Page 52 of The Smuggler’s Escape

One advantage of a couple of years as a spy was that Richard had learned to follow his quarry undetected. Usually, he would enjoy pursuing Noelle, but he hadn’t failed to notice her uneasiness, perhaps even horror, at the mention of French spies. He didn’t want to learn that she was one.

He watched her go into the bank and emerge fifteen minutes later, then hurry away down the street. Once she was out of sight, he ambled into the bank. A few minutes later, he was closeted in a gloomy walnut-paneled room with Wiggins, his elderly banker. Once the man had offered him condolences and excellent brandy, and reminisced about the late Lord Boltwood, Richard got down to business.

“I came to let you know that I’m going to marry Noelle de Vallon,” he said.

The old fellow blanched. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. His hands clenched weakly on the arms of his chair. At last he stammered, “I—I wish you very happy, my lord.”

Except that clearly, Mr. Wiggins didn’t wish him happy. Or didn’t expect him to be happy. Or . . . “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Mr. Wiggins wiped his brow, looking as if he wished to sink under the heavy mahogany desk. “Indeed, my lord, it would hardly be my place to say . . .” He drifted off unhappily.

“Devil take it, man, forget about your place and mine.” He strode across the room to the decanter and refilled Mr. Wiggins’ glass. He put the glass into the older man’s hand and waited while he took a swallow. “It’s something about Miss de Vallon, I gather. Out with it, now. I know she has an account here. Do you have reason to suppose she is in financial difficulties?”

Mr. Wiggins practically squirmed in his seat. “My dear Lord Boltwood, I . . .”

“Mr. Wiggins,” Richard said, “I have enjoyed banking with you all these years, but . . .”

Mr. Wiggins sighed miserably. The poor fellow had probably come to the conclusion that he risked losing the Boltwood custom, one way or another. “I have no reason to believe she is in financial straits.” Nervously, he adjusted his wig. “She handles money very well, far better than one would expect in a female.”

“That’s good news,” Richard said. “I’m here to make arrangements for her pin money. How much does she have in her account now?”

“Nothing, my lord,” the banker said. “Miss de Vallon was here only a few minutes ago. She withdrew the entire balance.”

“And how much was that?”

After hemming and hawing some more, Mr. Wiggins named an astonishing figure. “I’m terribly sorry, Lord Boltwood.”

So was he, for she couldn’t possibly have accumulated so much from smuggling. Spying, however, paid well.

He mustn’t let his chagrin show. “Nothing to be sorry about,” Richard said jovially. “Good for her.”

Mr. Wiggins blinked.

“I never imagined she had won herself a fortune.” There, the old man would think she’d gained it at cards. A pity that couldn’t be the case, but she couldn’t have won that much off anyone nearby without his mother knowing of it. In any event, she was a good player, but not that good. He held out his brandy in a toast. “To my Noelle! She’s an amazing woman, Wiggins.”

Obediently, Mr. Wiggins raised his glass and drank.

Richard placed his empty glass on the desk and rose. Mr. Wiggins hastened to his feet and took the hand Richard held out.

“I can count your discretion, eh, Wiggins? Not a word of this to anyone.”

He left the banker swearing eternal secrecy, bestowed a coin on the clerk who brought his hat and cloak, and strode frowning into the street.

It didn’t take long to find where she’d gone next. He ambled in the direction Noelle had taken, and ducked into a doorway just as she left the jeweler’s shop, carrying a small box tied up with string.

Worse and worse.

Once she was out of the way, he went in to speak to Mr. Barnes. The jeweler was another elderly man of his father’s generation, spare and bent, with wisps of white hair poking from an ancient bagwig. After the expected courtesies and condolences, Richard once again got to the point.

“You may wish me happy,” he said. “I am here to purchase a trifle of jewelry for my betrothed, Noelle de Vallon. I hope you can advise me, since she was in here only a few minutes ago.”

The old jeweler bowed. His lined face revealed no emotion at all, which in its own way was just as telling as Wiggins’ evident distress.

“Tell me, what appealed to her? What did she buy?”

Fifteen minutes later, he left Mr. Barnes, armed with a little box of his own and an unpleasant measure of dread.

He loved Noelle. He couldn’t give her up to be hanged.