Page 2 of The Noble Smuggler

“I have it.” Elizabeth held the small pouch out to her.

A sigh of relief escaped Mary’s lips. “Open it.”

Elizabeth released the drawstrings, turned the purse upside-down, and gave a gentle shake. A single object slid out and landed on the bed between them. It glistened in the candlelight, and for one frozen moment, Elizabeth could only stare. Then she reached down and placed the gold pendant in the palm of her hand, allowing the long chain to run through her trembling fingers. “Where did you—?” She shook her head. What was the point in asking the question? There was only one way her mother could be in possession of so valuable a piece of jewelry. It was the only way anyone in the small village of Lower Tilbury acquired anything of monetary worth.

Smuggled goods regularly flowed from the ships offshore through her father’s inn to London and beyond. In this part of Kent, the trafficking of tobacco, tea, and brandy had become so commonplace it was accepted as part of everyday life. Up until this moment, she’d believed her mother innocent of any involvement in the unlawful practice. Suddenly, she did not know what to think.

She dropped the piece of jewelry as though it had scalded her. “How did this come to be in your bedchamber?”

“Forgive me,” Mary whispered. “I should have—” She swallowed back a cough. “I should have given it to you long ago, but I could not . . . I could not bear to lose you.” Her coughing returned in earnest, and when she finally stopped, her chest was heaving, and dark splotches of blood stained the sheet.

Dread’s ice-cold fingers reached out through the darkness, and Elizabeth’s throat tightened. “Please, Mother,” she begged. “No more talking. You must rest.”

“Soon I will rest,” she said. “And you—” She tensed as another cough racked her frail body. “Your future is far from this place.” She took another shuddering breath and closed her eyes. “Use the necklace . . . It will help you find your way.”

Tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes. She leaned over and kissed her mother’s cheek.

Mary grasped her hand. “Sing to me, Lizzie. One more time.”

Fighting back emotion that threatened to hold her voice ransom, Elizabeth began to sing. Softly yet poignantly, she used the sweet words and beautiful melody of a familiar lullaby to express her love and sorrowful farewell. When the song came to a close, Mary’s fleeting smile told Elizabeth that she’d heard her hidden message and reciprocated. She clung to that moment while she listened to her mother fight for each breath—and then, more especially, when all sound from the bed ceased.

Almost an hour later, the low rumble of men’s voices and the clatter of footsteps on the cobblestones outside penetrated Elizabeth’s mind-numbing anguish. She raised her head and swiped at her tears, fear momentarily superseding her grief. Coming to her feet, she plucked the linen purse off the bed and stuffed the necklace back inside. Then she squeezed past the barrel again, crouched down, dropped the small bag into the hole, and slid the piece of wood back into place. Once she was sure it was secure, she half pushed, half lifted the barrel into its former position and topped it with the washbasin and jug of water.

A door banged below stairs, and heavy footsteps sounded. Elizabeth stepped back to the bedside and gazed at her mother’s peaceful expression one last time. Then she raised the sheet over her face.

“Lizzie!” her father bellowed.

Taking the candlestick in one hand, Elizabeth walked slowly to the door. A quick glance around the room assured her that all was as it had been, so she caught ahold of the doorknob, pulled open the door, and walked to the top of the stairs. Her father stood on the lowest step. His dark hair was wild and windswept, his eyes gleaming in the lamplight. Even from this distance, she could see the mud and sand caked on his shoes.

“You’re needed downstairs.” He glared at her pointedly. “The men are thirsty, and if your mother insists on keeping to her bed, you must be the one to serve them.” His thin lips twisted into a crooked smile. “We have much to celebrate tonight.”

Elizabeth swallowed against the pain in the back of her throat. No longer could her mother shield her from the smugglers and their clandestine activities. Despite her loathing of their underhanded dealings, her father’s position in the smugglers’ gang effectively held her captive. She knew too much to ever be let free. With an unsteady hand, she reached for the banister. “Mother is gone.”

“Gone?” Her father’s expression darkened. “What d’you mean she’s gone?”

Willing herself to stay strong, Elizabeth drew back her shoulders and met his eyes. “She passed no more than an hour ago.”

An emotion Elizabeth could not identify flashed across her father’s face. But almost as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. A man’s shout was followed by raucous laughter. Glancing down the passageway that led to the inn’s front room, her father ran his fingers through his tangled hair and swore. “Go,” he growled. “If they’re kept waitin’ much longer, all good humor will abandon them.”

“But Mother—”

“Go!” He pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “Your mother ’as no further need of you.”

Biting her lip to stop the tears from starting anew, Elizabeth made her way down the stairs. Then, without so much as a glance at her father, she walked to the door and pushed it open.

Chapter 2

London, 1784

“Blast it all, Jonas! You cannot seriously believe that such a harebrained scheme has merit.”

Jonas Ainsworth, Viscount Langton, raised one eyebrow. “You do realize that your consternation would carry considerably more weight had you not been the mastermind of all the scrapes we ever entered into at school.”

Alexander Allerton, Earl of Bloxley, paused his pacing long enough to glare at him. “There’s a significant difference between placing a toad in the headmaster’s desk and putting your life in the hands of England’s most notorious gang of smugglers.”

“So you say,” Jonas said, claiming one of the leather chairs in Alexander’s study and making himself comfortable. “Although, thirteen years ago when we were standing shoulder to shoulder watching old Hargrave flex the cane he reserved for delinquent pupils, I seem to remember that we were quite certain our deaths were imminent.”

Alexander rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath before stepping over to the small table that held a gleaming decanter of brandy. Filling a couple of glasses, he offered one to Jonas before taking a drink himself.