Page 3 of The Smuggler’s Escape

She bunched up her nightdress and knotted the wrapper beneath it, then steadied the gardener’s ladder against the dovecote wall. In her haste, her clothing and the lantern hampered her, and the doves inside cooed and flapped agitated wings. The excisemen were pounding at the door before she finally set the light on the highest ledge facing the sea. There were always two alternative plans for any smuggling run. She sent up a desperate prayer and chose one, then clicked the shutter shut and open, shut and open again, then paused and repeated the code.

The worst of it over, the smugglers warned and, with luck, the contraband diverted to hiding places in and about the village, she left the lantern on its perch and let herself carefully down the ladder.

At the front entrance, one of the excisemen intoned, “In His Majesty’s name, I command you to open this door!” With fumbling fingers, Noelle untied the wrapper and smoothed her nightdress down. She picked up the butterfly net and raced down the flagstone path, away from their knocking. If she didn’t answer, they would be forced to get a key from Uncle Matthew. Meanwhile, to make all seem as it should, she had only to lock the back gate of the garden, which led to the path to the shore.

The gate swung open even as she rushed toward it, and Lieutenant Hale marched through. He was young, intelligent, and determined—and the bane of her existence as a smuggler.

Two other excisemen followed, agog at finding a lady in dishabille. Hale was merely triumphant. “Aha! Caught you red-handed, mademoiselle!”

Noelle put her nose in the air. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, but who gave you the right to intrude in a private garden?”

Hale glowered, coming far too close. “Your uncle gave me permission, Miss de Vallon. I have reason to believe this garden is being used by smugglers, and that you are aiding and abetting them. Your uncle and aunt will be heartbroken to find that the girl they have sheltered is nothing but a common criminal.”

“Monsieur!” Noelle summoned all the indignation she could. “I am no smuggler. You accuse me because I am a foreigner, a poor impoverished exile. You should be ashamed of yourself.” She gathered her skirts and swept away from him toward the house.

Hale followed. “If you are so innocent, mademoiselle, why have you placed that lantern at the top of the dovecote?”

Noelle assumed an air of patient disdain. She indicated the butterfly net in her other hand, but kept walking. Her feet were freezing and her slippers in shreds, but at least the smugglers and their precious cargo should be safe for now. “Surely you remember, Lieutenant Hale, that I am an insect collector. At night, moths seek a light.”

“I don’t see a single moth.” Her persecutor made a show of looking about. “Surely you remember that November is too cold for flying insects.”

“Some kinds of moth thrive in cool weather.” None that she knew of, though. She picked up speed, hurrying past the dovecote. Her feet were killing her, and she shivered in the thin wrapper.

Hale stepped in front of her, blocking her way, and whipped the net from her hand. “But what use is a butterfly net if it doesn’t reach the light where the supposed moths will congregate?” He returned to the dovecote and extended his arm with the net on its pole at the end. “Even I cannot reach that high.” He chuckled. “I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle de Vallon.”

“In case you didn’t notice, there is a ladder,” she said, but evidently he didn’t believe a word of her story. “You know nothing of insect collecting,” she added weakly, choosing and discarding alternative explanations that made little or no sense. It seemed she had finally been caught.

Fortunately, she had a plan for that as well. One didn’t succeed at smuggling without making plenty of plans. She’d just hoped she would never have to use this one.

Hale grinned evilly. “These men of mine were stationed behind the garden. They saw you signaling with the lantern. Your pretty little goose is cooked, and if you think your uncle’s influence will save you, think again.”

Uncle Matthew wouldn’t want to save her once she put her alternate plan into action. That was the beauty of it: given the anti-French sentiments of most Englishmen, including Hale, and Uncle Matthew’s dislike of Noelle, they might actually enjoy believing the worst of her. There would be a dreadful scene, but at least she wouldn’t be arrested.

If she could convince them she was telling the truth. “God help me,” she said in a pathetic half-whisper. “I am utterly undone.”

“Indeed, you are.” The lieutenant sounded far too pleased with himself. “If you come peaceably, mademoiselle, perhaps I shall—”

“I see that I must confess,” Noelle interrupted, clasping her hands over her heart. “My aunt and uncle will be so upset. I had hoped to spare them.”

“You should have thought of that earlier,” Hale said, one heavy hand about to descend on her shoulder. “Come along now.”

Noelle ducked and backed away. “I am a collector, as was my dear father, but this evening that was merely an excuse. You are quite right about the moths.” She paused for effect. “I came here to meet my lover.”

“What?” The word burst from Lieutenant Hale. Behind him, one of the men let out a crude oath, and the other sniggered. Clearly, both of them believed her, just as she’d expected. She had laid the groundwork well for this particular plan.

Hale recovered himself. “In that case, where is this precious lover of yours?”

“He saw my signal and went away.”

Hale huffed. “No, mademoiselle, he didn’t, because he wasn’t here to start with.”

“That is possible.” She hugged the wrapper around herself, shivering. It didn’t take much to sound forlorn. “He was already quite late. I fear he has jilted me.” She headed toward the house. “I shall go indoors now and forget about him forever.”

Hale followed. “What I meant, mademoiselle, is that there was no lover, and that you are going to the lockup, where you belong.” Hard fingers circled her arm. “Unless you wish to disclose the name of your lover and have him vouch for you?”

“Let me go!” she cried, squirming in his grasp. She might have to resort to the last plan of all—her disaster plan. She cringed at the prospect and tried shrieking instead. “Stop! You’re hurting me!”

From the dovecote came a flurry of wings and startled coos. A tall, elegantly-dressed man emerged, brushing feathers from his coat sleeves.