Silken Secrets (12 page)

“Oh, Uncle,” Mary Anne said. “It’s late, and Mrs. Plummer was in bed. Just wine, Mrs. Plummer.”

“There’s wine on his desk,” Mrs. Plummer said, pointing to the carafe.

“Why, so there is.” Lord Edwin smiled, and poured himself a glass.

The housekeeper grumbled herself out the door, and Mary Anne poured another glass for their unwelcome guest. She sat down to show him she meant to remain. Mr. Robertson sighed and reviewed his tactics.

“This head is really aching like the devil,” he said. “Would it put you out very much if I remained overnight, Lord Edwin?”

Mary Anne glared. He meant either to continue searching after they retired, which was bad enough, or to sneak in for a private chat with Uncle, which was worse. Uncle wouldn’t last a minute against this wily intruder. He’d be in chains before morning.

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to stay here,” Lord Edwin informed him. “The place is a shambles. Wet attics, moldly bedchambers. You may count yourself lucky if there’s butter for your toast in the morning. A shockingly bad run place,” he said, as though running down an inferior hotel and not his own home.

“I’m feeling a chill,” Mr. Robertson continued.

“Then you certainly want to hurry back to Vulch’s nice, dry house,” Lord Edwin assured him. “I’d light a fire for you, but every grate in the house smokes.”

Mr. Robertson made a staggering motion and stumbled toward a chair. He really was pale. Lord Edwin shot a questioning look at his niece. “Can hardly turn him out when he’s in such a state. It would be unchristian. That is—I didn’t mean to say
Christian!”
he whispered in a loud aside, and with a guilty start at the word that had cropped out.

She took her decision. Robertson was incorrigible. If he left, he’d go no farther than the stable and then soon to the barn. She could at least keep an eye on him if he was in the house, but she couldn’t let him get at Uncle.

“Very well, if you’re able to follow me, Mr. Robertson, I’ll show you upstairs,” she said stiffly, and waited till he recovered his feet before leading him off, with a warning look over her shoulder at her uncle.

As they entered the hallway, Fitch came rushing in. “I managed to—” He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Mr. Robertson.

Lord Edwin went racing to his study door. “In here, Fitch!” he called, and pulled the lumbering giant into his office, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Robertson turned a sapient eye on his hostess. “Does that ease your alarm, Miss Judson? Fitch managed to secure the cargo.”

“That’s not what he meant!”

“You said earlier he was out looking for the silk.”

“That was only an assumption. He was probably locking up the stable.”

“After the smugglers had escaped,
sans la soie.
Yes, I speak French, also Latin and Greek, which does not make me either a French spy, a Roman gladiator, or a customs man. Is it my occasional habit of dropping a French phrase that worries you? You may hear even so unexceptionable a Royalist as Prinney spout bongjaw, I promise you.”

“Does the Prince of Wales often drop into your shop?”

“Jamais.
It is the custom for us drapers to take our samples to Carlton House.”

Mary Anne took up a candelabrum from the hall table and went silently upstairs, her mind wildly scanning her options. It was easy to say you weren’t a French spy or a customs man; that didn’t make it so. If he wasn’t a customs officer, who was he? She walked along the corridor, peering in to see if, by some miracle, Mrs. Plummer had made up any of the chambers. She hadn’t. Striped ticking showed on some of the beds; others had bedspreads pulled over them, but she knew there was no linen beneath them.

“I’ll have to make up a chamber for you,” she said. To ensure his not returning below, she added, “Perhaps you could help. I dislike to disturb poor Mrs. Plummer again.”

“By all means, let us dispense with Plummer. I don’t want a piece carved out of my hide with her bread knife.”

Mary Anne went to the linen closet and brought out well-worn linens. With the ease of long practice she shook out the sheets and began tucking in the ends, while Mr. Robertson struggled less expertly with his side. By this time he was virtually certain the cargo was at Horton Hall. His only aim was to secure it. If the old boy was a thief, that was nothing to him. But how could he convince the girl of this? He shouldn’t have spoken so roughly earlier. He had scared the wits out of her. He must jolly her back into a trusting mood, by hinting at the truth if necessary.

He looked across the bed where she was working briskly, firming the fit of the sheet. “You do this well, Mary Anne.” He smiled.

She looked up, startled at his friendly tone. “I always give Mrs. Plummer a hand around the place,” she admitted.

“Bess tells me you’re proficient with the beeswax and turpentine as well. A lady of many accomplishments.”

“Not the customary ones. I don’t paint or play the piano or embroider.”

“For which I’m sure your future husband will be eternally grateful. You also don’t lie very well,” he said, and dropped the sheet. He sat on the edge of the bed, bringing her work to a halt.

Mary Anne took up a pillow and began to stuff it into a pillowcase. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he said gently. “I don’t mean you or your uncle any harm. It is imperative that I get that cargo of silk. Every moment’s delay could be costing lives.”

She dropped the pillow and stared at him.
“Lives?”

“Lives,” he repeated firmly. “You were right in thinking there was more involved here than just silk. There is... something else in the cargo. Something I must find.”

She stared across the bed, mesmerized. The unwanted intruder suddenly looked not at all like a customs man. His hateful tenacity took on the coloring of manly determination. “Mr. Robertson,” she asked, eyes wide, “are you a—a British spy?”

He made a modest gesture of agreement. “What is it you’re looking for? What was in the cargo?” she asked eagerly.

“There should have been a message from France. We have a woman planted there—she acts as a seamstress for the wives of highly placed French officials and army officers. She is frequently in their homes, where she overhears all manner of useful information. Her help has been invaluable in the past. She has dealings with the silk merchants and smuggles her findings out in cargoes of silk destined for England. It is a great secret, as I’m sure you realize. I don’t want a word of this breathed abroad.”

“Oh, my!” Mary Anne exclaimed, and sank onto the edge of the bed. She looked shyly at the guest and discerned the innocent air of truth in his noble aspect. His gaze was steady, his manner not at all conniving. How had she been so blind? Of course Mr. Robertson was no drapery merchant. He was obviously top of the trees, and a hero to boot. The message must be very urgent to have sent him galloping off to Dymchurch to intercept it.

“Well?” he urged.

She wet her lips and hastily reviewed her situation. Admitting to such a hero that her uncle was a thief and she an accessory proved impossible. She wanted to do it, but the words stuck in her throat. “I’ll speak to Uncle and see if he knows anything. You stay here!” she ordered, and fled downstairs.

Her uncle and Fitch were in the study when she went flying in to relate her tale. When she had finished her breathless story, they both looked at her as though she were mad.

“You don’t actually believe such a tale?” Uncle Edwin scoffed.

“I’m sure he’s telling the truth, Uncle.”

“Even if he is,” Fitch pointed out, “we still can’t admit to stealing. We’ll have to arrange to hand the stuff over stealthily.”

Mary Anne was willing to listen to any plan that would conceal her uncle’s guilt.

“Christian’s hut?” Lord Edwin suggested. “If you take it tonight. Fitch, the goods can be in his hands by morning. I haven’t posted the letter to Codey, so he shan’t be there. And if Robertson takes possession early in the morning, say at dawn, why it’s himself that Codey would catch if he happened by and not us.”

“He said every moment is important,” Mary Anne mentioned. “Couldn’t Fitch just ‘find’ the silk now, immediately? It could save lives, Uncle.”

“Aye, and it could cost lives—ours—if he’s lying,” Fitch added. “He’s not stupid enough to believe I just happened to find the silk as soon as we thought it safe to sell.”

“You have a point,” Lord Edwin agreed. “Robertson isn’t going to go galloping off to London to save lives in the middle of the night, and raining to boot. Fitch will move the stuff to Christian’s hut tonight, and we’ll tell Robertson early in the morning.”

After a little arguing Mary Anne agreed to this compromise. “What shall we tell Robertson tonight?” she asked. “He’s waiting upstairs. I told him I’d speak to you.”

Her uncle scowled at her. “Why didn’t you just tell him I was guilty? Tell him I’m exerting every effort and expect to have found the stuff by morning.” This sounded unconvincing, even to his undemanding self. “Tell him Fitch is on to something,” he added, and smiled.

“All right.” Mary Anne went so quickly to the door that Mr. Robertson hadn’t time to scamper upstairs without being seen. He had overheard every word through the keyhole, but what he had not learned was where they had the stuff hidden. This was no real problem, however. All he had to do was follow the amiable giant when he went to move it. He’d have his message tonight, instead of waiting for morning. He slipped quietly out the front door and skulked in the shadows, waiting for Fitch to come out.

Mary Anne rehearsed what she would say, and when she went to his door, she had her story ready. She tapped lightly and waited. She knocked harder and waited again. Perhaps Mr. Robertson had been undressing. After a third knock her suspicions allowed her to open the door wide, even if it meant seeing Mr. Robertson in his linen. She cast one brief look around the empty room before darting downstairs to Uncle’s study.

“He’s gone!” she exclaimed.

Fitch was still there, receiving last-minute instructions. The three exchanged startled glances that soon deepened to distrust and fear.

“The silk!” Fitch exclaimed, and they all three ran for the door.

Chapter Ten

Mary Anne reached the door first. Anxiety muddled her thinking, but through the mists of confusion, she suddenly got hold of one vital fact. She removed her hand from the doorknob and said, “Wait!”

“What is it?” her uncle demanded.

“We better not go out there. If Robertson is gone—”

“He
is
gone,” Fitch said. “And we have a pretty good notion where he’s gone to. We’ve got to stop him.”

“He has no way of knowing where you hid the stuff,” she pointed out. “He’s probably lurking outside to follow us. Let us wait a moment and think what should be done.’’

But she found scheming beyond her. What was in her mind was the question: Is he really a British spy, or is he something else? Why had he left the room, when she told him she would cooperate?

“He’s trying to get my silk without paying me!” Lord Edwin said angrily. The man must be stopped, but searching for him in the rain, hitting him, quite possibly being hit back... Robertson wasn’t the sort to cave in without a fight—all that unpleasantness was no job for a gentleman. “Take care of him, Fitch. You may use your fists if necessary.”

“Necessary, hah!” Fitch grinned from ear to ear and began prancing around with his fists raised, ready for action.

“But if he is really working for the government—” Mary Anne objected.

“Pooh! He’s working for himself and Vulch,” her uncle riposted. They all retired to the study for further arguing.

In the shadows beyond, Mr. Robertson became impatient with waiting. What the devil was keeping the amiable giant? He regretted that he hadn’t gotten back to his room in time for Mary Anne’s visit. Naturally he had to follow her and confirm it wasn’t another stunt. He didn’t want to wait till morning to recover his message, either.

But they were willing to help. He might have coerced her into leading him to the stuff tonight. It was beginning to look as if Fitch wasn’t going to move it. His having run off made them change their minds. What was the best course? He cudgeled his brains and was struck with an idea. His mount—he didn’t want it left out all night. It was a passable excuse.

Within five minutes Mr. Robertson entered the front door, making no effort at secrecy. In fact, he stamped his feet and made as much racket as he could. It was enough to bring his quarry into the hall.

“Good evening—again.” He smiled easily and shook the raindrops from his head. “I just remembered I had left my nag tethered to a tree in the park. I put him in your stable—I hope you don’t mind, Lord Edwin?”

The three exchanged a questioning look. “Sorry I disturbed you,” Mr. Robertson said. After a small bow, he walked nonchalantly upstairs.

He missed Mary Anne’s smile of relief, which would have given him pleasure on more than one score. “So that’s where he was!” she said.

“Do you believe him?” Fitch asked.

“Of course! He wasn’t trying to slip in quietly. Why, he made a dreadful racket. It was all perfectly innocent. We shall proceed with the original plan. You go out and start moving the stuff, Fitch, and Uncle and I will keep an eye to see Mr. Robertson doesn’t escape.”

“We’ll lock his bedroom door,” Uncle Edwin said.

“Oh, Uncle! You can’t do that! It would look so very odd—as if he were our prisoner. Besides, he’ll only climb out the window.”

“That he’ll not,” Fitch objected. “Them windows haven’t budged in a decade. They’re as good as nailed shut, the wood’s so swollen with rain getting in.”

“I’ll lock his door,” Lord Edwin repeated. “I shan’t get a wink’s sleep if I don’t. I’ll do it cagily—drop in and offer him a nightcap, and when I leave, I’ll rattle the knob a moment to cover the sound while I turn the lock.”

Mary Anne still disliked to consider what Mr. Robertson would think of their hospitality if he tried to leave his room for any innocent reason and found he was incarcerated. “It would help if you could get him bosky,” she suggested. “I told him I’d speak to you, so he won’t be surprised at the visit.”