“And thank you, lord, and Rodney too, if you made it to Heaven, for letting me have a day’s rest from Jane’s nattering about the money. She feels that since it was found on Westlake property, it belongs to all of us equally, but I cannot agree. Lord, if you meant it as a gift from heaven, I really wish you had sent it on a bolt of lightning or something, so we would be sure, not left it in a tree. Please guide me to do the right thing with it.”
The money was safely locked in her father’s old desk, but it still worried Ada. She simply could not be comfortable claiming someone else’s fortune, or smuggling profits. She was also bothered by the niggling urge to take some of the money and buy pretty gowns for her and Tess to wear at the upcoming social gatherings. She’d get rid of the money tomorrow, before she succumbed to such a base temptation.
“Please keep me from giving in, at least until I reach the Customs office. Oh, and do watch over Emery, Lord, and keep him safe, with all of his friends and fellows in the Army. If it is not too much, can I ask you to look after Chas too? He really should not be getting into tavern brawls, you know.”
Ada climbed into bed and snuggled under the covers. Then she remembered what old Cobble had said when he handed her a candle to light her way to bed, how Chas’s dog had followed him to Westlake Hall as usual, but the dog hadn’t stayed in the stables. Instead, the hound had gone gamboling, to put it politely, with one of the shepherds’ herd dogs, and not for the first lime, either. Ada did not like dogs, not after inadvertently catching the tail end of a fox hunt, but she knew how much the animal meant to Chas. She sighed, got out of bed, and knelt on the stool again. “Lord, could you please not let Chas find out his dog Tally is a trollop?”
* * * *
The riding officer was a smooth-cheeked, pale-eyed young man, whose nervous stammer made Leo Tobin into a Marc Antony. He was assigned to Lillington because his mother’s bosom bow’s niece by marriage was a second cousin to Lady Ashmead. They wanted a nice, safe place for Lieutenant Quintin Nye to serve his country, at least until an uncle died and named him heir. Lady Ashmead had effortlessly seen the deed done: she’d handed the letter to her son Charles.
The lieutenant was given a horse, a cottage, an office, the occasional invitation to dine when Lady Ashmead’s numbers were not even, and an overall directive: under no circumstances was he to be looking for smugglers. Occasionally a town drunk or a capsized French fisherman would be tossed his way so he could appear competent to his superiors. Otherwise, assured by Lord Ashmead that he was aiding the war effort, Quintin was to be zealous in pursuit of looking busy.
Last evening, however, the viscount had tracked Quintin down at an inn near Dover, where he was checking the excise stamps on the brandy bottles for forgeries. Ashmead had purchased one, to test its authenticity, he said, and beckoned the lieutenant to follow him to a private parlor. There, his orders had been more specific. Quintin was to be on the lookout for a missing French informant named Prelieu, he was to stay away from the coastline next Wednesday night, and he was to refuse to accept money from Miss Ada Westlake.
“N-no, m-ma’am. Th-that can’t be smuggling m-money b-because we d-don’t have any smugglers.” The lieutenant’s face was red and his fingers trembled as he shoved the pouch back across his desk toward Ada.
“We don’t?” She could not help glancing out the window where Tess and Leo were sitting on a bench waiting for her, discussing the setting for the next chapter’s illustrations. At least Tess was conversing; Leo was listening. Lieutenant Nye followed her gaze and waved to Leo. The riding officer waved to Leo?
“Oh, uh, M-Mr. Tobin? Sh-shipper, d-don’t you know. In trade.”
At her look of disbelief, Quintin tugged at his too-tight shirt collar. “G-great p-patriot, Mr. Tobin.”
The young man’s brainbox had to be as empty as Ada’s bank account. Still, she was not about to tell the lieutenant what the entire neighborhood knew, not when Leo had just fetched Tess a sack of peppermints from the apothecary, her favorites.
Lieutenant Nye had been given permission to tell Ada the truth, since Chas knew she’d never let the matter rest, and poor Quintin was not up to her weight. “N-no one’s supposed to know, b-but seeing as how M-Miss Westlake is h-holding his hand, I can tell you that M-Mr. Tobin is a regular hero, using his ships to gather information to d-defeat Napoleon.”
That was why, the young officer went on to explain, losing his stammer in his enthusiasm, he could not take her found money to headquarters as illegal profits from the smuggling trade. If there was a profit, then there were smugglers, and if there were smugglers, he’d ought to be capturing them. If he didn’t arrest anyone, he said with another glance out the window to where Leo now had his arm around Tess, looking over her shoulder at a drawing in her lap, he’d lose his post. But if he did arrest anyone—Leo was nibbling on Tess’s ear!—then Lord Ashmead would have his hide, to say nothing of his horse and his cottage.
“Th-therefore, m-ma’am, there are no smugglers. You m-might as well keep the m-money.”
Chas had left one final directive with his young subaltern: Do not, under pain of dismissal, dismemberment, and/or decapitation, propose marriage to Miss Ada. But there she was, the pretty little lady, looking adorably confused, holding a heavy sack of the ready and rhino.
So he asked if she’d save him a dance at Lady Ashmead’s ball. The viscount couldn’t call him out over one country dance, could he?
Chapter Twelve
“Did you know, Tess, about Mr. Tobin?”
They were waiting for Leo to return from the livery where he’d left his carriage. Ada was happy she had her fur muff to ward off the day’s chill. Of course she had the confounded coins in there too, but that was not her immediate concern. “Did you know all along he was not a criminal?”
“A criminal? My Sebastian? How could he be? One look into those wide eyes shows you what a gentle man he is. The eyes are the window to the soul, you know, and Sebastian’s soul is noble, unblemished by base greed and ambition.” Her voice rang out with passion; a delivery boy stopped to stare. “He is brave and true, with boundless courage to fight the forces of evil. He is wise and considerate of those in his care, a perfect crusader, the flower of chivalry, true to his cause.”
“I thought Sebastian was a pirate.”
“A pirate with exemplary character, the essence of nobility, the very embodiment of manly virtue.”
“Yes, dear, I am sure Sebastian is all of those things, but I was speaking of Mr. Tobin.”
“So was I.”
“Then you knew he was helping Lord Ashmead gather intelligence for the War Office?”
“Of course. He told me. Not that I did not recognize his intrinsic goodness and strength of purpose on my own, mind. Don’t tell me you suspected Leo of nefarious doings? Ada, Ada, how can you be so blind?”
“Blind? I’d have to be deaf and dumb, besides, to miss all the rumors, all his trappings of wealth.”
“Ah, but you see only with your eyes, hear only with your ears. Where is your instinct, your intuitive recognition of true worth? Am I the only one In the family to transcend the experiential boundaries, to grasp a person’s aura?”
Tess might be the only person in the world, for all Ada knew. Leo pulled up with the carriage and Ada saw an expensively dressed ... smuggler.
Her sister tsk-ed as she stepped into the coach. “Ada, you have to start letting your heart guide you, not your head. That’s the only way to find true happiness.”
So after luncheon, when Tess and Leo went off to visit his ship, Ada let her heart guide her—straight to the Meadows.
* * * *
There was nothing odd about Ada’s calling on the viscountess, since she often stopped in to pay her respects, admire the current needlework project, help sort yarns, and listen to her ladyship rant about undutiful children. She had wondered if Chas’s mother might be furious at her over her latest and last refusal to wed the woman’s son, but Lady Ashmead was too excited about planning her gathering—and her son’s betrothal to some female more deserving of the Ashmead name—to resent Ada.
Lady Ashmead, in fact, was delighted to see her young neighbor, immediately putting Ada to work addressing invitations to the masquerade ball. Tess would be in alt at the chance to wear a costume, Ada knew, especially since Mr. Leo Tobin’s name was one of those on the list to be inscribed.
While Ada worked, Lady Ashmead continued on with her sewing. She was embroidering the Ashmead coat of arms on a gold tunic, for she intended her son to be dressed as a knight for the masquerade. A fine disguise, Ada agreed. No one would know who he was.
“Mind your sauce, girl. Ashmead will be dignified, as befits his position. You, I suppose, will dress as a Gypsy.” Her wrinkled nose seemed to suggest that Ada’s everyday appearance was not much better.
Since a Gypsy was exactly what Ada had been thinking of when she heard about the masked ball, she bit her lip, which was usually the best strategy for dealing with Chas’s mother.
Satisfied she had both quelled any insolence and delivered a snub, Lady Ashmead cheerfully went on to describe the house party, and how much work it entailed. Ada had seen all of the servants scurrying back and forth with rags and mops, buckets and brooms. She had no doubt they were indeed working hard.
Most of the guests would only be coming to the Meadows for the weekend of the ball, still a fortnight away, but a few would arrive within days.
“And you cannot believe the effort it is all taking,” Lady Ashmead said from her comfortable chair near the window while Ada sharpened yet another quill and stretched her cramped fingers. “But I am not complaining, mind. It is a mother’s duty, after all, to do what she must to see to her children’s welfare, yes, even at the cost of her own health. A son’s happiness comes first.”
Ada didn’t think Chas was happy about having his house full of idle party-goers, but she knew better than to contradict his mother, who was already going on: “Not that you would understand, missy, not being a mother. At the rate you are going, you might never be one. Your poor mother must be grieving in her grave. One son dead with no heirs, one son endangering the whole line by playing soldier, one daughter with more hair than wit, and the other one turning down—But no more on that score. I know when to hold my tongue.”
Lady Ashmead held her tongue for as long as it took to lick a new strand of floss before threading it through the needle. Then she went on about the travails she suffered, the loneliness of having her ungrateful daughters move away, her disloyal son and lazy servants. The price of corn and the Prince’s profligacy were in there someplace too, but Ada had stopped listening.
At last, done writing out the addresses, Ada made her escape. On her way out, she casually asked the butler, whom she’d known nearly as long as her own servants, if the master was in his office. The butler just as casually winked and nodded.
Chas was in his office, all right, sniffling and coughing from last night’s wet ride to find Quintin Nye, who took his job of not finding smugglers seriously indeed. As usual these days, Chas was thinking of Ada instead of adding his columns of figures. He was wondering what excuse he could give for calling on his neighbors three days in a row, without ruining Ada’s reputation. A pox on pawky proprieties!
He even had the unworthy thought, undoubtedly due to his stuffy head scattering his wits, that if Ada’s virtue was compromised by his actions, she had no other choice but to marry him. It could work ...
No, ruining Ada was as reprehensible as Leo’s suggestion of running off with her to Gretna. Besides, she would never forgive him for forcing her hand. Then, too, he had no guarantee that his persnickety, perplexing peahen would not choose to stay ruined, rather than wed against her will.
He sighed and blew his nose. This courtship business was as bad as the ague.
Tally barked in agreement. No, the dog barked because Ada was coming into the room unannounced, as if his lordship’s wistfulness had conjured her out of the air. Chas stood behind his desk as she approached. She sidestepped the dog, as usual, with a brief, insincere “Good doggie,” and came close enough to pound her fist on the cherrywood surface. He sat down. No figment of a fevered brain, this, just Ada in her attitudes. He sighed again.
“Why didn’t you tell me Leo was not a smuggler?”
“Good day to you too, my dear. May I say you look a treat with roses in your cheeks?” She did, too, and he loved the way her eyes flashed with spirit and her curls tumbled around her ears.
“Hello, Chas. You look terrible, even worse than yesterday, if possible. What happened?”
“Just the sniffles. You were saying?”
“Oh, yes. I was wondering why you never told me that Leo, who you never told me was your half-brother, either, was not a smuggler. I feel the veriest fool.”
“But he is.” Chas poured them each a glass of wine from the decanter on the corner of the desk. “I swear to you that the bottle this came from bore no customs stamps.”
“He is more than a smuggler, though, isn’t he?” She sat opposite the desk and sipped at the wine.
“A great deal more. Basically, now that his face is too well known in France for him to be safe there, he runs a network of spies and intelligence-gatherers. His sources have been amazingly accurate, and incredibly helpful to the war effort. He also makes sure that the information that flows in the other direction is vague or incorrect.”
“And you?”
“I help finance the venture. The War Office would not let me take part, for if I were captured there’d be hell to pay, to say nothing of an exorbitant ransom. They let me coordinate the operation at this end, playing courier and such, but mostly I get to pay the informants.”
“Then Leo really is some kind of hero, and not just in Tess’s imagination?”
“As soon as the war is over, his name will be cleared. Till then, though, make no mistake, he is a smuggler, and makes a tidy profit by the trade, too. So do the local men, some of whose families would be going hungry now, due to the blockade. I know the thought of putting money in French coffers rankles—I have friends in the Army, too—but there seemed no other way of ending the war more quickly.”