A Belated Bride (22 page)

the closest thing to heaven.

Lucien took a long sip of the tavern’s finest. When he’d first visited the Red Rooster, he’d attracted considerable notice. Now that he’d been to the tavern over a dozen times, no one spared him more than a glance. They assumed that the fine ale brought him back time and again. Normally, they will be right—this quality of spirits could hold the attention of a monk.

But today nothing kept his attention, due to an abun- dance of hot, sultry memories that continued to dance before his eyes. He took a huge swallow of his drink, hop-

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ing his overactive imagination would cool. God knew he couldn’t ache worse than he did now.

Every sinew of his body felt pulled, fraught with frus- trated desire. Last night, it had taken every drop of will he possessed to walk away from Arabella and go to his cold room. He hadn’t slept a wink, but had tossed and turned, his mind and body ablaze.

Yet his unrelenting passion was nothing compared to the realization that Arabella was far more deeply involved in free trading than he’d realized. The evidence was over- whelming, and in his fury at realizing what had been under his nose the entire time, he had allowed his emo- tions to overcome his good sense.

Last night should never have happened. If Arabella decided to come to his bed, it wouldn’t be under a cloud of suspicion. He wanted her to tell him the truth. No, he decided, scowling fiercely. He wanted more; he wanted her to trust him.

Bloody hell. Since when has that become important?
So important that he’d hesitated on the brink of making love to the woman he’d dreamed of for over ten years. With a groan, Lucien raked a hand through his hair. He was on edge, his mind and body barely in control. And there was no way free.

It had been a relief that Arabella had been little in evi- dence all day, having chosen the company of Aunt Emma in an effort, he suspected, to keep from being alone with him. He was grateful for the extra time to gather his defenses.

He stared morosely into his tankard and silently con- signed his precipitous passion to the devil. What little ground he had won through assisting Arabella in the past two weeks was lost. Now she would be even more deter- mined to get rid of him.

If she demanded it, Lucien would refuse to leave. His hand tightened about the tankard until the metal bent. How deep was she involved with her smuggling venture? Was she simply dispersing cognac and other spirits? Or had she been seduced by the promise of quick wealth into doing something far more hazardous—like bringing in a shipment of jewels that would provide enough funding to keep Napoleon’s regathered forces supplied for months?

Lucien shoved his tankard away, sloshing ale on the wooden table.
No
. Arabella Hadley may have been forced by difficult circumstances to have commerce with smug- glers, but she was not a traitor. Hell, hadn’t her beloved brother fought against Napoleon? Robert was even now confined to a wheelchair, so affected by the torture and pain he’d seen that his frozen mind would not allow him to walk. No, it was impossible that Arabella had anything to do with the stolen jewels.

The tavern door opened and a furtive-looking man slipped in. Dressed in clothing stiff with dirt and sweat, he blended well with his surroundings. The patrons glanced at him and, finding nothing of interest, returned to their murmured conversations.

Mumferd immediately found Lucien, then made his way to the table. “There ye are, guv’nor. Sorry ’bout the time.” The man’s eyes focused on Lucien’s emerald ring. “I brought ye the information ye requested.”

“And?”

Mumferd rubbed a dirty hand across his chin, his little eyes flickering around the room before he leaned forward and murmured, “The auction will be next week.”

“Can you get me in?”

“Determined to get yer hands on them jewels, ain’t ye?” “Some people collect relics, some coins. I collect more valuable things.” Lucien reached into his pocket and with-

drew a small leather bag. He hefted it in his hand a moment before tossing it to Mumferd.

The informant caught it with both hands, pulled the leather tie free, and peered inside. “Gor’!” he exclaimed softly, his eyes wide. “These must be wort’ a fortune!”

Lucien reached over and retrieved the bag. “I bought them in Suffolk at just such a sale as is to be held here.” He tilted the leather pouch into his palm and a handful of diamonds rolled free, glittering in the dark tavern.

“Easy, gov’nor!” whispered Mumferd hoarsely, glanc- ing wildly around the alehouse. “Don’t be flashin’ them gewgaws in ’ere! There are some who’d as soon slit yer gullet as look at ye.”

Lucien picked out one small, perfect diamond, returned the rest to the bag, and then secured it beneath his coat. “Don’t worry; my man is just outside.”

“It will take more than one man to protect ye from the likes of this crowd.”

“Not when that man is Hastings. My valet possesses some rather unusual skills.” Lucien placed the diamond on the scarred table. “Mumferd, I want to be in that auction, whatever the cost.”

The man stared at the diamond that winked on the dark table. Lucien carelessly rolled the gem with his forefinger until it came to rest directly in front of Mumferd.

With an almost convulsive movement, the informant’s fingers closed over the gem. To Lucien’s amusement, Mumferd lifted the stone to the light and squinted at it with an expert eye before stowing it away in the folds of his clothing. “I’ll get ye in, guv’nor. See if I don’t.”

The tavern door flew open and the entryway was filled with the broad form of a man. He stepped into the room, ducking beneath the timbered ceiling, his thick neck ris- ing above shoulders that reminded Lucien of ham hocks.

Behind him came another man, equal in size, with reddish hair instead of brown. They were impressive figures, but it was the person who followed them into the room that riv- eted Lucien’s attention.

Wilson
.

Mumferd scowled and spat onto the wood floor. “Do you know them?” Lucien asked.

“Wilson and ’is nephews? A bunch of troublemakers, if ye ask me.”

Lucien watched as the three approached the inn keeper and began a lively discussion. “They seem to be on good terms.”

“Aye, they provide the innkeeper wif a barrel or two. To hear him talk, ye’d think they were the only smugglers fer miles. The truth is, they haven’t the balls of a goat.” He curled a lip, a sullen cast to his face. “A pity, too. ’Tis a job fer real men, smugglin’ is. But they let that Hadley woman run the ship, and—” He suddenly recalled him- self, clamping his mouth shut and sending an uneasy glance at Lucien.

Nausea settled in Lucien’s stomach. Bloody hell, what risks had she taken to ensure the welfare of her family? “What do they run?”

“Brandy, cognac, and such. Nothin’ like what ye are lookin’ to find.” Mumferd grinned, his blackened teeth gaping. “Those I work wif are the only one as can provide that.”

At least Arabella wasn’t involved with the stolen jew- els. Still, each time she accepted or delivered a shipment, she was placing herself in grave danger. And knowing her, she probably thought she had everything well in control. But Lucien knew better.

The problem with Arabella’s pretty little neck, he decided, was that she stuck it much too far out for her own

good. “I suppose Miss Hadley’s involvement is common knowledge?”

“Only to them as is in the know. Why are ye askin’?” “I have interests at Rosemont,” Lucien said grimly. The informant gave an unpleasant smirk. “Lord Harl-

brook will be none too pleased to hear about that.”

“I don’t care about that pompous ass,” snapped Lucien. “Easy, now! ’Tis common gossip he has an eye on Miss Hadley. Her father owed Harlbrook a hatful of money. Harlbrook’s always had a soft spot fer Miss Hadley and he expected she’d marry him to settle the debt. But she wouldn’t haf nothin’ to do wif him. To make matters worse, I hear she’s been payin’ him every month, and on

time, too.”

“And he knows she doesn’t have the kind of income to do such a thing,” Lucien said grimly.

“Harlbrook thinks ’tis Wilson who has been free tradin’ and he’s determined to stop him.” Mumferd snig- gered. “Won’t he be surprised when he finds out ’tis his lady love and not just her servant?”

“Harlbrook is a fool.” Lucien stood and placed a coin in Mumferd’s dirty hand. “Notify me about the auction as soon as possible.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and crossed to the door, his thoughts dark with worry.

Just as he reached the door, it opened and Mr. Francot entered. He stopped on seeing Lucien, an instant flush ris- ing to his face. After a moment, he gave Lucien a quick bow. Lucien nodded and watched as the solicitor made his way to a lone table in the far corner.

The Red Rooster was busy this evening. Lucien won- dered if he would have the opportunity to see Lord Harl- brook before the moon set. Jaw clenched against the thought of the pompous lord setting a trap for Arabella, Lucien left the tavern and headed to the stables.

Hastings was just emerging, Satan’s reins in his hand. “Ready to leave, Your Grace?”

“Yes, but I am not returning to Rosemont just yet.” He vaulted onto Satan’s back. “I’ve something to see to first. Miss Hadley is involved in the smuggling operation at Rosemont.”

The valet’s gray eyes searched Lucien’s face. “You are certain?”

“Her servants were in the Red Rooster haggling with the innkeeper. And apparently it isn’t a secret: Mumferd knew all about it, the weasel.”

“If he knows, then others do, too. This is quite a quandary, indeed.”

It was worse than a quandary, it was a dilemma of gigantic proportions. And Arabella was daily placing her- self in danger. The memory of her standing by the fire, drenched and shivering, her lips white from the cold, made his heart ache.
God, what a coil
. He was honor-bound to protect a woman who seemed to thrive on danger.

“Hastings, return to Rosemont and inform them that I will not be home for dinner. Tell them I rode to York on an errand and have not yet returned.”

“Very good, Your Grace. What will you do?”

“Follow Wilson and his nephews. I want to know where they keep their store.”

Hastings reached into his coat and withdrew a pistol, then handed it grip-first to Lucien. “You may need this. It is already loaded.”

Lucien tucked the pistol into his waistband. “Always ready, aren’t you, Hastings?”

The pale eyes flickered. “It is my job, Your Grace. Lady Hunterston would expect no less.” He mounted his own horse, pausing to say dryly, “Pray try not to ruin your shirt. It is one of the few we have left.” With that, he

bowed his head, then turned his horse onto the road and was quickly gone from sight.

Lucien sat silently for a moment. He wanted to go to Rosemont and demand that Arabella give up her smug- gling venture, but how could he ask her to cease support- ing her family the only way she could?

“Damn her pride,” he muttered. Somehow, some way, he would free Arabella from her connection with Harl- brook—even if he had to pay off the bastard in secret.

A flake of snow landed on Lucien’s arm, followed by another and another. He sighed and turned Satan into a small copse of trees opposite the Red Rooster. As he sat in the dark, images of the dire consequences that lay in wait for Arabella began to form. He could see her imprisoned and alone, held in a squalid cell with no hope of escape.

A knot formed in his stomach and he realized Aunt Jane had been right: His actions ten years ago had set an entire chain of circumstances into motion, circumstances destined to lead to disaster. He stirred restlessly and Satan nickered, moving an uncertain step.

“Easy, fellow,” Lucien murmured, patting the glossy neck, thinking of Wilson’s less-than-quiet discussion with the innkeeper. With his large nephews hanging over his shoulder, the old groom did not seem intent on keeping his presence a secret. All in all, it was the sign of someone secure in his position, someone unafraid of reprisal.

Lucien brushed at the snow that had gathered on the brim of his hat, his heart easing somewhat. Perhaps things weren’t as desperate as he thought.

The door to the Red Rooster slammed open and Wilson scuttled out, followed by his nephews. He dispatched them to collect their wagon and within minutes, they were lumbering down the lane toward the coast.

Lucien followed, staying a discreet distance behind.

They rumbled along to a hidden winding road that fol- lowed the slope of the cliff to the shoreline. The path cut steeply, but the cart traveled without pause through the blowing gusts of snow.

The road finally came to the bottom of the cliff and then turned sharply and went back along the shore. The sea winds blew strongly here, masking sound so com- pletely that Lucien no longer worried about staying so far behind.

Finally, Wilson halted the wagon and Lem and Twekes clambered out. Lucien guided Satan to a small stand of brush off the path. As he tied the horse, the distant blink of a mellow gold light caught his eye from up above the cliff. He looked up and gave a grim smile.
Rosemont
.

He patted Satan, then returned to the sandy path and walked quietly toward the halted cart. He came to an abrupt halt twenty feet away—the cart was deserted, its occupants nowhere to be seen.

Lucien frowned. Where could they have gone? Except for the scraggly brush, there was just solid cliff and ocean. Just as he was about to turn away, he caught sight of a small dinghy making its way along the coast. Lem and Twekes rowed, their powerful strokes sending the little craft shooting toward two large black rocks that jutted out of the sea. Wilson sat in the bow and barked instructions.

Were they meeting a ship? But no. The ocean was far too wild, the rocks too treacherous. The small dinghy turned abruptly and headed straight between the rocks and toward the cliff face. The water rose and swelled, slapping at the small craft, but Lem and Twekes rowed steadily.

Lucien watched intently as the boat disappeared into the black rim of the cliff.
A cave
. It had to be. No wonder it had been so difficult to obtain evidence of Rosemont’s smuggling. They had the perfect hiding place.