Page 31 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

“No, ma’am,” Kendall replied, still out of sight.

“No, ma’am,” Matthew echoed.

“Then where did it go?” Gert planted her hands on her hips. “Mother Hobart certainly has no use for untaxed spirits or tea.”

Everyone looked around, literally or figuratively scratching their head. Everyone, except for Davey, the ostler who had accompanied Clyde. He stood off to one side, staring at the toes of his scuffed boots as they sank into the damp sand.

“What?” Clyde demanded of him. “What do you know of this?”

“Them Revenuers been riding a lot the last fortnight. That’s why we dropped the load here instead of in town.”

Vincent kept his expression blank while he processed the fact that the ostler had at least one other form of employment in addition to the inn.

As a boy he’d thought smuggling to be an exciting profession. The smuggler and ostler before him, practically trying to bury himself in the sand to avoid scrutiny, looked like he barely had two farthings to rub together, between his mended breeches, patched elbows, and moth-eaten hat.

“The local officer has eaten several meals at the inn recently,” Renwick said, scratching his chin. “We usually only see him a time or two each month.”

Still assimilating the revelation that the ostler also worked for the smugglers, it took Vincent a moment for the import of Renwick’s words to sink in. “You think the Revenuers confiscated the load?”

“What?” Clyde’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “I paid good––”

“My money!” Renwick roared at his son. “You spent my money on supplies, and didn’t even secure the goods before some Sam Jack Revenue officers made off with them?”

“It ain’t my fault!” Clyde bellowed back. “I—”

“Gentlemen!” Everyone turned at Gert’s shout. “Let us focus on the important detail here. Revenue officers have been trespassing … on … my … property!”

Technically the property belonged to Vincent’s father, and along with the rest of the entailed estates would pass to Vincent upon the marquess’s death, but Vincent kept silent.

He glanced at Matthew, who had been watching the speakers as though he was at a sporting match, grinning at realizing Gert was not offended by smuggling in general, just about it happening on her property. Without her consent.

And now the goods in question, that could have cost Vincent his life last night if Clyde had aimed directly at Vincent instead of just trying to delay him, were gone. “They’ve been watching you,” Vincent said, piecing together a theory. “They allowed you to land the load.”

Clyde blanched.

Davy shook his head. “Ain’t nobody was around that night.”

“Except the ‘ghost’ your boss hired as a distraction.”

Davy started to grin, then quickly schooled his expression. “I don’t know nothing ‘bout no ghost.”

“If the Revenuers took the goods,” Matthew said slowly, “they must have come in right after we left at dawn.”

“Which means they were watching us as well.” Vincent scanned the beach, a spot between his shoulder blades twitching. Where had someone been hiding? How much had they seen?

“But we went to the house through the tunnel instead of coming back out here,” Matthew said, swiveling his head to look around the beach, and tilting back to look up along the bluff. “How would they have known when it was clear?”

That sound he’d heard last night, the skittering that he’d attributed to bats returning to their roost… perhaps there had been another person in the tunnel, after all. Watching them.

Waiting.

The skin between his shoulder blades twitched again.

“It’s no longer any of our concern,” Gert said.

“We are not engaging in any illegal activity. We have nothing to hide.” She shook her finger at Clyde.

“I suggest you buy your supplies from those who can provide tax stamps, young man.” She turned on her heel and headed for the zigzag path back to the house.

“At least until the Revenuers get bored again and move along,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Vincent followed in her footsteps, deep in thought.

He had come here to discover the secret of the ghost on the beach that was not Mother Hobart. While he didn’t know the woman’s precise identity, he did know who had hired her and why. Davey was unlikely to name his other employer, but it didn’t matter now.

Renwick was about to give his son a stern talking-to, and if he decided to buy more smuggled goods, would likely store the contraband elsewhere.

Vincent was done, his mission complete.

He had discovered what he needed to learn. Had confirmed that Aunt Gert was safe.

He could have Lawrence pack his bags and they could depart as soon as tomorrow for Italy, finally on his way to meet his grandmother Vincenza in person.

They’d been regular correspondents since she had sent letters of condolence to each of the remaining family members after his mother died, and had been his motivation for becoming fluent in Italian so he could write to her in her native language.

When he’d first come to visit, Aunt Agnes had expressed delight at how much he resembled the Italian side of his family tree.

Grandfather had fallen in love with the Contessa on his Grand Tour and they’d married in Naples.

When travel was safe, they had alternated their time between England and Italy.

Grandfather had become ill and died while they were in Naples, and Vincenza had stayed there with her cousins ever since.

Vincent had been trying to meet her since that first letter had arrived from her addressed to him, not his father.

He was too young to travel alone.

Then Bonaparte tried to conquer the Continent.

The Bloody Corsican had finally been defeated and Vincent had reached his majority, but still he couldn’t go.

Father desperately wanted the medal from winning the Gentleman and Nobleman’s Catch Club annual competition, something he had not been able to attain with his own voice, a slightly better-than-average baritone.

Vincent had spent months rehearsing with Matthew and the rest of his group, hundreds of hours writing new music, trying and refining, only to lose the competition to his classmate and friend David, now the Earl of Ravencroft.

Father was annoyed by the results but Vincent was magnanimous in losing, seeing how David’s original song that won had been him pouring out his love for the woman who became his wife. Vincent had only been competing for the fun of it and to please his father.

Being practically abducted immediately after the competition and taken to a house party for two weeks hadn’t bothered Vincent, either, as the house was Brighton Pavilion and their host and captor was the Prince Regent.

Even if the Prince had demanded that Vincent, David, Matthew, and their other musical friends who had been abducted entertain His Highness by singing every evening.

And then finally, as he was packing to leave London, intent on booking passage on a ship headed to Italy, Aunt Gert’s letter had arrived, requesting large quantities of ink and paper, and imparting news of someone impersonating Mother Hobart on the beach at night.

Paper and ink, delivered.

Ghost mystery, solved.

Now he could go board that ship to Italy.

Why didn’t he feel elated?

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize Matthew had been talking to him until he saw the hand waving in front of his face.

“What? Beg pardon, I must have been woolgathering. What did you say?”

Matthew chuckled. “I was merely wondering aloud where Miss Ebrington is, and speculating how we might arrange to run into her again. I’ve been enjoying our unconventional courtship and would like to spend more time with my bride-to-be.”

Vincent froze in mid-step. “Your what?”

“My fiancée. I inherited her along with the title. Didn’t I tell you?”

Vincent closed his jaw with a snap.

“Sorry about that. Must have slipped my mind.”

He struggled to keep his voice quiet. “How does it slip your mind that you’re betrothed?”

Matthew resumed walking and plowed his fingers through his hair, a familiar habit when he was thinking. “In my defense, there has been a lot going on since we arrived for our visit. Ghosts. Smugglers. Revenuers. Aunt Gert’s charming amanuensis…”

Vincent froze again.

In the distance, Aunt Gert and Marshall turned the first corner on the path climbing up the bluff, and disappeared from sight.

“Yes. She’s charming.” Vincent’s stomach clenched. If he left for Italy tomorrow, he might never see Miss Walden again. Surely they’d complete Gert’s memoir project long before he returned from Naples.

Miss Walden exhibited personality traits that Vincent admired and appreciated.

He shuddered to think what it would have been like trapped in the cave last night had she been prone to fits of the vapors, or otherwise been hysterical.

Yes, she had let her guard down and trembled in his arms, even shed a few silent tears, but barely allowed him to offer her comfort before she got up and started working to free them without a thought for her manicure or gown.

He still didn’t know why she had followed him into the tunnel.

Nor did she take advantage of the opportunity to trap a viscount in marriage. In fact, perhaps he should take insult at the lengths she had gone to in order to avoid even the appearance of him compromising her.

That tickled a memory. What had she meant when she said she was protecting a foolish former student? Miss Ebrington was the only former student Vincent knew.

Why, and in what way, was Miss Walden protecting her? “Does anyone besides you know that you’re engaged to Miss Ebrington?”