Page 86 of The Boxing Baroness

Barnabas opened his mouth but must have seen something in her eyes that made him close it.

“You rescued me after my mother died and took care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. You sent me to school when I know you needed that money for yourself. I owe you. And I will gladly pay what I owe. But I could not stand by without saying a word if I learned you were involved in anything treasonous. So, if you were, you need to leave now—get as far away from Staunton as you can.”

His face, which had been flushed only a few moments before, had turned an unhealthy gray.

“I’ve done things I’m ashamed of—you have no idea how much shame I carry, Marianne. But I swear that I knew nothing of this Beauvais you are talking about. I heard about the way Strickland was supposed to have died—chasing these French prisoners—so I assumed he was—” He broke off and worried his lower lip, his chest rising and falling like that of a man who’d been running. “Never mind about that. I need to tell you something—perhaps it will change your mind about going.”

Marianne’s stomach fell.

“A few things, actually.” He gestured to the two chairs in front of the fire. “Sit for a moment. You look unsteady on your feet.”

She was, but not because of the hit to her head.

Once Marianne sat, Barnabas lifted the strap of his battered leather satchel over his head and removed the bag. Her uncle never went anywhere without his bag. It contained his calendar, his ledger, and numerous other items too precious to leave anywhere. He wore it crosswise over his chest and it was his habit to fiddle with the straps and buckles when he became agitated.

He pulled the bag onto his lap and looked up, his fingers playing with the straps. “I received a letter from Strickland in November of last year.”

Marianne closed her eyes.

“He is the reason I have brought the Fayre to the Continent so early. He said he wanted to see me.”

Barnabas stopped speaking and she opened her eyes, suddenly seeing more clearly than she had in her life.

“He is holding something over your head.” It wasn’t a question. “He is blackmailing you.”

Barnabas nodded.

It explained so many things. Marianne couldn’t believe that she’d been ignorant for so long.

“What?” she asked.

“He has a notebook that holds an account of my, er, smuggling activities. It was made by an agent for the Crown and is very detailed.”

Marianne wanted to scream. Instead, she asked, “Is this from when we lived in Deal? Because Dominic was involved, too, and—”

“No, no, this is from long ago, when I first moved to England. It is an old, old story that goes back many years. Strickland used the notebook to get me to introduce him to the smugglers I knew then—”

“I’m listening,” she prodded.

He swallowed. “I will need to go back a bit, to when I lived in Paris as a younger man. I became entangled with some men who were . . . well, not the sort you want to cross. I owed them a lot of money—gambling debts, more than I could repay. They knew I could speak English—” He blushed. “I had lived with an English woman for several years and she taught me. Anyhow, they said I could repay my debt if I did something for them.” He paused and licked his lips. “They paid my way to England and gave me some money to live.”

Please, Uncle, don’t say what I think you’re going to—

“At first they wanted help making contact with men interested in doing business along the coast.”

“The fishermen smugglers?”

He nodded. “But after a while, they wanted me to tell them things I noticed.” His eyes darted to hers, and her stomach roiled at the guilt she saw. “They arranged for me to work with a touring troupe called the Mayfair Players, even though I’d never worked in the theatrical business before—”

“You said that you and my mother had grown up working in a theater—that my grandmother was a costume maker and my grandfather an actor?”

“I know what I said,” Barnabas said wearily, “but that was a lie. I’m not what I’ve claimed to be, Marianne.” His eyes brimmed with shame. “I was a criminal. My mother was a whore, and I never knew my father.”

Marianne could only stare.

“As for your mother . . .” He reached into his bag and brought out an exquisite enamel box the size of his palm.

Memories exploded like fireworks at the sight of the familiar jewel-toned colors.