My Fair Princess (19 page)

The other girls attending Leverton's impromptu garden party had all given Gillian a wide berth. Not that they'd been rude. After all, no sensible—or marriage-minded—young lady would wish to offend the extremely eligible Duke of Leverton. If they hadn't figured out that Gillian was under the duke's protection, their parents certainly had, and had no doubt instructed their daughters to act with an appropriate degree of courtesy.

But make friendly overtures? Perish the thought. A sideslip of a royal duke, even one sponsored by Leverton, was hardly the sort of female the local gentry wished their daughters to befriend.

The bachelors attending the party, however, were another story. They clearly thought Gillian bang up to the mark, as one pimply but nice young man said to her. She'd already bested them at archery and rolled them all up at shuttlecock. Clearly, her athletic prowess made her worthy of enthusiastic acceptance among their ranks, and she half expected them to invite her along to a local cockfight, or to the prizefight they'd been discussing with such relish.

What the gentlemen weren't doing, however, was flirting with her like they were with the other girls. She didn't mind, but it did rather defeat the purpose of the occasion, which was to introduce her to the young people of the neighborhood and help her polish her social skills.

“No thank you, Miss Dryden,” Miss Farrow said with an equally insincere smile. “Besides, I'm sure David would be happy to help me practice my archery skills, wouldn't you?” She batted her eyelashes at Mr. Hurdly, who grimaced.

“Dash it, Margaret,” he exclaimed. “I've tried to show you a thousand times, but you always get bored after five minutes. What's a fellow to do?”

“Not be rude to one of your oldest friends, for one thing,” the young woman said with a pretty pout. “And for another, you could take me to the refreshment table for a beverage. I'm roasting out here in this sun. I'm sure I'm going to turn as brown as a nut before the day is through.”

That last comment was clearly aimed at Gillian, whose complexion had been darkened by years under hot Sicilian skies. And it was anything but roasting, although at least the day was, for once, sunny and almost pleasantly warm. Perhaps for the average English girl that counted as roasting.

Miss Farrow clearly wanted to get Mr. Hurdly away from her. The young lady had marked out her territory some time ago, Gillian suspected, and saw her as competition. It was laughable how many women seemed to view her that way, including the seductive Lady Letitia, who believed that Gillian had somehow destroyed her chances with Leverton.

As if a man like him would ever be remotely interested in Gillian.

Unbidden, the memory of the duke looming over her at the kissing gate, his gaze heavy-lidded and warm, made her neck go prickly. He'd looked awfully interested at that particular moment, which she'd found both terribly exciting and alarming. But it was a momentary lapse, as his subsequent behavior had demonstrated. He'd not shown one iota of amorous interest in the four days since their walk to the chapel. Instead, he'd once more adopted a professorial tone, lecturing her on proper language and decorum, and generally boring her out of her skull with his ever-growing list of social admonitions. If the man hadn't been so bloody lovely to look at, Gillian would have shot herself days ago to put herself out of her misery.

“Truly, David,” Miss Farrow added in a plaintive voice, “I'm parched.”

“If you insist,” Mr. Hurdly said with a dramatic sigh. “Would you like to walk back with us, Miss Dryden? You too must be feeling the heat after all that activity.”

Gillian almost laughed when the other girl rolled her eyes. “Thank you, but I'd like to retrieve my arrows first.”

“The boy will do that. There's no need for you to get your gloves dirty,” Mr. Hurdly said.

“What boy?” she asked.

Miss Farrow nodded in the direction of the target at the other end of the lawn. “Over there. The one staring at you.”

Young Teddy was standing just off to the side of the target, looking straight at her. He practically vibrated with excitement, as if he had something to tell her that simply couldn't wait.

“That's Teddy,” she said. “He works in the stables.”

Mr. Hurdly frowned. “He looks like he has ants in his pants, hopping about like that.”

“He's just fidgety, that's all.” Gillian smiled at Miss Farrow. “Why don't you two go on without me? I'll catch up.”

“There's no need for you to rush,” Miss Farrow said as she took Mr. Hurdly's arm. She started to drag him off toward the refreshment table.

Her companion protested the cavalier treatment, but a moment later they were chatting and laughing like the best of friends as they strolled toward the terrace at the back of the manor house, where most of the guests had gathered. Miss Farrow glanced over her shoulder at Gillian and flashed her a quick grin, followed by a roguish wink.

This time Gillian did laugh. Perhaps she and Miss Farrow might become friends after all—as long as Gillian steered clear of Mr. Hurdly. That would be no trouble, since the only man she had any interest in was a certain charming, if sometimes arrogant, duke.

She headed across the lawn to the target where Teddy waited, his skinny body wriggling with excitement.

“Miss, I've been waiting ever so long to get you,” he hissed in a dramatic whisper. “But I couldn't sneak away from the stables until this very moment.”

“Easy now, Teddy,” she said in a quiet voice. “We mustn't let anyone know what we're talking about. We don't want to raise suspicion.”

He hugged his arms around his narrow belly, making a visible effort to contain himself. “Yes, miss. I'll try.”

“Now, why don't you fetch my arrows? That will give us an excuse to talk.”

He scampered over to the target and began pulling the arrows.

Once Gillian and Teddy had struck up their friendship, she'd asked him to keep his ear to the ground for rumors about the local smuggling rings. She'd even offered to compensate him and had been surprised when he'd turned her down flat. Later, she'd learned that his father had been killed by free traders, severely beaten when he'd refused to allow one of the more notorious gangs to use his barn as a hiding place for gin and tobacco brought in from Holland. He'd died of his injuries a few weeks later.

Teddy was as eager to see the smugglers—any smuggler—brought to justice as she was.

“You've heard news?” she asked as she moved to stand beside him.

“Yes, miss, at the Fox and Firkin. I help Mr. Dodd, the publican, when Ma and me need the extra blunt. I hear all sorts of things there. Some men last night was talking about a run.”

“No one saw you eavesdropping, did they?” she asked. “I won't have you putting yourself in danger, Teddy. Do you understand?”

He grinned, exposing the gap where one of his front teeth should have been. “Nah. No one pays me any notice, miss. I'm so little, they forgets I'm even there.”

Teddy
was
little, too little for a boy his age. Gillian was determined to help both him and his mother, who struggled to support her son and her three-year-old daughter.

“All right, but be careful,” Gillian warned. “For your mother's sake, if not your own.”

He nodded, handing her the arrows. “Yes, miss.”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the house. Most of the guests were availing themselves of a generous nuncheon that had been set up just inside the French doors of the drawing room. But she got a nasty jolt when she spied Leverton watching her. He stood on the terrace steps, ostensibly chatting with a young lady who was fawning all over him. It was clear, however, that his attention was on Gillian, not his officious admirer.

She returned her attention to Teddy, taking the arrows from him. “Quickly now, tell me what you learned.”

He filled her in. Gillian thought for a moment and then nodded. “Can you meet me behind the stables at midnight?”

“I can,” he said.

“Excellent, and if you can—”

When Teddy's eyes went wide with surprise, Gillian froze for a second before giving the lad a friendly nod. “Thank you, my boy. I would have wrecked my gloves if I'd not had you to help me.”

“Well, what do we have here?” drawled that familiar deep voice from behind her. “If I didn't know better, Miss Dryden, I might even think you were up to something.”

Repressing a curse, Gillian forced a smile and turned to meet Leverton's suspicious gaze.

Chapter Seventeen

The long-case clock outside his library had sounded on the half hour a few minutes ago, and everyone but Charles was long in bed. The contessa had been the first to go up, shortly after their late supper. Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff, scoffing at the notion that a garden party could wear her out. But she had also retreated a few minutes later, hiding a yawn behind her hand. Gillian had gone up with her, making a great show of fatigue and claiming that she could barely find the will to drag herself up to bed.

That, as Charles knew, was absolute bollocks. The girl had more energy than a platoon of soldiers on leave. The little minx was up to something. He'd known it the minute he cornered her by the archery targets this afternoon.

He'd seen it even from the terrace, where he'd been trapped in conversation with Emily Meadows, who'd done her best to engage him in a genteel flirtation. Emily was wellborn, well mannered, and in possession of a considerable dowry. She was beautiful too, a luscious blonde with big blue eyes. In short, just the sort of woman he should wish to spend time with. If he were in the mood for courtship, Emily would be at the top of the list.

But his focus had been entirely on Gillian, and he'd instantly known that something was wrong. If the tense set to her slim body hadn't tipped him off, then the wary glance she'd thrown his way certainly had. Even from a distance, he'd come to recognize that look. It had raised the hairs on the back of his neck and sent him stalking from the terrace, leaving poor Miss Meadows gaping in dismay at his abrupt departure.

After only a month in Gillian Dryden's company, he'd adopted the manners of an oaf. Instead of his good habits rubbing off on Gillian, her bad habits were rubbing off on him.

Naturally, the blasted girl had tried to throw him off the scent. She'd rounded her pretty eyes in a ridiculous display of innocence, claiming that Teddy was helping her with her arrows. She'd ruffled the lad's hair and turned to Charles with a smile so enticing and unconsciously seductive that he'd almost forgotten his own name.

Gillian had clearly taken on her own search for the smugglers, and apparently had enlisted his stable boy to assist her. Not that Charles truly expected anything to come of it. According to Scunthorpe, most of the free trading happened further up the coast. Smugglers had known for years to steer clear of Leverton lands, since neither Charles nor his father had ever tolerated their nefarious activities. There were some who tended to sentimentalize smugglers and their ilk, turning a blind eye to their violent ways, but Charles wasn't one of them.

When the clock in the hall bonged out the three quarter hour, he waited for the echo to fade. He listened, but heard nothing but the quiet crackle of the dying fire in the grate and the soughing breeze moving through the trees outside the library windows. Everyone in the house was obviously asleep, and it was time he went up, too.

But as he set his half-finished brandy down on the desk, he heard the quiet creak of a protesting floorboard, then something that sounded suspiciously like a closing door.

He got up and hurried out to the back hall. At the end of the corridor, a large sash window overlooked the courtyard and the stables. He cursed when he saw a slender figure, garbed in a black greatcoat and barely visible under a pale, weak moon. The person ghosted around the side of the stables and disappeared.

Christ.
Even though she was dressed in a man's coat and wearing breeches and boots, Charles knew exactly who was skulking about his stables. It sent a surge of anger flooding through his veins.

He took the back steps down to the kitchen three at a time and reached the courtyard seconds later. He cut behind the stables, but saw no one. Unfortunately, he thought he heard the cantering of hooves down the lane, although the wind was strong enough in the trees that he couldn't be sure.

In the worst-case scenario, Gillian was heading toward the coast, less than three miles away. But smugglers could land anywhere along the flat stretches of sand from Ingold-mells to Maplethorpe. He couldn't just saddle a horse and set out to look for her, not with all the paths that snaked through the countryside and the marshes. Even having spent much of his childhood here, Charles didn't know a tenth of the routes she might be taking—any one of which could land her directly in the path of men who would think nothing of slitting her throat.

He bolted around the side of the building and up the stairs to the head groom's apartment. He rapped loudly, not caring at this point if he woke up the entire bloody household.

Less than a minute later, Reid yanked open the door. Clothed only in his nightshirt, his sleeping cap askew on his head, the head groom stared at Charles in sleepy bemusement. Then his eyes popped wide. “Your Grace, what's wrong? Is it fire downstairs?”

To any groom, a stable fire was the worst of all possible catastrophes.

“No, nothing like that. But I need to know if one of the horses is missing.”

Reid frowned. “Couldn't be. I've got Teddy on watch tonight. He'd come tell me if something was wrong.”

Charles let out a low curse. “Where are the other two grooms?”

“Sleeping, I expect. I have Teddy come one night a week to spell the other lads, mostly because the boy and his mother need the extra blunt.” Reid's normally placid features pulled tight with consternation. “I hope that doesn't offend you, sir. Seemed the right thing to do.”

“Put on some clothes and meet me downstairs. Be prepared to ride.”

A few minutes later, Reid joined him in the center row of the modern brick stables that his father had built just a year before his death. Most of the stalls were empty, since Charles hadn't spent much time at Fenfield in the last several years. Reid immediately saw that one of the mares was missing, as was Teddy. Charles could only hope that the lad would be wrong about where local smugglers were likely to come ashore, or what route they would take this night.

Charles had to find Gillian before she got into trouble. And once he had found her, she would be in a different sort of trouble—from him.

“At least the little fool had the brains to put out the lantern,” Reid said, shaking his head in disgust. “I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what he's about. Teddy's never done anything like this before.”

“I know exactly what he's about,” Charles replied grimly. “I need you to tell me if you've heard anything about smuggling gangs on estate lands.”

When caution flickered across Reid's face, Charles's heart sank. He didn't know the man well, since Reid had only come to work at the estate a few years ago. Even though he wasn't a local man, he'd been highly recommended by Charles's stable master in London.

“I don't care
how
you know,” Charles snapped. “I just want the information.”

Reid grimaced. “Sorry, sir. I do my best to steer clear of that sort of thing. It doesn't pay to get mixed up in it. Not in these parts.”

“Are you saying there is a smuggling problem on my lands?”

The groom gave an emphatic shake of the head. “Most wouldn't dare. But I've heard tales that some cut close to Leverton lands when the customs officers clamp down on the regular routes. And they have been clamping down of late, from what I hear down in the village.”

“Where would they be likely to land if they wished to do a run across the estate?”

Reid frowned, clearly pondering. It taxed Charles's patience, since Gillian and Teddy could be anywhere by now. And in serious trouble.

“Aye,” the groom finally said. “I think they would come ashore near the most direct route across your lands up to Lincoln.”

Charles strode toward the tack room with Reid in his wake. “I need you to take me there.”

“Yes, sir. But I still can't believe young Teddy is mixed up in such doings. If the lad took one of the horses, somebody put him up to it.”

Charles grabbed his saddle off one of the blocks. “I know exactly who that somebody is.”

* * *

“There, miss,” whispered Teddy. He pointed across the tidal flats, perhaps two hundred feet from where they crouched behind a small sand dune. “They're pulling the boat in there.”

Gillian cautiously raised her head to follow his pointing finger. The moon was close to setting, and she had to strain to see. Fortunately, it meant the smugglers would likely miss them. Still, this stretch of the coast was mostly flat, with nothing but the occasional small dune or clump of marsh grass. Gillian and Teddy had been forced to leave the horse several hundred yards behind them, while they practically crawled to reach a position where they could see in all directions over the flats and out to sea.

She was already regretting their little escapade—not on her own behalf, but because of Teddy. He was quick as anything, but still only a little boy. Back home, Gillian had always had Stefano to watch her back—a seasoned, lethally tough man who knew every inch of the Sicilian countryside. Here, she had only Teddy. And here, while she was fairly adept at navigation, everything was unfamiliar—the sky, the land, even the scent of the ocean. Never in her life had she felt less confident about her ability to handle a situation.

More important, her worries for Teddy had her second-guessing herself, and that was exactly the wrong response when dealing with dangerous men.

“Are you sure?” she whispered. “I don't see anything.”

“I can hear 'em.”

The boy vibrated with excitement, and that worried her, too. Hunting human prey required calm, cool thinking. Stefano had cuffed her on the back of her head whenever she let her emotions run away with her. It had been harsh medicine, but effective. It hadn't taken long before Gillian had learned to control herself, throttling back anything that might get in the way—nerves, fear, or even elation that her target was within her grasp.

She was feeling anything but in control tonight, a signal that it was time to retreat. She needed time to think and plan, rather than rush off half-cocked. Gillian could only be thankful that Stefano wasn't here to see how she'd bungled the situation.

And Leverton's likely reaction if he ever found out was simply too gruesome to contemplate.

She was just about to pull Teddy away when she saw a light up the beach. It wavered and feebly danced, as if someone was jogging a small lantern. In the darkest period before the first reaches of dawn, it was impossible to miss.

“There they are,” she murmured.

Teddy shook his head. “That's what they want you to think. They ties a lantern to a pony and sends it walking down the beach in the opposite direction. Fools the bleedin' excise officers almost every time.”

Gillian didn't miss the contempt in his voice. Clearly, the excise officers would be more effective if they had small boys from local villages to lend them a hand.

“That's a handy trick,” she whispered back. “I'll have to remember that one.”

Teddy again pointed across the flats, and this time she saw three men dragging a small boat out of the shallows. “Who's meeting—” she started.

Teddy's warning hiss cut her off. To their left, less than a hundred feet away, a group of men emerged from one of the paths coming from the marshes. They were leading several ponies. Gillian flattened herself into the cool sand, holding her breath. Teddy did the same, although he started to rise up a minute later. She reached over and pushed him down flat, keeping a firm hand planted in the center of his back.

Finally, when the faint jingle of the ponies' bridles told her that the men were well past them and down the beach toward the boat, Gillian relaxed. “I told you not to take any risks,” she whispered. “You're not to do that again.”

Teddy shot her a cheeky grin before stretching up to watch the smugglers. “I knows what I'm doing.”

Gillian muttered her disapproval as she inched forward over the small dune for a better view. The smugglers were clustered around the small boat, working swiftly to transfer the cargo to the backs of the ponies.

“Looks like tobacco,” Teddy whispered. “Easier to carry, since you don't need the carts, depending on the size of the load.”

In just a few minutes, the smugglers would finish and head back inland. That meant Gillian had a decision to make. Should she follow them, hoping they would lead her to one of their hiding places? According to Teddy, the gangs often hid their contraband for days or even weeks at a time in abandoned barns or sheds, waiting for the right time to move their cargo up to Lincoln. Sometimes, they used farmhouses to store the goods, finding sympathetic farmers or ones they could bully into compliance.

“And you're sure about this?” she asked. “These are the ones who held up the duke's carriage?” There was no point in trying to track them if they weren't.

Teddy gave a vigorous nod. “Aye, miss. No one else has dared come here since the King's men shut down the old Critchfield gang three years ago. These right bastards are new. Only here the last six months or so, according to old Dodd.”

Dodd owned the village tavern where Teddy helped out. As far as Gillian could ascertain, the publican was not involved in any smuggling. But some of his customers were, and they'd made it clear to the old fellow that he'd best mind his own business and keep his mouth shut. Dodd had passed that advice on to Teddy as well.

Once again, guilt tugged at her. Now that they were facing real danger, Gillian realized she had no business involving Teddy in her problems. After tonight, she would never do it again.

“Don't swear,” she whispered absently.

The boy's quiet snort told her what he thought of that.