Lovers Forever (22 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Lovers Forever
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At a chiding remark from Sophie Brownell, the gentlemen broke off their sporting talk and joined the circle around Nicolas and Pallas, as did Jeremy and Lindsey. Teacups were being refilled, and there was a momentary lull in the conversation. It was at that precise moment that his grandmother laid her hand on his arm and asked, “Oh, while I'm thinking of it, Nicolas, what is this ridiculous tale I'm hearing that you have raided half my staff and are refurbishing the old gatekeeper's cottage on the north part of the estate?”
Even as he fumbled for an answer and cursed the arrogance that had led him to believe that his use of the cottage would go without comment, he was aware of a hastily smothered gasp from someone in the group near him. In that same instant, the cup that Athena had been passing to one of the men—Frampton? Dickerson? or had it been Spencer?—went tumbling to the floor. Hot tea splashed everywhere. In the commotion that followed, Pallas's question was completely forgotten. But long after everyone had left, Nicolas couldn't get that scene out of his mind.
Alone in his office, he had quickly written a note to Roxbury, informing him of all that he had discovered, including his plans for the evening. After dropping sealing wax on the missive, he rang for Lovejoy. Upon Lovejoy's arrival, he handed him the letter and said, “I want Roxbury to have this information as soon as possible—little though it is. See to it, please.”
Lovejoy nodded and departed, the letter held firmly in his capable hand.
Slipping out of the house a few minutes later for, he hoped, a rendezvous with the smugglers, Nicolas thought back once more to that scene in his grandmother's parlor. The information about the gatekeeper's cottage had upset someone. But who? And why? The contraband goods? Or something else entirely?
Chapter Thirteen
N
icolas still had no answers by the time the gatekeeper's cottage came into view. The rain, which had fallen steadily throughout the day and evening, had lessened to a foggy mist; the sky was starless, and there was no moonlight. A perfect night for any self-respecting smuggler to be out and about, he thought with a grin as he tied his horse in the end stall of the stable.
He had debated the wisdom of placing the animal there—the very presence of a saddled horse in a place it shouldn't be, would, if discovered, alert the smugglers that someone was in the area. But an earlier examination of the stables had shown that, at least so far, here was one place the smugglers had not ventured. A feed bag full of grain tied around the horse's head should also insure that the animal would stand quietly, even if there were the sounds of other horses nearby.
His horse taken care of, Nicolas crossed to the house and slipped silently into the back of the darkened building. He had left orders that all the fires be put out early in the evening and the curtains drawn so that no sign of light shone to the outside. There had been no discernible smell of smoke in the air, nor had he seen any hint of light as he had approached the house, and he was confident the smugglers would still think the cottage deserted. Unless, of course, the news that the cottage was now occupied had been spread to the smugglers by one of his grandmother's guests....
Shutting the back door quietly behind him, Nicolas was surprised to see a faint glow coming from the kitchen area. Could the smugglers be here already? He checked his pistol, making certain it was loaded and primed, and then with a stealthy tread, he made his way forward to where the light became stronger.
He halted in the doorway to the kitchen. Spying Tess seated at the scrubbed oak table, eating an apple, he relaxed. It was the light from her small candle that he had seen.
Pocketing his pistol, he strode forward, torn between pleasure at seeing her and annoyance that she was not tucked safely into her bed upstairs. She had not heard him enter. When he suddenly loomed up out of the darkness, she gave a faint scream and leaped to her feet.
She regarded him unkindly. “You frightened me!” she said sharply.
“Far better that
I
frighten you than one of our owlers,” he returned dryly. “I thought you were supposed to be in bed.”
Clutching the new bright blue wool wrapper closer to her, she looked adorably guilty. “I was,” she admitted. “But I got hungry, and I only came down for something to eat—all the curtains and shutters were closed, so I didn't think any light would show through.”
“It didn't, but you still took a chance of being discovered.” His face grave, he said softly, “Don't let it happen again—I'd hate for you to come to harm.”
She made a face. “I just didn't think that it would matter. Besides, it's too early for the owlers to be out and about, isn't it?”
Nicolas shrugged. “Perhaps, but it is well past midnight, and I expect that they don't have a set hour to begin their activities. I just hope that I am not too late.”
“Why?” She suddenly looked alarmed. “You don't think that they've come and gone, do you?”
“No, but there was an incident tonight....”
Looking even more alarmed, she drew nearer to him. “What? What happened?”
Nicolas shrugged again. “Oh, nothing that dramatic, but my grandmother asked me—with regrettable clarity in a room full of people, I might add—about all the goings-on here at the cottage. Everyone heard her remarks, and the news that the place was now occupied seemed to provoke a noticeable reaction from some of her guests.” Making light of it, he quickly told her what had happened.
He was surprised to find himself telling her about the incident at all—he was not normally one to go babbling his business to all and sundry, preferring to play his cards close to his chest—but it seemed the most natural thing in the world to discuss the curious episode in the drawing room with her. With even more surprise, he discovered that he wanted to know what she thought about it and if she had come to the same conclusions he had.
He had barely finished speaking when she exclaimed with equal parts of elation and apprehension, “Someone there tonight knows about the hidden contraband!” Her eyes got even bigger. “And if they do, they'll be desperate to move the goods before you discover them—assuming they believe that you haven't
already
discovered them!”
“My sentiments precisely. Which is why you are going upstairs this very moment and I am going down to the cellars to await their arrival.”
“Oh, you can't,” she cried out in agitated tones. “Not now! It could be a trap!” When he appeared unmoved by her words, she grabbed the front of his greatcoat and shook him, saying urgently, “Don't you realize—they could be waiting for you!”
Placing his hands over hers, he said quietly, “Hush! I was careful not to give any indication that there was anything untoward in the cottage. I'm sure they believe that the goods have not yet been discovered, and I'm equally certain that you're right—they
will
be desperate to remove the contraband, immediately! Don't you see, sweetheart, this is a stroke of luck! Who knows when they would have come for the hidden goods? It might have been a week or two before they felt safe to move them. A week or two, I might add, that I'd have had to spend lurking about that cold, damp cellar waiting for their appearance. But now they can't wait—it
has
to be tonight.” His voice hardened. “Now that the cottage is occupied, every moment they delay is dangerous. They dare not wait to move the goods.”
“But Nick, don't you see?” she said passionately. “Now that they know someone is living here, you've lost the element of surprise. They'll be twice as wary as they would be normally. What you planned to do before was dangerous, but now it is foolhardy! You
must
give it up!”
“I can't,” he said simply. “I have to do it. There is more involved here than just mere smuggling.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he cursed his runaway tongue. Good God! This woman had indeed bewitched him. In her presence he began to chatter like an old village gossip and seemed to forget everything he'd ever learned in the military about secrets and the need to keep them
secret.
Disgusted with himself, he pushed her away and said, “Enough of this! I've got to get in the cellar and positioned before they arrive.” Bluntly he added, “Every second I remain here arguing with you increases the danger of my being discovered. Now, are you going up to bed?”
Anger darkened her eyes, and with her mouth set in grim lines, she increased the distance between them. “Very well—damn you! Go get yourself killed! See if I care!”
With a flash of blue wool she was gone, taking her candle with her. As he stood there in the blackness of the kitchen, Nicolas snorted. Women, he thought irascibly, were the
very
devil!
But he didn't have time to dwell on such subjects and carefully made his way to the pantry. It was even blacker inside the smaller room, and after knocking his shins several times on various items scattered about, he decided to risk a small light. He lit the tiny candle he had brought with him for exactly that purpose, and seconds later, with no more stumbling and fumbling, he was near enough to the cellar doorway to blow out his candle.
He stood there silently for several moments, listening intently, but no sound came to his ears, nor did any gleam of light show between the bottom of the door and the sill. He didn't like the idea of going down those steep cellar steps in the impenetrable darkness, but he had no choice, not unless he wanted to run the risk of alerting the smugglers, if they were anywhere nearby, to his presence. Of course, if he fell down and broke his neck, he thought wryly, that would certainly put an end to any scheme of his
not
to alert them!
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door carefully. Utter and complete blackness met his gaze. Since there was no sign of light, it would appear that he had arrived in time. Groping through the darkness, he found the railing, and as quickly and silently as he could in the smothering blackness, he hurried downward.
At the base of the stairs he hesitated, his ears cocked for the slightest sound, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness. Once again he decided to risk the tiny light of his candle and relit it. A hasty inspection revealed everything as the smugglers had left it. While the signs of his and the others' presence had been greatly obliterated, a searching eye would see that someone had recently been in the cellar. Nicolas sighed. He hoped the smugglers would simply come for their goods and leave and not decide to look about.
He hadn't been certain where the best spot would be to hide and yet have a fairly clear view of what was going on, and he suddenly wished that he had taken more time this afternoon to explore the area. One of the many narrow corridors branching off from the main part of the cellar seemed his most likely choice, and he swiftly crossed to the one he had selected. It was nearly opposite from the outside doors, which was the way he assumed that the smugglers would enter, and from it he still had a decent view of the contraband goods. Satisfied with his position, he blew out his candle. Darkness descended like a black cloak over his head, and as he leaned gingerly back against the wall, he wondered how long he would have to wait—or if he had sent himself on a sleeveless errand.
Time passed with paralyzing slowness; the darkness was oppressive, the silence heavy and unnerving. Fifteen minutes crept by; a half hour—at least Nicolas thought it was a half hour—seemed an eternity. An hour dragged by and then another, and just when he was beginning to think that he had misjudged the situation, there was a whisper of sound.
In his hiding place he stiffened, his heart beginning to race. There it was again, coming from the direction of the outside cellar doors. He gripped his pistol and waited.
It was difficult to tell when the outside doors were thrown wide; it was a moonless night, and the hinges were well oiled. But as he stared tensely in that direction, Nicolas thought he could discern the cellar opening and he definitely could hear a variety of faint, furtive little noises that drifted through the darkness to him.
Suddenly there was a flash, and a second later, as his eyes adjusted, he realized that whoever had entered the cellar had lit a lantern. In the soft yellow glow that permeated the area, he could clearly see the four rough-garbed men as they approached the pile of contraband goods. A low murmur of voices came to him as he edged closer to get a better view.
Nicolas watched closely during the next several minutes as the men moved about and began to cart boxes out of the cellar. It was apparent that they were common laborers—not only their clothing, but their speech and manner gave them away, and he was aware of a little stab of disappointment.
His
quarry, the master spy, was obviously not going to make an appearance here tonight. He was going to have to follow these men and hope that they eventually did meet with their leader. His mouth twisted. Their leader, the man he was counting on to be his spy ...
There was no denying that there were several smuggler bands in this area, and for the first time it occurred to him that these particular ruffians might not necessarily be involved in the smuggling of state secrets or have a spy in their ranks. If that was true, he was wasting his time, and his spirits sank. It had seemed so opportune: the smuggled goods right here under his nose and the unexpected opportunity presenting itself to observe the smugglers almost immediately upon his arrival in Kent. He hadn't had to waste time asking discreet questions and nosing around. It had seemed a gift from the gods. And then there was the incident tonight in his grandmother's drawing room. Was he placing too much importance upon it? Had it been just coincidence?
He didn't think so. He and Roxbury had agreed that whoever the spy might eventually turn out to be would be a man of rank and substance. Someone who could move freely through the salons of the ton, the offices at Whitehall, and the rooms at the Horse Guards. Someone who could pick up information here and there and never be questioned....

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