Page 4 of The Noble Smuggler

Now that he’d moved back a few paces, Jonas’s reflection was clearly visible in the large study window. His brown eyes and dark wavy hair did indeed resemble his late father’s, and dressed in his finely tailored blue vest and matching coat, with the morning sunlight reflecting off the gold chain of his pocket watch, he looked every inch a viscount. But today’s image was a far cry from how he’d appeared the night before.

“I charged my valet with acquiring clothing suitable for my new role. He found a pair of well-worn breeches, the most uncomfortable shoes imaginable, and a torn old jacket that hung loosely enough to accommodate several packets of tea when they were tucked into pockets sewn into the inner lining. I also discovered that unkempt hair and a little added chimney soot on my hands and face are quite transformative.” He chuckled. “I give you my word, no one shall mistake Reynard for either me or my father.”

“So your valet is aware of this dangerous charade.”

“Hancock knows only that I needed clothing that would enable me to pass as a resident of the London rookeries and that the man who leaves my house at night dressed in those clothes goes by the name of Reynard.” Jonas met Alexander’s concerned eyes. “Hancock is loyal and will not betray my trust, but you are my closest friend, and before I enter the fray in Kent, I wished you to know the whole of it.” He paused, knowing what he must say yet unaccountably loath to do so. “My mother is aging, her eyesight failing . . . should anything go truly awry in Little Tilbury . . .”

Alexander stepped forward and placed his hand on Jonas’s shoulder. “Speaking as the Earl of Bloxley, I would have you rethink this quest of yours and look for another safer method of attaining your goal. Speaking as Alexander Allerton, your erstwhile partner in mischief, however, I understand what you are about, and should the need ever arise, I swear that I will watch over your mother as if she were my own.”

Jonas’s sense of relief was instant. “Thank you, Alex. I’m most grateful.”

His friend gave him an acknowledging nod, and with a smile that hinted at the reprobate he’d once been, he pointed to the door. “A game of billiards, I think. And since it appears that I cannot talk you out of it and have yet to be invited to join the adventure, perhaps you could share exactly how Reynard has been delivering smuggled tea all around this fair city.”

***

Elizabeth raised the latch on the old wooden gate. The hinge creaked as she pushed it open, and from somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Taking the path that cut through a lawn sprinkled with miniature daisies, she walked to the door of the parsonage and paused. Raising her hand, she touched the base of her bonnet. None of her curls appeared to have escaped their pins, so she grasped her brown skirt and gave it a quick shake, attempting to smooth out the remaining wrinkles. The wool fabric was worn, but it was clean—at least it had been before she’d walked the muddy road between the inn and the parsonage. With a sigh of resignation, she straightened her mother’s old knit shawl across her shoulders, faced the door, and knocked.

The sun shone, warming her back and the first of the early summer roses blooming against the yellow brick walls. As she stood waiting on the doorstep, a goldfinch landed on the rim of the nearby birdbath and let out its trill call.

Elizabeth smiled. “Good morning, Miss Goldfinch,” she whispered.

Footsteps sounded from within the house. The little bird took flight, and moments later, the door swung open to reveal a girl of about fifteen. She wore a mobcap on her head, and an apron covered her gray skirt.

“Hello, Fanny,” Elizabeth said. “I believe Mrs. Parkin is expecting me.”

“Yes, Miss Doyle,” Fanny said, her eyes twinkling merrily. “She’s awaitin’ you in the parlor.” With a polite bob of her head, the young maid quickly stepped back to allow Elizabeth entry into the tiny vestibule before taking her bonnet and shawl.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said.

“Of course, miss.” Fanny lowered her voice conspiratorially. “It wouldn’t do to spoil Mrs. Parkin’s fancy tea, even if I ’ave known you as Lizzie me whole life.”

Elizabeth smiled. Mrs. Parkin had been born a gentleman’s daughter, and although she readily told everyone she’d been fortunate to marry a man of the cloth, it was obvious to all that she sorely missed the niceties of society life. She and her husband had taken up residence at the parsonage in Little Tilbury five years earlier, when Mr. Parkin had taken over the living from the previous vicar, Mr. Crawford. Ever since her arrival in their small village, Mrs. Parkin had worked tirelessly to improve the social propriety of her neighbors. Twice a week she invited someone to take tea with her at the parsonage and insisted that every protocol be observed. She’d taken great pains to ensure that her maid was trained in proper etiquette and expected that her guests observe it too.

Elizabeth had accompanied her mother to tea with Mrs. Parkin every second Thursday of the month from the time the Parkins had arrived. Since her mother’s passing two years before, that particular afternoon had become Elizabeth’s appointed time to meet with the vicar’s wife.

“Miss Doyle’s here to see you, Mrs. Parkin,” Fanny said at the parlor door.

“Thank you, Fanny.” Mrs. Parkin rose to greet Elizabeth, and Fanny scurried off to the kitchen to fetch the tea tray.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Parkin.”

Elizabeth moved into the room. The vicar’s wife was a small woman, nearing fifty years of age. She wore a pale-blue morning dress, and her graying hair lay smoothly beneath a lace cap. Her fondness for lace was further manifest in the parlor itself, where large pieces of heavy furniture were decorated with dainty doilies. Every surface was polished to a shine, and a rather fat tabby cat dozed beside the fireplace.

“It’s nice to see you, Elizabeth.” The vicar’s wife grasped Elizabeth’s hands in hers and studied her carefully. “How are you, my dear?”

“I am well,” Elizabeth said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

The older woman pursed her thin lips as though not fully convinced, then released her hands and pointed to her assigned chair. “Please, be seated.”

“It was lovely to see the sunshine today,” Elizabeth said. Talking about the weather was polite and safe. It also took very little thought, which meant she could focus on making sure her posture was acceptable, her shoulders back, and her ankles neatly tucked beneath her skirt.

“Indeed.” Mrs. Parkin folded her hands and set them demurely on her lap. “After so many days of rain, it’s a wonder we haven’t had flooding. I can only imagine how wet the marshes must be.”

“Yes. The poor sheep. I don’t suppose they’ve been enjoying it very much. The farmers will be worrying about foot rot. It always seems to worsen when the grass is boggy.”

Mrs. Parkin frowned. “Not sheep, dear. Ladies don’t discuss farm animals or their diseases—especially at teatime.”

“Of course. Forgive me.”