each bottle for inspection.”

Shane raised a brow. “Why? Each crate can only hold twelve bottles. ’Tis what I am declaring.”

The agent shifted his gaze to Walter Avery and back to Shane. “Your client claims the last shipment contained water in at least one bottle of each crate.”

“That is impossible,” Donald intervened. “I supervised the loading myself.”

“Did you open each crate and examine each bottle?” Avery asked.

Donald leveled a look at the man. “I counted the bottles before each crate was sealed. I dinna taste them.”

“If ye were cheated, perhaps ye need to use a different vendor,” Shane added, getting impatient. He wanted to clear the shipment and find Sherrington. “I can only vouch for the numbers being accurate.”

“Shall we proceed then?” the agent asked.

“Aye.” Shane motioned for the two crew members who had remained on deck to begin bringing the crates down and wished he’d asked more crew to stay on board. This process was going to delay him by at least an hour.

Once all the crates were on the wharf, Donald set his mouth in a tight line as the crew pried open the lids and he began lifting each bottle to the light. “I doona see how this helps since the glass is dark.”

Avery moved alongside him and bent over to retrieve a bottle, removing the straw packing from around it. “You can tell—” he started to say and then squinted into the nearly empty crate. “What is this?”

“What is what?” Shane asked.

“This.” Avery dug in the straw at the bottom and then straightened, holdng a small, flat package.

Shane took a step forward. I doona ken. Give it to me.”

“I think not,” Avery said, moving back until he was behind the agent. “Let us see what it is first.”

Shane held in his rising temper. It was probably some additional padding Padget had used to insure the bottles didn’t break. Was Avery being deliberately obtuse?

A bit of powder spilled as Avery unwrapped part of the paper. He put a finger to it and then tasted, his eyes widening. Silently, he held it out to the agent.

The other man frowned as he took the package and did the same. He looked up at Shane. “I believe this is opium.”

“What?” Donald asked.

“That canna be,” Shane said.

The agent didn’t answer him, instead raising an arm to signal one of the constables nearby. “I believe we have a smuggler,” he told the officer.

“I doona ken anything about this,” Shane said.

“Well, I certainly do not,” Avery declared. “I ordered crates of brandy, nothing more. Check the invoices.”

“Of course, it is nae listed,” Shane said as the constable summoned dockworkers to unload each crate and check the packing. “I dinnae ken it was there.” The hair at his nape began to rise as he watched package after package of powder being laid in neat rows beside the shipment. He had been duped. But by whom?

“I am placing you under arrest for smuggling,” the constable said.

“I kenned nothing about this. I own a shipping line. Why would I want to risk my reputation to smuggle goods?”

The agent gave him a knowing look. “It is done all the time to avoid the duty, although I must say it is quite bold of you to do it so blatantly in front of a Customs House. You must have thought yourself quite safe.”

“Now see here—” Donald began, only to have Shane lift a hand to quiet him.

“I had nothing to do with this,” he said quietly. “Why do ye nae ask Mr. Avery why he decided to look for something hidden?”

“I was not looking,” Avery replied. “It…I felt it when I lifted the bottle.” He smiled, although it looked more like a sneer. “If I were smuggling these goods, I would hardly have shown them, would I?”

“Your crates stayed packed,” Shane answered. “I do nae go through them so I would have no reason to suspect any contraband being included.”

“Ah, but you do open them for inspection,” the agent said, “and you did want to go to the Customs House to do the paperwork first. That would give your men time to reach into each crate and pull the package before they were ever taken off the ship.”

“I run an honest business.”

“I will be confiscating your ship as well,” the agent responded, not bothering to acknowledge Shane’s statement. “Simply standard procedure.”

Shane stared at him. The
documents
were on board. Documents that were supposed to be safer in Scotland than France. Documents that could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.
Jesu Christos.
He could be exposing his Templar brothers on both sides of the Channel.

Never surrender.

“Contact Campbell,” he told Donald as the constable led him away. “Tell him the blind will see.”

Shane only hoped the duke would remember the code.

Wesley could hardly contain himself. He opened one of the cognac bottles and poured himself a healthy portion as he gazed out his dirty window at the garbage-laden street below. Soon he would not have to stay holed up in this filthy tenement living amidst squalor. Soon he could quit using his alias. Soon he would have enough funds to leave rot-infested London forever.

Everything—
everything
—had gone according to his plans. Antoine Padget had sent word the opium would be in the next shipment. Wesley had worried MacLeod would find it when he checked his inventory, but Antoine had assured Wesley no one ever took apart the padding. It was too time-consuming to unpack and repack. The man had been right. Wesley grinned and tossed down another drink. He should also thank the French whoreson for making Richard’s mother his mistress—it alleviated the bitch’s constant whining that she didn’t have enough money.

Money, at least for
him
, would soon be flowing like water. MacLeod money, which just made the feat sweeter. Richard had sent a letter with the American captain letting Wesley know he had nearly reached the limit of what could be successfully swindled—er,
borrowed
the letter had said—and with MacLeod in custody for a while, it wouldn’t take long for Richard to finish his work and head toward London.

And Wesley would be free to leave. He was somewhat leery of returning to his beloved France, given that King Louis was a personal friend of the prince regent and might be more than willing to turn Wesley over to the British authorities. He had, after all, escaped from Bedlam and was still suspected in murdering the Earl of Sherrington’s wife—not to mention abducting Jillian MacLeod.

He frowned as he was about to pour his third drink. Jillian should have been
his
. The prince had even given his approval for the marriage. Somehow, Ian MacLeod had found out Wesley had been spying for Napoleon while working for Wellington. Wesley hated the alias he’d had to assume after that bit of exposure.

Perhaps he would go to Ireland. His other son, Nicholas, had fled there for much the same reason Wesley dared not return to France. Another MacLeod—this time, Jamie—had fouled those plans.

Wesley hated the MacLeods. It was all their fault he was in this predicament.

But this time one of them would pay.

Chapter Twenty Three

Abigail carefully descended the spiral staircase in Shane’s library, one hand on the rail, the other arm full of books. She heaved a little sigh of relief when she reached the bottom and deposited her load on the desk. Sinking into the upholstered chair, she thought of how many times she had seen Shane in this very spot, books piled high around him. The library with its rich dark wood and leathery scent was her favorite place. Cozy, even when the fire in the brazier was not lit. The room felt homey and it felt like Shane.

She turned her attention to the books she’d brought down. Along with a tome on the Sinclair heritage, she’d picked up several books relating to the Templar Crusades, since she’d promised to tell the twins about those, and a slender book of poetry by Sir Walter Scott that seemed oddly misplaced. What had truly caught her eye, though, was a heavy leather-bound volume on Greek and Roman art, specifically sculptures…sans clothing.

Resisting the temptation to open the art book first, Abigail began with the Sinclair heritage. As Shane had suggested, much of it was simply genealogy, recorded births and deaths, along with a vast list of titles and honors given to the Sinclairs over the years. It seemed the Lords of Roslin—unlike the English—had managed an unbroken male bloodline for seven hundred years.

Abigail’s eyes almost crossed with the numerous entries of Williams and Henris, but one interesting comparison did stand out. The original William whom Shane had already told her was an attendant to Queen Margaret had accompanied Godfroi de Bouillon on the first trek to Jerusalem, which solved the mystery of the missing tenth Templar. And it was another William who had been killed trying to take the Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land over two centuries later.

The Sinclairs seemed to have a connection with the Templars. Was that the reason there were so many books on them upstairs? Abigail decided she’d study that theory later—after she’d allowed herself a bit of Greek and Roman culture.

At least this was a safe way to indulge her fantasies. She could be as wanton as she liked in her head and no one would ever know.

Opening the art book, she gave a soft sigh. There they were—the Greek and Roman gods. Apollo, Jupiter, Hermes, Dionysus and more, all in glorious, naked splendor. Abigail turned another page and gasped. The statue of Poseidon of Artemision was perfection. He stood in an unusual pose, strong, well-defined legs lunging, muscular arms outstretched, naked chest and belly a series of rigid lines and his…his
thing
larger than she’d ever seen on a statue before. His powerful body reminded her of Shane. Did Shane’s thing look—

Abigail was so engrossed contemplating the thought, she almost didn’t hear the door open. Quickly, she opened another book and placed it over the picture of Poseidon.

“Ye have been in here a long time,” Fiona said as she flopped down in one of the chairs by the hearth. “What has held your interest so long?”

Abigail hoped her face didn’t look as flushed as it felt. Thankfully, there were no windows in the room to let bright sunshine in. “I was…er, studying some history.”

“What is about history ye find so enjoyable?”

“Ah…” She could hardly explain just what kind of history she had been enjoying. Fiona was still a naïve, young woman. “I…” Abigail glanced down at the book lying open across her more flagrant interests. “Actually, I was reading poetry.
The Lay of the Last Minstrel.
” She pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and squinted at the tiny, neat handwriting in the margin and felt her eyes widen. It seemed the very William Sinclair she’d just read about had a nephew—another Henri—whose Lady Rosabelle drowned sailing across the Firth of Forth on a stormy night. “Listen to this,” she said and began to read, rather surprised that Fiona actually looked interested.

When she finished, she laid the book down and looked at the picture of Rosslyn Chapel on the wall. “According to the poem, twenty knights in full armor are buried beneath the chapel,” she said.