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“Yes, well. That makes sense. Gideon is very protective of his goods.”
Rhys held the lamp aloft and blinked until the smoke stung his eyes, straining to make out more of the cavernous room. It was full to bursting with crates, casks … even furniture and rolled carpets.
“So,” he said. “This is the real reason no one wants me to rebuild Nethermoor Hall. You’re all living high off this trade.”
“Not living high. Surviving, just barely. Gideon has had to take a great many risks. Harold, Laurence, Skinner … they all work for him as lookouts, and they help him transport and unload his cargo.”
“And you hire out the ponies to him.”
“Yes.”
“And accept some of the goods in trade?”
She paused. “Yes, some. Stores for the inn.”
He swore softly. What else could he say? The entire village of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor, including his intended bride, was complicit in a vast smuggling ring. He’d known Myles was dealing in unlevied goods, but he’d never dreamed of an operation of this magnitude. Truly, he wouldn’t have believed the knave capable of it.
“It’s not something I’m proud of, Rhys. I know it’s unlawful, and I know it’s dangerous. That’s why I’ve been so determined to build up the inn and draw travelers to the district. If I’m ever going to convince Gideon to disentangle himself from this … this trade, the village needs another source of income to replace it.”
Rhys’s jaw tightened. “And the patronage of a new Lord Ashworth won’t serve that purpose?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed noisily. “Not indefinitely. You’ve said yourself, you don’t even intend to produce an heir. You know I’m barren. Unless you mean to marry another lady, but I don’t know how you’d convince her to come live in this place.” Her voice cracked. “I don’t even know howyoucan stand to live in this place. I know what you went through here, Rhys. I grew up watching it. I saw every bruise, every welt—”
He shoved the lamp into her hand and bent to pry a board off the crate. “I need to make a fire.”
He couldn’t talk about this now. He’d rather not talk about it, ever.
“Rhys—”
Crack. He braced a board between his hand and the ground, then broke it in two with his boot. After throwing the splintered pieces into a pile, he wrenched another plank free and prepared to repeat the process. “Look at the smoke,” he told her, determined to change the subject.
Her eyes went to the swirl of black soot coiling away from the lamp, rising into the air.
“It’s drawing upward,” he said. “That means there’s ventilation someplace. A crack—either in the caved-in entrance, or above us somewhere. Once daylight comes, I’ll be able to make us a way out of here. We just have to wait for dawn.”
“And pray for poor Cora.” She sniffed. “What can I do?”
“Gather some straw for tinder,” he said. “And I don’t suppose you’ve a screw for uncorking that brandy?”
“No, I haven’t a screw. But I have my ways.”
“I’m certain you do.” If he was going to spend a night in this hole, at the least he was going to do so while warm to the marrow and drunk out of his skull.
They cleared a small depression in the ground to use as a firepit. Rhys arranged the broken planks, propping them against one another, and Meredith stuffed the gaps with straw. Then she cracked the top off a bottle of brandy with a stone and dashed a liberal amount of spirits over the kindling. One spark from the lamp, and …
Whoosh.
They had a fire.
For a moment, the flames blazed so high, so bright, that Rhys stood frozen, accosted by memories of the last time Nethermoor had seen roaring flames. His heart kicked into a gallop, and sweat broke out on his brow. But the brandy quickly flamed out, and the fire settled down to a small, respectable, unthreatening size. One might have called it cozy. Even romantic.
Adding to the effect, Meredith unrolled a fantastically expensive-looking Afghan carpet and arranged it alongside the fire. “Oh look,” she said, prying open a newly revealed trunk. “Furs.” A pile of sable and ermine soon graced the carpet’s geometric design.
Good God. A small fortune was stored in this cellar.
While she dug about for cups, Rhys took the dying lamp and went to inspect the entrance. As he’d suspected, rocks had shifted and fallen, covering the opening completely. They might be movable, if he could wedge a board or bar in just the right place. But until he had some daylight shining through, he’d have little way of knowing whether his efforts were making matters better or worse.
When he scrambled back down to the cellar floor, he found Meredith brushing the packing straw from a silver tea service. Lifting her skirt, she reached beneath for a fold of clean petticoat to wipe the cups clean.
