The Smuggler's Escape
Table of Contents
THE SMUGGLER’S ESCAPE
Books by Barbara Monajem
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
THE SMUGGLER’S ESCAPE
BARBARA MONAJEM
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE SMUGGLER’S ESCAPE
Copyright©2019
BARBARA MONAJEM
Cover Design by Anna Lena-Spies
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
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Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-68291-921-7
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The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Books by Barbara Monajem
Scandalous Kisses Series
To Kiss a Rake
The Rake’s Irish Lady
Love and the Shameless Lady
The Redemption of the Shrew
~ ~ ~
The Smuggler’s Escape
Acknowledgments
I wrote the original version of this story about ten years ago. It was way too long and complicated, and I set it aside for other projects. Last year, I took it out of mothballs and had a look—and realized there was lots of good material here. I loved both Noelle, the courageous, determined heroine, and Richard, the clever, incorrigible hero, so I decided to revise their story, and here it is.
At such a distance of time, I’ll have to take a guess at whom to acknowledge. First, of course, my daughters, who faithfully read drafts of many stories, including this one; my warm, supportive colleagues at Georgia Romance Writers; the ever-helpful members of the Beau Monde chapter of RWA; and a great many contest judges, notably those of the RWA Kiss of Death chapter. More recently, I have to thank Shohreh Monajem for reading this and other stories and correcting my French. (Needless to say, any subsequent errors are mine.)
Chapter 1
Sussex, Autumn 1794
“Approach the bed, Mademoiselle de Vallon.” Lord Boltwood spoke scarcely above a whisper.
Noelle trod softly across the darkened room. It was just past midday on a sunny November afternoon, but the curtains were drawn closely over the windows, and the occasional crackle from the fire the only sound to break the hush. His lordship lay still, one hand clutching a handkerchief, his face waxen, his lips dry. He had dismissed his hovering valet, saying he wished a few moments of private conversation with Noelle.
She hadn’t the slightest notion why. He had always treated her with courtesy—unlike his son, Richard—but she couldn’t think of a reason for this deathbed summons.
Nor could Lady Boltwood. “Something is preying on his mind,” that kindly lady had told Noelle a few minutes earlier, “but he won’t say what. Go on up, my dear. Perhaps you can comfort him a little.”
Looking down at the dying man, she doubted it. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
“I have unpleasant news for you, mademoiselle.” His eyes, the same grey as Richard’s, glittered in the candlelight. “To put it bluntly—for there is no choice—you are in imminent danger of arrest as a spy.”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
“It’s your own fault, child. You should not have become involved with smuggling.” He raised his hand for silence. The great emerald in his ring winked in the candlelight. “Do not deny it. Most of the village is involved with the free trade. I was certain to find out sooner or later.”
Mordieu, how annoying that he knew, but what did that have to do with spying?
“I don’t entirely blame you.” His voice was low and slow, with a relentless quality to it, as if every word took an effort. “You are penniless and obliged to live in the household of Sir Matthew Tifton. Naturally you wish to leave, and your savings from smuggling, however meager, might help you to support yourself someday. All very well, but not only are you a Frenchwoman, you have expressed revolutionary views. Therein lies the problem.”
She found her tongue. “My views don’t make me a spy!”
“I believe you, but will the Home Office? You see, they have learned that a spy is sending information to France by way of our smugglers.”
“That’s impossible. The smugglers are loyal Englishmen.”
“So innocent, my dear girl. When you are as old as I . . .” He sighed heavily. “Perhaps most of them are, but it takes only one disloyal man, or a clever spy, to ensure that the information gets through.” He paused, and she tried to imagine who might be a spy amongst them, but couldn’t. Where would any of the smugglers, poor men by and large, find information useful to the enemy?
“The point, my foolish child, is that suspicion has already fallen upon you. Unfortunately, I no longer have influence with the Home Office. Within a few days, they will send a man to Sussex, and unless he finds a more likely candidate—which he will not—you will be arrested and charged with espionage.”
Her heart thudded against her breast. Fury rose in her gorge. “But I’m not a spy!”
“Tsk,” he said. “Can you not see that the truth is irrelevant? Even if you were to be proven innocent—which is unlikely—you will be ruined. And you must think not only of yourself, but of Lady Tifton. How devastated she would be.” He pressed his handkerchief to his lips.
Yes, poor Aunt Lucretia. As if she didn’t have enough to bear already, married to horrid Sir Matthew, who would certainly maintain that Noelle’s misfortune was all Lucretia’s fault.
“And your mother, if she were alive.” He champed his jaws in the way elderly people do, then subsided. After a silence, he murmured, “She was a lovely woman.”
Startled, Noelle asked, “You knew my mother?”
He didn’t answer. Noelle wondered if he had even heard her. Perhaps he had drifted into recollections of the past.
His gaze sharpen
ed again. He motioned to the bedside. “Open the drawer in that table. There is a tin box. Open it.”
Curious, she did as he asked. The box contained a little gold cross on a chain, studded with diamonds that winked in the candlelight.
“Take it,” he said. “I don’t know how much it is worth, but you may sell it to support yourself.”
“Why are you giving me this? You are under no obligation to me.”
“For your aunt’s sake, and your more distant relatives who don’t deserve to be tainted by association.” When she hesitated, his voice grew stronger. “Put it in your reticule.” He watched while she obeyed. “Take it, and your savings from smuggling as well, and leave England at once.” He broke into a paroxysm of coughing.
Noelle waited for it to abate, trying to think. To plan. She was good at making plans, but usually she had more time. How could she possibly leave so soon?
The valet opened the door. “My lord?”
The old man waved him away, croaking, “Go, damn you! I’ll ring when I want you.” He subsided, obviously exhausted, and closed his eyes.
Noelle clutched her reticule, feeling the firmness of the tin box within it. She could manage without the little cross, but it would help. It would be rude to refuse such a thoughtful gesture, particularly from a dying man. When he didn’t open his eyes again, she began to tiptoe away.
“Wait.” Lord Boltwood’s thread of a voice recalled her. “You must arrange with one of the smuggling vessels to take you as a passenger, two days hence at the latest. Once you are gone, I shall inform Lady Tifton that you asked my aid in sending you to cousins now residing in . . . Vienna, perhaps. There are many émigrés there.”
It was as good an explanation as any. “Very well, my lord.”
“Send my man in on your way out.”
She thanked him and left, to the sound of Lord Boltwood demanding brandy. “The doctor may go to Hell and take his advice with him. It hasn’t killed me yet.”
Seemingly, it did this time, for a few hours later he died.
~ ~ ~
That evening
Noelle was finished with smuggling for the night. She’d already played her part, planning the route, arranging for the decoys, and unlocking the back entrance to her uncle’s walled garden. The men would do the rest as efficiently as always. She lay in bed, desperately planning her escape.
At dinner, one of the vicar’s servants had come with the news that Lord Boltwood was dead, which gave rise to a new problem. Not that it truly counted for much when she was facing possible ignominy and death as a spy, but the fact remained that she didn’t want to see Richard Boltwood ever again. Hopefully, she could leave Sussex before he arrived to attend his father’s funeral and take up his inheritance. He had left Sussex unexpectedly well over two years ago for Amsterdam, of all places, but according to the latest gossip, he had returned to London a few months ago. Which meant he could be here as early as tomorrow.
Not that she expected him to pay any attention to her. He’d avoided her for more than two years, so it was safe to assume he would continue to do so. Even so, the knowledge that she might soon see him made her remember what she’d actually liked about him, so long ago.
Such as his kisses. Since then, she’d tried kissing a few other men, but they hardly compared at all.
Better to think about his dastardly behavior. Best not to think about him at all. If the run went well tonight, the goods would be delivered tomorrow, and she would take her portion of the proceeds and flee the next day—hopefully one step ahead of the Home Office’s man.
The light of a swaying lantern flashed beneath her bedchamber window. Noelle scrambled out of bed and hastened to see who could possibly be visiting her uncle at this time of night.
Two men in uniform, muskets at their shoulders, paced in front of the house.
Panic suffused her. Ah, mon Dieu! The Home Office already?
No. These were local excisemen, men she recognized. What were they doing here? Only the smugglers participating in tonight’s run knew Uncle Matthew’s garden was their goal. Just in case, she had checked the road, the garden, and the path toward the cove only a half hour earlier, before going up to bed. Everything should have been fine!
Noelle grabbed the lantern from the shelf by the door. Was there a flaw in her plan? The men had grown to trust her, and most of her runs had gone smoothly till now. This one was a little different from the usual, for they’d had to cache the brandy in the cove for several days, as there were too many excisemen about. But the cache might soon be discovered, so tonight the goods had to be moved.
She put on her wrapper, hung the garden key on its ribbon around her neck, and slipped into the corridor. From below came Lieutenant Hale’s precise voice, requesting permission to search for contraband. Uncle Matthew, who had no idea of what went on under his red, bulbous nose, blustered and protested, but he detested smugglers. Any second now he would agree, and Hale would order his men to patrol the grounds of the estate.
While the smugglers, with dozens of tubs of brandy, walked right into the trap.
I couldn’t have known Hale would come here tonight, she told herself, but that was no excuse. I wasn’t even on watch. That was no excuse either.
She could berate herself later. Right now, she had to do something. She tiptoed along the dark passage and down the back stairs. Most of the servants retired to bed when Uncle Matthew closeted himself in his study. She could slip out the kitchen door and—
At the crunch of boots on the gravel walkway, she pulled the door hastily shut. An exciseman was patrolling behind the house as well.
Noelle weighed her options, none of which allowed her to escape the house unseen. Even if she could reach the garden, she couldn’t possibly put up a light to warn the men to stay away.
Fright sharpened her wits. Yes, she could, if the light were for an entirely different purpose.
She ducked into the pantry for her butterfly net, lit a lantern with a taper, and waited for the footsteps to recede. Then she eased the door open. His back to her, the exciseman turned the corner, but he would soon return. Even if she cloaked the lantern, they could hardly fail to see her, in a nightdress and a wrapper that flapped in the crisp November breeze. The gravel of the path dug into her feet through her thin slippers, and dew soaked them as she hurried across the lawn.
She set the lantern and the net on the flagstones and fitted the key into the front entrance of the walled garden. A shout came from the house, followed by urgent footsteps on the path. Her hands trembled as she turned the key and swung the door open. If she could get the lantern high enough for just a few seconds, the watcher on the next rise would see, and the smugglers would have a chance of escape. Meanwhile, she would play a role in which Hale had seen her before.
“Mademoiselle de Vallon!” Lieutenant Hale’s stern voice grated on her as always.
Noelle pretended not to hear. I am a naturalist, she reminded herself, because acting a part well required conviction. An eccentric Frenchwoman and my sainted father’s daughter. Me, a smuggler? Quelle folie! She shoved the heavy wooden door shut, locking herself into the garden, and scrambled along the winding paths past herbs and the last of the roses. She set the lantern and the butterfly net on the bench beside the dovecote.
She bunched up her nightdress and knotted the wrapper beneath it, then steadied the gardener’s ladder against the dovecote wall. In her haste, her clothing and the lantern hampered her, and the doves inside cooed and flapped agitated wings. The excisemen were pounding at the door before she finally set the light on the highest ledge facing the sea. There were always two alternative plans for any smuggling run. She sent up a desperate prayer and chose one, then clicked the shutter shut and open, shut and open again, then paused and repeated the code.
The worst of it over, the smuggler
s warned and, with luck, the contraband diverted to hiding places in and about the village, she left the lantern on its perch and let herself carefully down the ladder.
At the front entrance, one of the excisemen intoned, “In His Majesty’s name, I command you to open this door!” With fumbling fingers, Noelle untied the wrapper and smoothed her nightdress down. She picked up the butterfly net and raced down the flagstone path, away from their knocking. If she didn’t answer, they would be forced to get a key from Uncle Matthew. Meanwhile, to make all seem as it should, she had only to lock the back gate of the garden, which led to the path to the shore.
The gate swung open even as she rushed toward it, and Lieutenant Hale marched through. He was young, intelligent, and determined—and the bane of her existence as a smuggler.
Two other excisemen followed, agog at finding a lady in dishabille. Hale was merely triumphant. “Aha! Caught you red-handed, mademoiselle!”
Noelle put her nose in the air. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, but who gave you the right to intrude in a private garden?”
Hale glowered, coming far too close. “Your uncle gave me permission, Miss de Vallon. I have reason to believe this garden is being used by smugglers, and that you are aiding and abetting them. Your uncle and aunt will be heartbroken to find that the girl they have sheltered is nothing but a common criminal.”
“Monsieur!” Noelle summoned all the indignation she could. “I am no smuggler. You accuse me because I am a foreigner, a poor impoverished exile. You should be ashamed of yourself.” She gathered her skirts and swept away from him toward the house.
Hale followed. “If you are so innocent, mademoiselle, why have you placed that lantern at the top of the dovecote?”
Noelle assumed an air of patient disdain. She indicated the butterfly net in her other hand, but kept walking. Her feet were freezing and her slippers in shreds, but at least the smugglers and their precious cargo should be safe for now. “Surely you remember, Lieutenant Hale, that I am an insect collector. At night, moths seek a light.”