Page 28 of The Smuggler’s Escape

“No,” Noelle said, feeling absurdly guilty, “and thank you for unbolting the kitchen door so I could come inside.”

“How could I not? It was so brave and romantic that you went out to meet Lord Boltwood in spite of your uncle.”

“It wouldn’t have been at all romantic trying to climb up the wisteria,” Noelle said. “You don’t look as if you got much sleep either. What happened to your nightdress? You’ve lost the flounce.”

Lucretia’s eyes flickered downward, then up to meet Noelle’s briefly and twitch off to the side. She stammered, “I—It was torn and getting thin in spots, so I ripped it off.”

What in heaven’s name could timid Lucretia be hiding?

From below the window came the sound of hoofs and a blowing, snorting horse. Noelle and Lucretia hurried to look out. Uncle Matthew dismounted and handed the reins to his groom. “Hauled it out of there at dawn, they did, a couple of Boltwood’s grooms. That Lieutenant Hale is still prowling about. He told me one of his men shot at the gypsy last night and swears he hit him. They came back for him this morning, but they couldn’t find him nor any contraband, the bunglers. A wounded man won’t get far, though. Looks like young Boltwood did something sensible for once and took the opportunity to get rid of that disgusting old wagon. All’s well that ends well, I say.”

The groom murmured something in response, and Sir Matthew tramped into the house.

Tears sprang to Lucretia’s eyes. “Oh, poor Johnny! If they catch him, he’ll be transported or even hanged!”

“So that’s how Johnny knew the door was unlocked,” Noelle said. “You patched him up, didn’t you? Look, there’s a bloodstain on your nightdress. You’d better change. You’re a terrible liar, and Uncle Matthew’s sure to get suspicious at both a bloodstain and a missing flounce.”

Lucretia clutched her wrapper tightly about her and scurried down the corridor to her bedchamber. “You do understand, don’t you, Noelle? I couldn’t sleep—I never can, after Matthew berates me—so I went down to warm some milk. I saw Johnny’s dog outside and stepped out to feed him some scraps, and then Johnny appeared on that huge horse of his. They’d shot him in the leg. He’d done a dreadful job of bandaging himself, and blood was pouring down his leg. I had to help him.”

Uncle Matthew’s heavy tread sounded on the stairs.

“Of course you had to, Lucretia. How can you question that?”

“Matthew wouldn’t have helped him.” Lucretia tore off her nightdress and dropped it on the floor. She ducked into her tiny dressing room for a fresh nightgown, then covered it with her wrapper. “He would have said the Irish are papists and devil-worshippers and that Johnny’s a thief and a vagrant and only got what he deserved. Do you suppose he really was smuggling?”

Uncle Matthew stomped into his own chamber next door and bellowed, “Lucretia, come here!”

Noelle picked up the offending nightdress and folded it. “I don’t suppose he’s a smuggler, but I’m sure he’d pitch in if they needed him.” She stuffed the nightdress into a drawer. “Tell your maid to tear it into menstrual cloths.”

“Matthew would have let him bleed to death out there.” Lucretia shuddered. “Johnny said he knew someone who could dig out the shot, but what if he didn’t get there in time?”

He didn’t bleed to death. He can’t have.

Noelle set aside the temptation to join Lucretia in near-hysteria induced, no doubt, by lack of sleep. “Lord Boltwood intended to see him after he left me. He’ll have taken care of him. He and Johnny are friends. You heard what Uncle Matthew said. Richard’s grooms took the wagon away.” Panic threatened again. Because he’s dead?

Dear God, surely not.

“Lucretia!” Matthew bellowed from the next room. “Now!”

“Just coming, Matthew dearest!” Her sweet, willing tone of voice was belied by a tear that rolled down her cheek. “Find out what happened to Johnny for me, please.” She hurried Noelle toward the door. “You’re so lucky, dearest, to be marrying Richard, even if he is a little improper at times.” She looked down at her toes and whispered, “I’m certain that with a man like Richard the . . .” She paused and blushed again. “The physical side of marriage will be tolerable. More than tolerable . . . perhaps even pleasant?”

Noelle gaped at this unprecedented confidence and couldn’t find a word in reply.

“You are so fortunate, my love.” Lucretia wiped away that lonely tear and gnawed her lip. “Still, better a bad husband than none at all.” She tripped toward the door to Uncle Matthew’s chamber.

There we disagree. Noelle returned to her own chamber to dress, but although she tried to draw parallels between Richard’s domineering behavior and Uncle Matthew’s, it simply didn’t work. All she could do was remind herself, over and over, that he was a libertine. That he didn’t really love her. That he didn’t care about anything but having fun.

And that all this was irrelevant, because she would leave England tomorrow.

After nobly and silently enduring her uncle’s gloating breakfast-table speculation about the fate of Johnny Magee, Noelle fetched her sketchbook, pencils and watercolors, and had Snowflake brought around to the front door. Uncle Matthew, as expected, demanded Noelle’s key to the walled garden. “You have no legitimate reason to go in there,” he said. “A groom can take care of the doves, and there’s little gardening to be done at this season. You would be better off spending your free time praying for redemption in the eyes of the Lord.”

Giving thanks for the forethought which had caused her to have several copies made of the key to the garden, Noelle excused herself from what threatened to become a lecture on the grounds of an appointment to teach Lady Ariadne Luttrow’s daughters. With luck, she would also get a chance to discuss with Lady Ariadne’s groom the whereabouts of another dozen tubs of brandy.

“You have no need to go there either,” Uncle Matthew said. “You will not continue to teach her ladyship’s daughters once you are married.”

No, once I have collected my profits and am free of this place.

When would Richard come, and what had he planned? It was almost physically painful to leave with so much contraband secreted on Uncle Matthew’s property, but fretting and pacing here would do no good at all. “No, but it would be inconsiderate to give Lady Ariadne no notice.” She stowed the sketching supplies in her saddlebag.