Finally, Wilson halted the wagon and Lem and Twekes clambered out. Lucien guided Satan to a small stand of brush off the path. As he tied the horse, the distant blink of a mellow gold light caught his eye from up above the cliff. He looked up and gave a grim smile. Rosemont.
He patted Satan, then returned to the sandy path and walked quietly toward the halted cart. He came to an abrupt halt twenty feet away—the cart was deserted, its occupants nowhere to be seen.
Lucien frowned. Where could they have gone? Except for the scraggly brush, there was just solid cliff and ocean. Just as he was about to turn away, he caught sight of a small dinghy making its way along the coast. Lem and Twekes rowed, their powerful strokes sending the little craft shooting toward two large black rocks that jutted out of the sea. Wilson sat in the bow and barked instructions.
Were they meeting a ship? But no. The ocean was far too wild, the rocks too treacherous. The small dinghy turned abruptly and headed straight between the rocks and toward the cliff face. The water rose and swelled, slapping at the small craft, but Lem and Twekes rowed steadily.
Lucien watched intently as the boat disappeared into the black rim of the cliff. A cave. It had to be. No wonder it had been so difficult to obtain evidence of Rosemont’s smuggling. They had the perfect hiding place.
A short time later the boat reappeared just as suddenly as it had disappeared. This time it rode noticeably lower in the water, a brace of casks lashed inside. Moving with powerful strokes, Lem and Twekes rowed to shore, landed the craft, and loaded their booty onto the cart. Wilson’s gravelly voice could be heard over the wind, complaining about his nephews’ slowness.
Lucien watched from a patch of brush a scant ten feet away, obscured by the falling snow and the black night. He longed to move, his feet numb, his fingers aching with cold even inside his gloves. But he held as still as possible. Soon the cart was loaded. Lem and Twekes hefted the boat to one side and covered it with brush. Dousing their lamp, they set it behind a large rock and clambered back into the cart.
Lucien waited until the cart had turned the first wending curve before he slipped out, placed the lamp into the boat, and then dragged it back into the sea. It was a Herculean job, but he welcomed the struggle, as it warmed his feet and hands.
As soon as the surf lifted the boat, Lucien climbed in and began to row. The steady splash of the oars urged him on. He aimed the boat between the two rocks and headed straight for the cliff, slipping into the dark cave with remarkable ease. The rising tide was quickly filling the opening, though, and he had to duck his head to keep from hitting it on the low-slung rock.
Once inside, he lit the lamp, though the farthest reaches of the cavern remained enshrouded in eerie darkness. Straining to see across the black, roiling water, Lucien found a ledge where a group of casks rested.
Heart pounding, he guided the boat to the ledge and tied it to a waiting post. The remains of a cold fire and a cot sat on the ledge, surrounded by a towering stack of casks that reeked of cognac. He lifted the light and examined each cask.
One caught his attention. Smaller than the others, it sat to one side as if ready for delivery. Lucien rolled it to its side and looked for a marking of some kind, but found none. He pushed the cask upright with his foot and heard a scraping noise, like nails against wood, faint and slight.
He dropped to his knees, his throat tight. Bloody hell. Could he have been wrong? He looked about for a way to open the cask, but could find nothing. As he glanced around, he noticed that the boat was closer to the ledge now, the rising tide lifting the level of the small cavern lake until it almost obscured the opening. Another few minutes and he would be trapped inside.
“Damn!” He grabbed the cask and carried it to the boat, then he freed the skiff and jumped in. Cursing, he rowed toward the opening. Only a sliver of light separated the waves from the mouth of the cavern, the small space opened and closed with each swell of brackish water.
Lucien tightened his grip on the oars. He would have to time this carefully. He didn’t want to think what would happen if a wave slammed the boat against the rock face.
He maneuvered the skiff to the opening, fighting the tide and struggling to hold it in position. Then, just as a wave hit the rock, he shot forward with a mighty stroke of the oars, throwing himself into the wet floor. The small dinghy caught the back swell of the wave and dipped down, under the mouth of the cliff, and lifted out on the other side, the twinkling of the stars welcoming him.
Lucien struggled upright, grabbed the oars, and rowed as hard as he could. He was frozen, wet, and thoroughly exhausted when he finally dragged the small boat ashore and covered it once again with brush.
Grimly, he picked up the small cask and carried it to a flat rock by the sea. Lifting it over his head, he smashed it. Cognac gushed out—and there, glittering on the black rock, lay the damnable evidence. His heart sank as he collected twelve brooches and a large ruby necklace, which winked like black blood in the dim light.
Refusing to think about the meaning of his discovery, Lucien tucked the jewelry in his pocket and then collected Satan and began the arduous journey back to Rosemont.
His mind whirled with the harsh reality that Arabella might be involved in the sale of the jewels. Though he’d seen the proof himself, he could not believe it—would not believe it. Lucien urged Satan to a gallop as soon as they hit the main road. He had to see Arabella—and this time, he would discover the truth.
As he rounded the final curve of the drive, he saw two riders dismounting at the door. Lucien immediately recognized one of the horses as Lord Harlbrook’s. And if it was indeed the stubborn lord’s, then the other horse would belong to the constable.
Lucien pulled Satan to a halt, his mouth painfully dry, his heart thundering in his ears. Arabella’s pride be damned—there was only one way he could save her now.
Chapter 16
“Don’t look at me like that,” Arabella muttered at the Captain, who smirked at her from the library wall as she paced the carpet. “If anyone has the right to look smug, it would be Lucien. I all but fell into his arms last night.”
She brushed a hand over her eyes and wished she could remove the discomfiting memories. She wished that one moment of weakness, brought on by the excitement of a black, starry night, had never happened.
The worst part of it was that she couldn’t blame Lucien—she had been a more-than-willing participant. Even now, she could taste the passion that had flamed between them and she longed to feel his hands on her bared skin once more.
But it had always been that way. Despite the gap between their circumstances, the physical pull between them was as hot and passionate now as it had been ten years ago.
How could she face Lucien after such an embarrassing display? No doubt he’d spent the better part of the day congratulating himself on his nobility in stopping their lovemaking when he had. “Damn good of him,” she muttered.
She glared at the Captain’s portrait. “This may shock you, but it would have been far better if he had finished what he’d begun. At least then I could have gotten some sleep last night without wishing he’d—” She stopped, her face and neck hot. Thank goodness neither Aunt Jane nor Aunt Emma were nearby to hear her make such an admission; they’d probably burst into tears at the thought.
Arabella crossed her arms and resumed her pacing. She had to keep firmly in mind the fact that she was the only one with anything at stake in this relationship. For Lucien, Rosemont and everything connected with her was a momentary diversion and nothing more. Once the newness wore off, he would be gone.
The only good outcome from last night was that it had forced her to come to a decision. It was time Lucien left Rosemont, and if he did not leave on his own accord, she’d get Lem and Twekes to do the honor for her. The thought brought her some comfort as she imagined all the ways Wilson’s nephews would toss Lucien out on his ear.
The clock chimed a gentle reminder of the hour, and she turned to look at it, frow
ning. Lucien had been absent from the house since early this morning, not even returning to eat dinner with the rest of the family.
The door opened and Mrs. Guinver entered, a troubled frown on her face. “Sorry to bother ye, missus, but ’tis the constable. He’s come with Lord Harlbrook and he demands a word with ye.”
The constable and Lord Harlbrook. Arabella smoothed her skirt of sprigged muslin, proud to see that her hands did not tremble. “I certainly hope Lord Harlbrook has not lost another pig.”
Mrs. Guinver brightened. “Daresay he has. Shall I show them in here, missus?”
“Yes, that will be fine.”
The housekeeper bobbed a quick curtsy. Arabella tried to still the wild thudding of her guilty heart. She knew it was more than another lost pig. Knew it with a certainty that robbed her of lucid thought. She should be afraid of going to gaol and the humiliation of being arrested, but all she could think about was Lucien’s reaction when he discovered that she was no more than a common smuggler.
She stiffened, her pride returning in a flood. Who was he to judge her, anyway? She was certain that during the course of his sordid life he’d done worse things than sell a cask or two of unstamped cognac.
A heavy step announced the arrival of Lord Harlbrook. He entered quickly, his small eyes assessing her as he approached. Constable Robbins followed.
“Lord Harlbrook. Constable Robbins.” She dipped a swift curtsy. “Pray have a seat.”
“We’ve no time, Miss Hadley,” the constable said.
“Though I’m glad to see ye looking so well. Ye certainly appear—”
“We’ve come on business,” Harlbrook interrupted.
“Important business.”
The constable shot a frowning look at the lord before turning back to Arabella. “I apologize fer inconveniencin’ ye, but I’ve a weighty matter that needs tendin’ to.”
Arabella nodded, gripping her hands tightly behind her back. “I trust no one has been injured?”
“No, no,” said the constable hastily. “Nothin’ like that. We’ve just’ come to—”
The door opened and Lucien walked in. To Arabella’s surprise, he was dressed in evening clothes, his hair brushed back from his face, a fresh white cravat tied about his neck in an intricate weave.
His eyes found hers and, in that instant, she realized that he knew everything. The knots in her stomach clenched tighter. How had he found out? God, what must he think of me now?
She wanted to explain to him what had occurred, why she had taken such a drastic step, but he turned away and nodded a greeting. “Gentlemen. I trust nothing is amiss?”
“This is none of your concern,” Harlbrook said, scowling. “We are here to see Miss Hadley on private business.”
Lucien’s mouth curled into an insultingly brief smile. “What’s wrong, Harlbrook? Indigestion? Try some Italian soda. It is said to be amazingly restorative.”
Harlbrook reddened, but before he could say a word, Constable Robbins managed a ponderous bow. “’Tis good to see Yer Grace in such fine spirits. As old Mr. Hadley is no longer wif us, God rest his soul, and young Mr. Hadley is not in the way of bein’ able to advise Miss Hadley, perhaps ye should stay and hear what we’ve come to say.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Harlbrook, his stocky frame stiff with outrage. “I will advise Miss Hadley myself.”
“Aye, well, I’m thinkin’ she needs someone else,” said Constable Robbins, sending a dark glance at Harlbrook before returning his gaze to Arabella. “’Tis bad news I bring ye, Miss Hadley. Bad indeed. A ship was seen off the coast last night.”
“I see,” Arabella said. “Did it sink?”
Lucien smothered a grin. She was going to make it as hard on them as possible. Pluck to the backbone.
“No, it did not sink,” Harlbrook said impatiently. “It landed at Robin Hood’s Bay in the dark of night and unloaded a considerable shipment of illegal spirits. We have evidence that someone at Rosemont received part of that shipment.”
Arabella lifted her brows, her face just a fraction above chilly. Lucien wanted to step between her and the constable, to shield her from the questions, to protect her from Harlbrook’s insolence. But she would not appreciate his interference. He had to settle with shoving his hands into his pockets and trying to contain a desire to solidly thump the brash lord.
She said in a quiet, calm voice, “Constable Robbins, surely you are mistaken. I’m certain that no one here is involved in such a…a horrendous undertaking.”
“Nonsense,” Harlbrook snapped. “I’ve known Rosemont was involved for weeks. And we know who it is, too.”
Arabella’s only reaction was a slight fluctuation in the color of her cheeks. “Lord Harlbrook, however much you may wish it, you are not responsible for my welfare. And I would thank you to remember that fact.”
Harlbrook’s face darkened, but before he could speak, the constable stepped in the breech, tutting loudly. “There, now, Miss Hadley. ’Tis a horrible business, this is. And ye’ll be jus’ as surprised as I was to discover such shameless happenin’s here in our quiet little corner of the world.”
She placed a hand on her throat and rewarded him with a grateful smile. “I am shocked that anyone would think that free traders would be welcome at Rosemont. I assure you, I will never again travel after dark without both Ned and Wilson in attendance.”
“Wilson? Ha!” scoffed Harlbrook. “As soon take the devil with you, if you look for safety.” He sent a dark glare to the constable. “Tell her the whole story.”
The constable gave a ponderous sigh. “It appears Wilson’s nephews are heavily involved. They were seen rowing away from the ship.”
Harlbrook gave a short laugh. “And if Lem and Twekes are involved, ’tis a fact that Wilson is bound to be in it, too.”
“Nonsense,” Arabella scoffed. “I’m sure there is some mistake. After all, you said it was night when the ship came in. Perhaps it was someone other than Lem and Twekes. Certainly there are many men who could meet their description.”
Lucien gave her credit; even facing overwhelming odds, she still managed to latch on to crucial facts and use them to her advantage. But his admiration was tempered with the heavy knowledge that he’d found far more than cognac in the cave.
The constable swung his head back and forth. “We captured one of the smugglers, Miss Hadley. He identified them right and tight.”
Bloody hell.
“Which is why we’ve come this evening,” Harlbrook said, taking an eager step forward. “We’ve come to arrest Wilson.”
Arabella paled, her hands closing into the folds of her dress. “Surely you cannot be serious.”
“’Deed, we are,” said Constable Robbins in an apologetic tone. “I’m not one as believes ye should track down every free trader ye sees, but in these difficult times we haf to uphold the crown.”
“Are you insinuating that I have anything to do with free trading? The Hadleys have never stooped to illegal trade.”
“No, no,” said Constable Robbins hurriedly, shooting a pleading glance at Lucien. “We didn’t mean to suggest that you—”
“Indeed not!” Harlbrook said in a superior tone. “The thought that a gently bred female as yourself might be involved in something as common as free trading is ludicrous!”
The picture of outraged gentility, Arabella tilted her chin and sniffed. “I should hope not.” Though her tone was firm, Lucien noticed a quiver of emotion in her face, a slight crack in the veneer she so desperately presented.
He moved to stand beside her, placing one hand on the small of her back. The muslin clung to his fingers and he had to fight the urge to place an arm about her and hold her to him.
He settled for training a hard gaze on the constable. “I assume you’ve evidence for this arrest?”
Constable Robbins eyed him for a meditative moment before saying bluntly, “Aye.”
Harlbrook snorted derisively. “Enough to hang the old goat.” r />
“Indeed?” Lucien slid his hand in a slow circle on Arabella’s back. The warmth of her skin began to seep through the material. “Think very carefully, gentlemen, before you make accusations you cannot prove. You are talking about a servant of the future Duchess of Wexford.”
Beneath his hand, Arabella stiffened and lifted her gaze to his face, but Lucien kept his gaze on Constable Robbins.
A look of acute relief spread over the constable’s face, but Harlbrook turned a vivid red. “Wh-what?” he sputtered. “I don’t believe it!”
“Don’t you?” asked Lucien in a gentle tone.
“I—I—” Harlbrook turned an angry face to Arabella.
“Is it true?”
She clasped her hands, her gaze on the ground.
Lucien waited for her answer, his throat painfully dry. Forget your damnable pride and say yes, he urged silently, holding his breath until his ribs ached.
Finally, after an interminable moment, Arabella nodded. Lucien swallowed a sigh of relief.
The constable made a disgusted noise. “Of course it is true! Why would the dook lie ’bout such a thing.” He turned toward Arabella and offered an apologetic shrug. “Don’t mind Harlbrook. He’s not been the same since the innkeeper at the Roarin’ Lion refused to serve him, sayin’ as how he was havin’ to pay double because of His Lordship’s interferin’ with the free traders.”
“That has nothing to do with it!” Harlbrook glowered at Lucien. “When is this marriage to take place?”
“In a week. At Christmas. You are, of course, invited to the wedding.” Lucien turned his head away and yawned.
“Pardon me. It has been a long day and it is quite late.”
Constable Robbins took the hint. He tugged urgently on Harlbrook’s arm. “There, now, I don’t think we need to be stayin’ any longer. The dook has answered all of our questions. Mayhap we should ask some more questions of our witness. It was dark when he saw the men leavin’ the ship.”
Though Harlbrook continued to protest, the constable led him firmly from the room, stopping at the door only long enough to give Lucien a sharp glance. “It will be several days afore we’re able to return and ask questions.”