Page 98 of The Smuggler’s Escape

Not for the first time that evening, Richard cursed Lady Darsington as a blasted marplot. It gave him no satisfaction at all that he could now throw Sir Frederick’s recommendation about schooling Noelle back in his face. Such a tidy plan ruined, the traitor warned, his own part hinted at . . .

He’d done his best to convince Lady Ariadne she had nothing to fear from him, but her manner suggested he had failed. She wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Now, instead of composing a treasonous letter to earn money for her gambling debt, she was probably writing for a loan instead.

Because if she were intending to send a letter to France tonight, wouldn’t Jackson have returned again to take it? During that meeting near the stables—witnessed from a distance by Hale—Lady Ariadne had doubtless confided her fears to Jackson.

Richard caressed the blaze of the mare in whose stall they stood. “Would I lie to you, Will? Hale’s not working for the Excise Office any more. Not only that, you’re not running goods tonight. Think of him as a patriot like you, in loyal service to England.”

Will growled, “Not saying I don’t believe you, Master Dicky, but it hurts something bad to think Jackson would turn traitor.”

“You were such great friends?”

Will lowered his eyes and set to grooming the mare again. It was his pride that hurt, of course; pride that, albeit unwittingly, he and his fellow smugglers had helped a traitor.

“You’re the only one I can trust to keep a still tongue in your head,” Richard said.

“Aye, that you can,” Will said, mollified, and Richard returned to the house to explain everything to Noelle who, unlike other women he could name, knew very well how to keep her mouth shut. According to Will, she had become the toast of the local smugglers. “We’ll miss her,” Will had told him. “We’ll not miss the work, Master Dicky—your lady’s a regular slave-driver—but the pay’s been bloody good.”

Since Will’s idea of slavery was a day or two’s work in a week, Richard didn’t take this complaint too seriously.

Tonight, he must rid Noelle of her reservations about marrying him, whatever they might be. He reentered the house, nearing the drawing room just as Lady Ariadne emerged from the west wing. Where had she been?

She shrieked and clapped a hand over her heart. “Lord Boltwood! You gave me such a fright.”

Not as much as I’ll give you. “Finished writing your letter?”

She wasn’t carrying a letter. Not even a reticule . . . And her gown was damp. It had begun to rain, a light drizzle. Had she been outdoors again? She twitched like a rabbit, and her eyes wouldn’t stay still.

Richard put out a hand. “I’ll frank it for you. It will go out in tomorrow’s post.”

“No!” Lady Ariadne squeaked. “No, it doesn’t matter. I mean, I changed my mind.” She tried to hurry past him.

He got in her way and infused a hint of menace into his voice. “So have I. A week is the longest I’m prepared to wait, Lady Ariadne. I shall apply to Sir William for the funds.”

“No!” Lady Ariadne forestalled him with desperate hands. “I will get the money, I promise you. Now, I absolutely must rejoin the others. It would be impolite to absent myself any longer.” She fluttered across the passageway and into the drawing room.

Richard went into the library. Lady Ariadne had left her cup of milk, more than half full, on the desk. A sheet of foolscap, rippled slightly with damp, lay beside it.

He prowled the room. No crumpled paper in the wastebasket. No remnants of paper on the fire. No sand spilt on the desk. She’d written nothing at all.

So much for his plan. Richard thumped the desk. “Hell and damnation!” The cup took a little jump and slopped milk onto the sheet of paper and the polished surface of the desk. Absently, he moved the paper sideways to soak up the milk.

With a growing sense of foreboding, he stalked from the room. Lord Harry emerged from the drawing room. “What’s going on? This is a damned tedious evening, I tell you.”

“If you don’t like it, go away.” He took the stairs two at a time, knocked on Noelle’s door and tried the handle. Locked. “Noelle?”

No answer.

Next Dorothea’s—also locked, also no answer. From under Johnny’s door he heard the cheerful snuffling of Spot. He strode across the hall, turned the handle—did everybody in his house lock their doors?—and pounded on the panel. “Let me in, damn it!”

“In a moment,” Johnny bellowed. Frantic whispers followed, and a few moments later Dorothea Darsington, flushed and disheveled, opened the door. At the sight of Lord Harry, the flush traveled to the roots of her hair.

“For God’s sake, girl, if you need it that badly, come to me,” Lord Harry said.

Richard rounded on him with a snarl. “Grow up, Harry.” He turned to Dorothea. “Where’s Noelle? Have you seen her?”

Dorothea composed herself and brushed her hair away from her face. “I heard her in the corridor a while ago, talking to Lady Ariadne about some sketches.”

“And again later.” Johnny pushed himself up on an elbow. “First time before Dot came in here, maybe thirty minutes ago, and again not five or ten minutes ago. I couldn’t hear what they said, but Spot growled and a woman shrieked. He wouldn’t have growled if it had only been Noelle.” His eyes hardened. “What’s wrong, Dicky?”