My Fair Princess (23 page)

Chapter Twenty

Gillian stalked across the entrance hall, ignoring Hewitt's bleating attempt to precede her. She didn't need anyone opening doors for her, and she certainly didn't need anyone to announce her to the high and mighty Duke of Leverton. Besides, she wanted to take the duke by surprise—or possibly murder him.

When she flung open the library door, it banged against the wall then ricocheted back, forcing her to leap aside to avoid getting smacked in the face. It was certainly a less dignified entrance than she'd hoped for, but at least she didn't fall flat on her backside.

From behind his desk, Leverton rose. “Ah, Miss Dryden. I was expecting to see you at some point this morning, but perhaps not so precipitously.”

Blast the man, his lips were twitching with amusement.

Hewitt, still determined to do his duty, sidled in front of her. “Miss Dryden to see you, sir. If that is convenient.”

“Thank you, Hewitt.” Leverton's voice was as dry as vintage champagne.

The butler stepped aside and gave Gillian a bow that held more than a hint of triumph as he retreated from the room.

“Leverton, what in God's name—” Gillian said.

He interrupted her. “You remember Mr. Scunthorpe, do you not?”

She'd been so focused on the duke that she hadn't even noticed his estate manager, who was standing to the side of the massive desk, a stack of ledgers in front of him. The man seemed to be regarding her with a certain degree of alarm. “Good morning, Mr. Scunthorpe. I apologize for interrupting your meeting in so, er, so precipitous a fashion.”

She sounded like an idiot, as Leverton's grin made amply clear. For a man known for his distinguished manners, he could certainly be rude on occasion.

“No apology necessary, Miss Dryden,” the estate manager said in a cool tone. “His Grace and I were just finishing up.” He cast his employer an apologetic smile and began to organize his books into a neat pile.

“One moment, Scunthorpe,” Leverton said before coming around the desk to meet Gillian. He took her hand and, much to her shock, raised it to his mouth. When his lips brushed across her skin, she couldn't repress a shiver. She scowled, irritated at her too-ready response to him.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” he murmured. “Perhaps you didn't get enough sleep last night.”

“I slept just fine,” she replied in a dignified voice. “But I do need to speak to you with some degree of urgency, sir.”

He drew her over to one of the leather club chairs. “Of course. But first I would like you to hear what Scunthorpe has to say on an issue of interest to both you and your mother.”

Gillian shot the estate manager a sharp glance. “Is it about the smugglers? And about our jewels?”

“Yes,” Leverton said, resuming his seat.

Scunthorpe hesitated, his reserved expression replaced by one of consternation. “Forgive me, sir, but is this an appropriate topic of conversation for female ears? I have no wish to cause Miss Dryden or any other lady distress with such unpleasant matters.”

Gillian crossed her arms and stared at him. He flushed a bit, but defiantly held her gaze. Clearly, he was loath to discuss the matter with her, which she found rather interesting.

“Don't worry,” she said with a smile that perhaps showed more teeth than was necessary. “I promise not to keel over in a dead faint.”

“Of that we can be sure,” Leverton said. “I assure you, Scunthorpe, that Miss Dryden will not succumb to a bout of hysterics.”

“As I mentioned, Your Grace, I have no knowledge of the stolen jewels,” Scunthorpe said, looking unhappier by the moment.

“Yes, so you said. I'm referring to your information about the trafficking of smuggled goods across Penley lands, and the continued likelihood of that sort of activity.”

“Yes. Of course.” Scunthorpe visibly relaxed as he gave Gillian an oily smile. She didn't trust that smile for one second.

Nor did she believe that the estate manager was put off by the notion of having to explain himself to a female. He just didn't want to explain himself to
her
. To a man like Scunthorpe, who was respectable and well educated, but still dependent on his betters for his living, Gillian was an insult or a slap to the face. To him, she was well beneath his notice, likely no better than the unfortunate women forced to make their living on the streets.

“As I was telling the duke,” he said in a condescending tone, “having smuggling gangs cross Leverton lands is extremely unusual. The local excise officers have been most efficient in preventing landings along this section of the coastline. I might also add that any local gangs are well aware that His Grace, unlike other landowners, has never condoned free trading. Infractions in the past have always been swiftly dealt with.”

“Not very successfully, it would appear,” Gillian said. She glanced at Leverton, wondering if he'd told the estate manager about last night's incident.

The duke obviously read her mind. “I have informed Scunthorpe that there was a run across estate lands last night. One that you witnessed,” he dryly added.

Gillian felt considerable surprise that Leverton had even discussed the issue with the estate manager, given how obsessive he was about shielding her from gossip. Then again, that obsession hadn't stopped the duke from talking about last night's escapade with her mother and with Lady Filby, as well as his plans to marry her.

She refocused her attention on Scunthorpe. “That being the case, then how do you explain that there were not one, but two runs across estate lands within a two-week period? Just bad luck?”

Scunthorpe's nostrils pinched together, as if a foul odor had just assailed them. “I believe that merely to be an unfortunate coincidence.”

“Really? That seems like the beginning of a pattern to me.” She glanced at Leverton to gauge his reaction. Aside from a small crease marking his brow, he didn't show any evidence that what he was hearing caused him concern.

“From what His Grace described, last night's incident was markedly different from what occurred on the night of your robbery,” Scunthorpe replied in a manner so brittle that Gillian fancied she could take a mallet and start chipping away at him.

“In what way?” she asked.

“You were robbed by a large, well-organized gang of owlers who were making a substantial run. What occurred last night sounds like a much smaller, hastier affair, thrown together without a great degree of planning. Nothing like the well-organized run you stumbled across two weeks ago.”

“While I agree that the run was smaller,” Gillian said, “it was anything but disorganized. Those men knew what they were doing, and they did it very efficiently.”

“Miss Dryden, you were no doubt extremely flustered by what you saw last night. I'm sure in the emotion of the moment those men seemed like the worst sort of criminals. Very frightening, indeed.”

“I was not the least bit frightened,” she said, letting her irritation show.

His only answer was a treacly smile, a masterpiece of polite disbelief laden with a healthy dash of contempt.

Leverton finally intervened. “Scunthorpe, I would suggest you stick to the facts instead of making assumptions about Miss Dryden's state of mind.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I certainly meant no offense.”

“Yes, let's stick to the facts,” Gillian said, “which seem rather thin on the ground at the moment. Have you actually conducted an investigation into these smuggling runs, Mr. Scunthorpe?”

“I have indeed, Miss Dryden. Well before last night's incident.”

She frowned. “If your investigation was conducted before last night's incident, how can you draw such firm conclusions regarding that incident? That makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” he replied in a haughty tone. “All the information I was able to acquire reinforces my belief that what you saw last night was a small run by local men that will not be repeated any time soon, especially with His Grace in residence.”

“That's the silliest thing I've ever heard,” she said in disbelief. “The duke has been in residence these last two weeks, and that didn't bloody well stop them from making a run, now did it?”

Scunthorpe's patronizing smile disappeared. He made no attempt to respond to her accusation, instead glaring at her with poorly concealed fury.

Leverton rose in a leisurely fashion and stood in front of his desk, leaning against it. The faintly exasperated expression on his handsome features suggested he thought Gillian and Scunthorpe little better than quarreling children. “I'm sure our little band of free traders was not expecting to be spied on by guests from the manor. Perhaps that accounts for their reckless behavior last night.”

“For God's sake, don't tell me you believe this errant nonsense,” she retorted.

Leverton's eyes narrowed to irritated slits. “I believe we have exhausted any useful discussion on this particular topic.” He nodded brusquely to his estate manager. “That's all for now, Scunthorpe.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said with a respectful bow.

As he passed Gillian, he gave her a triumphant little sneer. Naturally, the coward's back was to the duke, or else he wouldn't have had the nerve. All she could do was give him a ferocious smile and silently fume as he slithered his way to the door.

“And Scunthorpe,” the duke added.

“Yes, Your Grace?” Scunthorpe asked from the door.

“About those smugglers. I do hope your assessment is correct.”

Gillian turned to look and felt a wee bit of satisfaction when she saw Scunthorpe's self-satisfied smile wobble.

“I will keep a close eye on the situation, sir,” the estate manager said. “I give you my word.”

“See that you do.”

Once the door closed, Gillian eyed Leverton, annoyed that he was clearly going to ignore her opinion on the issue.

He crossed his arms and lifted a questioning brow. “You might as well tell me what it is you're fuming about.”

“You know very well what I'm fuming about. We've been discussing it for the last fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, but I'm not precisely sure what aspect of the situation aggravates you the most,” he said.

“Don't pretend to be contrite when you're nothing of the sort.”

When he grinned at her, her foolish heart skipped a beat. The man was ridiculously handsome and charming when he wasn't acting so autocratically male.

“Very well, but why are you so put out by Scunthorpe's report?” he asked. “His theories about last night's encounter sound fairly sensible to me.”

She crossed her arms, imitating him. “Do you truly believe there are two gangs running your lands, and that it was only by chance they happened to conduct those runs within a two-week period? And, even in the unlikely event that such is the case, do you really think they're not going to do it again?”

“I must defer to your expertise when it comes to the criminal classes, but recall that I made it quite clear to the gang leader who held us up that I would not tolerate any such activities on my lands.”

“He no doubt was shaking in his boots the entire time,” she answered sarcastically.

Her reply triggered a subtle transformation in his expression, one that did make him look quite intimidating. “Trust me, my dear,” he said in a cool tone. “Our nefarious friend amply understood the message I delivered.”

Gillian chewed that over for a few moments. “All right, but, by your own admission, you have not spent much time at Fenfield Manor these last several years. How can you be sure that
all
the gangs understand how serious you are about stamping out the trade on your lands?”

“I can't. But Scunthorpe assures me that free-trading activity on manor lands is, for the most part, negligible.”

Gillian couldn't help thinking of Teddy's father, who'd been murdered by smugglers. That didn't sound negligible to her. “And you trust Scunthorpe?”

“The man's served me ably for the last five years. The lands are in excellent shape, as are the books. I review them myself, as does my business manager in London.”

When she started to argue, he leaned forward and gently interrupted her. “You must trust me, sweetheart. I do know what I'm about.”

She blinked up at him, thrown by his affectionate and warm tone. She had to struggle to rally. “Well, it still doesn't add up. It seems like too many coincidences.”

“Despite Scunthorpe's assurances, I agree that it makes sense to be cautious. To that end, I directed my business manager to employ a Bow Street runner to look into this matter.”

She jerked upright. “You did?”

“I did. If there's anyone who can ferret out information about your stolen jewels, it's a runner. In fact, the man is already in Lincoln. Since most smuggled goods from this part of the coast go there first, it seemed like the appropriate place to start the search. I expect a report from him within the next few days.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Good Lord. Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't want to get your hopes up, only to have them dashed when nothing came of it.”

“Believe me, I have never found hope to be a very reliable commodity.” Still, she was touched that he'd gone to such trouble. “You employed him after that day we walked to the chapel, didn't you?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Yes. You have a talent for making a man feel guilty. You should employ it more often.”

She scoffed. “As if I would ever resort to such shabby tactics. I would rather take on the task myself then act like a vaporish miss.”