The Pursuit of Pleasure (16 page)

His laugh filled the room. “You’re to kiss me, very sweetly,” he leaned down scant inches from her lips, “and then put me from your mind forever.”

Her smile wobbled at the edges, but she rallied, determined to put on a brave face.

“The way you look, I suppose I’ll have to be obligated to miss you after all.”

The offhand compliment warmed him. It was as close to praise as Lizzie was ever likely to come.

“Nonsense. You hadn’t missed me before, had you?” As soon as the words were out, something tight and binding twisted in his chest. What prompted that particular piece of stupidity? The past ought to be forgotten and done with. There were troubles enough for the present.

She hid her face with a large straw picture hat, but she answered anyway.

“You never did say good-bye.” Her voice was small, but she strengthened it. “But I suppose I must have missed you, else I’d have never married you.”

Strange, the idiotic wash of relieved pleasure. Such feeling ought to be reserved for the moments when a cannon had whizzed by, missing by fortunate inches.

But Lizzie was trying very hard to be herself. Too hard. “Well, we must send you off. I can’t miss you if you don’t actually go.”

“Then let us go then, so you can begin forgetting me.”

C
HAPTER 9

S
he was not going to be ill. Not all over the beautiful coach sent down from the Admiralty, not all over her best morning gown, and certainly not all over Jamie’s spotless dress uniform.

Lord, but she hated a closed carriage. Even with the windows down all the way, there was barely enough air to breathe. They were only halfway into Dartmouth town and she already missed the clean sea breeze. She shifted as close to the window as possible without sticking her head outside like a dog on the back of a farmer’s cart.

Lizzie slid a glance across the seat at Jamie, lounging comfortably in the backward seat. Drat him for talking her into taking the carriage. Perhaps he was due the admiration that would surely follow such a splendid vehicle, but she would have thought him above such pettiness. Such aggrandizement didn’t square with her knowledge, her intimate knowledge, of the man. But it did keep her mind occupied, and for that alone, she was grateful.

The carriage wound its way through the town, and she diverted herself by noting the commotion their passing caused. The carriage moved slowly enough over the steep, unevenstreets for her to hear some of the comments of the passersby. It was almost insulting, their astonishment at her marrying. Good Lord, she was only two and twenty, not so old she’d been ready to lead apes into hell.

Jamie made no notice. Or none she could see. His face was a perfect mask of stern haughteur, almost as if he had donned the persona of “Captain” along with his blue uniform coat and white breeches.

But while he made no comments, he had focused his gaze upon her face for much of the ride. Watching, observing. Probably waiting for her to be sick. She hoped her complexion didn’t look as green as she felt. She gritted on a smile and turned back to the moving air.

Eventually the carriage picked its way up the hill and came to a halt in front of the offices of Harris and Company, Brokers. They were there. This was it.

Jamie reached across for the door handle.

“No,” she shot out a hand to stop him. “Don’t get out. Let’s make this quick.” She swallowed over the thickness of her throat. “Write me.”

“Lizzie, I’m not going to leave you at Harris’s door like so much lost baggage.”

“Oh, why not? It’s as apt a description as any.” She took a deep breath and made herself look at him fully, no matter the painful knot of loss that burned in her throat.

The words pounded in her head, over and over like thunder—she might never see him again. Yet, she couldn’t bear it if he made a fuss, and it would be even worse if
she
did. She was not going to throw away years of character by becoming, of all things, sentimental. Not in front of Jamie. And especially not in front of an office full of clerks. She didn’t want his last sight of her to be red-nosed and weeping.

“Do write. Only witty, entertaining stories, of course. Nothing else will do.”

“Lizzie. Of course. Let me walk you inside, at least.”

“No. I couldn’t. And Mr. Harris expects me, does he not? I’m sure I can conclude my business with him without your assistance.” That sounded ungrateful. “I thank you. I’m …” She swallowed. “Thank you. Take care of yourself.” She clutched the hand he reached out to her.

“And you. Lizzie.” He squeezed her fingers gently.

She nodded and tried to pull her hand away. “Well, then. Good-bye.” She forced herself to smile while the knot in her throat grew so tight, she felt it would choke her.

He didn’t say anything. He reached his hand up and slowly stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers and watched her with those open gray eyes. She had nowhere to hide. She couldn’t pretend. And when his eyes had done their work, he leaned down and kissed her softly.

It was a kiss of such infinite gentleness and longing that she nearly broke, nearly fell to her knees to wrap her arms around his legs and plead for him never to leave. But that was impossible, not to mention entirely mortifying. And his kiss was so soft and sweet—bittersweet. She could not keep herself from kissing him back. She put every ounce of caring she could muster into her kiss and took every last thing she could. Each last taste and feel and smell of him. Bay rum.

As soon as her lips left him she turned, groping blindly for the door. She jumped over the foot step and fled across the few feet of gravel, up the porch stairs and into the relative sanctuary of the office. But once inside, she could only sag back against the closed door and sink to the cold marble floor. Her legs simply would not work.

It was done. She would never see him again.

She closed her eyes to the astonished faces of the clerks and let the horrid heat spill up out of her heart and down her cheeks. Good Lord, they would probably dine out on this for years. No one in Dartmouth had ever seen her weep.

* * *

“Remind me why we volunteered for this mission.”

Marlowe watched McAlden pace before the only window in the second floor room.

No trips through the hollowed halls of the Admiralty for them. A small upstairs room in the back of the Portsmouth Naval Yard was necessary to their subterfuge.

“For Frank, Hugh, for Frank,” he answered quietly, but then firmed his voice. He could just hear Lizzie teasing him as sentimental. “Because we followed Captain Smith out of the Navy and off to Sweden. Because despite our efforts, we failed at Toulon. Because I know Dartmouth. And because we were asked.”

“So if we do this right we might get ourselves promoted back to the real war instead of being becalmed in the backwaters?”

“This is the real war, Hugh.”

Footsteps, light and quick, sounded on the stairs. Without a word, he and McAlden came to attention. The door opened and Sir Charles Middleton, one of the Naval Lords of the Admiralty, stepped into the room.

“Gentlemen.” He acknowledged each with a small bow and a handshake. “Captain Marlowe. Lieutenant McAlden. Let us set to the business.” He gestured to the small round table, where they each took seats.

Middleton was a spry man in his late sixties, with a full head of white hair, a genial, forthright face, and a firm handshake. Marlowe had liked him instantly. He had been influenced toward a favorable impression, no doubt, by the knowledge that Middleton, unlike many of the politicians serving as Naval Lords, had actually been a naval man himself, with over fifty years of devotion to the senior service. In active duty, he had earned a reputation as a fair, honest captain, much admired by his men. It was more than enough for Marlowe.

Middleton did not waste their time. Another mark in his favor.

“To begin, I must tell you I have just come from Whitehall, where it was again impressed upon me how vitally important this mission is to the war with France. Vital. We are determined to stamp out this blight and have at last been allocated the necessary funds and equipment to see it done. We have lost one good man already. We cannot lose more.”

“Yes, my lord.” Marlowe opened up a dossier and brought out a number of maps and charts. “Our orders charge that the Revolutionary Government of France be deprived of all sustenance—food, goods, services, and especially munitions. The Channel Fleet and the West Indies Squadron are at work cutting off the enemy’s supply from the Americas, here and here,” he delineated the limits of the fleet’s cruising range on the charts. “But there remains a small but significant trade between this island and the northern coast of France centered out of the Devon coast, and most particularly, Dartmouth.” He landed a pointed finger hard upon the chart of the English Channel. “And Lieutenant Palmer suspected, Redlap Cove.”

Lord Middleton’s voice shook with repressed emotion. “It must be stopped. This smuggling has progressed to a greater treason than the mere cheating of the Revenue Service.”

“Lieutenant Palmer’s last messages indicated he suspected a large cache of weapons was headed across the Channel from Redlap.”

“And you will find it.” Lord Middleton’s tone brooked no failure.

“Our preliminary reconnaissance of the house and grounds have, as yet, yielded no sign of either the suspected shipment, nor evidence of the particular gang working out of that cove. A month’s watch of the area has provided no evidence of anything other than the usual brandy and lace. And yet Palmer was sure. And his death is proof enough that he had found the necessary evidence and was killed for it.”

Middleton mulled over the map of the property for few moments.

“I have chosen you for this particular task, Captain Marlowe, for two reasons. First because you have made a favorable impression upon us, showing remarkable adaptability and success in the Siege of Toulon. Indeed, if we had had twenty such officers, the final result of that battle might have been different. Be that as it may, such cunning will be necessary in dealing with these smugglers. Second, there is your ownership of the property at Redlap Cove. Our Lordships had originally thought that to simply associate the property publicly with you and the navy would put an end to its use by the smugglers.”

He peered over the rim of his steel-framed eyeglasses, his lined, blue eyes sharp and bright. “I will scruple to tell you, Captain Marlowe, when that did not happen, when the smuggling continued, it was suggested that perhaps you had simply gone in league with the smugglers to augment your own income, that indeed such had been your primary object in buying the derelict property.”

“My lord, I…” Marlowe felt heat color his face. He had no idea his honor had been called into question. The very idea was sickening.

Lord Middleton held up a restraining hand. “Suffice it to say, were I not completely satisfied on that account, you would no longer hold your commission, and we would not be having this conversation.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Do not disappoint me, Captain Marlowe. There is a vast deal at stake for all of us.” He fixed Marlowe with a penetrating stare. “I can personally assure you that the successful completion of this undertaking is of utmost importance, not only to the Admiralty, most especially to the First Lord, the Earl of Chatham, but also,” he pronounced the words with grave emphasis, “to his brother, the prime minister, William Pitt, the Younger.”

Marlowe exchanged a brief glance of understanding with Hugh, who nodded in confirmation.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. This whole problem has become far too public. That damned sketcher Gilray’s latest satirical cartoon of French agents blithely smuggling war supplies from British shores hangs in the window of every shop from London to Portsmouth and every place in between. It is a damned embarrassment and the government wants it ended. Now. Do I make myself clear?” Middleton’s pale face colored with spots high on his cheekbones.

“Very clear, sir.”

“Good. You have your agents in place at Redlap?”

Another nod of confirmation from Hugh.

“Yes, and Lieutenant McAlden and I are also in place there, in the guise of men ready to be adopted into the smuggling fraternity. With the house empty and all ties to the navy publicly severed, we hope to lure this gang back to using Redlap, where we will infiltrate, identify the leaders, and then end this ring.”

“Good. A sound, if unorthodox, plan. Their lordships of the Admiralty had to be convinced having officers out of uniform was the best and most expedient strategy. While they will adopt any expediency at sea, I had a great deal of trouble convincing them our own form of espionage would yield the necessary results.” He shook his head at the Admiralty’s obstinacy. “However, our lordships have granted your request for naval support. Though a vessel has been made available out of Plymouth, I’m sorry to say, instead of Portsmouth.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Good. Then there is nothing left but for me to caution youto secrecy and to the utmost care in dealing with this nest of traitors. They are a deadly lot, and I do not want to lose another of my officers on English soil.”

Marlowe took comfort in his vehemence. “I will make certain Lieutenant Palmer did not die in vain, sir.”

“I will take you at your word, Captain Marlowe. We rather have need of all our brightest young officers at the moment.” The gaze of his clear eyes swept over the two of them.

“I am honored.”

Lord Middleton permitted himself a small smile of thanks. “All is in readiness?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then there can be no further impediments to your beginning.”

“No, sir. No impediments.”

“Good. Then let us proceed.”

Joss Tupper had just set himself down to his wife’s excellent steak and kidney pie when he saw a fancy curricle bowl down the lane and make the turn towards the main house.

Who could it be at this hour of the afternoon? He hadn’t been told to expect visitors. Just the opposite.

Tupper pulled on his coat and made his way sharpish up the lane to the big house. When he got to the west courtyard he found a snooty wisp of a man unloading one of two trunks strapped to the back of the spindly vehicle. The man’s gaze flicked over him briefly before he turned away in obvious dismissal. Tupper drew himself up and allowed a hearty laugh to rumble out of his chest. Thirty years in His Majesty’s Navy hadn’t left him without knowing precisely what to do with this lot.