Page 2 of The Smuggler’s Escape

The old man waved him away, croaking, “Go, damn you! I’ll ring when I want you.” He subsided, obviously exhausted, and closed his eyes.

Noelle clutched her reticule, feeling the firmness of the tin box within it. She could manage without the little cross, but it would help. It would be rude to refuse such a thoughtful gesture, particularly from a dying man. When he didn’t open his eyes again, she began to tiptoe away.

“Wait.” Lord Boltwood’s thread of a voice recalled her. “You must arrange with one of the smuggling vessels to take you as a passenger, two days hence at the latest. Once you are gone, I shall inform Lady Tifton that you asked my aid in sending you to cousins now residing in . . . Vienna, perhaps. There are many émigrés there.”

It was as good an explanation as any. “Very well, my lord.”

“Send my man in on your way out.”

She thanked him and left, to the sound of Lord Boltwood demanding brandy. “The doctor may go to Hell and take his advice with him. It hasn’t killed me yet.”

Seemingly, it did this time, for a few hours later he died.

~ ~ ~

That evening

Noelle was finished with smuggling for the night. She’d already played her part, planning the route, arranging for the decoys, and unlocking the back entrance to her uncle’s walled garden. The men would do the rest as efficiently as always. She lay in bed, desperately planning her escape.

At dinner, one of the vicar’s servants had come with the news that Lord Boltwood was dead, which gave rise to a new problem. Not that it truly counted for much when she was facing possible ignominy and death as a spy, but the fact remained that she didn’t want to see Richard Boltwood ever again. Hopefully, she could leave Sussex before he arrived to attend his father’s funeral and take up his inheritance. He had left Sussex unexpectedly well over two years ago for Amsterdam, of all places, but according to the latest gossip, he had returned to London a few months ago. Which meant he could be here as early as tomorrow.

Not that she expected him to pay any attention to her. He’d avoided her for more than two years, so it was safe to assume he would continue to do so. Even so, the knowledge that she might soon see him made her remember what she’d actually liked about him, so long ago.

Such as his kisses. Since then, she’d tried kissing a few other men, but they hardly compared at all.

Better to think about his dastardly behavior. Best not to think about him at all. If the run went well tonight, the goods would be delivered tomorrow, and she would take her portion of the proceeds and flee the next day—hopefully one step ahead of the Home Office’s man.

The light of a swaying lantern flashed beneath her bedchamber window. Noelle scrambled out of bed and hastened to see who could possibly be visiting her uncle at this time of night.

Two men in uniform, muskets at their shoulders, paced in front of the house.

Panic suffused her. Ah, mon Dieu! The Home Office already?

No. These were local excisemen, men she recognized. What were they doing here? Only the smugglers participating in tonight’s run knew Uncle Matthew’s garden was their goal. Just in case, she had checked the road, the garden, and the path toward the cove only a half hour earlier, before going up to bed. Everything should have been fine!

Noelle grabbed the lantern from the shelf by the door. Was there a flaw in her plan? The men had grown to trust her, and most of her runs had gone smoothly till now. This one was a little different from the usual, for they’d had to cache the brandy in the cove for several days, as there were too many excisemen about. But the cache might soon be discovered, so tonight the goods had to be moved.

She put on her wrapper, hung the garden key on its ribbon around her neck, and slipped into the corridor. From below came Lieutenant Hale’s precise voice, requesting permission to search for contraband. Uncle Matthew, who had no idea of what went on under his red, bulbous nose, blustered and protested, but he detested smugglers. Any second now he would agree, and Hale would order his men to patrol the grounds of the estate.

While the smugglers, with dozens of tubs of brandy, walked right into the trap.

I couldn’t have known Hale would come here tonight, she told herself, but that was no excuse. I wasn’t even on watch. That was no excuse either.

She could berate herself later. Right now, she had to do something. She tiptoed along the dark passage and down the back stairs. Most of the servants retired to bed when Uncle Matthew closeted himself in his study. She could slip out the kitchen door and—

At the crunch of boots on the gravel walkway, she pulled the door hastily shut. An exciseman was patrolling behind the house as well.

Noelle weighed her options, none of which allowed her to escape the house unseen. Even if she could reach the garden, she couldn’t possibly put up a light to warn the men to stay away.

Fright sharpened her wits. Yes, she could, if the light were for an entirely different purpose.

She ducked into the pantry for her butterfly net, lit a lantern with a taper, and waited for the footsteps to recede. Then she eased the door open. His back to her, the exciseman turned the corner, but he would soon return. Even if she cloaked the lantern, they could hardly fail to see her, in a nightdress and a wrapper that flapped in the crisp November breeze. The gravel of the path dug into her feet through her thin slippers, and dew soaked them as she hurried across the lawn.

She set the lantern and the net on the flagstones and fitted the key into the front entrance of the walled garden. A shout came from the house, followed by urgent footsteps on the path. Her hands trembled as she turned the key and swung the door open. If she could get the lantern high enough for just a few seconds, the watcher on the next rise would see, and the smugglers would have a chance of escape. Meanwhile, she would play a role in which Hale had seen her before.

“Mademoiselle de Vallon!” Lieutenant Hale’s stern voice grated on her as always.

Noelle pretended not to hear. I am a naturalist, she reminded herself, because acting a part well required conviction. An eccentric Frenchwoman and my sainted father’s daughter. Me, a smuggler? Quelle folie! She shoved the heavy wooden door shut, locking herself into the garden, and scrambled along the winding paths past herbs and the last of the roses. She set the lantern and the butterfly net on the bench beside the dovecote.