Page 71 of The Boxing Baroness

Sin stared into her angry eyes. “Explain.”

“Why should I bother? Will you believe me?”

“Tell me and we’ll find out.”

She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “My uncle has a difficult time with written English. Actually, he has a terrible time with written French, as well. I often write letters or messages for him in both languages.”

“If you wrote it, you must have been helping him smuggle.”

“Yes. I was helping him smuggle,” she admitted, her cheeks reddening at the admission. “It is wrong—I know that—and I knew it then, too. But—”

“But what?”

“He said the reason he’d been forced to move to Deal was because his solicitor had made a muddle of the deed for the London theater. He claimed he would lose all his interest in the building if he couldn’t get together a sum of money and—”

She groaned and shook her head. “Lord, the story sounds so idiotic in light of the gaming debts you are so graciously holding over my head. But back then I believed him. I was terrified that we would lose the theater. Besides, what Barnabas wanted to do didn’t seem so terribly wrong. You must remember what it was like back then? It seemed that everyone who lived in a coastal town was smuggling. A person was actually suspect if they weren’t running something. But I mean spirits, lace, silk, and what have you. I swear that I never heard of anyone selling information or smuggling people. So, yes, I wrote that letter—but long before the escape of this prisoner you’re talking about.”

Sin was disturbed by how badly he wanted to believe her. “Tell me about this jaunt to Deal with Strickland and the architect.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me everything and anything you remember—no matter how minor it may seem.”

She stared skyward, as if searching the attics of her memory. “He was very tall and thin. I remember he looked . . . ill. He was gaunt, with an unhealthy pallor. His hair was the same ginger as your beard.”

She had just described Beauvais perfectly.

“Why were you taking him to Deal?”

“He needed money and was willing to work cheaply on a building for Dominic. You knew Dominic—you must have known what he was like.”

“Yes, I knew him—a long time ago. Tell me what you mean.”

“He always seemed to have arrangements with people. Agreements that weren’t exactly illegal, but somehow . . . murky. He loved to barter, largely because he never had any money, I suppose. I assumed this ill-looking architect was somebody who would do the work for a fraction of the cost because he was French and desperate. That was Dominic, always willing to take advantage of another person’s desperation if it could make him money.”

Sin agreed; Strickland had always operated on the fringes of propriety. Their friendship had been severed by one such venture, which had crossed the line into illegality—not to mention immorality. “What else do you recall?”

“That is all. I’m sorry, but I had my mind on other matters that day.” She gave him a searing look. “If you know as much about me as you seem to know, then you’ll have realized I left Dominic’s house not long after that carriage ride. Let’s just say that architects—French or otherwise—were not foremost in my mind at that point.”

Sin hated how curious he was about the relationship between her and Strickland. The more he knew her, the less he could understand her falling in love with such a man. Oh, Dominic could charm a bird out of a tree, but he was . . . superficial.

Sin had come to believe—at least before talking to that bloody footman two nights ago—that Marianne Simpson was exactly what she appeared: a smart woman forced into a brutal line of work by circumstances.

“I know you think I am no better than a whore because of what happened with Dominic. And I can’t blame you for thinking me a criminal since I’ve admitted to smuggling. But you have my word of honor—the only thing I really have—that I never smuggled either people or secrets. That letter was from years before, and Dominic apparently found it and used it for his own purposes. I suppose he wanted to be sure that it would not be in his handwriting if it were ever discovered.”

“I believe you,” he said quietly.

Her expression was bitter rather than relieved. “But you think I might have aided spies unknowingly.”

“It is possible.” Indeed, it was almost certain.

Her shoulders sagged. “What I helped my uncle do was foolish and reckless. But I refuse to believe Barnabas would have been involved in smuggling secrets. Not because he is especially patriotic,” she said with a bitter snort. “But because he would have been too scared. Barnabas, for all his bluster, is, I’m ashamed to admit, something of a coward.”

Sin heard the pain in her voice at the admission. She was loyal to her uncle, but not blind to his faults.

They stared out at the water, which was eerily smooth for such an overcast, stormy-looking day.

When she finally turned to him, her expression was grim. “If Dominic smuggled that man out of the country, using my letter to deflect suspicion from himself, then I want to know,” she said quietly. “I know at first I was resistant to seeing him, but I am eager to speak to him now. I’ll talk to him. And I’ll find out the truth, Your Grace.”