Moon Love Read online

  Cocker had already brought in his load. Had the silk smuggler made his run as well? If not, he would come very soon. Now who would know that? She sat frowning a moment over her coffee, then a sly smile curved her lips. Of course! Miss More, the local seamstress, who also dealt with contraband silk for her genteel customers. She would order a new silk gown this very day, and be dissatisfied with all the materials in the shop. That would tell her when new stuff was expected.

  Before leaving, she went upstairs to spend a few moments with her father. These were the saddest times of her day, to see that fine old gentleman sunk to such a state. But his work would go on. That was her consolation, and her repayment of the large debt of gratitude she owed him.

  He was always at his best after breakfast, before the fatigue of living – and dying – settled in. He was at the window, looking out at the birds with his rheumy eye glued to his telescope, “Ah there is the life, Nanny,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it. “I wish I were a little bird who could fly like a kite. Where is my kite, Nanny? The red and blue one Papa gave me for my birthday.”

  She talked nonsense to him for a quarter of an hour, then left him to Tombey’s ministrations. As the day was fine, she decided to ride into Easton, taking George as her footman. That would give them privacy to discuss her plans.

  She was thwarted in that scheme. Felix had come down to breakfast by the time she returned belowstairs, and told her he would go with her into Easton. This meant taking the carriage, which meant she would have to arrange another plan for her meeting with George.

  As they drove into Easton she quizzed Felix to hear his version of his meeting with Ravencroft the night before.

  “I fancy I was able to steer him in the right direction,” he said grandly. “There are terrible plans afoot in London, Amy. Anarchy and bloodshed that will make France’s little peasant uprising seem a mere skirmish in comparison. I am happy you are here, safely away from it all. The violence will spread, I expect, but fear not, I shall remain here at Bratty Hall to look after my people.”

  She translated this to mean he wished to be safely away from the imagined bloodshed of the royal assassination. His presence was a further obstacle in her path, but she could always manage Felix. No doubt he would spend many evenings at the Rose and Thistle with Blanche.

  “I would like to go on to Miss More’s house to order a new gown,” she said. “Her place is a little past the shops.”

  “Excellent. I’ll go with you, to lend you the benefit of my advice. I am a bit of a dab at costume.”

  “Would you not like to go on the strut, Felix?” she suggested, to be rid of him.

  No, it seemed there was nothing he would rather do than help her choose a new gown. As she could make her queries under his nose without his suspecting her reason, she let him tag along. He sat in a corner studying patterns while Amy spoke to the modiste.

  As it turned out, she didn’t have to make any queries. Miss More, a twittery, bird-like little woman, fast and jerky in her movements, blurted out what Amy wished to hear without being asked. “I haven’t an ell of silk on the shelf. Nothing but twelve inches of black, which would be of no use to you, Miss Bratty. My only hope of selling it is if some widow requires new caps.”

  “Pity,” Amy said. “When do you think you will be getting another shipment?”

  Miss More peered around the shop, lifted her fingers to conceal her words from the walls, and whispered, “Day after tomorrow at the latest, with luck, tomorrow, if it doesn’t rain too hard tonight.”

  This was as good as telling Amy the Gentlemen would be receiving a shipment that night. Amy said she would return soon, and after listening to Felix’s advice as to which pattern she should choose – a gown such as Blanche might wear, cut low at the bodice and much burdened with lace and ribbons – they left.

  As the day was fine, they went on the strut on the High Street. Felix, an eligible bachelor and soon to be Lord Ashworth, was a popular figure, especially with the young ladies.

  Miss Spencer, the town’s acknowledged beauty, complete with blond curls, blue eyes and dimples, stopped for a chat. “I heard you are at the Hall, Mr. Bratty,” she said, batting her inch long lashes at him. “I am very angry that you have not called on me.”

  “I have had serious business affairs weighing on my mind,” he replied.

  “Ah, and how is your uncle?”

  “Uncle? Oh, he is hanging on like a barnacle. I was referring to affairs of state,” he said, assuming his hero’s expression.

  Miss Spencer was no more interested in affairs of state than in building a steam engine. “You must come to tea one day soon and tell me all about it.” She turned to Amy and added perfunctorily, “And you must come too, Miss Bratty, of course.”

  “That sounds delightful,” Felix said.

  “Will you be attending the assembly tomorrow evening?”

  “Assembly?” he asked, his eyes shining. Not even the prospect of a royal assassination could dim the pleasure of a dancing party. “You didn’t mention an assembly, Amy. Where is it to be held?”

  “The autumn assembly is always held at the Greenman Inn,” Miss Spencer informed him. She was about to invite him to dine with her family before the assembly when she spotted an even more interesting gentleman on the other side of the street.

  The grapevine had already informed her the gentleman was Mr. Stanford, that he meant to buy a house nearby and that he had dined with Felix the evening before, but she was too sly to reveal her rampant interest.

  She directed her next speech to Amy. “This seems to be a new gentleman in town,” she said nonchalantly. “I have heard his name is Stanton or some such thing.”

  Ravencroft spotted Amy and crossed the street to join the group. Amy had not much cared that Miss Spencer outdid her in beauty and elegance before Ravencroft’s arrival. She was suddenly aware that her hair was too wiry, her body too thin, that her eyes lacked lashes and her two year old bonnet had never been elegant.

  As Felix made the introductions, “Mr. Stanford” lifted his curled beaver, and Amy was relieved to see that his unbandaged wound was already healing. It was pretty well concealed by his hair. Ravencroft’s sharp eyes ran over Miss Spencer and concluded she was the town beauty. He paid her the traditional homage of a little flirtation. When he noticed the effect of this on Amy, he ladled the butter on more liberally, until Miss Spencer was convinced she had made a conquest.

  “I’m sure you will find us very boring here in the provinces, Mr. Stanford,” she said, lashes batting furiously, “but at least we can offer a little assembly tomorrow evening at the Greenman.”

  “I have seen the notices and am looking forward to it. May I have the pleasure of standing up with you, Miss Spencer?”

  “Oh indeed, sir, I would be honored.”

  Miss Spencer was torn between staying and chatting as long as she could hold Mr. Stanford’s interest, and rushing off to tell her mama and her girlfriends. When she espied two of her friends hastening forward to meet the new buck in town, she took her leave and went to meet them, to avoid having to share him.

  “Congratulations, milord,” Amy said. “You have made a conquest. Take care or Felix will be jealous of you.”

  “Charming gel, but her dot is only three thousand,” Felix said, his eyes trailing after her. “Who is that dark haired lass she is talking to, Amy?”

  Amy looked. “That is Mrs. Kell’s niece, who is visiting her from Taunton.”

  “I shall just step along and say hello.” He rushed off.

  “Now it is your turn to be jealous,” Ravencroft said. “Take care or Miss Kell will snatch Bratty away from you.”

  Amy didn’t deign to reply to this. They just stood, looking at each other in uncomfortable silence, each wondering whether to refer to the important doings they were involved in.

  At length he said, “Well, what have you been up to?”

  She studied him a moment. “Why do you ask? Have you come a cropper, m
ilord?”

  “Not at all. I have matters well in hand.”

  “Excellent. Then I shan’t have to worry that you are behindhand on any important doings.”

  He didn’t trust that smug expression. “If you know anything, it is your duty to tell me.”

  She gave an impish grin. “What could I possibly have discovered, sitting in my corner, stitching?”

  Her glinting smile disturbed him greatly, but as she was passing her morning on the strut with her cousin, he concluded she was teasing him. Or had she come to town for some other reason? “What brings you to Easton?” he asked, trying for a friendly tone.

  “I came to order a new gown.”

  He smiled, pleased with her answer. He even attempted a little joke. “I have been in the drapery shop and noticed they hadn’t any silk on their shelves, or I would suspect you of tampering with my affairs, trying to discover who supplies it.”

  “The affairs of the nation hardly belong to you, and no one else! But I shall just give you a little hint. We don’t buy our silk from McGillicuddy, milord. He is not the one who sells it in Easton. Now if you had the benefit of a lady’s expertise, you would have known that.”

  His gathering frown told her he was preparing a stiff rebuke. Before he could deliver it, she continued, “Ah, I see Felix is finished flirting. I must run along now. I look forward to seeing you at the assembly.” She hesitated a moment then, but when he didn’t ask her to save him a dance, she said, “Good day,” rather stiffly, and left.

  She had the pleasure of leaving him with a scowl on his face. It evaporated as he hurried after Miss Spencer. Amy was quite vexed with him, until she figured out that he was only trying to discover who was the purveyor of silk in Easton.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After lunch, Amy used the excuse of wanting to have some furniture rearranged in one of the guest rooms to secure privacy with George. She outlined her plans for the evening.

  He listened, then said eagerly, “I’ll take a scout along that stretch of beach this afternoon, Miss Bratty, and choose the best hiding spot for us.”

  “We need not be right together,” she pointed out. “Let us not put both eggs in one basket. I must overhear what is said. I want you nearby to come to my aid in case of trouble.”

  There was a possibility of real trouble with Joe Kirby’s gang. They might not recognize Lord Ashworth’s daughter if they apprehended her. Even if they did, it was no guarantee of safety. Kirby was a traitor, he would be determined to protect himself. Yes, there could be real trouble.

  “I’ll take his lordship’s pistols. Where do we meet, and at what hour?”

  “The luggers never arrive until after midnight,” she told him. “Have the mounts outside the library door at half past ten. We’ll ride halfway and go the last part on foot. We don’t want to worry about horses neighing to give us away. Bring the dark lantern and wear something warm, George. It will be chilly by the water.”

  When the vicar’s wife called in the afternoon to discuss the Christmas pageant put on by the children of the local dame school, Felix excused himself and rode off to pay some calls. It was the custom for the school children to be driven to Bratty Hall on a hay wagon after the pageant for a party and a little present. Mrs. Ladd went over the list of children with Amy, suggesting gifts and likely makers of the woolen mittens, hats and scarves that she considered suitable. Each year it came as a delightful ‘surprise’ to Mrs. Ladd that Amy had also included a toy for each child.

  Mrs. Ladd stayed for tea and gossip, during which Amy learned that Mr. Stanford was going to buy a house near the sea, for his yachting pleasure. Mrs. Ladd’s main preoccupation was to discover whether it would be old Judge Connor’s house – so cozy but small – or the Eadie’s place, which was large but required a deal of work.

  After she left, Amy spent the time until dinner with her papa, reading him nursery stories and thinking how odd it was that life went in a circle. One began as a child, and ended as one. She was now performing for him these little labors of love he used to perform for her. She wondered if she would ever have a child of her own, to read to her when she was old and childish.

  Felix did not return for dinner but sent a note saying he was dining in Easton. He did not say where, which suggested to Amy that he was with Blanche. He would have come home to change if he had been dining with the Spencers or any decent company.

  At a quarter past ten, she went to her room and dressed in her Gentleman’s outfit. She peered over the bannister to see the butler was not in the hall before slipping quietly downstairs and into the library to retrieve her boots and slouch hat from behind the pedestal in the corner which held a bust of Shakespeare.

  George was waiting with the mounts outside as arranged. The night was clear and cool, with a sharp wind moaning through the trees. They walked the horses quickly along, not speaking, keeping to the concealment of the park and hedgerows as long as possible, only stopping to tether the horses to a tree and heading to the beach on foot when they were a quarter of a mile from the smugglers’ bay.

  The black water spread before them, glimmering dully in the light of a crescent moon. The ocean heaved and swelled in the wind, but not so violently as to prevent shipping. The waves hissed against the shingle, trailing a creamy froth as they receded.

  George pointed to the old deformed pine tree, clinging to life in a rocky outcropping above the beach. “I thought you might hide there,” he whispered. “It don’t offer much protection, but in the dark, it will do. If you want to be close enough to hear what’s said, it’s your best bet. I’ll be hiding behind that rock above.” He pointed to an outcropping a few yards from the spotsman’s roost.

  “It will do,” she said. “We had best take our positions now. The lookout might be along soon.”

  George handed her a pistol. “I’ll be watching out for you, Miss, but just in case–” She stuffed the pistol in the outer pocket of her coat. Then with a pounding heart she took up her position behind the tree.

  The wind was cold and the wait was long. Long enough to imagine being captured by Kirby. Her presence there would tell him she suspected it was not only silk he was importing. He couldn’t let her live. How would he kill her? He could hardly shoot her in front of his men. No, he would have his right hand man hustle her off before the others recognized her in her rough clothes. The murder would take place in some private spot, with her body concealed as Bransom’s had been. Would she be stuffed under a pile of coal too? Or would they throw her into the ocean?

  The branches above groaned in the wind. She shivered and willed her thoughts into a more optimistic direction. How she would crow when she had discovered Alphonse’s accomplice! Lord Ravencroft would not be so supercilious then. She wondered where he was. Probably at Miss Spencer’s house, being courted with wine and flattery. She told herself the quicker beating of her heart at this thought was due to contempt.

  A branch above her head creaked ominously, as if it might be breaking loose. Many of the lower branches were dead, one did come down in a storm from time to time. She listened, but it was only the wind stirring the twisted boughs. The next sound came from the area above the beach. She peered into the darkness, and saw a hump had grown on the lookout rock. Kirby’s spotsman was there. It wouldn’t be too much longer, then. She couldn’t see her watch in the darkness. It seemed she had been there hours, days, an eternity, that if she tried to move her feet, they would have taken root.

  She looked out to the ocean, and saw the sails of a lugger billowing in the wind, making good time to shore. The noise of the wind and the ocean prevented her from hearing the cautious approach of the wagon and team of horses, followed by a gig drawn by one smart mare. She didn’t know they were there until she looked up away from the sea and saw their silhouette.

  She wondered that the Gentlemen didn’t use a string of donkeys, as the brandy smugglers did. The donkeys would each carry two kegs, slung over their strong backs by a leather harness, to predeter
mined locations. It seemed most of this cargo was going to one spot, with perhaps one or two cases in the gig to some other location. That, she assumed, would be the forged money.

  Amy watched as the men flocked forward like a bunch of vultures, black, menacing, silent shadows against the rocks and shingle. She knew Joe Kirby by reputation only. She had never seen him, but his manner soon told her who was in charge. He was surprisingly small, a wiry, strutting fellow. He strutted about, a Jackdaw amongst the vultures, laughing and joking and slapping his men on the back.

  They paid her no heed. Once again she heard the tree above her groan but the men, watching the lugger, didn’t notice. Two large rowing boats were being lowered over the side of the lugger. They sat low in the water, already laden with their cargo. Four men scrambled down after them, two in each boat to row it ashore.

  Kirby’s Gentlemen waded out into the water to help pull the rowboats on to the shingle. The unloading was done silently in the darkness in a well organized manner. The rectangular wooden crates the length of an ell, half as wide and deep, were carried by a man at either end and stacked on dry shingle, Amy strained her eyes, looking for any unusual marking, but could see nothing by the dim light of the crescent moon. She counted twenty-four cases, twelve in each boat.

  She had trouble recognizing which of the French smugglers was the chief. They all dressed alike in toques and dark clothing. They all shared equally in the work, which left none of them free to chat. When the boxes were all ashore and one man approached Kirby for payment, she assumed he was the leader. He emptied the coins from the leather bag Kirby handed him and counted them. Apparently satisfied, he put them back in the bag and thrust the bag into his pocket.

  “A la prochaine, Monsieur, “ he said to Kirby with a wave of his hand, then the four men got in the rowing boats and returned to the lugger.

  She hadn’t learned a single thing, and the cases all looked alike. Her last hope was that one of the cases would be separated from the others, probably to put in the gig. She and George would have to follow it. Surely if one went into the gig, it was the important one.