Silken Secrets (3 page)

“Nothing of the sort. It is all Bertie’s doings, keeping it from me. Ah, there she is. Gammon and eggs, Plummer.”

“There’s no gammon, Lord Edwin.”

“No gammon? What kind of a house is this? You’re twenty-four now, Mary Anne. Time you took hold of the reins and brought this place to order. Bring me some eggs, then—half a dozen eggs—and fry them in bacon fat. Don’t tell me we have no bacon fat.”

“We have plenty of that, and precious little else,” Mrs. Plummer said, and strode from the room.

While Uncle was waiting for his breakfast to arrive, Mary Anne told him about the grounded boat in the bay. He went to the window to view it but expressed no intention of staying home to watch it being hauled away. “Mrs. Plummer said the brandy had already been unloaded,” Mary Anne mentioned.

“Brandy?” he asked, with a sharp look. Then he remembered to be ignorant on the subject. “All gone, eh? Too bad.”

When he had eaten and Mary Anne had gone upstairs for her bonnet, Lord Edwin went in search of Fitch. He found him in the attic, floating beetles in the puddles. “I told you to keep an eye on the hay wain!” he exclaimed.

“Best not to stick too close to it. It might look suspicious,” Fitch replied. “Codey’s been and gone. I took him out to the boat myself. He’s spending the day spying on Vulch’s place, trying to catch the Frenchies.”

“Ho, he underestimates his man if he thinks Vulch is stupid enough to let them get caught. They’re long gone back to France. I’ve found an excellent excuse to go to Folkestone to make my inquiries.”

“Who’ll drive the carriage for you?”

“Damme, I’ll have to borrow Jem from Mr. Christian. Scoot over and get him, Fitch. I’m taking Mary Anne for a birthday treat. I’ll go to two or three draper shops and see where I can get the best price for the silk. You wrap up the shawl while I’m gone. I’ll give it to her tonight and say I bought it in Folkestone.”

“You’ll have to keep her out of the way when you make your inquiries, then.”

“A good point, Fitch. I’ll tell her to choose some ribbons—that’ll keep her busy.” He rattled the coins in his pocket and pulled them out. A pitifully thin purse, but a lunch and ribbons could be eked out of it. In a week’s time he’d have a thousand pounds, or possibly guineas.

“Carry on,” he said, and returned below stairs to wait for Jem.

The drive along the coast to Folkestone was pretty in May, with all the greenery freshly washed by the storm the night before. The sea was an iridescent gold today, and the vessels on it rode as peacefully as toy boats. The ships’ sails billowed, but they didn’t bulge. On days like this Lord Edwin often wished he were a sailor, but he didn’t speak the language. He never could tell what the admirals were talking about. Luffing and bows and spits—it was worse than Latin.

At Folkestone they took a spin along the leas at the top of the sea cliff before driving down to the picturesque old fishing town with its irregular streets. “Ah, here is a drapery shop,” Lord Edwin exclaimed, and held the door for Mary Anne to enter. She had no idea what her present was to be. She suspected a length of material for a gown was beyond her uncle’s purse, but doubted he had brought her all the way to Folkestone for ribbons, which was what he suggested she look at.

He was obviously planning to surprise her. She noticed across the shop that he asked for the manager and was shown into an office. Her curiosity mounted higher. Even a length of material hardly required a private conference. Then she smiled ruefully. Of course, Uncle wouldn’t know that. She waited for the door to open and an impatient manager to show Uncle Edwin out. For ten minutes she waited, and when finally he emerged, the manager was smiling broadly. How very curious!

More curious still, Uncle didn’t carry any parcel from the shop, but went across the road and repeated his performance in two other shops. It was the noon hour by the time they had canvassed all of the drapery stores, and they went back to the leas, still without a parcel, to have luncheon at Bates Hotel.

Lord Edwin was in fine fettle, praising the good merchants of Folkestone and their wares, laughing, and insisting she have a second glass of wine, but what he didn’t mention was her gift. After luncheon he was still chirping merry and asked Mary Anne what she would like to do. Bereft of inspiration, she suggested they take a walk along the shrub-grown and sheltered paths between the leas and the Lower Sandgate Road.

Knowing her uncle’s aversion to churches, she only glanced at the Church of Saints Mary and Eanswith from outside, then returned to the carriage, and eventually they drove to Dymchurch, with pauses at Sandgate and Hythe to look in at a few more drapery shops. Lord Edwin’s indifferent team was in no hurry to get home.

Chapter Three

It was just coming on evening when they entered Dymchurch. “We’ll top off our outing with dinner at the inn,” Lord Edwin announced. His pockets were to let by this time, but he had settled up at the inn last quarter day, and his credit was good there.

“I expect Mrs. Plummer has dinner waiting, Uncle,” Mary Anne pointed out. It went against the grain to do it. Dinner at the inn was a rare treat, and on May Day there was bound to be a good crowd. The old traditional May Day celebrations had diminished, but the season still put folks in a holiday mood.

“Let it wait. We’ll have it for a midnight snack,” he said grandly, and pulled the check string.

He held the door, and Mary Anne went into the quaint little inn, which was bustling with unusual activity. “A private parlor, if you please,” Lord Edwin ordered.

There was, of course, none to be found on this busy day. In fact, there was a small crowd waiting for a parlor. The talk was all about the grounded smuggling vessel. Word had gotten about that the cargo was silk, not brandy. Lord Edwin was impatient for his mutton and began to make a commotion with the inn servants. His annoyance rose to indignation when a parlor was freed and a Mr. Robertson was called to take possession of it.

“Now, see here!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting the better part of an hour.”

Mary Anne pulled at his elbow. “Only five minutes, Uncle,” she whispered.

Lord Edwin knew Mr. Robertson was no inhabitant of Dymchurch and forged on to strengthen his spurious claim to the private parlor. “If you want to turn off a regular patron for a stranger, so be it,” he said grandly. But to ensure that this inequity didn’t occur, he added, “And call the proprietor while you’re about it, my lad.”

Meanwhile, Mr. Robertson had stepped out from the crowd and turned a disgruntled gaze on Lord Edwin. Mary Anne saw him, realized he was the challenger for the parlor, and felt a deep stab of regret that her uncle should be making a cake of himself in front of such an out-and-outer. Her breath stopped in her throat as she gazed. She had never seen such an attractive man in Dymchurch before. He might have stepped straight off a London stage. He had that dramatic, larger-than-life quality.

Yet, as she measured him, she decided he wasn’t actually taller than six feet. Joseph was six feet two, but Joseph shrunk to insignificance beside this gentleman. Everything about the stranger was top of the trees. His dark hair, not quite black—it had coppery lights under the lamps—was meticulously barbered. It was brushed forward in the fashionable Brutus do. His profile, as he spoke to the clerk, was clean-cut. He had a sculptured nose and a granite-strong jaw. The eyes looked as black as thorn buds, and the overall contours of the face were extremely pleasing.

He still wore afternoon clothes, but their London patina put the evening clothes of Dymchurch in the shade. A blue superfine jacket adhered to his body as closely as a second skin. A discreetly flowered waistcoat, an immaculate cravat, biscuit trousers, and shining Hessians completed his attire.

“Is there some problem?” the stranger said to the servant. Mary Anne’s ears were enchanted with his deep, cultured voice, so unlike her uncle’s high-pitched whine. What must he be thinking of us? she wondered.

Lord Edwin deigned to glance at the interloper then and was immediately struck by the fact that he was alone. The smallest parlor in the inn seated four. He stepped forward with a hungry smile and offered his hand. “Tempest in a teapot,” he explained. “It seems we’ve both reserved the same parlor. No reason we must behave like apes and squabble over it. We can act like the civilized gentlemen we are and share it, what? Happy for your company, Mr.—”

The briefest flash of anger flickered over the gentleman’s face. Mary Anne, observing, felt this stranger wasn’t in the habit of being told what he would do. But while she watched, the anger disappeared, to be replaced by an equally brief flash of cunning. That was the unlikely word that occurred to her.

Then the stranger smiled and took Lord Edwin’s outstretched hand. She wished she could think the smile had something to do with herself, but she knew it had not. He hadn’t even glanced at her.

“Mr. Robertson,” the stranger said.

“Lord Edwin Horton of Horton Hall, and this is my niece, Miss Judson.”

“I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Mr. Robertson said with a city bow that had very little in common with the ungainly bobs usually seen in Dymchurch. The thorn bud eyes quickly ran over her toilette, lingering a moment on her face. Mary Anne flushed and smiled nervously. “An eye in him like a tiger,” Mrs. Plummer would say.

The servant breathed a sigh of relief and led them to the parlor. As Mr. Robertson held Mary Anne’s chair, she noticed that he had a very winning smile, not at all predatory. He had nice white teeth, too, but the special charm of his smile owed more to his eyes than his mouth. The eyes glowed with interest and—was it possible?—admiration.

“Thank you,” she said, so softly he didn’t hear.

They ordered wine, and Lord Edwin, returned to spirits by his success, became cordial. “Mr. Robertson, what brings you to our fair village? Just passing through, I fancy?”

“Actually I’m visiting a Mr. Vulch.”

“Vulch, eh?” Lord Edwin nodded, while he mentally canvassed what such a loftly-looking lad could be doing with old Vulch. The possibilities were numerous. It could be business, politics, or it could be the lad was a relative.

Mary Anne listened eagerly. It cropped into her head that he might have come to court Bess Vulch.

“Are you acquainted with him?” Mr. Robertson asked.

“I know him like a brother. Is he some kin to you?”

“Oh, no. I’m here on business.”

“From London, I presume?” Lord Edwin asked, as his eyes roamed over Mr. Robertson’s city style. Robertson nodded.

“Whitehall?” Lord Edwin ventured.

“Bond Street,” Mr. Robertson said.

This caused Lord Edwin’s brow to lift in disparagement. He hadn’t planned to share his table with a merchant, but there you were. Never guess it to look at him that he was a hopped-up retailer. If the Cits were frequenting Weston, the
gentlemen
must find a new tailor.

Mr. Robertson noticed the expression and held his own features immobile. “Perhaps you could direct me to Vulch’s place,” he said. “I understand he doesn’t live right in the village, but somewhere west of town.”

During the interval till dinner arrived, Lord Edwin confined his conversation to his niece, and Mr. Robertson wrote something in a little black notebook. Figuring out his day’s profit, very likely. Once a steaming plate of mutton sat before him, however, Lord Edwin gave up his pretensions to snobbery and became expansive.

“What line of trade are you in, Mr. Robertson?” he asked.

“Drapery.”

Mary Anne was hard put to account for the leap of interest in her uncle’s eyes. So was Mr. Robertson.

“Drapery, you say.” His fingers tapped his cheek in a telltale way that caused his niece to wonder. “Woolens, muslins,
silks
…?”

“Yes,” Mr. Robertson said, and lifted his knife and fork, both of which he handled like a gentleman.

“No need to ask further why you’re visiting Mr. Vulch, then,” Lord Edwin said. “No secret hereabouts, he imports silk.” He smiled to himself at that clever use of “import,” to denote his acceptance of the practice. Mr. Robertson was no longer despised. He had become a person of great interest, one to be courted as a possible purchaser. Of course, the proposition must be put forward discreetly. Fitch must act as liaison man.

Mary Anne wished to share Mr. Robertson’s attention and said, “If you’ve come to buy the latest shipment, I fear your trip was in vain. It was stolen last night during the storm. The empty lugger was grounded on a sandbar just in front of my uncle’s property. When the customs men searched it this morning, the load was gone. They say in the village that Vulch hasn’t got it.”

“Right in front of your property?” Robertson asked swiftly.

“On our very doorstep,” she confirmed. She certainly had his attention now. His eyes were sparkling with curiosity.

“Have you any idea who might have taken it?”

“Vulch is the slyest man in the parish,” Lord Edwin announced. “He has it, certainly. What would a thousand ells of silk bring in London?”

Mr. Robertson didn’t blink an eye when his companion announced the exact size of the load, but he noticed it. “It would depend on the quality,” he said.

“But on the average. Say, for a pretty good-looking lot,” Lord Edwin pressed.

“Approximately a thousand pounds,” he replied, and watched from under his lashes as Lord Edwin smiled benignly.

“A thousand pounds, eh? Heh, heh. Old Vulch will never miss it. He’s rich as Croesus, the old crook.”

Mr. Robertson still remained impassive at this revealing speech. Why should he speak of Vulch “never missing it” if Vulch had the stuff? “I’m very interested in recovering the load,” he said. “In fact, I’m thinking of offering a reward—say ten percent on top of the purchase price. I can hardly put such a notice in the journals, since smuggling is illegal, but you might spread the word around.”

Lord Edwin’s fingers patted his cheek. “I’ll be sure to tell anyone I’m speaking to.” He smiled warmly.

“This is the prime month for selling silk, with the season in progress. I have many orders to be filled. If I don’t deliver, I’ll lose my customers’ future business.”