A Tempting Tangle with Smugglers and Spies
Back in 2015, I launched my publishing journey with this novel: A Game of Secrets. To this day, I still love this story and how Kate and Tony came together as a couple.It's my tribute to Daphne du Maurier's Jamaica Inn, a long-time comfort read that brought me through many stressful days in the distant past. Game/Secrets became a "comfort write" when I encountered some seriously dark times.First up is a synopsis, then some links, then the first couple of chapters with the double-meeting of Kate and Tony.
The STORY
On the hunt for the lair of smugglers and spies for Napoleon, Tony Farraday never expected to fall hard for a damsel not quite in distress.
He collides with Kate on a city street and feels instant attraction. Yet Kate must catch the mail coach before it leaves, and Tony still needs orders from the spycatcher Giles Hargreaves.
Neither expects to meet again at a run-down inn on the English coast. On a crumbling cliffside, they vow to keep each other’s secrets and pretend to be strangers. Yet that initial spark of attraction catches flame strongly and obviously, jeopardizing their pretense.
When they realize they are in the smugglers’ very lair, Tony must warn his friend Hargreaves. The French spy arrives, demanding immediate passage across the Channel to take vital information to Napoleon. Kate befriends the spy, but she is playing a dangerous game. Tony hopes to delay the spy long enough for Hargreaves to arrest her and the smugglers—only to be caught in a trap.
When Kate’s cousin arrives, can she evade him long enough to help Tony escape? Or have they both lost this Game of Secrets?
A Regency historical mystery with a dash of sweet romance.
A Game of Secrets is a complete novel without a cliff-hanger, but the danger continues in A Game of Spies.
The Links
- Click here to find your choice of ebook or paperback on Amazon.
- Click here for Worldwide Distributors like Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Apple, and many others. Ebook only, unfortunately.
The First TWO Chapters
Chapter 1 ~ Early October 1811
Pleased that she had eluded her pursuer, Kate
Charteris sped around the corner only to crash into a living wall.
The collision dazed her. Her hat and valise flew
away. Strong hands caught and steadied her. Gasping, Kate hung in that grip
until the world stopped wobbling. Then she looked up at the wall of man she had
crashed into.
He had a square jaw that bespoke a stubborn
resolve, evidenced by the powerful grip that still kept her upright. He had
clear blue eyes that surveyed her with concern. At some point he had spent
months under a sun hotter than England’s feeble orb. That stronger sun had
bronzed his skin, although its fading color bespoke months out of its brighter
glare. He might not wear the bright regimental uniform that his friend did, but
his coat had the military cut that decommissioned officers favored.
He had served as a soldier. Daughter of a colonel,
she not only recognized the marks but they gladdened her. Kate’s expression
must have lightened, for he smiled, increasing his good looks. She smiled back.
And in that barest second, a spark of attraction jolted between them. His
fingers tightened. He drew her a fraction closer.
A horse neighed. A simple sound, it reminded Kate
of the mail coach she desperately had to reach. She drew back and looked past
him, down the street at the posting inn. Then she tried to step back, out of
his grip. “Sir, I thank you for saving me from a fall on these cobbles. I am
fine now. Please let me go.”
“You certainly scurried around that corner. Where
are you going?”
“Please,” she repeated and wriggled in his grasp. “Please!
I have to get away.”
Those were the wrong words to use. His smile
vanished. Those blue eyes glinted with ice. He glanced behind her, looking for
the pursuit that had propelled her around the corner. “Who’s after you?”
The double shock of the collision and her
attraction had befuddled her wits. Quickly she amended her plea, trying to
dampen her urgency. “I must take the next coach from the Running Hart. I am
quite recovered. You may release me.”
Even as the words spilled out, she realized they
were too late. He ignored her request, fulfilling the square jaw’s promise. His
gaze flashed to his friend, who stepped to the corner and searched the street. Heart
racing, Kate looked as well. The officer shook his head, and she thanked God. No
one at the Queen’s Crossing Inn had seen her slip out.
She looked back at her ‘rescuer’. That icy gaze
examined her tumbled hair and her crumpled green pelisse and the mud that
stained her hem. To escape her cousin’s house, she had walked across the fields
to reach the coach road. Not once in her journey from Howarth to London and
here to Ipswich had she found time to soak the dirt from her clothes. Yet for
all her precautions, Cousin Oliver had quickly found her in London. Only by the
merest chance had she evaded him at her solicitor’s office in London. Even as
the posting coach had rolled from the innyard, he had appeared. And now in
Ipswich, he had arrived in the night, only a few hours behind her. Only time
had favored her escape.
God has an
odd sense of humor. I refuse to marry my cousin the tyrant, I finally manage to
elude him, and now a man I am immediately attracted to delays me. Why, oh God,
why? She regretted his lightning-quick reflexes. While they had saved her
from the cobbles, he still held her, trapped.
“Who’s after you? A constable?”
Indignant, she retorted, “Indeed, not! I would
never—.”
“Your husband?”
“I am not married, sir.”
“A lady as pretty as you should be.” He released
one arm to pick up the chain around her neck. His fingers threaded along the
length and located the cross that had been flung over her shoulder by the
collision. She watched him study the ruby cross. His eyes lifted to hers. Kate
couldn’t read his thoughts. She only knew that his eyes lost that cold glint,
and once again their heavenly blue threatened her reason. He restored the cross
to its place above her heart. “Who’s after you?” he asked a third time.
“Who are you to question me, sir? You are no more
than a stranger.”
“A stranger who would be willing to help you.”
His compassion threatened to undermine her
determination. Kate wiggled again. “Please release me. I demand that you
release me. I must take that coach.”
“The cat has claws,” he murmured but obeyed. “You
need not fret that you will miss the coach. We came from the Hart. The coachman
was just sitting down to breakfast. He won’t hurry over it. We have a few
minutes yet.”
“I thank you.” Now she regretted her snappish
tone, although it had finally won her freedom. She controlled the urge to
smooth her wrinkled pelisse and dress. “And you are kind to offer help, but you
are a stranger.”
“A problem easily remedied.” He swept her a bow. “I
am Major Anthony Farraday, lately of the 57th Foot. My friend is
Lord Giles Hargreaves, a lieutenant-colonel of the 57th.”
“Your servant, ma’am.”
Now that her vision wasn’t tunneled onto the
rescuer, she saw that his friend leaned on a cane. And he proffered her
wide-brimmed hat that had fallen off in the collision.
“May we escort you to the Running Hart?”
“No. Thank you. I can manage quite well.” She
settled the summer straw into place and tied the ribbon so it wouldn’t fly off
a second time.
Anthony Farraday hefted her valise. “No wonder you
barreled around that corner. This is a battering ram.”
Kate reached for it, but he wasn’t ready to
release her possessions. “I do need to be on the next coach,” she reminded.
“Ah, yes, your escape.”
“And our mission, Farraday. We mustn’t forget our
own concern.” His friend’s flat voice weighted the statement.
Anthony Farraday surveyed her then shook his head.
“No, Hargreaves, we haven’t found our spy. We have had a different kind of
fortune.” He turned back to Kate. “I should carry this to the coach for you. It
is too heavy.”
Their exchange piqued her interest, but she had no
time to pursue it. She reached again for her valise. “I carried it miles the
other day; I can carry it this short distance.”
“Don’t batter anyone else,” he teased, a glint in
his eyes that was neither cold nor compassionate.
As she took the valise’s weight, Kate gifted
herself with a last look into his heavenly blue eyes. “Thank you, Major
Farraday.”
“Will you not tell me your name?”
She shook her head. Her pursuer had traced every
crumb she had dropped on her journey from Howarth to London and then Ipswich. She
dared leave no more.
Her refusal dented his smile. He shook his head
once than placed his hand on his heart. “Go with God.”
She went.
His blessing had evoked tears. She battled them as
she hurried away.
Kate reached the Running Hart as the other
passengers climbed into the mail-coach. She paid the fare then squeezed into
the coach’s dark confines. The valise had to go on the floor, so she propped
her feet on it.
And then she puzzled over how her cousin had found
her. She had tried not to be memorable at any of her stops. This morning only
God’s grace helped her identify Oliver’s voice before he saw her. He had
planted himself in the center of the inn’s hall, blocking all passage as he
addressed the host. Coming from the innyard she had heard his ingratiating
wheedle describe every part of her appearance, even her green pelisse and her
sprigged gown. To know how she was dressed, he must have enlisted the aid of
her maid Edith.
She could not hold that help against Edith. Once
thwarted, Oliver rapidly turned from oily smoothness to booming tyrant.
Unlike Anthony Farraday. He had shifted from
compassion to suspicion and back, all with the lightning speeds similar to that
displayed by the hardened campaigners who had served with her father in
Portugal and Spain.
When he had looked for the constable on her heels,
she had sensed the cold steel in him. Then the danger receded. Yet neither
tenderness nor threat had he released to his voice. His grip had bruised her
only a little. Oliver, thwarted in his plans, had resorted to locked doors then
slaps and, finally, to his fist.
Hearing Oliver this morning, all the fear had
rushed back. She would still be teetering
on the inn’s doorstep if the lately acquired anger against her
mistreatment had not flooded her as well. That anger kept her determined to
escape him. Slowly she had backed away. More precious minutes had ticked
agonizingly on as she retrieved her valise from the northbound coach and
slipped away to the street. A local man had directed her to the eastbound coach
from the Running Hart. She prayed to God that her wasted coachfare—money that
she sorely needed—would send Cousin Oliver north in a futile search.
Should the Queen’s Crossing host remember her, he
could say only that she had asked about the accommodation coach to Yarmouth. Oliver
might spend many fruitless days searching there and further north. He might not
consider that she would take the cheap mail coach. She did not even know her
current destination.
Kate squirmed into a corner as the last passengers
crowded in. The coach started with a jerk. She braced against the wooden seat
and tried to remember the exact color of Anthony Farraday’s eyes. They had the
clear brilliance of today’s October sky. Lighter than that, with shards of
light radiating from the dark pupil. Like quicksilver they had changed with his
mood.
She scolded herself for the futile exercise. Never
again would she see Major Anthony Farraday—but the memory of his eyes pleasured
her for several hours.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
“No distractions, Farraday.”
“She would be a lovely distraction, wouldn’t she?”
Tony watched the young woman hurry away. The heavy valise dragged down one
shoulder, but her pace didn’t slow. She had been more anxious than fearful. And
determined to catch her coach. And her eyes held a sadness so deep, it looked
drowning. “You should know me better, Hargreaves. I stayed ahead of our enemy
in Portugal and Spain. Not many of Wellesley’s young officers can say that. Nothing
distracted me then. Nothing will now.”
“On campaign every person and tree and rock, the
very air itself reminded us that home was far away. Here, surrounded by the
sights and sounds of home, here it will be harder to remember you have a
mission.”
The lovely distraction reached the Running Hart
without looking back, and Tony turned to his friend. “I was born to the Army,
Hargreaves, raised to follow the drum. The Army is the sights and sounds I
remember. This—,” he gestured to the people chattering like birds as they swept
their storefronts. Glistening windowpanes displayed stacks of wares. A rider
turned onto the street, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves creating a rhythm
for the shopkeepers. “These are not the sights and sounds of my life. Don’t scowl
so. I’m only quibbling. Are you certain you don’t want to talk inside?”
“I can walk,” his friend snapped.
Tony remembered the long days when he had
struggled to recover from his own wounds. He had hated any hint of
molly-coddling. Only the doctor’s threats that too much activity would slow his
recovery had kept him from pushing from morning till night to restore his
strength and balance and agility.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t walk, Hargreaves. I’m
thirsty, and there’s a coffeehouse across the way.”
Tension eased from his friend’s face. He started
walking, hampered by the stiff leg he supported with the cane. Tony fell into
step beside him.
“Walking serves my purpose,” Hargreaves explained.
He rolled the stiff leg out and achieved a smoother pace. On this bright day
with its breath of winter, only the shopkeepers were out on the streets. “Fewer
people will overhear us on these side streets. Should anyone follow too
closely, we will notice them.”
“Afraid of eavesdroppers?”
“A very real worry, Farraday.”
“Then my information wasn’t enough.” He clenched
his fist in frustration.
And the movement recalled small bones held in his
grasp. When the young lady had erupted around the corner, he had reflexively
grabbed her. Her summer-thin coat had given no protection from his grip. He had
surely bruised her, but she had shown no signs of pain.
Hargreaves hadn’t noticed his distraction. “I met
with our other men yesterday. They had nothing to report. Your information
seems to be our only lead. I must return to London today. I want you to return
with me. I want you to lay your information before my superiors at the War
Office.”
“I must visit Melton Hall first. I’ll ride to
London on Thursday.”
“Friday will do, but no later, Farraday. And have
your arguments clearly outlined. We had theorized that this spy uses the
smugglers for transport. If you are correct, we need to shift more revenue
cutters from Kent to Essex. The Channel ships are monitoring the runs to Calais
and Dunkirk. I have no doubt that we can intercept any message the spy sends to
France, but we want the man himself. We must know his launching point. I
believe you have found that point, but my superiors need more convincing.”
“Are they convinced that he personally carries the
War Office despatches to France?” Hargreaves didn’t answer, and Tony scowled,
realizing that both parts of his theory had been rejected. “Your superiors do
not believe the spy is French, do they?”
“We debated your conjectures, rather heatedly on
my side, old friend, but no one could name an emigré with access to the War
Office or admission to Lord Westover’s residence.”
“The spy must be an emigré, someone who has old
connections to France that our newly-placed eyes will not see. Someone who
hopes that Napoleon will restore what the Revolutionary Terror confiscated from
his family.”
“I tried, Farraday. They accept your theory that
the spy may use smugglers for transport. They even accept that it’s a small
gang. Beyond that—.” Hargreaves shrugged. “Without more evidence, I cannot sway
them.”
“And they don’t believe in field-honed instincts,
do they?”
“You’ve listened through one of their meetings. Long
enumerations of battle losses and longer discussions of strategies and supplies.
They don’t know how to report instinct. War to them is boxes and arrows on a
map, not blood and gore and men screaming, the shudder of cannon-fire and
blinding smoke so thick you can’t breathe.”
“And you would trade a year with them for one hour
on the battlefields of Spain and Portugal.”
Hargreaves stopped. He leaned heavily on his cane.
His answer bypassed Tony’s remark. “If they would stop second-guessing their
objective for this mission, we might achieve it. The spy won’t trust his
information to a lackey; it’s too important. Find your smugglers, and we can
close the net and snare our spy. When can you give me a list of the gang?”
“I can’t say. I’m close, maybe too close. Maybe
you should send another man in. We don’t want them becoming suspicious.”
“What story are you telling for cover?”
“Buying brandy on the cheap and walking the beach
to strengthen the leg I injured in a riding accident.”
“That’s close enough to the truth to stand. You
will have to stay in position. A new man would only kindle the very suspicions
we don’t want.”
Tony sighed. His mission thus far had entailed
sleeping late and riding the inland waters while he walked the headland. None
of it had presented any danger. He would welcome a lovely distraction. “What
are my new orders?”
“That hasn’t changed. We want the man himself.”
“Or the woman,” he retorted. “A Delilah who
seduces one of our Samsons.” Hargreaves’ pace faltered, and Tony checked a hoot
of derision. “Those brains at the War Office haven’t even considered a woman,
have they?”
“We argued the émigré question—.” He whistled
tunelessly. “That will give an interesting twist to the debate.”
“So we’ll take that back up as well?”
Hargreaves’ smirk answered for him, but his voice
stayed bland as milk toast. “I’ll use my day in London ahead of you to gather
more information. Man or woman, the spy must be found. You are certain the
smugglers we want are working from the headland?”
“You said our Paris agent reported that the spy
returned with a load of brandy and silks. You gave me the clues. The saltings
have dozens of places to lose the revenue cutters, to hole up for the day, to
hide their cargo. Napoleon brandy a little too cheap, jacquards in the shops, and quick access to
London. Grandfather’s expensive thirst for brandy did the rest.”
Hargreaves stumbled on the cobbles, but Tony
didn’t make the mistake of helping him. “I’ll be satisfied only when you can
tell me names, smugglers and spy. The spy, most of all.”
“Trust me; I have found where they launch. Smugglers
don’t like their territory invaded, yet they let those Frogs sail away. I’m an
outsider, and I still picked that up. We’ll have your precious cargo soon
enough. Or do you have a new worry? Are you distrusting your Paris agent now? Or
has something vital gone missing?”
“No, nothing like that. I trust our man in Paris. I
picked him myself. His information I do trust. Coupled with your information
about the French fishermen putting in twice, it has to be that headland. But we
have to stop that spy.”
They reached High Street and stopped to survey the
bustle. A coach rattled over the cobbles, and Tony wondered where the lovely
distraction had gone.
“You’ll have to return to your lurking bit.”
Waiting upon the Lord had never been his strong
point, but he didn’t share that with Hargreaves. “I know the drill. When I see
or hear someone out of place, I’ll send for you.”
“And you’re certain that your return won’t rouse
suspicions?”
“God willing, it won’t. I can’t be there
constantly, but I’ve got a man in place. You remember Sergeant Ranley. Between
the two of us, we’ll find your spy.”
“Your grandfather will have the best stocked
cellar in England before this is over.”
“You should meet him. You should meet the man
striving to turn an Army whelp into a polished gentleman worthy of his title.”
“If he succeeds, he has my compliments. You said
you had to return to Melton Hall. Is Lord Melton not well?”
“He claims that seeing me venture to London
parties gives him new life, but our last visit fatigued him. I cannot convince
him to moderate his activities. He won’t refuse invitations that he believes
will advance me. He aged this summer, much more than I realized.”
“He has his heir to launch before he’s forced to
give up the reins.”
“This heir can do without all the dances. The
harvest’s coming in. I should be there. You’ll owe me for this one,
Hargreaves.”
“Have you become reconciled to becoming a landed
gentleman? You don’t sound like the line officer I knew, the one who
volunteered for dangerous assignments. You weren’t well enough to protest when
your grandfather bought out your commission, but I never would have thought an
old soldier like you would take to the quiet peace of the country.”
Tony didn’t speak of his impotent anger, lying in
bed at Melton Hall and realizing his Army career was over. He didn’t speak of
the days that he’d refused to see his grandfather until Sgt. Ranley stumped in
and forced him to face the future. He didn’t speak of the long season needed to
bring himself back to health. He didn’t speak of the boredom that started his
education in farming, the boredom that had miraculously transformed into
curiosity when his grandfather described his methods and experiments. In those
long months God had taught him patience. His reward came as a slower battle
with the land that gave him more satisfaction than he had anticipated. Hargreaves
had a similar transformation before him; he just hadn’t accepted it.
“I’ll never be a line officer again, Hargreaves,
not with this leg. It still doesn’t stand up to a day’s ride or a long walk. And
I can’t do your job, butting heads with the pencil-pushers in the War Office. This
mission suited me when you proposed it, but I’m discovering that it interferes
with my life.” For one, he would have pursued a lovely distraction if
Hargreaves hadn’t had prior claim.
“Farraday, you were born and bred to the drum. How
do you tolerate the country quiet?”
“Better than I thought. I’d gotten sick of war, of
its noise and smell and death. My battles now are with late frosts and
drenching rain, stubborn cattle and stupid sheep. I’ve discovered I can live
that life. I like it.” Especially if he found a lovely distraction to kiss.
“I never would have pictured you as a country
squire.”
“I will grow whiskers and get gout. After I catch
your spy.”
Chapter 2
When Kate encountered Anthony Farraday a week
later, at first she hoped that he wouldn’t recognize her. Then she hoped he
would.
The Ipswich coach had journeyed to the sea. It
rolled to a stop at the newly constructed Black Boar. The village that
stretched between it and the choppy Channel was only a few years older. From
listening to the passengers, Kate gathered that the encroaching sea had claimed
the old village. Each year the sea took more inches of land, but the proximity
to the clean salt air and the rich fishing kept the community from abandoning
the headland.
She was not the only passenger to arrive at the
Black Boar, but her request for employment was obviously the first that the
host had received from a coach passenger. He shook his head. “What’s that
you’re wanting?”
“I seek employment, sir. Yours is a fine and
prospering inn. I am willing to serve as a maid in the chambers or in the
kitchen or—.”
“The kitchen?” He looked her up and down. “You’re
gentry class, Miss. You wouldn’t be wanting the kind of work that needs doing.”
“I am willing to do any work, good sir. You will
not find me laggard in any duty.”
“We’re not hiring,” he said flatly. “You’re
welcome to hire a room till you find the work you want.”
Kate lifted her valise. “I thank you, but that is
beyond my funds. Would you know of any shopkeepers who need assistance? I can
clerk as well as many other duties.”
He listed a few and gave her directions, “although
you’ll not get lost in the new town. Follow the coach road. That will take you
to the remains of the old village on the cliff. Sea took it, some years back. Don’t
be walking along the cliff,” he warned, as if she were a tourist. “The sea eats
away at the cliffs. The edge will crumple away with you.”
“And will I find another inn there, where the
village once was?”
Mouth pursed, the innkeeper eyed her then shook
his head. “Not one I would recommend to a lady.”
Kate heard similar refusals, firm but polite, for
the rest of the afternoon. Her valise weighed heavier and heavier, and her hand
cramped from gripping it. After exhausting the good host’s list, she began to
ask in every shop for work. Her options growing short and the sun sinking
toward the horizon, she wiggled information about the inn from a haberdasher. Following
his directions, she walked away from the heart of the new town, along an old
road that crossed the headland proper, between harvested fields and open
pastures, with tangled hedges for windbreaks. She passed cottages crowded
around an old oak twisted by the salt-stinging wind.
Sunset had flamed the horizon when she reached the
old inn. An old farmhouse, it stood sentinel against the empty fields and the
rising heath and the greedy sea beyond.
The land’s features merged in the twilight. A gust
from the white-capped sea tore at her summer pelisse. Terns hovered in the
deepening sky. They called to each other before seeking their roosts for the
cold dark. One star twinkled overhead. Kate turned from the sea and stared at
the farmhouse. An overgrown bush obscured the weathered sign. It swung in the
wind, and she could not read the faded lettering until she was a few yards
away.
The Hawthorn Inn.
This inn did not have the sparkling windows and
fresh paint that announced the Black Boar’s reputation. In the fading light the
sand-colored brick added to its drabness. Grime-clouded windows reduced the
interior lamp-glow to a haze. Dead leaves and clots of mud littered the front
steps. The door yielded to a touch, silent on its well-oiled hinges. The warmth
in the dim hall kept her from fleeing. The weight of her valise added its
persuasion that she should enter. And she could see the work that needed doing.
Windows to wash. Flagstones to scrub. Paneled walls to dust. Spider webs to
sweep.
She ventured to the public room and wanted to open
its windows to vent the accumulated odors of cooking and old fish and unwashed
bodies. Yet Kate had encountered much worse on campaigns with her father. The
fire burning merrily in the hearth heartened her. Those well-oiled hinges spoke
of a good caretaker with a bit too much work. She walked to the long bar that
was merely boards set onto upright casks.
Neither her approach nor her request discomfited
the tapster. He shifted his pipe and answered around it. “Mrs. Gilson’s the
innkeeper. She does the hiring.”
“Where may I find Mrs. Gilson?”
“She’s in the kitchen. She can do with another
pair of hands.” He cocked an eyebrow at her and added gruffly, “If you’re
willing to work.”
“I am, and I thank you, sir.”
He puffed smoke. “Palmer’s my name. We don’t take
to ‘sirs’ and ‘madams’ here.”
Mrs. Gilson looked at her askance when Kate
requested a job. Before the woman could utter the refusal Kate had heard all
afternoon, she hurriedly said, “I am willing to work. I am not afraid of hard
work, ma’am.”
For some reason the woman smiled at her words. Her
cherub cheeks glowed from her work by the hearth. “Why didn’t you try the Black
Boar?”
“I did.”
“You’ll not be wanting to soil those lily-white
hands.”
“I will do whatever task you assign me, ma’am. When
my father was on campaign in Portugal, I often cooked and cleaned for him.”
“You mean that you told his batman what to do.”
“No, ma’am. I cooked meals and scrubbed pots and
kept the place clean when his batman wasn’t there—and that was often.”
Mrs. Gilson’s black eyes narrowed. “Where’s your
father now? And your mother?”
“I am an orphan, Mrs. Gilson. And I need
employment.”
“You’ll do what I tell you?” When Kate rashly
agreed, the woman handed her an apron. “Then you can start now.”
In the next few days Kate became grateful for
small favors. Up at dawn, she was sometimes the last abed. Mrs. Gilson
commanded, and she worked, whether in the kitchen or the scullery or the
taproom or the chambers let to a few guests. She fell asleep as soon as her
head touched the pillow. She watched her lily-white hands roughen and redden
from work. She grew tired from going up and down the steps several times in an
hour.
She remained grateful for the work.
In ways she never considered she revealed her gentler
class. For the first few days the tapster Mr. Palmer had to explain the men’s
dialect to her. She quickly discovered that compliments and thanks from army
officers were the same as those from fishermen and farmers, few in number until
their bellies were full. Her polished speech caused many a laugh. Mrs. Gilson
claimed that Kate’s day dresses were too fine for work; Kate bought woolens
with coins she now counted dear. She did not often have time for chats with the
inn’s two other employees, the maid Magsie and the ostler Tom. Mrs. Gilson
expected work from her new maid, and Kate needed the means to support herself
over the next few months. Her few fanciful thoughts about a blue-eyed knight
riding to her rescue were consigned to her dreams.
With an extra maid for the work, Mrs. Gilson
decided to scrub the inn top to bottom. After days of washing windows, re-stuffing
mattresses, waxing oak, and polishing brass, Kate was scouring the flagstones
when she heard the voice that had haunted her for a week.
“That comely shape never belonged to Martha
Gilson.”
She froze. Coincidence surely had not brought
Anthony Farraday to the Hawthorn Inn. She couldn’t believe it. She refused to
believe it. She scraped her brush harder on the flagstones. It wasn’t Anthony
Farraday. It couldn’t be.
He chuckled. “Stubborn? Or shy? What other
surprises did Mrs. Gilson add while I was away?”
Six steps—she counted them—then the man stopped
just beyond the reach of her scrub-brush. Straw from the stable clung to his
gleaming boots. She scowled. Her knees ached after long hours on the flagstones.
The hall ran the width of the inn, and she did not want to scrub it again. “A
gentleman does not say such things, sir, and I will thank you to scrape your
boots before you traipse more dirt over my clean floor.”
“A temper as well,” the man drawled in Anthony
Farraday’s voice. “Where did Mrs. Gilson find such a feisty package?”
Tone and words implied that she was a loose
baggage. Kate stopped in mid-sweep with her brush. She sat on her heels. With a
shaking arm she swiped straggling hair out of her face. She intended a sharp
set-down for his rudeness.
He inhaled sharply. “You’re the runaway.”
She looked up a great height to the square-cut
face memorable only for his vivid eyes. Even in the dark hallway Anthony
Farraday’s eyes were as blue as the limitless heavens. Her heart sank then
leapt to faster life.
Providence had played an ironic trick. It had so
worked circumstances that here only had she found employment. Then it dropped
Anthony Farraday here and laughed up its sleeve by reuniting them when she was
grimy and haggish. She wanted to hide and couldn’t. She dropped the brush into
the bucket and twisted her reddened hands into her soiled apron.
He squatted to peer more closely. “It is you,” he
whispered. “You did escape? Or did the man chasing you send you here as
punishment?”
“How did you—?” The words echoed along the hall. She
stopped, caught her breath, then pitched her voice as low as his. “I came here
from Ipswich on the mail coach. Mrs. Gilson was kind enough to hire me when no
one else would.”
“As her scullery maid?” He plucked her hands from
the shielding cloth.
Kate flushed as he examined them. The strong soap
had reddened them, the sharp flagstones had scraped them, and a week of such
work had ruined them.
He looked up, those blue eyes inches from hers. “This
work is too hard for you.”
His concern unfurled warm pleasure in her stomach.
For too long no one had cared about her. Yet five minutes on a street in
Ipswich did not turn a stranger into a friend. She tugged her hands free. “This
is honest work, Major Farraday.”
Those blue eyes narrowed. He shot a glance down
the hall, toward the public room and the kitchen. “Don’t use my rank here. I’m
Mr. Farraday. Only Mr. Farraday. Look, I must trust you. Can we meet somewhere
away from the inn?”
“I do not understand.”
“We need to meet privately so I can explain. Just—promise
to call me ‘Mr. Farraday’.”
His vehement whisper enticed her agreement. Only
after she nodded and received the reward of his smile did she consider that any
subterfuge might add to her troubles. She already bore a double-yoked burden,
and the Hawthorn Inn had had its unexpected thorns.
Anthony Farraday had taken her nod for more than
her willing silence about his military rank. “Do you know the path that follows
the cliff? And the cairn? Meet me there. Tonight, after moonrise.”
“Mrs. Gilson requires that I serve the dinner. And
I must help in the scullery."
“Come after everyone’s abed. I’ll wait beside the
cairn for you.”
He stood abruptly. Kate retrieved her scrub-brush.
Yet he didn’t move. She looked up, once again aware of her grime next to his
polish.
“You’ll come?”
“Yes, Mr. Farraday.”
He nodded then turned on his heel with
field-ground precision. His walk to the stairs revealed a limp that hobbled one
leg. And Kate realized that he was Mrs. Gilson’s absentee lodger, gone for ten
days. The maid Magsie had explained that Mr. Farraday walked the sands to help
his recovery from a riding accident. A riding accident that was more likely a
war injury. She remembered Lord Hargreaves in his regimentals and their talk of
spies.
She didn’t like the lie, an obvious attempt to
hide his military background. Had Mrs. Gilson and Palmer not marked upon his
military bearing? Kate recalled her many unconscious habits that had revealed
her gentry background. Mr. Farraday obviously did not realize how much he
revealed in his bearing and his military neatness. Her employers had said
little more about him to her—the little they said was usually restricted to
orders. Beyond the bare fact of his existence, she didn’t know what they
thought of him.
On the first step Anthony Farraday glanced back. Caught
staring, Kate blushed and bent guiltily to her work, but she tolled off his
every step to the first floor. The injured leg did not slow his progress. How
long ago had he been wounded? And where? And why?
Questions swirled with her brush. What was so
secret and so important that he must tell her away from the inn? Why did he
hide his military rank? Why was her silence necessary?
Did he spy on the people here at the Hawthorn? Not
on the lodgers, but on Palmer and Mrs. Gilson? Why would he? The Hawthorn was
an aging inn on the seacoast.
And the sea gave her the answer, adding Mr.
Farraday’s secretive presence with her own questions about the inn’s occupants.
All the whispered conversations between Mrs. Gilson and Palmer, and Palmer and
Tom the ostler, and Palmer and two of the taproom’s regulars, Jess Carter and
Jem Webb. The sea explained Mr. Palmer’s mysterious disappearance, the heavy
load that Jess Carter had hauled to Ipswich over the weekend, and the extra
money, not much but enough. The sea pointed to smuggling.
But the major and Lord Hargreaves pursued a spy. A
spy who used smugglers for transport? That made sense.
And she had no liking for smugglers, especially as
she was now in a nest of them. The smuggling trade put money into Napoleon’s
war. Smugglers brought in French spies and took out information about England’s
coastal defenses. Smugglers cared more for their pockets than for their
country.
She had escaped from a boiling pot of trouble by
jumping into the fire of smuggling. But she didn’t regret it. She refused to
examine why.
Close to the back entry, the kitchen door opened. Martha
Gilson stepped out, wiping her floury hands on a cloth. “Are you not finished,
Katie? The public room needs sweeping before the evening trade starts.”
Kate scrubbed another flagstone. “I swept the
public room after noon, ma’am.”
“Good, good.” She twisted the cloth. Palmer’s
voice rumbled in the kitchen. He had returned from the mysterious errand that
had taken him away for days. The innkeeper wrung the cloth more tightly. “Did I
hear someone go upstairs?”
Her nerves jumped. Kate deliberately dipped her
brush in the bucket and applied it to a dry patch of stone. “A Mr. Farraday,
ma’am.”
“Mr. Farraday’s back? What did he say?”
She stopped scrubbing and sat on her heels. Martha
Gilson’s black eyes looked guileless, but her cousin Oliver’s wide eyes had
concealed trickery. Only the shift of his eyes after he had spoken betrayed the
lies. Kate had not yet discovered the telltale sign that betrayed Mrs. Gilson.
“Mr. Farraday admired my womanly form,” she said,
her voice creamy soft, “and he said he would be down for dinner. Then he went
upstairs.” Her omission of his military rank and his request for a secret
conference landed her on Major Farraday’s side. She didn’t know what battle he
fought, but since it was against smugglers and spies—.
Mrs. Gilson still hovered, so Kate lifted her
lashes, letting the late sunlight streaming through the window shine into her
eyes. In Oliver’s house she had learned self-preservation. The trick of light
in her limpid eyes weighted her words with truth. “I assumed that Mr. Farraday
was the regular lodger that you mentioned.”
“Oh, aye, he comes and goes. He’s been gone longer
this time. He’ll stay three or four nights then leave again, back and forth. He
keeps the room paid ahead, so you keep the linens aired and the water fresh
each evening.”
“I did his room first, ma’am.”
The woman had stopped twisting the cloth. Palmer
rumbled again. She looked back into the kitchen. Mrs. Gilson owned the inn and
ordered Palmer from job to job, but for the hundredth time Kate wondered whose
hand held the inn’s tiller.
“Did Mr. Farraday say nothing else?”
Kate scraped back her hair. If they were watching
from the kitchen window, they would have seen Anthony Farraday come from the
stable through the back entry. A long delay had ensued before he went upstairs.
Mrs. Gilson and Palmer would have timed that long delay. They had not heard the
conversation, but they knew one had occurred. Her father had despised liars,
but Kate had learned more than a guileless appearance from her cousin Oliver
Stanbrough.
“He had a few sallies about my person, ma’am. I
offered to scrub his mouth for him.” The small lie threw away her last
neutrality.
“I didn’t hear raised voices.”
At her primmest, Kate said, “A lady need not shout
to inform a gentleman that his attentions are not welcome.”
“I see.”
“Is that all, Mrs. Gilson? Do you want my help in
the kitchen? I will finish here soon.”
“No. You finish and get cleaned up. I’ll have your
supper before the hour strikes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She bent to her labor.
The innkeeper shut the kitchen door. Not even
Palmer’s deep rumble penetrated the thick wood. Kate heard footsteps walking
along the passage overhead.
So Mr. Farraday had eavesdropped. Another
deception that her father had despised. She hoped he had heard enough to keep
their stories aligned.
What did he want to explain? To discover that
answer she would have to attend his secret meeting. He had tempted her
curiosity and complimented her with his trust. Did he want an ally against
smugglers? Were Palmer and Mrs. Gilson hiding their smuggling by running the
Hawthorn? They had harped to Kate that the inn was respectable and her behavior
must be impeccable to remain employed. And her suspicions were only suspicions.
She risked her job by meeting him. If they thought she brought disrepute to the
inn, they would fire her.
She wished she had someone to ask for advice. Her
old governess was too far away in Bruckton. She had made three friends here,
but their ties were to the Hawthorn.
Magsie worked the public room at night and served
as kitchen maid during the day. She liked to chat about London fashions and
paid rapt attention when Kate read the newspapers that came twice a week on the
coaches. But Magsie’s job depended on Mrs. Gilson’s good will.
Tom the ostler not only depended on them, but he
was also too young to counsel her. He enjoyed the stories that she adapted from
the classics and the Bible. With the barn cat curled in his lap, he would
listen raptly then pester her with questions. Later in the day she would hear
him repeating bits of the story, especially the words that had struck him.
Jess Carter did not depend on Mrs. Gilson and
Palmer for his livelihood. A lean man, tall enough to look over the heads of
everyone in the public room, he had a way of cutting through the details to
reach the gist of a problem. Kate enjoyed their few conversations. In the past
two days Magsie had teased her about him. He sprang to help whenever she tried
to carry something heavy. Wordlessly he would remove from her hands the buckets
of water or armloads of wood or the coal for the upstairs braziers. He had a
gentle hand with his draft horses. He lacked the clumsiness that often plagued
tall men. He didn’t smile often, but Kate liked his eyes, as brown as
newly-turned earth. She thought she could trust him. Yet he had hauled that
load for Palmer, and Tom said that Jess sometimes crewed on Palmer’s boat.
Troubled by her thoughts, she realized she must
meet with Mr. Farraday, if only to have her suspicions laid to rest.
Did he tell her out of expediency, to hide his
military connections? Would he warn her away from the Hawthorn? Would he claim
that he was her friend?
Friendship was too insipid for her feelings about
Anthony Farraday. She did not know how to name her emotions. Today’s meeting
had confirmed that her memory hadn’t lied. His eyes were that blue; his chin,
that strong; his hair, that sun-kissed. He had haunted her sleep. Now he would
be in daily sight. How could a few minutes have such an effect? Her bruises had
faded, yet her memory had remained vivid and true.
She should remember he had insulted her person. She
should remember his tasteless remarks. She did remember the trust he placed in
her. She did remember his hands holding her ice-cold ones, a tender grasp after
that painful grip on the Ipswich street. She did remember his concern for her,
for a stranger. And the memory warmed her heart, the way his hands had warmed
her frozen ones.
Kate dropped the brush in the bucket and climbed
to her feet, her knees protesting their hours on the cold stone. “I am a fool,”
she told the bucket.
