Moon Dreams (53 page)
Behind her, Hampton shouted for aid.
“If all my men are under suspicion, Miss Wellington,” he
replied in low undertones, “then we had better remove more than the suspected
cargo to the warehouse.”
Two men clattered down at his command. Hampton pointed out
an assortment of crates he wished removed, gave orders that the porcelain be
treated with respect as it was a wedding gift.
With imperious calm, he took Evelyn’s hand again, ignoring
her tug of protest as he led her back to the gangway.
Back on deck, they were confronted by his frowning captain. “You
can’t remove the cargo until customs approves it. There’s still a ruckus down
there that don’t look like it will end soon.”
Releasing Evelyn, Hampton walked to the rail and glanced
over. “The man in orange is the one we need to see?”
He pointed to her Uncle George— looking his officious best
in satin. Sighing in exasperation at the commotion George was causing, Evelyn
muttered “rust,” but her companion ignored her correction and waited
expectantly. Once she assured him that the man in rust was the customs officer,
Hampton jammed his hat on his head and headed down the ramp.
Evelyn watched with interest as he shouldered his way to his
goal. A head taller than most of the crowd and hiding a muscular physique
beneath his silks and laces, Hampton had no difficulty carving his arrogant
path. Uncle George looked bewildered as Hampton caught his arm and began
hauling him through the crowd, but Evelyn knew he was as much relieved as
alarmed.
George Upton had never known when to keep quiet or how to
deal with the results once his tongue was loosed. Hampton was doing him a
favor. Without a target, the mob would eventually disperse.
Evelyn shook her head in despair that a relative of hers
could be so lacking in common sense. Thank goodness he wasn’t a blood relative.
Uncle George gave no sign that he recognized her as Hampton
hauled him on board and ordered that he begin inspecting the cargo. Upton
preferred not to acknowledge the fact that he had a niece who wore breeches.
Evelyn leaned back against the railing while Hampton carefully chose the crates
he wanted removed first.
Obviously accustomed to authority and expecting efficiency
to match his own, the Englishman paid no heed to the customs officer and the
captain frantically flipping through the manifest to keep up with his
selections.
When the first of the crewmen began hauling the crates down
to the wharf, Hampton took her arm and steered her down the ramp to follow them
back to the warehouse.
Once inside the dry comfort of her office with her little
brother standing guard outside, Evelyn examined the crates, pushing the
porcelain shipment to the front.
“I’ll need a crowbar to open these. Where do you keep them?”
Hampton demanded.
If he had been any one of the sea captains or effete
aristocrats who graced her uncle’s drawing room, Evelyn would already have the
crowbar in her hand. If Hampton had even wore the garb of a soldier, she could
despise him and would have no difficulty returning his rudeness.
Instead, he sauntered with muscular grace in the direction
she indicated, and she could almost feel the strength in his hands as he
returned with the tool and pried at the wood.
To her shock, she realized she had already forgiven him of
all charges of smuggling. There were many other things she couldn’t forgive him
for, but his striking looks and shiny black locks would cease to be a worry as
soon as he was gone.
The lid of the first box popped off, and he removed the top
layer of packing material. In triumph, he lifted the hand-painted porcelain. “Staffordshire,
madam. Not brandy. Have you any further proof?”
Evelyn knelt beside the crate and set aside the lovely
dishes on top. Removing the second layer of packing, she uncovered a gleaming
row of bottled brandy. Lifting a bottle for his inspection, she raised a wry eyebrow.
“Brandy, sir. Not Staffordshire. Do you need further proof?”
As he grabbed the bottle from her hand to inspect it, the
commotion outside grew louder. They both glanced out the wavy panes of glass.
A half-dozen red-coated soldiers were marching in the
direction of the warehouse. Hampton hit the cork with his hand and buried the
bottle in its bed of straw.
Book View Café Publishing Cooperative Edition February
3, 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-460-4
Copyright © 1991 Patricia Rice All rights reserved
Cover design by Killion Group
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or portion thereof, in any form.
First published by New American Library, New York 1991.
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or
real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and
incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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