Smuggler's Glory (8 page)

“
Do you go into the village often?” Simon frowned, wondering
how far to keep probing. The door to the sitting room had been left
open, and he could see Madeline adding the last finishing touches
to dinner.

“
Only when we need supplies, and when Bertie isn’t able to go.”
The teasing scent of pie and boiled potatoes wafted through the
air, making her stomach rumble loudly. Shooting an embarrassed look
at the man opposite, she relaxed when he didn’t appear to have
heard.

Simon
fought the urge to wink at her in sympathy. The smells coming from
the kitchen were heavenly and he could only hope Madeline wasn’t
working to a tight budget. His breakfast had been meagre and taken
hours ago, and he was as ravenous as Francesca was if the rumblings
in her stomach were anything to go by.

“
I think it would be safe and wise for neither you nor Madeline
to go into the village again unaccompanied. I am not saying those
two would try again, but you never know. My experience is that they
won’t take kindly to having their intentions thwarted and it will
make them even more spiteful and dangerous.” Simon stared at her
hair thoughtfully for several moments. “Is that why you colour your
hair?”

Francesca flinched and tried to ignore the tell-tale blush
that stole over her cheeks. “It is for protection. There are odd
things happening on in the village, people disappearing and the
like. Strange men keep appearing, and not just the likes of Tom and
Charlie. I thought they would ignore me if I looked considerably
older.”

Simon bit back the disparaging snort that hovered on his
lips.
Nothing
would be able to detract from her youthful beauty and he
mentally shook his head at her innocence. “I don’t think it
worked,” he replied ruefully. “Best not to bother with it again.”
His thoughts latched on to her comment about the strange men
appearing and he felt a surge of anticipation.

Francesca sighed, wondering if she would ever have the
freedom to move about as she pleased. “Do you think –”

Whatever
else she was about to say was cut off by the loud scream that broke
the companionable silence in the sitting room. Francesca jumped and
had barely had the time to grab hold of the arms of the chair she
sat in, when Simon swept across the room in a flurry of black that
was so swift, so imminently dangerous, that she could do little but
gasp and find herself alone in the room.

Jumping
to her feet she ran after him, careering into his back as she left
the room.

“
I’m sorry, oh dear lord,” Madeline gasped, clearly
shaken.

There,
hanging off a hook at the back door lay the body of a dead rook.
Its glassy eyes shone red with the blood that trickled down from
the open wound on its feathered chest, and dripped steadily off its
beak. The small pool gathering on the kitchen floor made
Francesca’s stomach lurch and she stared in horror at the harbinger
of death. She was so shaken by the sight that she didn’t notice the
comforting arm Simon slid around her waist.

“
When was the last time you went out?” Simon’s voice was calm
and matter-of-fact, but the hint of steel beneath the cold tones
was clear to both women.

“
I haven’t opened the door since you arrived,” Madeline gasped
around the hand covering her mouth.

“
You haven’t seen anyone outside?”

Madeline
shook her head jerkily. “No, but then I haven’t been looking. I
have been preparing dinner, as you know.”

Simon
knew she had, because she had been in full view of him at the time.
Although it had been a companion’s thoughtful actions designed to
protect the virtue of her charge, it had also confirmed her
innocence of the macabre joke.

The soft
scuffle of footfall in the corridor behind Francesca drew their
attention.

An
elderly man, still dressed in a nightshirt that obviously been
pulled roughly over a hastily donned pair of breeches shuffled into
the room. Unless Simon was mistaken, the man was a lot older than
the seventy he claimed to be and he wondered if Bertie had
fabricated his age in an attempt to persuade Francesca to allow him
to stay on. He could understand Francesca’s reluctance to cast him
out, and felt a sympathetic understanding with her
decision.

“
I take it that you are Bertie?” Simon raised one brow and met
the older man’s watery eyes.

“
Aye, that I am, sir,” Bertie replied, staring past them at the
bird on the door. “Good Lord above.”

“
This is some appalling joke, undoubtedly by those two ruffians
we met on the road earlier this afternoon. I’ll deal with it,”
Simon stated, nodding toward the upside down bird and the pool of
blood on the floor. He was well aware of the silent look that
passed between the other three occupants of the room. At the door
he paused and turned back to them. “Then you are going to tell me
just what the hell is going on here,” raising a hand when Francesca
took a breath, he allowed his impatience to show in the crispness
of his voice. “Don’t try and fob me off this time. It is clear that
there
is
something
going on that you aren’t telling me and, if I am not to get my
throat cut if I wander out at night, then I need to know the
details. Meantime, go and sit in the sitting room while I clear
this up.” He watched as the ladies disappeared without a murmur at
the same time that Bertie moved toward the door and released the
dead bird.

“
I’ll get rid of this,” the old man muttered, stepping over the
blood carefully.

“
I’ll do it, just go inside and stay warm,” Simon growled. Even
from a few feet away, Simon could hear the wheezing in the old
man’s chest. Holding the carcass away from his neatly polished
boots, Simon stalked across the stable yard, his finely tuned
senses searching the surrounding area for signs of the culprits. He
knew that whoever had been sick enough to play such a prank, or
issue such a warning, would undoubtedly feel the need to stay
around long enough to see for himself that his message had been
received. Simon couldn’t help but wonder what he would make of
Simon’s involvement in not only dealing with the carcass, but the
speed and efficiency in which the situation would be returned to
normal.

One
thing was for certain, he knew now that Francesca, Madeline and
Bertie were the innocent party in whatever was going on. Not only
had Francesca been attacked, the sick joke with the bird confirmed
that someone was trying to make their lives as uncomfortable as
possible, but were they also responsible for the murder of
Francesca’s uncle? Even more importantly, did this have anything to
do with the real reason why he had been sent to Much Hampton? He
couldn’t see how the entire village was involved in spy smuggling,
much less Francesca herself being involved.

Inside
the stable block he paused for several moments, and retreated to
the shadows at the rear of the building. Glancing through the crack
in the wooden frame, he studied the wooded copse at the rear of the
stable block. Although it was dark, he was fairly certain it had
been used to cover the intruders from prying eyes. He couldn’t see
anyone out there, but he could feel their presence as boldly as if
they were standing beside him. Moving toward the doorway, he stood
in the shadows and studied the rear of the house and the various
outbuildings. The soft snicker of the horses behind him was
ignored, as watchful eyes absorbed every nuance, every nook and
cranny and hiding place possible to man. Anyone could have
approached the back door of the house, and crossed the stable yard
being only visible to the kitchen windows for the briefest time.
Alternatively, they could approach from the burnt-out side of the
property where nobody was around to watch, and they could disappear
into the unkempt undergrowth that had once been a formal rose
garden.

Making a
mental note to study the gardens as soon as possible in the
morning, Simon returned to the house, the loud rumblings of his
stomach quickening his pace. He was unsurprised when he got there
to find Bertie on his hands and knees, washing the last of the
blood off the floor.

“
I said I would deal with that, Bertie,” Simon scolded, shaking
his head at the old man’s stubbornness. “You should be in
bed.”

“
I’m better now, but the darned woman won’t let me go about my
business.”

Simon
snorted, fully understanding the man’s disgust. Although he had
never had any prior experience of being mollycoddled, he would
assume that it would be sheer annoyance to be mollycoddled by any
woman. Still, there was something disconcerting about seeing the
old man on his knees while still in his nightshirt.

“
Is everything alright out there?” Francesca entered the
kitchen, gasping at the sight of Bertie rising to his feet.
“
What
do you think
you are doing?” she gasped, rushing toward Bertie who held up a
hand to ward her off.

“
I’m fine m’dear, not to worry now,” he mumbled, clearly
abashed at being the centre of such determined female attention.
“I’m not sure about anybody else, but that pie smells
delicious.”

“
Then let’s eat,” Madeline announced with false joviality that
failed to match the wariness in her eyes.

Later
that night, Simon lay awake in the large but shabby four poster
bed, and stared blankly up at the canopy. Although Francesca had
promised a tour in the morning, he didn’t need to see much more of
the house to understand that it wasn’t only the burnt out wing of
the property that was in disarray. The remainder of the huge stone
building hadn’t been maintained for some considerable years and was
showing advanced signs of wear to the point of being
uninhabitable.

The bed
he now lay in had creaked and groaned alarmingly when asked to bear
his weight, and he was aware of the threadbare draperies that clung
desperately to the window frames in a valiant attempt to be useful.
He wondered just how much of a ‘fortune’ Francesca’s uncle had left
her, and if it was anywhere near enough to get the house habitable
again. Somehow, he doubted it was proving to be enough for them
even to live on, let alone stretch toward refurbishment on the
scale that was required.

Immediately his thoughts turned to Ulverton Priory, the huge
mansion he had called his childhood home. Although it had never
been considered a home
per
se
, it had been the house he had stayed in
the longest, mainly because he had been a child at the time and had
been unable to go his own way in life. Now though, the Priory was
more of a burr in his side; something he had knowledge of and
something that plagued him, but one thing he didn’t seem able to be
shake off once and for all. He had no intention of going there
again, and had been more than happy to hand over the routine
maintenance of the place to his man of business in London, but
something deep inside him had refused to sell it on and rid himself
of the past once and for all. He wondered if the place was as
frayed around the edges as Thistledown was.

It’s none of your business what she chooses to do with
Thistledown
, Simon thought ruefully,
wanting to turn onto his side but doubting the bed was strong
enough to accept the challenge. The house groaned and creaked
alarmingly as it settled into the night. The sounds of movement
outside of his bedroom door had long since ceased, leaving a
deathly silence that was almost claustrophobic.

Sliding
his hands behind his head, Simon turned his thoughts toward the
mission Hugo had given him. He had no idea if Francesca, Madeline
or Bertie were involved, and certainly wouldn’t find out lying
around in bed. With a deep sigh, he threw back the covers and
slowly eased out of the bed, shaking his head at the deep groan
that rumbled from the bedstead. He was certain that any moment now
the entire thing was going to collapse in an exhausted heap of dust
and splinters.

Within
moments, he was standing in the corridor, waiting for his eyes to
adjust to the darkness. The wall sconces hadn’t even been lit;
another sign that finances were tighter than they ought to be. He
thought briefly to his own fortune, part-inherited and part-earned,
that sat idle in his bank, and knew he owned enough to easily cover
the complete refurbishment of both Thistledown Manor and Ulverton
Priory. If he was inclined, which he wasn’t. Neither of the houses
was of any importance to him, and he had no intention of laying
down roots in either property, especially the one he currently
resided in.

A quick
inventory of the house revealed the usual plethora of rooms for a
mansion of this size. Several downstairs rooms included a morning
room, a sitting room, what appeared to be a large ballroom, one
long conservatory that ran down the length of one side of the house
and several smaller rooms as well as the kitchens and the rear
sitting room he and Francesca had shared earlier, which appeared to
be part of the housekeeper’s quarters.

On
closer inspection, there was nothing out of the ordinary with the
room. Its contents were an eclectic mix of decorative porcelain,
fine china and expensive crystal, sitting atop plain and somewhat
basic and shabby furniture. But the one thing that became apparent
to him as he wandered through the lower floors was that there were
very few portraits. The handful that hung on the walls in the
entrance hall had been painted many years earlier, and were of long
deceased descendants. He had no idea which, if any, was of
Francesca’s uncle. There was nothing of Francesca or her sisters,
or any children for that matter and for some reason that bothered
him, leaving him to wonder if her childhood had been as cold and
stark as his own.