A Lady of His Own (9 page)

“All right!” He looked at her again, scanned her attire, shook his head. “You’re never going to pass for a male.”

“It’s not a disguise.” She smiled—a light, relaxed smile as if she’d never doubted his capitulation—and fell in beside him as he turned and strode for the stables. “Everyone in Polruan knows who I am. They know it’s easier to ride astride than sidesaddle around here, and they’re not the sort to be scandalized by my wearing breeches. They’ll barely notice.”

He glanced down at her long legs, booted to the knee, sleek thighs occasionally visible when the material of her breeches drew taut, and managed not to snort. The smugglers of Polruan were no more blind than he.

Exercising rigid control, he managed to keep his mind from contemplating her anatomy—any part of it—while he saddled their horses, then tossed her up to her saddle. On her mare, she trotted out of the stable beside him. Inwardly shaking his head—how
had
he let this happen?—he set course south, over the moonlit fields to Polruan.

A small fishing village situated on the easterly head of the Fowey estuary, Polruan consisted of little more than a cluster of tiny cottages and the obligatory tavern in which the men of the village, virtually all fishermen, usually spent their evenings, at least when they weren’t out running some illicit cargo through the breakers just east of the estuary mouth.

Although the area was riddled with smuggling gangs, each had its own patch, its own favored inlets and coves. While the Fowey Gallants, who had taken their name from the local pirate raiders who’d been the bane of the French coastal towns throughout the Hundred Years War, were the largest and best organized gang in the area, Charles suspected Granville might have used one of the smaller gangs for making contact with the French.

As Penny had said, Granville hadn’t been a fool. The fewer people who knew anything of his business, the better.

They reached the Duck and Drake and dismounted. Charles gave their horses to a towheaded lad from the crude stable beside the tavern. Returning to where Penny waited near the door, he yanked her hat low. A floppy, wide-brimmed affair sporting a pheasant’s feather, it would pass for a man’s hunting hat at first glance. “Keep your head down and do exactly as I say.”

She muttered something unintelligible; he didn’t think it was a compliment. Grasping her elbow, he opened the door, swiftly glanced around as he propelled her over the threshold. Giving thanks for the poor light, he steered her to an unoccupied table and benches in one corner.

He released her. “Slide in.”

She did. As he followed, forcing her along the bench into the corner, she murmured, “Am I allowed to speak?”

“No.” He looked around, noting familiar faces, nodding to two. He glanced at her. “Wait here—keep your head down. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Rising, he went to the bar, a simple wooden counter balanced atop two old kegs. He nodded to the barkeep, who recognized him; taciturn but friendly, the man murmured a “m’lord” and drew the two pints he requested.

Charles didn’t bother chatting—that wasn’t how things were done, how business was conducted with the gentlemen.

The barkeep thumped two frothing tankards on the counter. Charles tossed him some coins and a nod, picked up the tankards, and walked back to the corner table. Setting down the tankards, he slid in beside Penny, pushing one tankard her way. Raising the other, he sipped, then let his gaze wander the room. And settled to wait.

Penny, gaze still dutifully cast down, peered into the tankard before her. She assumed it was the local ale; it had a foamy froth on top. Mentally shrugging, using both hands she lifted the tankard and sipped.

Choked. Spluttered. Coughing, she put the tankard down the instant before Charles thumped her back.

Blinking rapidly, clearing her watering eyes, she met his. “That’s…
disgusting
.”

He rolled his eyes. “It was only supposed to be for show.”

“Oh.” She wondered if there was any other drink one could order in a tavern, but decided against asking. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder; she could feel a faint tension in him, even though outwardly he appeared relaxed.

He said nothing, simply drank the vile brew, and in between stared into his tankard, or into space.

She pretended to sip, and wished something would happen.

More than ten minutes dragged by, then two burly fishermen at the table before the fire nodded to their friends and rose. Straightening, the pair studied Charles and her, then slowly came their way.

Watching from beneath the brim of her hat, Penny kicked Charles’s ankle.

He kicked her back. Since he’d been staring into his ale for the past several minutes, she cast him a narrow-eyed glare.

The fishermen paused by the bench on the other side of the table.

“Evening, Master Charles—ah, no, that’d be m’lord now, I reckon.”

Charles looked up, his expression easy, and returned the men’s nods. “Shep. Seth. How’s buisness?”

Both men grinned, showing gaps in yellowed teeth.

“Fair to middling. Can’t complain.” Shep raised his brows. “We was wondering if you was after anything special-like?”

Charles waved them to sit, simultaneously shifting sideways, squashing Penny farther into the shadows of the corner. She moved as far as she could, but he crowded her, his hip and thigh against hers, trapping her, his shoulder partially screening her even from the men settling on the bench opposite.

Both had thus far rather pointedly kept their gazes from her.

Charles signaled the barkeep, who came, wiping his hands on his apron. Charles ordered three more pints; Seth and Shep were clearly pleased.

He waited until the tankards were delivered and Seth and Shep had taken a long draft before saying, “You’ll hear soon enough for it’s no secret. I’m down here looking for information on meetings Granville Selborne had with the French. Before I go on, I should explain that
I
was sent to ask the questions because the government has no interest in anyone who might have helped Granville meet the French. All the bods in Whitehall want is to know how he did it, anything I can learn about who he met, and about any English gentleman who might have been Granville’s associate in such matters.”

Both Seth and Shep held Charles’s gaze, then both lifted their tankards again. As they lowered them, they exchanged a sidelong glance. Then Seth, older and sitting more or less opposite Penny, said in his slow, ponderous way, “That’d be Master Granville as was killed at Waterloo.”

The implication was clear; neither Shep nor Seth wanted to speak ill of the dead, especially one who had died on that bloody field.

Especially with her sitting there; she was perfectly sure they knew who she was.

She drew in a breath, held it, and looked up. “Yes, that’s right. Granville, my brother.”

Her voice, so much lighter and clearer than the men’s deep rumbles, startled them. Both Seth and Shep blinked at her.

Beside her, she felt Charles’s muscles turn to steel.

She could almost hear his teeth grinding, but both Shep and Seth deferentially bobbed their heads to her.

“Lady Penelope. Thought as it was you.”

“We’re right sorry about Granville—he was a good ’un. A real lad.”

She found a smile, lowered her voice. “Indeed. But we—Lord Charles and I—need to know what Granville was up to. It’s quite important, you see.”

Shep and Seth studied her, looked at each other, then Seth nodded. “As it’s you asking, m’lady, I guess it’d be all right.” He nodded to Charles. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but it wouldn’t seem right otherways.”

Charles waved aside the comment. “I quite understand.”

Only she noticed how clipped his accents had become. “So what can you tell us?” she prompted.

“Well, let’s see.” With considerable qualification, the two described how on several occasions over a period of years, Granville had asked them to take him out to meet with a lugger.

“Never would come close, but it always seemed the same ship.” Shep’s gaze had grown distant. “We assumed she was French, but we thought as how she must sail for those on the same side as us—Frenchies who didn’t like Old Boney. Howsoever, we never did see who Master Granville met with—he’d take the dinghy out, and the man he met would do the same. They’d meet on the waves like, alone, each in his own boat.”

“How often?” Charles asked.

“Not so often—maybe once a year.”

“Nah—not so often as that. P’raps once in two.”

“Aye.” Shep nodded. “Reckon you’re right.”

“Did he ever carry anything to give to the person he met?”

“Naught but once. I did see him hand over a packet, one time.”

“Letters?”

“Something like that. Most often, though, he just talked.”

“Speaking of talking…” Shep and Seth exchanged glances, then Shep continued, “That other one—the new lordling up to the Hall. He’s been asking after much the same, wanting to know who Master Granville used to deal with hereabouts. Who took him to sea.”

“Did you tell him what you’ve just told us?” Charles asked.

Seth blinked. “ ’Course not. He’s not one of us, is he? We couldn’t rightly figure why he needed to know.” Seth ducked his head at Penny. “Didn’t feel it was our place, what with the young master being dead and all.”

Penny smiled. “That was well-done of you. There’s no reason for the gentleman to know anything about Granville’s business.”

“Aye.” Shep nodded. “So we thought.”

Charles asked the last question he could think of. “Do you know if Granville ever went out with any of the other gangs?”

“Oh, aye!” Shep and Seth both grinned widely. “A real lad for the life, was Master Granville. Don’t reckon there was a gang anywhere about the estuary he didn’t run with at least a time or two.”

Penny smiled, albeit weakly. Charles treated Seth and Shep to another round of ale; with good wishes all around, he rose, tugged Penny to her feet, and steered her outside.

“I can’t believe it!” She and Charles, once more mounted, were trotting out of Polruan. “It sounds like we’re going to have to speak with every single smuggling gang.” After a moment, she observed, “That might not be a bad thing—surely someone must know more than the Polruan crew.”

“I wouldn’t wager on it.” Charles glanced at her. “The operation seems to have been well organized, and don’t forget, the procedures must have been set up by your father long before Granville got involved.”

He purposely hadn’t asked if the previous earl had been known to join the smuggling gangs; none knew better than he that those of the local aristocracy who ran with the gentlemen as lads had only to ask to be accommodated. On both occasions he’d had to rush home, the Fowey Gallants had answered his call with an alacrity he’d found disarming. They’d risked the might of the French navy to pick him up, and then later return him to Brittany, purely because they considered him one of their own and he’d asked. None of which he needed to explain to Penny; she nodded and trotted on.

Once they were past the last cottages, he urged Domino into a canter. On her mare, Penny kept pace.

They’d covered just over a mile when he slowed. Penny followed suit, glancing at him inquiringly; he signaled her to silence, and to follow as he turned off the lane onto a narrow track. A little way along, he veered into a clearing, halted, and dismounted. Stopping her mare, Penny kicked free of her stirrups, swung her leg over the pommel, and slid to the ground. She led the mare over to the tree to which he was tying Domino’s reins.

“Where are we?” she whispered, glancing around as she secured the mare alongside.

He looked at her. Instinct insisted he leave her with the horses, but he wasn’t sure that was safe—at least not any safer than taking her with him. On top of that, it was likely the reservations of the Polruan crew over speaking of the dead would surface there, too.

It hadn’t occurred to him, but her presence had loosened tongues far faster than his own persuasions would have.

He mentally sighed and reached for her hand. “We’re near the Bodinnick smugglers’ meeting place.” Bodinnick was a hamlet and didn’t boast a tavern; the fishermen made do with an establishement of their own. “I hadn’t intended stopping here, but as we apparently have to interview all the gangs, then as we’re down this way…”

Turning, he strode back to the track, slowing when she hissed at him.

She came up close, just behind his shoulder; her proximity made him feel a fraction easier on one hand, rather more tense on the other. Gritting his teeth, he grasped her hand more firmly and led her on to the crude hut almost hidden by bushes that the Bodinnick smugglers had built.

He marched directly to the plank door and rapped, a complicated succession of taps and pauses. The instant he’d finished, the door was opened; a ruddy-looking seaman stared out at them.

“My lord! Why, we’re honored! And who…” Johnny’s eyes widened.

“Never mind, Johnny—just let us in, and you’ll learn all soon enough.”

Johnny stepped back, waving them in with a flourish, his gaze riveted on Penny as she followed Charles across the threshold.

He scanned the faces that turned to stare at them. Many were familiar; the Bodinnick gang was one of the smaller crews in the area, but he’d sailed with them often enough in his reckless youth.

The procedure was the same as in Polruan; he donated generously to their drinking fund, accepted a mug, then told them of his mission. They, too, recognized Penny; bobbing their heads deferentially, they answered his questions in much the same way.

Yes, Granville had on occasion asked them to take him out to meet with a specific lugger that had stood well out in the Channel. The tale was the same; he’d always rowed out to meet a man who had rowed out from the lugger. In their case, no one could recall Granville handing any item over.

They also confirmed that Nicholas had contacted them in much the same way he had the Polruan crew.

“Setting hisself up as Master Granville’s replacement, insistent about it, too. Not that we’ve any contacts to give him, o’course, nor likely to have. ’Twas Master Granville himself always had things set up.”