Chapter 9
Fox needed Perry in the house, locked up tight, her pistols ready.
He slipped behind a rocky outcrop. Through his spyglass he could see the oars going on each side of the tub boat, casks strung to the sides, bobbing in heavy surf. That would slow them down more than a bit. The lugger he’d spotted earlier before the storm was likely sitting around the rocky point to the north, and the local Riding Officer was tucked in the bed of Scruggs’s maid, or drunk in the hearth room. Sex, drink, and money, they were all part of his payment.
He had time to get Perry inside and get himself down the cliff side.
Fox reached the stable door just as it opened, the lantern light flashing. He slipped in, slamming the door, grabbing her lantern and shuttering the light.
“What the devil are you doing?” she asked.
“We need to get back to the house.”
He could feel her gaze on him. “Smugglers?”
“Yes.”
She tried to push past, but he stopped her.
“I want to see.”
Her nightclothes might shimmer against the high rocks.
“Wait.” He found a dun-colored horse blanket and wrapped it around her. “You’re entirely too bright.” Entirely, completely, overwhelmingly too bright. And he could not deny her the excitement of seeing this.
With one hand she clutched the blanket in front, and the other slipped into his.
He led her to the outcrop where she pressed her hips against the boulder and looked through his spyglass. “Three men on board, two rowing.”
As he’d seen. He needed to get down there.
“It looks to be heavy work. Are those casks of brandy?”
“Brandy or gin. Look to the beach under that outcrop. What do you see?”
“Nothing—or…” She drew in a sharp breath. “Shadows. The locals?”
“Most likely.” He reached for her. “Come. I have to get down there.”
She handed him the spyglass and followed along. “Is that the man, then?”
His Perry. So bright.
“I want to go with you, Fox. I have a dark pelisse.”
“No.”
She stiffened and stopped. Dug in her heels, the blanket slipping. He pulled it around her while she slapped at his hands.
“Perry.” He jerked her close in her blanket. “Gregory Carvelle. That’s who we’re looking for.”
Her sharp intake of breath told him she knew the name.
“That’sthe man?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“Yes. I saw him once at a ball.”
