The Smuggler and the Society Bride (2 page)

‘Or try to follow us at night, when we, too, show a healthier respect for the rocks.'

‘I doubt any of the revenuers wish to test the sea after dark,' Kessel replied. ‘Few enough Cornishmen have your fool Irish daring. Or your expertise with a boat.'

‘I'll ignore that jab at my heritage and accept your compliments on my skill,' Gabe said with a grin.

‘Sure you'll not consider staying on once Conan's fit to resume command of the
Gull
?' Kessel asked. ‘You've probably earned enough already from your cut of the profits to buy your
own boat. We could make a good team, just as we did fighting Boney's best! Unless you've changed your mind about returning home to be your brother's pensioner?'

Gabe had a sudden vision of the family manor at Ballyclarig, windswept Irish hills—and his elder brother Nigel's frowning face. ‘I'm not sure yet what I mean to do, but it won't include staying on in Ireland. I was at the point of setting out…somewhere, when you came calling.'

‘Lucky I did, since with you fully recovered from your wounds, 'tis likely you and your brother would have murdered each other, if he's as self-righteous as you've described him.' Kessel clapped a hand on Gabe's shoulder. ‘Though there's naught to that. Brothers often fight—look at me and Johnnie! Especially when one holds the whip hand over the other. Did you never get on?'

For an instant, Gabe ran though his mind the whole history of his dealings with the older brother who, for as long as Gabe could remember, had criticized, tattled about or disapproved of everything he did or said. ‘No,' he replied shortly.

‘Best that you move on, then,' Dickin said. A mischievous light glowed in his eyes and he laughed. ‘Wouldn't that fancy family of yours disown you forever if they found out exactly how you've been helping your old Army friend?'

Gabe pictured the horror that would doubtless come over his brother's austere features, were the punctilious Sir Nigel Hawksworth ever to discover the occupation his scapegrace younger brother was pursuing in Cornwall. After casting Gabe off permanently, he'd probably set the nearest King's agents after him.

Shaking off the reflection, Gabe said, ‘Let us speak of pleasanter things. Who was the charming Aphrodite who launched herself into the water? I've not seen her before. After her display of sympathy for the revenuer, I assume she must not be from Cornwall.'

‘She isn't,' Dickin confirmed. ‘Don't recall the name, but 'tis not Af-ro-dye—or whatever you said. My sister Tamsyn,
who's a maid up at Foxeden Manor, says she's staying there with old Miss Foxe. Some relation or other. I've seen her on the cliff walk a time or two.'

Realizing a dame-schooled seaman-turned-soldier probably wouldn't be acquainted with Greek mythology, Gabe didn't pursue the allusion. For the first time, he felt a niggle of sympathy for the humourless cleric Papa had employed to try to beat into his mostly unappreciative younger son the rudiments of a gentleman's education.

His rule-bound tutor provided just one example of the rigid parental discipline that had sent him fleeing into the Army at the first opportunity. How would he have escaped Papa's heavy hand, Gabe mused, if Bonaparte's desire for glory hadn't pushed his nation into a war in which it was every Englishman's patriotic duty to contribute a son to the regiments? Especially a rapscallion younger son no tutor had ever managed to break to bridle.

Shaking his mind back to the present, he repeated, ‘Some relation of Miss Foxe. Is she staying long, do you know?'

Dickin raised an eyebrow. ‘I'll see if Tamsyn can find out. So, 'tis not enough you've all the maids hereabouts sighing over you—and barmaids at the Gull fighting each other to warm your bed. You must hunt fresh game?'

Gabe shrugged. ‘What can one do when he is young, daring, handsome—' Breaking off with a chuckle, he ducked Dickin's punch.

‘You'll soon catch your death of a chill if you don't get your
handsome
self into some dry clothes,' Dickin retorted. ‘I'd as soon not lose my new skipper—or my closest Army comrade—just yet. Off with you, while I help the boys move the cargo inland. I'll see what Tamsyn can turn up about the lady.'

Gabe bowed with a flourish. ‘I'd be most appreciative.'

‘Aye, well, see that you show me how much on your next run. We'll meet at the inn later, as usual.'

Clapping Gabe on the back, his friend trotted off. Gabe made his way up the cliff walk, pausing to watch as the well-organized team of farmers, sailors and townsmen quickly freed the tubs from their temporary moorings, floated them to shore, then hefted them onto carts to be pushed and dragged up the slope to the waiting wagons. While one or two of the men nodded an acknowledgment, most ignored him as they passed by.

'Twas the way of the free-traders, he knew. Don't watch too closely, don't look a man in the face, so if the law ever questions you, you can truthfully reply that you know nothing.

At the top of the cliff, Gabe retrieved his horse and set off for what currently constituted home—the room he rented at the Gull's Roost, the inn at Sennlack owned by Richard and John's father, Perran.

The six months' run as skipper of the
Flying Gull
that he'd promised his comrade who'd saved his life at Vittoria would expire at summer's end, Gabe mused, setting the horse to a companionable trot. He had as yet not settled what he meant to do once his time in Cornwall was over.

He'd given his brother Nigel no promise of return and only the briefest of explanations before going off with Dickin, leaving Nigel to remark scornfully that he hoped after Gabe had scoured off the smudges he'd made on the family escutcheon with some honest soldiering, he wouldn't proceed to soil it again indulging in some disgraceful exploit with that seagoing ruffian.

If Nigel knew Gabe was skippering a boat for a free-trader, he would probably suffer apoplexy. How could one explain to a man whose whole world revolved around his position among the Anglo-Irish aristocracy the bond a man forms with a fellow soldier, one who's shared his hardships and saved his life? A bond beyond law and social standing, that held despite the fact that Gabe's closest Army friend had risen through the ranks to become an officer and sprang not, as Gabe did, from the gentry.

When Dickin had come begging a favour involving acts of dubious legality, Gabe had not hesitated to agree.

He had to admit part of the appeal had been escaping the stifling expectations heaped upon the brother of Sir Nigel Hawksworth, magistrate and most important dignitary for miles along the windswept southern Irish coast. After months spent cooped up recovering from his wounds, it had been exhilarating to escape back to his childhood love, the sea, to feel health and strength returning on the sharp southwestern wind and to once again have a purpose, albeit a somewhat less than legitimate one, for his life.

If he were being scrupulously honest, he admitted as he guided the horse into the stable yard of Gull's Roost, having lived on the sword's edge for so many years, he'd found life back in Ireland almost painfully dull. He relished matching his wits against the sea and the danger that lurked around every bend of coastline, where wicked shoals—or unexpected revenue agents—might mean pursuit or death.

Despite the massive collusion between local King's officer George Marshall, who complacently ignored free-trader activity as long as he got his cut from every cargo, there were always newcomers, like the fellow who'd foundered on the rocks today, who took their duties to stop the illegal trade more seriously. Although trials seldom occurred and convictions by a Cornish jury were rarer still, a man might still end up in Newgate, on the scaffold—or in the nearest cemetery, victim of revenuer's shot, for attempting to chouse the Crown out of the duties levied on foreign lace and spirits.

Still, Gabe was optimistic that his luck would hold for at least six months.

For a man unsure of what he would be doing at the end of that time, he'd considered it wise to dampen the enthusiasm of the more ardent local lasses—almost uniformly admiring of free-traders—by treating all with equal gallantry.

However, toward a lady whose tenure in the area was likely to be even briefer than his own, he might get away with paying more particular attention. While serving to discourage some
of the bolder local girls, it should also prove an amusing diversion. The lass on the beach today had been as attractive as her behaviour in attempting to rescue the sailor had been unusual.

Gabe pictured her again, water lapping about her ankles while the sheer wet linen chemise provided tantalizing glimpses of long limbs, a sweet rounded belly and the hint of gold at the apex of her thighs. His breath caught, and more than just his thoughts began to rise.

With a sigh, he forced the image away. Too bad this one was a lady born rather than a hot-blooded barmaid at the Gull. He didn't think he'd try very hard to escape
her
pursuit.

Responding with a wave to Mr Kessel's greeting, and calling out for hot water as he trotted up the stairs to his room, Gabe wondered what Aphrodite's real name might be and whether she was as ignorant as his friend of the story behind the name he'd called her. Might she be learned—or wicked—enough to have understood the reference: the goddess of love rising naked from the sea?

Unlikely as that prospect was, the possibility put a smile on his face and a lilt in his step. Once inside his room, waiting for his water to be delivered so he might pull off his soggy garments, Gabe tried to keep his mind from imagining how her hands might feel against his bare skin.

All he knew thus far about his Aphrodite was that she was unconventional and courageous enough to try to swim out and save a stranger.

He intended to learn a great deal more.

S
hivering in every limb, Honoria rang for Tamsyn to help her out of her clinging wet clothes before hurrying to huddle over the remains of the morning fire. Some time later, no maid having yet appeared, she rang again and began divesting herself of as many garments as her reach and the numbness of her fingers permitted. After wrapping herself in her nightgown, too chilled to care if she soiled it with damp and grit, she strode to the bell pull. She was about to ring once again when, after a short knock, the housekeeper entered.

‘What be you need—' the woman began, before halting abruptly, her eyes widening as she took in the heap of wet clothing, Honoria's robe-clad form and her damp, wind-tangled tresses.

‘I know 'tis an odd time to request one, Mrs Dawes, but could I have a bath, please?'

After a quick roll of the eyes at the vagarities of the Quality, the housekeeper curtsyed. ‘I'll have a footman bring up the tub and water, miss. I'd best add some chamomile to it to warm your joints and send along some hot tea with horehound to ward off a chill.'

Smiling through what were probably blue lips, Honoria nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dawes, that would be most welcome.'

Without further comment, the housekeeper withdrew. Accustomed to receiving swift chastisement for her impulsive actions, she blessed the fact that Mama and Marcus were far away in London. One—or both—of them would have had far more to say about this latest exploit than the disapproving housekeeper.

She refused to acknowledge the pang of distress and grief that thrummed through her at the thought of the family that had banished her.

She didn't need their censure—or Dawes's unspoken disdain—to realize she had once again failed to act like the gently-born maiden she was supposed to be. Honoria doubted her younger sister would ever have stripped down and flung herself recklessly into the sea, emerging later with her dripping chemise clinging to her body, a spectacle for the locals to gawk at. No, Verity would have fluttered a handkerchief and tried to summon some gentleman to come to her assistance.

Honoria smiled bitterly. Her own experience had robbed her of any belief in the existence of noble knights ready to gallop to a lady's rescue. But Verity was still naïve enough to hold tenaciously to the idea.

Nor would her paragon of a sister have been out walking the beach on a blustery day, getting her hem sandy and her curls windblown. Her sister would have remained at Foxeden Manor, her gown immaculate, nary a speck of grit marring her lovely face, decorating some altar cloth with her perfect tiny stitches and driving Aunt Foxe mad by offering, in a voice overlaid with solicitous concern, to pour her tea or fluff her cushions.

After her own disaster, she hoped Marc would keep a closer eye over her much-too-innocent sister, who would probably not recognize a sweet-talking villain for what he was until after he'd carried her off to ravish. Especially since Honoria, who had prided herself on her ability to accurately assess the character of the gentlemen she encountered, had barely escaped that fate.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold shook her. Verity might be a pattern card of perfection, Mama's darling who was repeatedly held up as the repository of all the feminine virtues Honoria lacked, but Honoria would never wish any harm to befall her.

She'd probably like the girl better now that she didn't have to live with her. Honoria smiled without humour. The parish priest at Stanegate, who'd often counselled her to charity during her growing-up years, would doubtless consider her exile a blessing, if it led her to think more tenderly of her sister.

Dismissing both the idea of improvement and Verity, Honoria turned her thoughts back to the scene at the beach. On the walk home, once she'd mastered her irrational reaction to the villagers' understandable curiosity, she'd begun to feel rather proud of her efforts, despite the embarrassment at the end. After drifting aimlessly this last month, trying to find something to replace the continuous round of rides, calls, teas, routs, musicales, balls and other amusements that had defined her life in London, it had felt…liberating to throw herself heart and soul into some useful endeavour. Though if the stranger had not intervened, she doubted she could have reached the struggling mariner in time.

As she brought to mind that gentleman's handsome countenance, another knock at the door interrupted her. Expecting the footmen with the tub, she was surprised when her Aunt Foxe walked in.

Looking her up and down, her aunt smiled. ‘I was coming to see you when Dawes told me you'd gone bathing! I'd have judged it a bit early yet; 'twill be equally invigorating but much more enjoyable in a month. Though one must take care to bathe in a sheltered spot. The tide in some of the coves is quite strong…nor would one wish to provide a show for the fishermen.'

Wincing at the reminder of her folly, Honoria said,
‘Actually, I didn't set out to sea bathe.' In a few short sentences, she described what had transpired at Sennlack Cove, then braced herself for her aunt's reaction.

‘Admirable of you to attempt to help the man,' Aunt Foxe said, and Honoria felt herself exhale the breath she'd not realized she'd been holding. ‘Though by the sound of it, you tried to assist a revenue agent—not an action that will win you the approval of the residents hereabouts.'

Honoria waited a moment, but her aunt added nothing else. Scarcely believing there were not to be any further recriminations, she said, ‘You aren't angry with me?'

Aunt Foxe raised an eyebrow. ‘Heavens, no! Why should I be? The rescue of one revenuer is scarcely going to destroy the local economy.'

The lack of criticism was so unusual, Honoria felt momentarily disoriented. As her world settled back into place, a rush of affection for her aunt filled her. Oh, her instincts had been right when they urged her to come here, rather than retreat in humiliated disgrace to Stanegate Court!

While she stood silent as this succession of thoughts ran through her head, her aunt's expression turned to one of concern. ‘Is something wrong, child? Are you feeling ill?'

Impulsively, Honoria ran over and hugged her aunt. ‘No, everything is fine! I'm just so glad I came here to you.'

‘Heavens, you're getting salt all over me.' Her aunt laughed, gently disentangling herself from Honoria's embrace. ‘I'm glad you came, too, though I might wish for you to refrain from such tender gestures until you have bathed. By the way, Dawes tells me you created the flower arrangements in all the rooms today. Thank you, my dear; they are lovely.'

‘I'm glad you like them, for preparing the bouquets required such
massive
effort on my part.' Shaking her head, Honoria laughed ruefully. ‘You were wise to have Mrs Dawes introduce me to the gardens. I do find it fascinating to study all the herbs' uses, and picking, drying and arranging them and the flowers
helps occupy my time. I wish I might do more for you. However, I'm hopeless at mending and needlework. I could do some sketches of the coves and meadows, though, if you like.'

‘I'd be delighted to have your sketches.' Her aunt paused, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘It's no wonder an energetic young lady like you finds herself at a loose end here. I've been afraid you would become rather bored, marooned so far from London, with no theatres or balls or parties, no shops to browse, no friends with whom to gossip.'

Honoria felt a wash of guilt—for once the initial distress had worn off, she
had
been bored. That was certainly not her aunt's fault, however. ‘You mustn't think I mean to complain! Truly, I don't miss London—except the shops, perhaps.'

That much was true. Even the name
London
called up bitter memories. She'd discovered in the most painful fashion that, far from possessing good friends, someone in London had disliked her enough to construct an incredibly intricate scheme to ruin her. So incredibly intricate, not even her own brother had believed she'd had no part in it. And so ruthlessly effective that, even after a month, the mere thought of that night still made her so sick with humiliation and distress she could not yet bear to sort out exactly what had happened.

Shaking her thoughts free, she continued, ‘There may not be as many amusements here, but I love Cornwall. The cliffs, the sea, the countryside, the wild beauty of it. I can see why you decided to settle here.'

‘You're sure? Certainly Foxeden, with its wide vistas overlooking the endlessly changing sea, suits me, but it's not for everyone.' Aunt Foxe chuckled. ‘It is, however, a very effective location if one wishes to keep one's family from meddling in one's affairs, for which I've always been grateful.'

‘As I am grateful to you for taking me in.'

Aunt Foxe gave her a fond look. ‘We reprobates must stick together, eh?'

The afternoon of her arrival, Honoria had confessed to her
aunt every detail of her disaster in London, wanting that lady to fully understand the completeness of her disgrace, so she might send Honoria away immediately if she preferred not to be tainted by the scandal. After listening dispassionately, Aunt Foxe had embraced her and, to Honoria's everlasting gratitude, told her she was welcome to stay for as long as she wished.

She was tempted now to ask her aunt how
she
had ended up in Cornwall. Growing up, Honoria had overheard only bits and pieces about a forbidden engagement, a dash to the border, capture, exile, her lover's death at sea. But although Honoria had come to know her mother's renegade aunt much better over the last month, she still didn't feel comfortable baldly asking for intimate details that her aunt, a private person, had not yet volunteered.

The opportunity was lost anyway, for Aunt Foxe had started walking toward the door. ‘Tell Dawes to bring tea to my sitting room once you've dried and dressed.' Pausing at the doorway, she turned back to add, ‘There might even be some new fashion journals from London for you to peruse.'

A momentary excitement distracted Honoria, for pouring over
La Belle Assemblée
had been one of her favourite occupations in London. ‘That would be delightful! I didn't know you subscribed!' Certainly Honoria hadn't found any fashion journals in her aunt's library when she'd first inspected the room a week or so after her arrival.

Aunt Foxe winked. ‘I must have something to amuse my guest, mustn't I? I'll see you shortly.'

As her aunt exited the room, Honoria's heart warmed with gratitude. Aunt Foxe must have ordered the periodicals just for her. Once again, she was struck by that lady's kindness.

She had known her great-aunt but slightly at the time of her impulsive decision to seek refuge here. During their few childhood visits, she'd noted only that Miss Alexandre Foxe seemed to answer to no one and that her relations with her niece, Honoria's mother, seemed somewhat strained. Since her own
relations with Mama had always been difficult and at the time she was sent out of London, staying with someone who had no connection to her paternal family held great appeal, Honoria had immediately thought of coming to Cornwall rather than proceeding, as directed by her brother Marcus, to the family estate in Hertforshire.

The fact that independent Miss Foxe was not beholden in any way to the Carlows was almost as appealing to Honoria as her recollection that, on one of those rare childhood visits, Aunt Foxe had pronounced Verity, already being held up to Honoria as a paragon of deportment, to be a dull, timid child.

Given the slightness of their previous acquaintance, Honoria still marvelled that her aunt had not sent her straight back to Stanegate Court, as John Coachman had darkly predicted when she'd ordered him to bring her to Foxeden.

She was deeply thankful to her aunt for taking her in and, even more, for giving credence to her story. Unlike her nearer relations in blood, that lady had both listened to and believed her, though she could come up with no more explanation than Honoria as to why someone would have wished to engineer her great-niece's downfall.

Even after over a month, it still hurt like a dagger thrust in her breast to recall her final interview with Marcus. More furious than she'd ever seen him, her brother had raged that, rash as she'd always been, he'd have expected better of her than to have created a scandal that ruined her good name at the same time it compromised her innocent sister's chances of a good match and distressed his newly pregnant wife. When he contemptuously cut off her protests of innocence, by now as angry as Marcus, she'd listened to the rest of his tirade in tight-lipped silence.

Despite their wrangling over the years, she would never have believed he would think her capable of lying about so important a matter. His lack of faith in her character was more painful than the humiliation of the scandal.

Marcus needn't have bothered to order her to quit London. She'd had no desire to remain, an object of pity and speculation, gleefully pointed out by girls of lesser charm and beauty as the once-leading Diamond of the Ton brought low. After her fiancé's repudiation and the final blow of her brother's betrayal, she'd been seething with impatience to get as far away from London and everything Carlow as possible.

Wrapping the robe more tightly about her, she walked to the window, sighing as she watched the roll and pitch of the distant sea. As for Anthony—that engagement had been a mistake from the beginning, as the tragedy in the town-house garden had revealed only too clearly.

It was partly her fault for accepting the suit of a man she'd known since childhood, for whom she felt only a mild affection. A man she'd accepted mostly because she thought that if she acquiesced to an engagement Marc favoured, her elder brother might cease dogging her every step and transfer his scrutiny to Verity. The prospect of getting out from under his smothering wing was appealing, and if Anthony proved tiresome, she could always cry off later.