Page 9 of The Noble Smuggler

Even if the irony was lost on Cyrus Doyle, it had not escaped Elizabeth’s notice that one of her father’s many vices had protected her so well from a marriage of convenience. Without her help at the inn, he’d be required to hire a maid. It was an unnecessary expense, and one he was not willing to make unless he was adequately compensated for the loss. Up until now, no one had offered him enough to entice him to let her go. But if Mr. Cummings—who owned more land in the county than anyone but the Viscount Langton—offered her father sufficient money to make it worth his while, Elizabeth had no doubts as to the outcome. Her father would have her married to the magistrate as soon as the banns were read.

Elizabeth stood and walked over to the window. Leaning her forehead against the cool glass, she gazed into the blackness. To the east, there was a faint lightening to the night sky. Although the rain had muted the sounds of the departing men and their horses, she’d heard them leave over an hour before. She’d waited tensely for any sign that Mr. Cummings had remained behind, but he must have successfully reclaimed his mount because the inn had been remarkably silent since then. Not even her father had made an appearance.

The fact that he’d not already come to her door to berate her for rejecting the magistrate’s overtures made her wonder if he was in ignorance of Mr. Cummings’s actions. Her grip on the window frame tightened. The magistrate was not accustomed to being disappointed, and the look in his eyes when he’d pressed her to the wall told her he would not easily give up. It was only a matter of time before he trapped her again or approached her father about making her his wife.

Placing her hand on her stomach in a futile attempt to calm its roiling, Elizabeth attempted to think clearly. Along with having no resources or connections, she likely had very little time in which to act. Yet she refused to simply give in, to submit to a future of certain misery with a man whose moral standing was even lower than her father’s. Cyrus Doyle was a heartless man but he never pretended to be anything more. Mr. Cummings paraded through the county appearing every inch a model citizen while he lied to the Preventative Men, accepted bribes from the Lamhurst Gang, offered nothing to his tenants beside eviction notices, and trifled with every unsuspecting female in the village.

Elizabeth’s mother had warned her of such men. Indeed, she’d gone out of her way to protect her daughter from the miscreants who often frequented the inn late at night by insisting that she be the only one to serve them. But since her death, it had fallen to Elizabeth to be barmaid.

She looked back at the bed now, her heart aching as she pictured her mother lying there, battling the consumption that had finally taken her life. Her father had refused to enter the room since then, so Elizabeth had claimed it as her own and was grateful that along with the loneliness and sadness associated with her mother’s death, there were also happy memories of time spent with her.

As though of their own volition, her eyes turned to the corner of the room where the upturned barrel still held her mother’s favorite water pitcher. She knew what her mother would tell her if she were here. Mary Doyle had all but insisted upon it before her death. And yet, Elizabeth still hesitated. The gold pendant was not hers to take. Over the past two years, she’d removed it from the linen purse many times, studying the unique engravings by candlelight, running the silky chain through her fingers, and wondering at its history and value. But by morning, it was always safely back in its hiding place beneath the floorboard.

Her life at the inn had never been easy, but she’d managed to find moments of joy amid the hours of thankless work and her father’s relentless cruelty. Walks to the village, bird watching on the marshes and at the beach, or escaping into a book borrowed from the old vicar had all proven effective balms. Unfortunately, she was quite sure none of those things would provide adequate solace if she were forced to marry Mr. Cummings.

Outside, a single thrush trilled his song, a prelude to the dawn chorus that would soon begin. Exhaustion—physical and emotional—weakened her knees. Crossing the room in uneven steps, Elizabeth curled up on the bed, pulled the threadbare blanket over her shoulders, and closed her eyes. Morning would be here before she knew it, and no matter what had occurred this night, the never-ending housework would begin anew.

***

“The Viscount Langton to see you, my lord.”

Alexander’s butler stood aside to allow Jonas entry into Alexander’s study, nodded politely, and closed the door behind him.

Jonas faced the desk. Alexander had come to his feet and was walking around the oversized piece of furniture to greet him.

“You are returned from your venture in Little Tilbury,” he said. “And all in one piece.”

“Indeed.” Jonas offered him a rueful smile. “There was a point at which I thought I might succumb to death by wet clothing, but as you see, I survived, with all my limbs intact.”

Alexander chuckled and gestured to the armchair that Jonas had occupied only a fortnight before. “Take a seat,” he said. “I have news, but first, I wish to hear of your adventure.”

Jonas dropped into the leather chair with a sigh. “I wish it had been the type of adventure we enjoyed in our youth. Then perhaps I could see a clear way forward. Instead, I have returned to London with more questions than answers, and unless Reynard assists with another gang-related haul, I fear I will have little to show for his efforts in Little Tilbury.”

Alexander sat across from him. “Tell me what you discovered.”

Jonas described the evening he’d spent at the coast: the men keeping watch with their lanterns, the gathering of men and women of all walks of life on the beach, the well-organized unloading of the boats, the hushed delivery of bribery payments, and the even more secretive deposit of kegs of brandy at The Fox and Hare Inn.

“I never did learn the final destination of the smuggled kegs, nor the method of their transportation,” he said. “Once the beach was clear, the men gathered at the inn, shared some drinks, then were sent on their way.”

“What of the gang’s leadership?”

Jonas scowled. “The innkeeper, a foul man by the name of Cyrus Doyle, acts as though he holds great sway amongst the smugglers. His establishment is obviously used for drop-offs, pick-ups, and meetings, but he takes his orders from someone else. Someone who made a brief, clandestine appearance at the inn that same evening but left before I realized it.”

“And does he have a name?”

“The smugglers call him the Midnight Master, but I believe the Midnight Lord might be more accurate.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Because he is unquestionably a member of the nobility.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Not proof exactly. More like well-reasoned guesses.”

Alexander shook his head. “Not good enough, old fellow.” A hint of amusement appeared in his eyes. “It appears that you may be in need of some assistance after all.”

Jonas stilled. “Are you actually offering to help with what you previously labeled a ‘harebrained scheme’?”