Silken Secrets (13 page)

“Excellent!” Lord Edwin exclaimed. “I’ll take up a bottle of my best port. Two bottles.”

“Why not put a little laudanum in one?” Fitch said with a crafty look. “Plummer has a bottle in the kitchen.”

“Not too much!” Mary Anne warned. “We want him awake at dawn.”

“I know just what quantity gives you a good night’s sleep. Five drops,” Lord Edwin said. “That’s what Plummer gave me when that cursed molar of mine acted up last year.”

This plan satisfied them all. “If we’re sure Mr. Robertson is asleep, you and I can help Fitch, Uncle,” Mary Anne suggested.

Lord Edwin looked at her as though she were mad. Help Fitch—in this downpour! With his sore joints?

Mary Anne stationed herself a few yards down the hall to keep a discreet guard on Mr. Robertson’s door while Lord Edwin got the wine and laudanum and Fitch went to begin moving the silk to Christian’s hut. When Lord Edwin had the corks removed and one bottle doctored with laudanum, he winked at Mary Anne and she scuttled along to her bedroom.

Her fears and doubts had ebbed to manageable excitement. She lay on the bed thinking, waiting till Mr. Robertson would have had time to fall asleep. She was sorry he’d be dashing off to London tomorrow as soon as he found the secret message in the cargo of silk, but she felt certain she’d see him again. Apparently he worked regularly with Vulch. If he got away early enough tomorrow morning, he might even return for the spring assembly that night. She would wear her new shawl, and they’d waltz...

Mr. Robertson was on fidgets waiting for the visit. He was in little doubt as to why Lord Edwin came with two bottles of wine. Did the old fool really think one bottle would put him to sleep? No, of course not. He would have laced one bottle with a sleeping draught. Yes, sure enough, the two bottles were open already, and he kept looking at them. Not clever of Lord Eddie to have put the doctored bottle in his left hand. To confirm the stunt, Mr. Robertson reached for the bottle in his right hand and swallowed his smile to see Lord Edwin awkwardly shove his left hand forward.

“This one’s for you, Mr. Robertson.”

“Thank you. This is a delightful surprise. I could use a drink to put me to sleep.”

“Eh?” Lord Edwin gasped with a guilty start. “Sleep, you say? Why, where did you get that idea?”

“Wine always make me drowsy.” Mr. Robertson smiled blandly and lifted the bottle to his lips. It was easier to hide the fact that he wasn’t actually drinking anything if he kept the colored bottle. A glass would reveal the truth. He tasted the bitter trace of laudanum beneath the grape. It wasn’t strong—he wouldn’t have noticed it had he not been looking for it.

They sat down, and conversation turned to the important subject of silk. “Your niece spoke to you?” Mr. Robertson asked.

“She did. As it happens, Fitch had just got a line on something.” Lord Edwin nodded importantly.

“That’s excellent news. Your Fitch seems a bright lad.”

“Fitch bright? Why, he’s dull as those muddy window-panes,” Lord Edwin asserted. “Strong, but not bright. He did happen to get a line on the silk, however.”

“When do you think I might get it?” Mr. Robertson asked.

“At dawn tomorrow.”

“I hope the demmed rain has let up by then,” Mr. Robertson remarked, and strolled to the window as though checking the weather.

This raised no panic in his host’s breast. He’d see nothing from that window. Fitch would take the shortest route, which was by the opposite side of the house. He rose and joined Robertson at the window. Both left their bottles behind.

“Did you see something move out there?” Mr. Robertson asked, and pressed his nose against the pane. He already knew the window didn’t open. He had tested that as soon as he was alone in the room.

“Eh? Impossible? He wouldn’t come this way.” Lord Edwin pressed his nose against the pane, too. Mr. Robertson edged back to give him a clear view.

“There, didn’t you see that?” he asked.

While Lord Edwin peered into the impenetrable blackness beyond, Mr. Robertson quickly moved to the table and switched the bottles of wine about.

“I don’t see a thing,” Lord Edwin said, worried now. “You don’t think it was Codey?”

“Perhaps it was just a shadow,” Mr. Robertson allowed, and resumed his seat.

Lord Edwin did likewise and soon picked up the doctored bottle of wine. “That’s what it was, a shadow. Codey would be in his nook at the tavern by this time. A shocking bad revenue officer. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s in Vulch’s pocket. I mean it stands to reason; the whole parish knows Vulch lands the goods at his very dock. How does it come Codey never catches him, eh?”

Mr. Robertson took a long drink from the bottle. Lord Edwin smiled like a lady who has just received an offer from her suitor and said, “Not that I give a tinker’s curse. I like my brandy as well as the next fellow.”

“I’ll arrange to get you a barrel as a bonus when I recover the silk.”

“Demmed decent of you, Mr. Robertson.”

The conversation became more congenial as the bottles emptied. Lord Edwin began yawning into his fist, and to keep suspicion at bay, Mr. Robertson did likewise. “Do you mind if I lie down, Lord Edwin?” he asked when the wine was nearly gone. He walked on unsteady legs toward the bed.

“Good idea. I’ll join you,” his host said. Lord Edwin fell in a heap on the floor as soon as he got off his chair.

Mr. Robertson lifted him onto the bed and hastily rifled his pockets. He recognized a bedroom key when he saw one, and before Lord Edwin had emitted the first of a series of stertorous snorts, he was locked in the room, dead to the world. Mr. Robertson took a look up and down the empty hallway before slipping quietly down the staircase and out the front door.

At eleven o’clock approximately an hour had elapsed, and Mary Anne figured it was safe to go and talk to Uncle. It had occurred to her that while Codey wasn’t likely to venture out in such raw weather, Vulch’s smugglers were made of hardier stuff. They’d already been there once tonight. If they returned and caught Fitch moving the silk...

A tremble of fear shook her. She changed into her oldest slippers and went quietly down the hall. As she passed Robertson’s door, she quietly tried the knob. The door was securely locked. When she saw Lord Edwin’s room empty, she went in search of him downstairs. The office, too, was dark and vacant.

She had misjudged her uncle. Some latent trace of gallantry had urged him to let her rest while he went to Fitch’s assistance. He could still surprise her upon occasion. Her birthday, for instance. That lovely shawl, and dinner at the inn. She went out by the kitchen, pulling her oldest shawl over her head and shoulders as she went.

The rain had ebbed to a drizzly mist. No actual drops fell, but the air was so laden with moisture that it felt clammy and surprisingly warm. Phantom clouds of fog clung to the ground, enshrouding her to the knees. She stood listening, but the only sound in the darkness was the occasional plop of water falling from leaves and roof to the ground. One particularly large drop struck her head, and she moved away from the roof into the night.

She could scarcely see beyond her nose and was cheered to know that Vulch’s men would be similarly hampered. They lacked her advantage of knowing where to look for Fitch and the silk. She struck off first toward Christian’s hut. Fitch should have had time to deliver one load and be on his way back. She checked for intruders, peering into shadows as she went, listening for the whicker of a horse, the rattle of a harness, or human sounds. All was silent. Her feet made no sound as they flew over the familiar terrain, skirting instinctively around the invisible thorn bush at the edge of the meadow, veering left around the sudden apparition of white, which was a wild apple tree in blossom.

At the edge of the meadow that abutted Christian’s property, she stopped. She thought she could hear if Fitch were coming toward her, and in any case, she had no intention of striking into the spinney alone at night. She turned back toward the barn, hurrying over the rough ground. When she was about six yards from the building, she heard Fitch’s voice. Uncle was there, then, she thought, and picked up the pace.

“A
goat!
You let a bloody goat
eat
it!” a voice shouted, with no effort at concealment.

Mary Anne stopped dead in her tracks. It wasn’t Uncle’s wavering tone or the coarse voice of Fitch that assailed her ears. It was the unmistakable accents of Mr. Robertson! His words made little impression on her. It was his presence on the scene that filled her with dread. How had he gotten here? Hadn’t he drunk the doctored wine? He should be sound asleep by now.

“Damme, how did I know Belle would eat the stuff?” Fitch shouted back.

She listened, drawing closer behind the concealment of the barn, and peeked through a space between loose boards. Fitch had lit a rush light to let him see what he was about. She should have warned him not to! Its dim illumination seemed as bright as a beacon. In the circle of light it provided she saw two bales of silk had been opened. One sat in the mud—a lovely gold silk. It bore traces of Belle’s teeth in its frayed and gnawed edges. The other bale was green. It was undamaged, as far as she could see. Belle had strayed off to a corner, foraging for new fodder.

“By God, you’ll hang from the gibbet for this!” Mr. Robertson growled, and stepped forward to grab Fitch’s arm.

Staring into the barn, Mary Anne felt a shot of alarm. Fitch would kill him! Then it occurred to her that Mr. Robertson carried a pistol, and she looked harder for evidence that he meant to use it.

Fitch shoved him off. He wouldn’t have done that if Mr. Robertson had drawn his pistol. “How the bloody hell were we supposed to know?” Fitch demanded.

“You weren’t! If you weren’t a parcel of thieving scoundrels, this wouldn’t have happened.”

She still didn’t see any pistol, but the two men were squaring off for a fistfight. Poor Mr. Robertson! She stood ready to call Fitch off if he became too rough. While she stood biting her knuckle to keep from crying out, Mr. Robertson’s fist flashed out and caught Fitch on the corner of the jaw. He fell back, but it would take more than a fist to fell that giant. Mr. Robertson’s fist rose again, this time catching Fitch in the stomach. There was a pained grunt; then Fitch straightened up and leveled a murderous scowl at his opponent.

As he danced around Robertson, fists raised and pawing the air, he said, “I ought to warn you, lad, I’m no amateur with my dabs. I’ve flattened many an opponent, and it’ll be a pleasure to do the same to you.”

On this menacing speech he lifted a clenched fist the size of a ham hock, and an ugly thud rent the air. Mr. Robertson dodged and caught the blow on the corner of his chin, which was all that saved him from collapse. Even the grazing blow left his head singing. He shook his head and sized up his opponent. He knew he was outweighed by seven or eight stone. Fitch was ungainly and slow on his feet, like most large men, but he had some science. So had Mr. Robertson, but he felt instinctively that the less gentlemanly brawling tactics learned in back alleys would be more effective here. He joined his two hands together and threw them with all his strength in the pit of Fitch’s stomach. The giant stumbled, and Mr. Robertson rushed in with a shower of blows. It was like hitting a wall. The man was solid muscle.

Fitch didn’t fall, but he kept being pushed back into the barn, like a man retreating from the onslaught of a midge or an unwelcome bee. Belle came running forward to see the excitement and butted against the back of his knees. Seeing this unexpected advantage, Robertson gave a hard shove, and Fitch fell over the goat. There was a loud thump as his head struck a beam. Robertson kicked the goat aside and went to check the damage.

His satisfied snort told Mary Anne that Fitch was momentarily stunned. She stood uncertainly while Robertson looked around for something to tie Fitch up with. Yes, that’s what he was doing. He ran after Belle and began untying the rope from her neck. There never was any point tying Belle up. Ropes were one of her favorite treats.

“You’ll hang from the gibbet,” he had said. And so would Uncle. She couldn’t let him get away. She looked all around, trying to think of a weapon. At the edge of the circle of light in the barn was a piece of wood, of the sort Fitch chopped for the kitchen grate. The effectual Mr. Robertson had already got the rope from Belle’s neck and was going to tie Fitch up. This was her chance, while he was bent over, his attention distracted. She whirled around the corner of the barn, snatched up the piece of wood, and inched silently forward. Instinct fought against her. She didn’t want to hurt Mr. Robertson, but she couldn’t let him hang Fitch and Uncle—and possibly herself. She lifted the piece of wood and brought it down on his head. The blow sounded dreadfully loud. Oh, God, had she killed him?

Fitch grunted to life and sat up. “Hey, what are you doing here, missie?” he demanded. In this moment of stress, all formality of servant and mistress was abandoned.

“Tie him up quickly, Fitch, before he wakes up,” she said, and grabbed the rope from Robertson’s hands.

“Aye, I will, then, till we have time to consult Lord Eddie. Best go and get him, missie.”

“See if he has a gun, Fitch.”

Fitch rifled Robertson’s pockets and drew out the pistol. He smiled at it. “He fights fair, I’ll say that for ‘un,” he said, and stuck the pistol in his waistband. “You’d best get along,” he said to Mary Anne.

“Yes,” she said, and ran off to the house, glad to put distance between herself and her crime.

She went first to her uncle’s study, since he hadn’t been in his room earlier. Nothing. Next she pelted up to his bedchamber, hoping he was there, since he wasn’t with Fitch and he wasn’t in his study. His room was still vacant. She tried to think, but what whirled in her brain was the awful image of Mr. Robertson and the echo of that hollow thump as she had hit him. Why had she done such a horrid thing? Yet, what else could she do?

She rushed into the hallway and went to Mr. Robertson’s door. It was locked. Fitch said the window didn’t open. How had he gotten out? The man was a magician. Popping out of locked rooms and making Uncle disappear. In desperation she pulled a key from the door across the hall and opened Robertson’s room, because she didn’t know where else to look. And there on the bed, the flickering flame of a single candle playing over his inert face, making him look dreadfully like a corpse, was Uncle Edwin.