tilted, her appraisal moved back, of its own volition, to his face, the straight nose, the well-sculpted cheekbones, to be thwarted once again when the moon slid behind a bank of clouds.
Harriette Lydyard rose to her feet with a huff of breath. A shame that a man so attractive should be so reprehensible as to be a trader in English secrets. Still, she found the time and inclination to throw a heavy rug over the prone body and push a small packet of priceless lace beneath his head.
Some hours later Harriette breathed out steadily, a long sigh of relief. The excitement of a run was heady, the success of it heated her blood, but the dangerous tension of the landing was always acute. There was always the chance that it would end in disaster, their cargo taken into custody by triumphant Excise men and the crew of Lydyard’s Ghost hauled before the magistrate. As all Gentlemen of the Free Trade knew, the penalty for smuggling could be the noose.
Tonight, as smooth as the bolts of silk they carried, all went without a hitch. A silent cove. No sneaky Revenue lugger lying in wait for them, no squad of Excise men with a lookout on the cliffs. Would that all landings were as sweet. Captain Rodmell, the keen-eyed Preventive Riding Officer, and his company of dragoons were no doubt all asleep in their beds in the Guard House at Lewes, dreaming of apprehending a priceless consignment of liquor and tea, lace and silk, unaware of what was unfolding on the shingle beach at Old Wincomlee.
Standing on the beach at last, Harriette rubbed her hands down the sides of her breeches in satisfaction at a job well done. It was the perfect location for such an enterprise where a natural dip in the land and the cliffs created an inlet with a gently sloping beach, a smugglers’ paradise. Harriette’s own, much-loved, house, Lydyard’s Pride, stood high above them on the cliffs that enclosed and protected. From there, an unshuttered lantern lit in the Tower Room above the east wing had sent its beams out to sea, assuring them that all was well for a landing. Now it was done. Barrels and bales had been speedily dispatched to the welcoming hands of lords and labourers alike, by pony or brawny shoulders. The cutter, her own pride and joy, the Lydyard’s Ghost, was beached and drawn up on the shingle within the bay as any fishing smack might be.
The beach emptied apart from George Gadie and his son, Gabriel, fishermen whose family had lived in Old Wincomlee for generations, smuggling in their blood. And in Harriette’s, too, as a Lydyard through and through. All Lydyards had sailed between England and France for at least two centuries to bring back illicit luxuries that were taxed beyond belief. All except for Harriette’s brother, Sir Wallace Lydyard, knight, Justice of the Peace and proud owner of Whitescar Hall. Her half-brother, not a true Lydyard, which probably explained the man’s mealymouthed disapproval of the Free Trade. So it was on Harriette’s shoulders to carry on the tradition and the responsibility of the runs, for the benefit of the whole fishing community of Old Wincomlee.
But now Harriette must deal with her unexpected cargo. He lay on the shingle where he had been dropped by two burly landsmen, more interested in disposing of barrels of liquor than in the comfort of the unknown and bloody traveller.
‘Well, Cap’n Harry? What’s it to be?’ George asked.
Well, what was it to be? Harriette looked down at the broken figure at her feet. Leave him to die on the beach, and good riddance to a traitor? Hand him over to Captain Rodmell and the Preventive men? Or…or what? He might even be dead for all she knew. His face was turned away from her, but one hand was flung out on the ground, fingers curled, as if beseeching mercy.
Against all her better judgement, that helpless gesture wrung her heart.
She looked up, tensing, eyes wide and instantly alert as she caught the scrunch of pebbles beneath booted feet. A figure strode across the beach towards them. Harriette promptly relaxed and raised a hand in greeting.
‘It went well, Harry.’ Her cousin, Alexander Ellerdine, his face full of wild energy, joined them. ‘A good run, in a quick time.’
‘Zan! Excellent.’ A brief clasp of hands. ‘And an equally good landing, all due to you. Monsieur Marcel is willing for another run within the month.’
‘We can do that.’ Alexander’s confidence was as bright as the lantern in the Tower Room window. ‘I’ll pass the word.’ He turned to go. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, appraising the body.
Harriette’s lips parted to tell him. Then, uncertain as to why, she changed her mind. She wasn’t used to keeping secrets from Alexander, but she would keep her knowledge of this man with the haunting face and wicked crime tucked away. Just until she know more of him—and had made up her mind what to do with him.
‘An Englishman who fell on bad times,’ she announced. ‘We don’t know anything more, other than that his clothes suggest he’s got deep pockets. Marcel delivered him with the barrels and we brought him home.’ She ignored George Gadie’s angled glance, even as she felt quick colour rise in her face. Lies did not come easily to her.
‘Shall I take him?’ Zan offered with barely a glance and less interest. ‘I’ll hand him over to Sam Babbercombe at the Silver Boat.’
‘No.’ It came out sharper than she had intended. ‘I’ll take him.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘No reason.’ She tightened her lips as she considered the helpless figure. Hand him over to the rough care of the innkeeper in Old Wincomlee, who would kill him with neglect before he put himself out for a penniless, injured man? Never. And besides…Harriette felt an uncomfortable response touch her spine as the man groaned, little more than a sigh, and turned his head. The wound was stark and ugly on his cheek. For some inexplicable reason she did not want to abandon him into Alexander’s care. ‘He’s halfdead already. It’s closer to take him to Lydyard’s Pride than the inn.’ When she saw Zan’s brows rise, she hurried on. ‘He might have information of use to us.’ Harriette cast about for logical reasons. ‘It might be in our interests to restore him to health.’ She chuckled to hide her discomfort. ‘We can always extort money from him for saving his life! Sam at the Silver Boat won’t care whether he lives or dies.’
‘I don’t see how he can know anything to our advantage…’ Harriette watched, all the tension returning to her tired muscles as Alexander knelt to turn the man’s face, to make what he could of the features. Harriette thought his frown deepened and caught his sharp, rather sly, glance. ‘Going to save his life, Harriette? Play the guardian angel to soothe his brow?’
‘Nothing of the sort. How foolish you are!’ She did not like the smooth teasing, nor the hint of malice, but summoned a smile. ‘We can’t stand here arguing the case, Zan,’ she responded lightly enough. ‘Have all the goods gone?’
Alexander stood, his face alight. ‘Yes. I kept some particularly fine lace for the fashionable ladies of Brighton. They’ll pay handsomely.’ To her inexplicable relief his interest in the man had died. ‘Do you need help?’ He wound a warm arm around her waist and pressed a quick kiss to her temple.
Momentarily Harriette leaned her head against her cousin’s shoulder in gratitude, then straightened. ‘No. George and Gabriel will take care of him. You can do one thing for me, Zan. Best if my brother doesn’t get wind of this, or my whereabouts tonight. You can head Wallace off if he wants to know where I am. Tell him I’ll stay the night at the Pride and return to Whitescar Hall tomorrow. It might save my skin from a rare tongue lashing. And then send Meggie to me, would you? She’ll know what to bring. And tell her—bring some linen and one of Wallace’s dressing gowns. I think we’ll need it.’
‘I’ll do that.’
