‘I just want her to make intelligent decisions. She’s so vivacious that I worry...’ Dimitri let another sigh communicate all the things he worried about: Anna-Maria running off with the first man who showed her any adventure, Anna-Maria falling in love with the first man to kiss her. Dimitri shrugged as if he could shake off the weight of that worry and fixed his attention on Stepan. ‘You, my friend, were distracted tonight. Is the winter getting to you, too? The walls closing in? Just two months left and it will be better. We can go up to London. The change of scenery will have us appreciating Little Westbury within weeks.’ Dimitri chuckled.
‘Actually,’ Stepan said, ‘I was thinking about not going up to town with you at all. I was thinking I’d stay here, perhaps rent out Preston Worth’s house at Shoreham for a few months.’
Dimitri looked surprised and disappointed. ‘You’d miss Anna’s debut. I am sure she’s counting on you for a few waltzes.’
‘She’ll be surrounded by so many young men, she won’t need me to dance attendance on her.’ He smiled over the pain the realisation caused him. Like the others, she would be launched into a new life. He would be left completely behind.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Dimitri argued with a laugh. He clamped a hand on Stepan’s shoulder in fraternal camaraderie. ‘She’ll be surrounded by young fools like herself, champing at the bit for a taste of freedom in the big city. I was counting on you to be the voice of wisdom, to help her keep her head and navigate society with decorum.’
He’d only thought the country was torture. London would be a whole other level of private agony. Hell was proving to be a complicated place. ‘We’ll see,’ Stepan said neutrally. He started up the stairs, but Dimitri wasn’t done talking yet.
‘How’s business? I heard the Lady Frances came in today. I hope there wasn’t trouble?’ Dimitri was still fishing for the reason behind his distraction.
Stepan shook his head. ‘Everything was fine, just a lot of paperwork. Seems like there’s more every time.’
Dimitri gave a snort. ‘In this part of the world, people ignore the paperwork and smuggle it all in.’ He grinned at Stepan. ‘Maybe you should try it some time.’
Stepan gave a non-committal laugh. ‘Maybe.’ West Sussex was a known haven for smugglers with its access to London roads. One could hardly live here and not be aware of smuggling. But Dimitri had no idea how close to home his remark had hit. ‘I’m not sure how Preston Worth would feel about a smuggler renting out his house.’
Dimitri shrugged at the supposed conflict of ethics. ‘It would make winters in the country more interesting.’
Oh, it does, Stepan thought and continued up the stairs before the conversation went any further. Did Dimitri know? Was this his way of feeling out the subject? Stepan had tried very hard to keep the smuggling operation secret. If he was discovered, he alone would bear the consequences. He wanted none of his friends incriminated or used as leverage.
In his room, Stepan undressed and stretched out on the bed, planning his day. Tomorrow, he’d leave early and spend the day overseeing the unloading of the Lady Frances’s cargo at the harbour in Shoreham. Then, on the way home, he’d stop by the caves and see how the spirit distillation was getting on. That should keep him busy and out of the house and away from Anna-Maria until well after supper.
Ledgers and lading papers might keep him out of the house, but they were not the most entertaining. Stepan pushed back from his desk at the dock warehouse and strode to the window, the room’s one amenity. Below him, the pier was bustling, his men sweating in the cold air as they hauled trunks of cargo from the hold to the warehouse where it would wait for wagons to take it to London. He’d been at the ledgers for hours now. He flexed his cramped hand. His body was begging for physical activity. Perhaps he’d go down and help with the hauling. That would give his muscles something to do.
He’d just decided it when there was a soft, hesitant knock on his door. ‘Come!’ Stepan answered, watching the dark head of his clerk peer around the corner, still hesitant. Oliver Abernathy was a slim, timid young man, one of his rescued boys from London with a good head for numbers.
‘There are gentlemen to see you, milord.’
Stepan glanced at the appointment diary lying open on his desk. ‘They do not have an appointment.’ Not that they needed one with Abernathy letting everyone who stopped by interrupt his work. The boy might be good with numbers, but he was a terrible gatekeeper.
‘One is a military officer, milord,’ Abernathy offered in protest as if being an officer came with the privilege to arrive unannounced.
There seemed no getting around it. By now, the gentlemen would have concluded he was indeed in. ‘Very well, send them in.’ Stepan surveyed the austere office. ‘On second thought, I will come out.’ He took a last wistful look out of the window. He would not be hauling cargo today. He straightened his coat and went to take care of business.
‘Gentlemen! To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’ Stepan strode out of the office, all smiles and bonhomie, taking each man’s hand in turn with a firm grip. The one man in the blue coat of his station, Stepan knew: Carlton Turner, the customs officer. The other, dressed in a red coat, he did not. ‘I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure, Captain, is it?’ Stepan said, taking in the man’s uniform and noting the gorget. He noted other things, too, like the tight lines about the man’s mouth, giving it a harsh quality that matched the dark eyes. This was not a kind man. Was the harshness simply from the rigors of military life or something else, deeper? Darker?
‘Your Highness, may I introduce you to Captain Denning? Captain Denning, this is Prince Shevchenko, lately of Kuban. That’s his ship you’ve been admiring this morning.’ Turner made the necessary introductions. ‘Your Highness, the captain has been assigned to Shoreham on business and I wanted him to meet some of the key importers he’ll need to work with.’
Stepan did not miss Turner’s deft positioning of the conversation and was immediately on alert. He didn’t mind Carlton Turner. Turner was a stuffy man, always a stickler for protocol, but reasonable beneath the fussiness. Stepan knew how to deal with him. As long as things were shipshape on the surface, Turner didn’t bother to probe deeper. But the man had been around a while; he knew the limitations of his authority. Captain Denning didn’t give the first impression of sharing that understanding.
‘I find business goes well with venison pie and ale this time of day,’ Stepan offered with a gesture towards the door. ‘May I invite you both to dine with me? It’s just past noon and I’m famished. The tavern up the street isn’t fancy, but the owner’s wife is a good cook.’ If circumstances were throwing him together with this Captain Denning, he needed to know more about this newcomer and decide if the captain posed a threat.
Food meant small talk and a chance to size one another up. Stepan kept the captain talking through the flaky venison pie. The man was from Derbyshire in the East Midlands, the younger son of a baron. He’d served against Napoleon in his late teens. But those were just facts. Context was everything and Turner was providing it.
Turner joined the conversation, clapping Denning on the shoulder. ‘He was relentless, keeping his troops on the field and holding ground against all odds in Spain.’ Turner’s tone suggested the comment was meant as an
