Silken Secrets Read online

  Fitch left, and Mary Anne continued her persuasions that they leave immediately. “I’ll just have a look in my library,” Lord Edwin said. “I’m quite certain a man may take goods from an abandoned ship. A derelict ship, I believe, is the legal term. Wine, Plummer. I shall need a deal of wine to sort this out. In vino veritas, eh, what?”

  “Bring him coffee,” Mary Anne said. In this minor matter, at least, she had her way.

  She went with her uncle to the library to thumb through the dusty tomes, looking for a way out of their problem, but in her heart she knew the only hope of escaping the gibbet was to flee.

  “Ah, here we are!” Lord Edwin exclaimed, fingering a page in one of his books and laughing gleefully.

  “What is it, Uncle?”

  “Hmm,” he said, happily tapping his cheek. “I shall be with you shortly, my dear. This is very interesting. Most interesting. A derelict, yes, certainly it was abandoned. ‘Provision extends to a British ship anywhere in the world and foreign ships in British waters.’ Yes, cer­tainly it was in British waters. If my bit of bay ain’t British waters, I should like to know what is. And there wasn’t a soul aboard. Abandoned is what it was. No question.”

  “What have you found?” she repeated.

  “Pour me a fresh cup of coffee, will you?” he said, and handed her his cup, without taking his nose from the book.

  After reading for several minutes, with many gurgles of self-congratulation, Lord Edwin looked up and smiled be­nignly. “What you are looking at, my dear, is a salvor. That’s a chap who saves goods off a ship. A derelict ship, which that French lugger certainly was, is fair game for all comers. The owner may reclaim his property by com­ing forward, but I shouldn’t think we need fear the Frenchies will step forward and announce what they were up to, eh? Not if they know what’s good for them. Mind you, there are a few fine points I shall have to take up with my lawyer. Something about a derelict being a ship ‘without hope of recovery or intention of returning to it’ by the owners. But in the worst case, I am owed salvage money. As the salvor, I need not return the cargo till my claim is satisfied. I have a legal lien on the stuff. I may institute legal proceedings in rem against the property.”

  “What does that mean—’in rem’?”

  “How the deuce should I know? This salvage money—very interesting. Not an exact formula, it depends on many factors. The labor expended, for instance. We busted our backs, Fitch and I, getting the stuff ashore. And just look at all the labor expended since then in keeping it safe. Skill and promptitude displayed—ho, it was a pretty skillful piece of work, I can tell you, and prompt, too. I was out of bed and into my inexpressibles in jig time. As to the degree of danger—why, we’ve had half the county chasing us, to say nothing of drinking poisoned wine.”

  “It might be best to omit your effort to put Lord Dicaire to sleep, Uncle. Would all this apply to smuggled goods, and in war time?”

  “Even more so,” he said confidently. “I’ll have my lawyer look into it.”

  “There’s still the matter of having kidnapped Lord Dicaire and the secret message. That puts a different com­plexion on it.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Robertson. He is Lord Dicaire. Didn’t Plummer tell you?”

  “Yes, she mentioned some such thing. I never heard of Lord Dicaire.”

  “You might know his papa. Lord Pelham.”

  “You never mean it! Not Peachie’s lad? He don’t look a thing like his da. Why, I have know his papa forever. We were at school together. I think we are some kind of cousin—that wretched remove kind that only maiden aunts can figure out. Why, Peachie would never let his lad prosecute me. Ho, my dear, what we have been involved in here is a comedy of errors. Much ado about nothing. But all’s well that ends well, eh, what? I haven’t time to chat about Shakespeare now, my dear. I must run into town and speak to my lawyer. Who is my lawyer, Mary Anne? I seem to have forgotten his name.”

  “You don’t have one, Uncle, but Mr. Hawken is con­sidered the best lawyer in these parts.”

  “Oh, quite, a sterling chap! I shall visit Mr. Hawken.”

  “I think it would be better if we left,” she insisted.

  “By all means, you and Plummer run along to my brother’s place, but not till I am back from town. I won’t have you landing in on Bertie in a gig. He likes to throw in my face that I live on a bone here at the Hall. Whose fault is that, I should like to know! And put on that new shawl I gave you—ah! Heh, heh, Plummer tells me you have learned my little trick. I shall get it back for you, never fear. I shall insist on it as part of my compensation. There is no fixed formula. I shall demand your shawl back. I would have bought you one, but the old pockets were to let.”

  She smiled at his foolishness. Dear Uncle. She wouldn’t go to Lord Exholme’s mansion, not if it meant facing Lord Dicaire and a whole jury. Her uncle needed her here. She had somewhat less confidence than her uncle that he was a salvor. What he was was a thief, but such a lovable thief that she forgave him.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  While Mary Anne worried and fretted and continued lay­ing plans to escape if necessary, Lord Edwin tootled mer­rily into Dymchurch to call on Mr. Hawken, who greeted him with a very civil curiosity.

  “What can I do for you today, Lord Edwin?” he asked.

  Lord Edwin regarded Mr. Hawken and decided the man was to be trusted. He had a good honest figure, slightly paunchy. There was none of that “yon Cassius” leanness about him that could suggest a hunger for undue profit. He had frank blue eyes, and best of all, he didn’t work for Vulch.

  “I am here on a matter of the gravest importance, sir,” Lord Edwin said, his little chest swollen with significance. “National importance, in fact.”

  “Ah, I didn’t realize you still worked for the Admir­alty.”

  “Only informally now. Perhaps you would just close that door, Mr. Hawken. I see your clerk lurking about with his ears stretched.” Mr. Hawken closed the door. “And perhaps the window—anyone might be listening in from the street.” Whether someone could hear anything from a second-story window was a moot point in Mr. Hawken’s estimation, but he closed the window.

  When they were hermetically sealed in the office, Lord Edwin opened his budget, and Mr. Hawken heard a tale that left him wondering whether to laugh or to worry. Be­ing a man of sound common sense, he had soon discov­ered the truth beneath the layers of rodomontade. Old Lord Eddie had snitched Vulch’s cargo, and by God, he just might get away with it, if young Dicaire didn’t kick up a dust.

  “It’s a highly unusual case,” Mr. Hawken said. “I’ve handled several salvage cases, of course, here on the coast, but this one has unique features. The ship was abandoned, but whether it would qualify as a derelict so close to shore raises severe doubts. On the other hand, Vulch got the ship freed by claiming it was a fishing vessel, so they can hardly come forward now and claim it was anything else. Fishing vessels don’t carry a hold full of silk.”

  “Prima facie evidence.” Lord Edwin nodded sagely.

  “As to the matter of national importance you mention— something to do with delivering secret messages out of France, I assume—the government will hardly want to ad­vertise that, either.”

  “Don’t breathe a word of that, Mr. Hawken, I pray. Ah, and did I mention that the Admiralty man on the case is kin to me? Yes, the son of my cousin and good friend. His papa won’t let him make any trouble. I fancy there may be a little something brewing between the fellow and my niece as well. He rescued her from the Frenchies, quite the young gallant. I see him rolling his eyes at her, you know, when he thinks no one is looking. A whiff of April and May in the air.”

  “I’ll get straight into my book of precedents and see what I can come up with, but between you and me and the bedpost, Lord Edwin, I doubt this will ever come to court. And it is best for you that it not do so. I suggest you hide the silk from Vulch till you can dispose of it, but that is not professional legal advice,
mind. Just between neighbors. I fancy no more will be said on the matter.”

  Lord Edwin smiled happily, shook Mr. Hawken’s hand, and said he would be looking forward to receiving his bill. By the living jingo, he might even pay it, if all went well. An excellent chap, Mr. Hawken.

  After enjoining his solicitor to the greatest secrecy, Lord Edwin dashed into the street and told everyone he met that he couldn’t stop to talk as he was involved in a most im­portant matter. This naturally elicited the question, “What is this matter, Lord Edwin?” and with no further urging, he told the whole, only refraining from mentioning that there was a secret message in the cargo.

  “I pulled a sly one on the Frenchies,” he whispered behind raised fingers. “Got away with their last cargo—that’s a thousand guineas that won’t go into Boney’s cof­fers.”

  “Nor Vulch’s, either,” one of his friends said, smiling. Mr. Vulch was successful enough to be resented. “What you ought to do is speak to Miss Delancey at the drapery shop about selling the stuff. Is it good quality?”

  “The very finest.”

  Miss Delancey would be aux anges to get it, no doubt, and it would save Fitch a trip to Folkestone. Lord Edwin paid a reconnaissance trip to Miss Delancey, whose shelves of silk were wonderfully thin, and left her in hope of see­ing them full by morning.

  “Vulch always brings the stuff at midnight—the back door,” Miss Delancey told him. “This evening is a good time for it. The spring assembly will take care of Codey. He never misses it. I shall leave the assembly at eleven-thirty and be at the back door of the shop to check the merchandise.” The Dymchurch assemblies were no top­lofty affairs. Merchants and revenue men were allowed to become genteel for the evening, or the hall would have been three-quarters empty.

  “And I shall check your coin, madame,” Lord Edwin replied smartly. Demmed merchants, all alike. A very toplofty way they had about them.

  Of Lord Dicaire there was not a trace in the village. Lord Edwin met Vulch, who had gotten wind of the story and had gone looking for him.

  “Now, see here, Lord Eddie. I know perfectly well you’ve stolen my goods, and I mean to have them back.”

  “Stolen?” Lord Edwin asked, assuming his stiffest face, which resembled a wounded hound. “Are you referring to the salvage operation I executed on the derelict vessel in front of my place on the first of May? If you wish to step forward and claim ownership of that contraband, sir, I shall be quite satisfied with the salvage award. You may speak to my solicitor, Mr. Hawken. He is representing my interests in this legal matter.” Joyful words! His lowly theft had risen to a perfectly respectable legal matter.

  “Lord Dicaire will have something to say about that! There was more than silk involved, as I fancy you know pretty well!

  “Mr. Vulch!” he exclaimed, nearly bursting with in­dignation and looking over his shoulder for eavesdroppers. “Is this your idea of national security, to be shouting on the street corners what else was in that cargo? The Ad­miralty will have to find another liaison man, if this is your notion of security.”

  Vulch paced swiftly to his solicitor, who advised him to drop the matter entirely. “You’ll look no-how, Adrian. The thing is done. Best lay off, or Lord Eddie might manage to pull the whole business out from under you. He has friends in high places and a shore as conveniently placed as your own.”

  “By God, that’s what he’s up to, the sly weasel!”

  This possibility had already occurred to the sly weasel, only to be abandoned. It was a deuced nuisance. If it weren’t for the thousand guineas to be collected from Miss Delancey that evening, he would regret ever having be­come involved in it. With trips to Folkestone and having to get out of bed at midnight in a storm and deal with merchants and smugglers, a man would have to be very fond of gold to put himself to so much trouble.

  When he had exhausted all the entertainment value in the affair, Lord Edwin had lunch at the inn and finally, around three o’clock in the afternoon, returned to the Hall. His niece met him, her face pinched with worry and her spirits worn to a thread.

  “What has kept you so long, Uncle? I was afraid you’d been arrested. What had Mr. Hawken to say?”

  “Smooth sailing, my dear. Much ado about nothing. We can talk about Shakespeare now, if you like.”

  “I would rather talk about escape. If we—”

  “Escape? Why, what put such a silly bee in your bon­net? I thought I would find your hair in rags and your face covered in lotion for the assembly this evening. I must attend the assembly; I have business to execute.”

  “We daren’t go!”

  “Rubbish. I must be there. But I shall have to leave a little early, about eleven forty-five should do it. I’ll return and pick you up later.’’

  “Uncle—has this ‘business’ something to do with the silk?”

  “Nonsense. That is all taken care of, my pet. What a worrywart you are, filling my head with fears for nothing. Mr. Hawken says there is nothing to worry about.”

  “But Lord Dicaire took the shawl as evidence.”

  “Ha, we’ve heard the last of that sort of thing. They’ll sweep it all under the carpet, according to Hawken. No alternative, really. Whitehall don’t want their stories bandied about the countryside. And if they go producing ev­idence, we have prima facie evidence on our side. The best sort. Now go and twist your hair up in rags, or you’ll look a quiz at the party.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. A pity your beau won’t be there.”

  “Is Joseph not attending?” she asked hopefully.

  “Joseph? I hope you don’t think I mean that scarecrow! I am speaking of Peachie’s son, Lord Dicaire. I know what is afoot. I ain’t blind, you know. Romeo and Juliet! Ha, yes, indeed. All’s well that ends well. As you like it, what?”

  “Lord Dicaire is not my beau!” she exclaimed. “Did you see him in town?”

  “He’s gone to London. My old friends at the Admiralty will set him straight if his papa don’t.”

  With Lord Dicaire safely in London, and with her uncle assuring her the matter was solved, Mary Anne’s thoughts turned to the assembly. It was the social event of the year. She hated to miss it. Why not go?

  “What had Vulch to say to all this? Did you see him?”

  “Poor Vulch!” Lord Edwin laughed. “He went tearing off like a jackrabbit. I put the fear of God into him, with his loose tongue. Now, don’t look aghast, my dear. Just go and twist your hair up in rags. You want to be in top form for the little jig this evening.”

  Mary Anne went to her room and applied the strips of rag to her hair. She had some natural curl, but for balls she usually put in the rags to give it additional bounce. Her mind was all in a whirl. That morning she had thought her world was coming to an end. All of a sudden the matter was miraculously solved. The lost message was a se­cret, so legal steps would not be taken to punish them for losing it. Vulch was in retreat; Lord Dicaire had gone off to London. He had said he would be back, but he would have to ride nonstop to be back before the ball was over, so she should be safe for tonight.

  She put some hope in her uncle’s relationship with Lord Dicaire’s father. And in a pinch, there was always Lord Edwin’s brother. Exholme was a gentleman of some im­portance in London. Very likely they would escape the gibbet, but her happiness was far from complete. She wouldn’t be waltzing with Mr. Robertson. There was no Mr. Robertson, only Lord Dicaire, who was a different thing entirely.

  Uncle might harbor some fond ideas about creating a match between them, but she knew well enough that em­inent peers did not marry penniless orphans. They married heiresses with names like Lady Arabella of Cholomondey Hall or The Honorable Miss Montagu of Hinton Castle. They certainly didn’t marry ladies who kid­napped them and locked them in barns and dank cellars. These were her thoughts while her uncle went in search of Fitch.

  He found him at the barn, resting in a stack of hay, while Belle stolidly nibbled at the barn door. “Wel
l, lazybones,” Lord Edwin said merrily, “this is how you slave when I’m not here to keep an eye on you, eh? Reclining like an odalisque on her divan. Excellent news, Fitch.”

  Fitch sat up. “What’s that, then?”

  “I’ve found a buyer, right in Dymchurch,” he said, and outlined his clever day’s work.

  “How am I to get the stuff to Delancey’s back door?” Fitch inquired. “You’ll be using the carriage for the spring assembly. Jeremy won’t lend me his boat again.”

  “There’s the gig...”

  “Carry the stuff along the public roads in an open gig—right into town? And it would take a few trips.”

  “Hmm, I see your problem, Fitch. What you’ll have to do is drive us to the assembly hall and come back. Delancey don’t want the stuff till midnight. You’ll have plenty of time to get the silk into town in the carriage.”

  “It’ll take three or four trips, and what am I to do with the first loads while I go for the others? I can’t leave them in Delancey’s back alley for someone to make off with. You’ll have to leave the assembly and stand guard at the shop.”

  Lord Edwin had looked forward to the assembly with particular relish. He recognized himself for a hero if no one else did and expected a busy round of congratulations. Then, too, there was Vulch, to be smirked at throughout the night.

  “Impossible. It would look suspicious if I were to leave the assembly.”

  “Then it can’t be done,” Fitch told him.

  “Can’t? How easily you fellows give up. You’d never pass muster at the Admiralty, my lad. There must be some solution. Ah, I have it. The hay wain. No one suspected it the first time we used it. We’ll hide the cargo under a few bits of straw and you can take it all to town in one load.”