Page 46 of The Noble Smuggler

“Thank you, my dear. As always, your singing was truly magnificent,” Lady Langton said. “And even these tired eyes can see how beautiful you are in that gown.”

Elizabeth ran her fingers gently across the ivory silk. “It is exquisite, and Miss Berry’s stitchery is flawless.” She remained bewildered by the generous gift and had yet to determine what was to become of the half dozen altered gowns hanging in her bedchamber when she left Langton Manor. As idyllic as these past few days had been, she knew they could not last, and it was hard to dismiss her worry over her future.

“Has there been any word from Reynard, my lady?”

Lady Langton brushed off her concern. “Reynard will come when he has news,” she said. “And in the meantime, I will enjoy your company to the fullest.”

It was hard to argue with such reasoning, and yet the nagging voice that told Elizabeth she did not deserve the treatment she was receiving at Langton Manor refused to be fully silenced. So on Tuesday afternoon when the viscountess declared that she was going to her bedchamber to rest for an hour, Elizabeth decided to take a walk on her own to think through her options should Reynard never come.

Instinct took her past the stables, toward the pond. James was outside walking one of the horses, and he gave her a polite nod as she walked by, but his attention quickly returned to the skittish young mare at the other end of his rope. Elizabeth smiled at Mrs. Swallow, who was standing guard on her favorite branch of the sycamore tree, and continued on through the grove of trees that separated the buildings from the meadow and pond beyond.

The sun was high in the sky, and when she reached the water, she took off her bonnet, closed her eyes, and raised her face upward. She soaked in the warmth, reveling in the sound of the little grebe and common moorhen coming from the water. The bruises on her face were finally starting to fade, but there was still sufficient purple discoloration to hide the new freckles that would undoubtedly appear across the bridge of her nose by evening.

The moorhen cried a warning. Elizabeth opened her eyes to see the bird flap her wings and skim across the pond to the opposite bank. She turned. No one was in sight. Replacing her bonnet without bothering to tie the ribbons, she noticed a sandpiper standing on one leg, gazing out across the water. The speckled brown bird stood motionless as though waiting for something. Elizabeth did the same. A twig snapped behind her, and she swung around just as her father grabbed her arm, yanked her toward him, and clapped his hand firmly across her mouth.

Her scream came out as a muffled meow. Kicking at his shins, she frantically pulled against his grasp.

“Hold still ya little witch,” Cyrus hissed. “You’ve put me through enough trouble already.”

Elizabeth did the opposite. Panic took over. Squirming and kicking, she fought against his iron grip, then moving her jaw a fraction, she bit down on his fingers.

“Don’ just stand there,” Cyrus yelped. “Use the bloomin’ cloth.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another figure move out from behind her father, his green coat sickeningly familiar. She thrust herself sideways, knocking her father off balance and dislodging her bonnet from off her head.

“Not so fast, Miss Doyle.” Mr. Cummings’s oily voice sent shivers down her spine. He held a filthy gray rag inches from her face. Her father released his hold on her mouth, and Elizabeth formed only half her scream before Mr. Cummings smashed the cloth against her mouth and nose. Pain exploded across her cheekbones. She tried to take a breath, but there was no air—only stifling cloth. Black spots floated before her eyes, the ground shifted beneath her feet, and somewhere far away, a goose honked.

***

Jonas shifted in his saddle, grateful that his long journey from London was finally coming to an end. He could see Langton Manor’s chimneys over the tops of the trees. Only half a mile separated him from the comfort of his own rooms, a bath, and clean clothing. It was nothing to the distance he’d already traveled, but suddenly, it seemed too long. He eyed the winding road ahead. He could shorten his ride by a third if he cut cross the meadow instead. In the distance, he heard the rumble of cart wheels, and a cloud of dust appeared above the hedgerow.

“Come on, Roman.” He pulled on the reins, and his obedient stallion veered toward the gate tucked into the hedge. “We’ve both ridden through enough dust for one day.”

He leaned over, released the latch, and opened the gate. As soon as Roman was through, Jonas pushed the gate closed behind him and pointed his horse toward home. Roman’s nostrils flared, and he snorted.

Jonas chuckled. “You’re as anxious as I am for some food and rest, aren’t you, boy?” He touched his heels to his horse’s sides, and the animal responded instantly, arriving with a clatter of hooves outside the stables only a few minutes later.

James came out to greet him. “Welcome home, my lord.”

“Thank you, James.” He slid out of the saddle and patted Roman’s neck. “He deserves a good rubdown and some oats.”

“I’ll see to it myself,” James said.

Jonas gave him a nod of appreciation and started toward the house. As he approached the front doors, his feet slowed. A chance encounter with Miss Doyle in the hall would be disastrous. At this time of day, she was likely in the drawing room with his mother, but he’d need to remain alert in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat to his office or the dining room.

He’d had six days to conjure up a viable way of telling Miss Doyle that he and Reynard were one and the same, and still, nothing felt right. It was beyond frustrating. What the innkeeper’s daughter thought of his masquerade should not matter. Indeed, what the innkeeper’s daughter thought of him personally should not matter. And yet, if Jonas were completely honest with himself, he knew that it did.

His indecisiveness had even spilled over into what should be done regarding Miss Doyle’s future employment. Alexander had talked to his housekeeper and was willing to take her on as a housemaid. Rosalind had written to say that Miss Doyle and their mother were getting along famously and that her temporary role as companion should be made permanent. But he did not know how his mother felt about the situation or, come to that, how Miss Doyle felt about it.

Despite Rosalind’s glowing report, Jonas was not fully convinced that the young woman was up to the task. He’d told himself that he needed to see her and his mother together for himself before making that determination. But first, Miss Doyle would need to know him as Viscount Langton. He groaned. How had he managed to get himself caught in such a muddle? Whatever it took, he needed to sort it out tonight. He would not creep around his own home like a burglar or lose any more sleep over the situation. Straightening his shoulders, he leaped up the entry steps as the front door opened before him.

Tolley bowed. “Welcome home, my lord.”

“Thank you, Tolley. Is my mother in the drawing room?”

“Yes, my lord.”

It was as he’d thought. And all being well, Miss Doyle was with her. “I’m going to my rooms to get cleaned up. If she asks about me, tell her I will join her there shortly.”