Silken Secrets Page 10

  Mary Anne took up a pillow and began to stuff it into a pillowcase. “Don’t be afraid of me,” he said gently. “I don’t mean you or your uncle any harm. It is imperative that I get that cargo of silk. Every moment’s delay could be costing lives.”

  She dropped the pillow and stared at him. “Lives?”

  “Lives,” he repeated firmly. “You were right in think­ing there was more involved here than just silk. There is... something else in the cargo. Something I must find.”

  She stared across the bed, mesmerized. The unwanted intruder suddenly looked not at all like a customs man. His hateful tenacity took on the coloring of manly determination. “Mr. Robertson,” she asked, eyes wide, “are you a—a British spy?”

  He made a modest gesture of agreement. “What is it you’re looking for? What was in the cargo?” she asked eagerly.

  “There should have been a message from France. We have a woman planted there—she acts as a seamstress for the wives of highly placed French officials and army offi­cers. She is frequently in their homes, where she overhears all manner of useful information. Her help has been in­valuable in the past. She has dealings with the silk mer­chants and smuggles her findings out in cargoes of silk destined for England. It is a great secret, as I’m sure you realize. I don’t want a word of this breathed abroad.”

  “Oh, my!” Mary Anne exclaimed, and sank onto the edge of the bed. She looked shyly at the guest and dis­cerned the innocent air of truth in his noble aspect. His gaze was steady, his manner not at all conniving. How had she been so blind? Of course Mr. Robertson was no drapery merchant. He was obviously top of the trees, and a hero to boot. The message must be very urgent to have sent him galloping off to Dymchurch to intercept it.

  “Well?” he urged.

  She wet her lips and hastily reviewed her situation. Ad­mitting to such a hero that her uncle was a thief and she an accessory proved impossible. She wanted to do it, but the words stuck in her throat. “I’ll speak to Uncle and see if he knows anything. You stay here!” she ordered, and fled downstairs.

  Her uncle and Fitch were in the study when she went flying in to relate her tale. When she had finished her breathless story, they both looked at her as though she were mad.

  “You don’t actually believe such a tale?” Uncle Edwin scoffed.

  “I’m sure he’s telling the truth, Uncle.”

  “Even if he is,” Fitch pointed out, “we still can’t admit to stealing. We’ll have to arrange to hand the stuff over stealthily.”

  Mary Anne was willing to listen to any plan that would conceal her uncle’s guilt.

  “Christian’s hut?” Lord Edwin suggested. “If you take it tonight. Fitch, the goods can be in his hands by morning. I haven’t posted the letter to Codey, so he shan’t be there. And if Robertson takes possession early in the morning, say at dawn, why it’s himself that Codey would catch if he happened by and not us.”

  “He said every moment is important,” Mary Anne mentioned. “Couldn’t Fitch just ‘find’ the silk now, im­mediately? It could save lives, Uncle.”

  “Aye, and it could cost lives—ours—if he’s lying,” Fitch added. “He’s not stupid enough to believe I just happened to find the silk as soon as we thought it safe to sell.”

  “You have a point,” Lord Edwin agreed. “Robertson isn’t going to go galloping off to London to save lives in the middle of the night, and raining to boot. Fitch will move the stuff to Christian’s hut tonight, and we’ll tell Robertson early in the morning.”

  After a little arguing Mary Anne agreed to this compro­mise. “What shall we tell Robertson tonight?” she asked. “He’s waiting upstairs. I told him I’d speak to you.”

  Her uncle scowled at her. “Why didn’t you just tell him I was guilty? Tell him I’m exerting every effort and expect to have found the stuff by morning.” This sounded unconvincing, even to his undemanding self. “Tell him Fitch is on to something,” he added, and smiled.

  “All right.” Mary Anne went so quickly to the door that Mr. Robertson hadn’t time to scamper upstairs with­out being seen. He had overheard every word through the keyhole, but what he had not learned was where they had the stuff hidden. This was no real problem, however. All he had to do was follow the amiable giant when he went to move it. He’d have his message tonight, instead of wait­ing for morning. He slipped quietly out the front door and skulked in the shadows, waiting for Fitch to come out.

  Mary Anne rehearsed what she would say, and when she went to his door, she had her story ready. She tapped lightly and waited. She knocked harder and waited again. Perhaps Mr. Robertson had been undressing. After a third knock her suspicions allowed her to open the door wide, even if it meant seeing Mr. Robertson in his linen. She cast one brief look around the empty room before darting downstairs to Uncle’s study.

  “He’s gone!” she exclaimed.

  Fitch was still there, receiving last-minute instructions. The three exchanged startled glances that soon deepened to distrust and fear.

  “The silk!” Fitch exclaimed, and they all three ran for the door.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Mary Anne reached the door first. Anxiety muddled her thinking, but through the mists of confusion, she suddenly got hold of one vital fact. She removed her hand from the doorknob and said, “Wait!”

  “What is it?” her uncle demanded.

  “We better not go out there. If Robertson is gone—”

  “He is gone,” Fitch said. “And we have a pretty good notion where he’s gone to. We’ve got to stop him.”

  “He has no way of knowing where you hid the stuff,” she pointed out. “He’s probably lurking outside to follow us. Let us wait a moment and think what should be done.’’

  But she found scheming beyond her. What was in her mind was the question: Is he really a British spy, or is he something else? Why had he left the room, when she told him she would cooperate?

  “He’s trying to get my silk without paying me!” Lord Edwin said angrily. The man must be stopped, but search­ing for him in the rain, hitting him, quite possibly being hit back... Robertson wasn’t the sort to cave in without a fight—all that unpleasantness was no job for a gentle­man. “Take care of him, Fitch. You may use your fists if necessary.”

  “Necessary, hah!” Fitch grinned from ear to ear and began prancing around with his fists raised, ready for ac­tion.

  “But if he is really working for the government—” Mary Anne objected.

  “Pooh! He’s working for himself and Vulch,” her uncle riposted. They all retired to the study for further arguing.

  In the shadows beyond, Mr. Robertson became impa­tient with waiting. What the devil was keeping the amiable giant? He regretted that he hadn’t gotten back to his room in time for Mary Anne’s visit. Naturally he had to follow her and confirm it wasn’t another stunt. He didn’t want to wait till morning to recover his message, either.

  But they were willing to help. He might have coerced her into lead­ing him to the stuff tonight. It was beginning to look as if Fitch wasn’t going to move it. His having run off made them change their minds. What was the best course? He cudgeled his brains and was struck with an idea. His mount—he didn’t want it left out all night. It was a pass­able excuse.

  Within five minutes Mr. Robertson entered the front door, making no effort at secrecy. In fact, he stamped his feet and made as much racket as he could. It was enough to bring his quarry into the hall.

  “Good evening—again.” He smiled easily and shook the raindrops from his head. “I just remembered I had left my nag tethered to a tree in the park. I put him in your stable—I hope you don’t mind, Lord Edwin?”

  The three exchanged a questioning look. “Sorry I dis­turbed you,” Mr. Robertson said. After a small bow, he walked nonchalantly upstairs.

  He missed Mary Anne’s smile of relief, which would have given him pleasure on more than one score. “So that’s where he was!” she said.

&nbs
p; “Do you believe him?” Fitch asked.

  “Of course! He wasn’t trying to slip in quietly. Why, he made a dreadful racket. It was all perfectly innocent. We shall proceed with the original plan. You go out and start moving the stuff, Fitch, and Uncle and I will keep an eye to see Mr. Robertson doesn’t escape.”

  “We’ll lock his bedroom door,” Uncle Edwin said.

  “Oh, Uncle! You can’t do that! It would look so very odd—as if he were our prisoner. Besides, he’ll only climb out the window.”

  “That he’ll not,” Fitch objected. “Them windows haven’t budged in a decade. They’re as good as nailed shut, the wood’s so swollen with rain getting in.”

  “I’ll lock his door,” Lord Edwin repeated. “I shan’t get a wink’s sleep if I don’t. I’ll do it cagily—drop in and offer him a nightcap, and when I leave, I’ll rattle the knob a moment to cover the sound while I turn the lock.”

  Mary Anne still disliked to consider what Mr. Robertson would think of their hospitality if he tried to leave his room for any innocent reason and found he was incarcerated. “It would help if you could get him bosky,” she suggested. “I told him I’d speak to you, so he won’t be surprised at the visit.”

  “Excellent!” Lord Edwin exclaimed. “I’ll take up a bottle of my best port. Two bottles.”

  “Why not put a little laudanum in one?” Fitch said with a crafty look. “Plummer has a bottle in the kitchen.”

  “Not too much!” Mary Anne warned. “We want him awake at dawn.”

  “I know just what quantity gives you a good night’s sleep. Five drops,” Lord Edwin said. “That’s what Plummer gave me when that cursed molar of mine acted up last year.”

  This plan satisfied them all. “If we’re sure Mr. Robertson is asleep, you and I can help Fitch, Uncle,” Mary Anne suggested.

  Lord Edwin looked at her as though she were mad. Help Fitch—in this downpour! With his sore joints?

  Mary Anne stationed herself a few yards down the hall to keep a discreet guard on Mr. Robertson’s door while Lord Edwin got the wine and laudanum and Fitch went to begin moving the silk to Christian’s hut. When Lord Ed­win had the corks removed and one bottle doctored with laudanum, he winked at Mary Anne and she scuttled along to her bedroom.

  Her fears and doubts had ebbed to manageable excite­ment. She lay on the bed thinking, waiting till Mr. Robertson would have had time to fall asleep. She was sorry he’d be dashing off to London tomorrow as soon as he found the secret message in the cargo of silk, but she felt certain she’d see him again. Apparently he worked reg­ularly with Vulch. If he got away early enough tomorrow morning, he might even return for the spring assembly that night. She would wear her new shawl, and they’d waltz...

  Mr. Robertson was on fidgets waiting for the visit. He was in little doubt as to why Lord Edwin came with two bottles of wine. Did the old fool really think one bottle would put him to sleep? No, of course not. He would have laced one bottle with a sleeping draught. Yes, sure enough, the two bottles were open already, and he kept looking at them. Not clever of Lord Eddie to have put the doctored bottle in his left hand. To confirm the stunt, Mr. Robertson reached for the bottle in his right hand and swallowed his smile to see Lord Edwin awkwardly shove his left hand forward.

  “This one’s for you, Mr. Robertson.”

  “Thank you. This is a delightful surprise. I could use a drink to put me to sleep.”

  “Eh?” Lord Edwin gasped with a guilty start. “Sleep, you say? Why, where did you get that idea?”

  “Wine always make me drowsy.” Mr. Robertson smiled blandly and lifted the bottle to his lips. It was easier to hide the fact that he wasn’t actually drinking anything if he kept the colored bottle. A glass would reveal the truth. He tasted the bitter trace of laudanum beneath the grape. It wasn’t strong—he wouldn’t have noticed it had he not been looking for it.

  They sat down, and conversation turned to the impor­tant subject of silk. “Your niece spoke to you?” Mr. Rob­ertson asked.

  “She did. As it happens, Fitch had just got a line on something.” Lord Edwin nodded importantly.

  “That’s excellent news. Your Fitch seems a bright lad.”

  “Fitch bright? Why, he’s dull as those muddy window-panes,” Lord Edwin asserted. “Strong, but not bright. He did happen to get a line on the silk, however.”

  “When do you think I might get it?” Mr. Robertson asked.

  “At dawn tomorrow.”

  “I hope the demmed rain has let up by then,” Mr. Robertson remarked, and strolled to the window as though checking the weather.

  This raised no panic in his host’s breast. He’d see noth­ing from that window. Fitch would take the shortest route, which was by the opposite side of the house. He rose and joined Robertson at the window. Both left their bottles behind.

  “Did you see something move out there?” Mr. Robertson asked, and pressed his nose against the pane. He al­ready knew the window didn’t open. He had tested that as soon as he was alone in the room.

  “Eh? Impossible? He wouldn’t come this way.” Lord Edwin pressed his nose against the pane, too. Mr. Rob­ertson edged back to give him a clear view.

  “There, didn’t you see that?” he asked.

  While Lord Edwin peered into the impenetrable black­ness beyond, Mr. Robertson quickly moved to the table and switched the bottles of wine about.

  “I don’t see a thing,” Lord Edwin said, worried now. “You don’t think it was Codey?”

  “Perhaps it was just a shadow,” Mr. Robertson al­lowed, and resumed his seat.

  Lord Edwin did likewise and soon picked up the doc­tored bottle of wine. “That’s what it was, a shadow. Codey would be in his nook at the tavern by this time. A shocking bad revenue officer. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s in Vulch’s pocket. I mean it stands to reason; the whole par­ish knows Vulch lands the goods at his very dock. How does it come Codey never catches him, eh?”

  Mr. Robertson took a long drink from the bottle. Lord Edwin smiled like a lady who has just received an offer from her suitor and said, “Not that I give a tinker’s curse. I like my brandy as well as the next fellow.”

  “I’ll arrange to get you a barrel as a bonus when I recover the silk.”

  “Demmed decent of you, Mr. Robertson.”

  The conversation became more congenial as the bottles emptied. Lord Edwin began yawning into his fist, and to keep suspicion at bay, Mr. Robertson did likewise. “Do you mind if I lie down, Lord Edwin?” he asked when the wine was nearly gone. He walked on unsteady legs toward the bed.

  “Good idea. I’ll join you,” his host said. Lord Edwin fell in a heap on the floor as soon as he got off his chair.

  Mr. Robertson lifted him onto the bed and hastily rifled his pockets. He recognized a bedroom key when he saw one, and before Lord Edwin had emitted the first of a series of stertorous snorts, he was locked in the room, dead to the world. Mr. Robertson took a look up and down the empty hallway before slipping quietly down the stair­case and out the front door.

  At eleven o’clock approximately an hour had elapsed, and Mary Anne figured it was safe to go and talk to Uncle. It had occurred to her that while Codey wasn’t likely to venture out in such raw weather, Vulch’s smugglers were made of hardier stuff. They’d already been there once to­night. If they returned and caught Fitch moving the silk...

  A tremble of fear shook her. She changed into her oldest slippers and went quietly down the hall. As she passed Robertson’s door, she quietly tried the knob. The door was securely locked. When she saw Lord Edwin’s room empty, she went in search of him downstairs. The office, too, was dark and vacant.

  She had misjudged her uncle. Some latent trace of gal­lantry had urged him to let her rest while he went to Fitch’s assistance. He could still surprise her upon occasion. Her birthday, for instance. That lovely shawl, and dinner at the inn. She went out by the kitchen, pulling her oldest shawl over her head and shoulders as she went.

 
The rain had ebbed to a drizzly mist. No actual drops fell, but the air was so laden with moisture that it felt clammy and surprisingly warm. Phantom clouds of fog clung to the ground, enshrouding her to the knees. She stood listening, but the only sound in the darkness was the occasional plop of water falling from leaves and roof to the ground. One particularly large drop struck her head, and she moved away from the roof into the night.

  She could scarcely see beyond her nose and was cheered to know that Vulch’s men would be similarly hampered. They lacked her advantage of knowing where to look for Fitch and the silk. She struck off first toward Christian’s hut. Fitch should have had time to deliver one load and be on his way back. She checked for intruders, peering into shadows as she went, listening for the whicker of a horse, the rattle of a harness, or human sounds. All was silent. Her feet made no sound as they flew over the familiar terrain, skirting instinctively around the invisible thorn bush at the edge of the meadow, veering left around the sudden apparition of white, which was a wild apple tree in blossom.

  At the edge of the meadow that abutted Christian’s property, she stopped. She thought she could hear if Fitch were coming toward her, and in any case, she had no intention of striking into the spinney alone at night. She turned back toward the barn, hurrying over the rough ground. When she was about six yards from the building, she heard Fitch’s voice. Uncle was there, then, she thought, and picked up the pace.

  “A goat! You let a bloody goat eat it!” a voice shouted, with no effort at concealment.

  Mary Anne stopped dead in her tracks. It wasn’t Uncle’s wavering tone or the coarse voice of Fitch that assailed her ears. It was the unmistakable accents of Mr. Robertson! His words made little impression on her. It was his presence on the scene that filled her with dread. How had he gotten here? Hadn’t he drunk the doctored wine? He should be sound asleep by now.

  “Damme, how did I know Belle would eat the stuff?” Fitch shouted back.

  She listened, drawing closer behind the concealment of the barn, and peeked through a space between loose boards. Fitch had lit a rush light to let him see what he was about. She should have warned him not to! Its dim illumination seemed as bright as a beacon. In the circle of light it provided she saw two bales of silk had been opened. One sat in the mud—a lovely gold silk. It bore traces of Belle’s teeth in its frayed and gnawed edges. The other bale was green. It was undamaged, as far as she could see. Belle had strayed off to a corner, foraging for new fodder.