Page 1 of The Smuggler’s Escape

Chapter 1

Sussex, Autumn 1794

“Approach the bed, Mademoiselle de Vallon.” Lord Boltwood spoke scarcely above a whisper.

Noelle trod softly across the darkened room. It was just past midday on a sunny November afternoon, but the curtains were drawn closely over the windows, and the occasional crackle from the fire the only sound to break the hush. His lordship lay still, one hand clutching a handkerchief, his face waxen, his lips dry. He had dismissed his hovering valet, saying he wished a few moments of private conversation with Noelle.

She hadn’t the slightest notion why. He had always treated her with courtesy—unlike his son, Richard—but she couldn’t think of a reason for this deathbed summons.

Nor could Lady Boltwood. “Something is preying on his mind,” that kindly lady had told Noelle a few minutes earlier, “but he won’t say what. Go on up, my dear. Perhaps you can comfort him a little.”

Looking down at the dying man, she doubted it. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

“I have unpleasant news for you, mademoiselle.” His eyes, the same grey as Richard’s, glittered in the candlelight. “To put it bluntly—for there is no choice—you are in imminent danger of arrest as a spy.”

“I—I beg your pardon?”

“It’s your own fault, child. You should not have become involved with smuggling.” He raised his hand for silence. The great emerald in his ring winked in the candlelight. “Do not deny it. Most of the village is involved with the free trade. I was certain to find out sooner or later.”

Mordieu, how annoying that he knew, but what did that have to do with spying?

“I don’t entirely blame you.” His voice was low and slow, with a relentless quality to it, as if every word took an effort. “You are penniless and obliged to live in the household of Sir Matthew Tifton. Naturally you wish to leave, and your savings from smuggling, however meager, might help you to support yourself someday. All very well, but not only are you a Frenchwoman, you have expressed revolutionary views. Therein lies the problem.”

She found her tongue. “My views don’t make me a spy!”

“I believe you, but will the Home Office? You see, they have learned that a spy is sending information to France by way of our smugglers.”

“That’s impossible. The smugglers are loyal Englishmen.”

“So innocent, my dear girl. When you are as old as I . . .” He sighed heavily. “Perhaps most of them are, but it takes only one disloyal man, or a clever spy, to ensure that the information gets through.” He paused, and she tried to imagine who might be a spy amongst them, but couldn’t. Where would any of the smugglers, poor men by and large, find information useful to the enemy?

“The point, my foolish child, is that suspicion has already fallen upon you. Unfortunately, I no longer have influence with the Home Office. Within a few days, they will send a man to Sussex, and unless he finds a more likely candidate—which he will not—you will be arrested and charged with espionage.”

Her heart thudded against her breast. Fury rose in her gorge. “But I’m not a spy!”

“Tsk,” he said. “Can you not see that the truth is irrelevant? Even if you were to be proven innocent—which is unlikely—you will be ruined. And you must think not only of yourself, but of Lady Tifton. How devastated she would be.” He pressed his handkerchief to his lips.

Yes, poor Aunt Lucretia. As if she didn’t have enough to bear already, married to horrid Sir Matthew, who would certainly maintain that Noelle’s misfortune was all Lucretia’s fault.

“And your mother, if she were alive.” He champed his jaws in the way elderly people do, then subsided. After a silence, he murmured, “She was a lovely woman.”

Startled, Noelle asked, “You knew my mother?”

He didn’t answer. Noelle wondered if he had even heard her. Perhaps he had drifted into recollections of the past.

His gaze sharpened again. He motioned to the bedside. “Open the drawer in that table. There is a tin box. Open it.”

Curious, she did as he asked. The box contained a little gold cross on a chain, studded with diamonds that winked in the candlelight.

“Take it,” he said. “I don’t know how much it is worth, but you may sell it to support yourself.”

“Why are you giving me this? You are under no obligation to me.”

“For your aunt’s sake, and your more distant relatives who don’t deserve to be tainted by association.” When she hesitated, his voice grew stronger. “Put it in your reticule.” He watched while she obeyed. “Take it, and your savings from smuggling as well, and leave England at once.” He broke into a paroxysm of coughing.

Noelle waited for it to abate, trying to think. To plan. She was good at making plans, but usually she had more time. How could she possibly leave so soon?

The valet opened the door. “My lord?”