Page 17 of My Secret Duke

W hen Ivo and Charles arrived at Whitmont, the evening shadows were stretching long over the lawn, while the water from the fountain with its mermaid statue shone in golden droplets. The setting sun turned the many windows on the Tudor house to gold, and the smell of cut grass was in the air. It was home to Ivo, and had been home to his ancestors for hundreds of years, and yet right now, the place seemed unnervingly quiet. Unfamiliar. Ivo felt that tickle of unease increase as he and Charles dismounted.

A servant came to take their horses, and a moment later, Carlyon hobbled down the stairs.

“Sir, sir, I tried to stop them!” he wailed. “I said they had no right, but there was a document—”

Close behind him was Lieutenant Harrison, neat as a pin in his uniform, with a smirk on his face. He called out in an almost jaunty voice, “We had permission, Your Grace. The law was behind us.”

“What does he think he’s doing?” Ivo growled. On the journey from Grantham to Whitmont, he had been worried, but now he was angry. Harrison’s disrespectful behavior was not something he was used to, and it left him feeling worried and discomposed.

Charles put a hand on his arm, and Ivo swung to face him, hasty words on the tip of his tongue. Charles raised an eyebrow.

“Think before you speak,” he said in a low, urgent tone. “Indignation and bluster are good—you are a duke after all—but don’t allow yourself to be pushed into a corner.”

Ivo wondered who Charles imagined he was speaking to—certainly not a man who had been in the smuggling game since he was twelve years old. All the same, it was a timely reminder. Charles had as much to lose as Ivo. Since he was not a duke, then possibly more. They were in this together.

Harrison came to a stop before them. “Your Grace,” he said, with the smallest of bows. “My apologies for cutting short your social engagement. Your man,” with a dismissive glance at Carlyon, “thought it imperative you be present while we searched your house.”

“I tried to stop them!” Carlyon wailed again, wringing his hands.

“You searched my home?” Ivo asked in a voice trembling with outrage. “This is beyond impertinent. What right have you to do such a thing, Lieutenant?”

Harrison might have flushed—the light was getting dimmer by the moment—but he didn’t back down. He had always been a stickler for the letter of the law as he saw it. Ivo might mock his unbending manner, but it meant Harrison was unlikely to turn aside if he saw something happening that he considered irregular. That made him even more dangerous.

“I have an order from Lord Ralph Anderson that permits me to search your home. Sir.”

Ivo glared at him while his mind galloped like a runaway horse. Lord Ralph was the magistrate in the Portside area, and he was not a friend of the Fitzsimmonses. He had long bemoaned the illegal behavior that went on in the Kent marshes and, several times in Ivo’s hearing, had declared that one day he would put a stop to it. Ivo didn’t think his lordship knew for certain that the Fitzsimmonses were involved, but anyone who lived in this part of Kent must have their suspicions.

Carlyon was shuffling a few steps behind the lieutenant, and Ivo met the butler’s gaze. It was hard to tell in the fading light, but he thought the old man looked paler than usual, and there was an unease in his eyes that worried Ivo. This was Carlyon, who had been a rock throughout Ivo’s childhood, and a dependable retainer over many years’ service. That he looked anxious was a concern.

“Indeed,” Ivo said, his voice icy, turning back to Harrison. “Show me this order, Lieutenant, and I will decide whether or not it is valid.”

Harrison undid a couple of the buttons on his jacket and reached inside. He took out a crisp fold of papers and handed them to Ivo. But by now, the evening had turned to near darkness and he could not read whatever was on the documents, or even recognize the signature. With a huff of frustration, he took the stairs two at a time and strode into his house, aware of the others trailing behind him.

“Get me a light!” he roared as he made his way to his study.

One was produced—he noted that Carlyon did it himself, and the old man’s hands were shaking. He gave the butler a sharp glance, and Carlyon straightened, his expression reverting to its usual impassiveness. Satisfied, Ivo turned to the order.

Lord Ralph had signed it. A quick scan of the wording showed that the revenue men were allowed to be at Whitmont. They were also allowed to search the house for any “items of contraband,” and then there was a list that included spirits, wine, tea, chocolate, soap, etcetera, etcetera.

“What makes you think I have any of this?” he asked, maintaining his anger.

Harrison was staring at Charles with a frown, but now he turned back to Ivo again. “We have credible information from a witness that you are involved in the smuggling trade, sir.”

Ivo huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Apart from the complete preposterousness of anyone saying such a thing, and of you believing them, have you found any of these items in my house?”

Harrison nodded, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. “A bottle of brandy, sir. French brandy.”

Ivo stared, and then he laughed. “Show me any house in England, and I will show you some French spirits! That was a gift, I’ll have you know. You have searched my house, dragged me home from my visit to Grantham, and all for this?” He dropped his voice into a low growl. “I am seriously angry, Lieutenant.”

“Our witness is credible, sir.” Harrison seemed unmoved. “And you offered me a glass of this same brandy one evening when I was here. You offered smuggled goods to an officer of the crown.”

“And very pleased with it you were, if I recall,” he mocked.

Harrison’s eyes narrowed. He did not like to be made a fool of.

Ivo turned to Charles but saw that Wickley was staring over his shoulder. Something about the man’s rigid stance made Ivo turn, and he realized Charles’s gaze was fixed on the portrait of the late duke in his younger days. Ivo was aware he looked very like his father… but so did Charles.

Harrison was watching them both, and perhaps he had seen the resemblance too. He asked, with a nod at Charles, “Who is this?”

Charles turned to him, and Ivo was relieved to see he was his usual affable self, as if nothing was the matter, though Ivo didn’t think that was true. “Charles Wickley, at your service. I accompanied Northam here from the house party at Grantham. I am on my way home to London.”

Harrison frowned and opened his mouth to question him further, but Ivo intervened. “You have searched my house and found nothing of consequence. I think it is time you left.”

But again, the lieutenant was unfazed, as if his belief that he was in the right trumped all else. “I believe you are involved in smuggling along this coast—our informant has told us so, and he has nothing to gain by denouncing you. Indeed, he has much to lose.”

“You arrogant fellow!” Ivo growled. “Who is this informant? Have you a name?”

“He does not wish his name known. He tells me Portside is a hive of miscreants, and if his identity were known, his business would suffer, as well as himself.”

“No name, and yet you would believe this liar over me, a duke?”

Harrison continued, though he was speaking more quickly now, aware Ivo had reached the limit of his patience. “You should not expect to escape the full force of the law just because you are a peer. I intend to do my duty without fear or favor. Good evening, sir.” And with another glance at Charles, he turned and marched out, chivvying his men before him. Carlyon, whom Ivo saw was also gazing at the portrait, gave a start and hurried after them, probably to make sure they hadn’t pocketed anything valuable.

With the door closed, Ivo took a breath and stared down at the order, now clenched in his fist. “Damn him,” he said. “Damn the man to hell.” Anger rippled through him, but concern followed soon after. In all his years as master of Whitmont, and his father’s before him, nothing like this had ever happened. Why now? Was his family’s luck finally running out?

When he looked up, he found Charles was watching him, and his urbane persona had been shed like a cloak.

“Who is this informer?” Ivo asked, not expecting an answer. “Who would inform on me?”

Charles appeared to give it some serious thought. “I know you expect absolute loyalty from your people, but could it be one of them? They might need to make some money in a hurry, or they might feel you’re not treating them with the proper respect. They might hold a secret grudge against you or your family. There are many reasons a person might turn to informing on you.”

“A grudge?”

“These are but a few possibilities, Northam.”

Ivo swallowed back his protests. Charles was right. He tried to think of anyone who resented him enough to ruin him. Although he did his best for the people on his estate and in the village of Portside, there would always be those who believed they were entitled to more. Usually, that showed itself in a few grumbles, or a sour look as Ivo passed by, but more than that…? No names came to him; he needed to talk to Bourne.

Charles spoke in a considered way. “Perhaps it is the same person who informed on the boats crossing the channel from France. Polgarth is in gaol, might he be the one?”

“No, not Polgarth,” Ivo said quickly. “I can’t believe he would do that. He’s always been loyal.” Polgarth knew the risks of his profession, and he knew Ivo would help him and his family to the best of his ability.

“Then what of this new shipmaster? Mystere? Could it be him? He has benefited from the revenue arresting his rivals. What do you know about him?”

Ivo ran a weary hand through his hair. “Not as much as I want to,” he admitted. “I need to speak to Bourne. He knows every smuggler along this coast.”

Charles nodded, and then looked about him. “What did Harrison expect to find here?” he asked, puzzled. “Did he have something in mind, or was he just hoping for a piece of evidence he could use? Or he could just mean to rattle you into doing something reckless.”

Ivo frowned. “I’m never reckless when it comes to my business.”

Charles stared in disbelief. “I’m sorry to disagree, but what of the many wagers you take part in? Some of them—”

“That’s pleasure,” Ivo snapped. “This is business. I am never reckless in business. That is why I have never been arrested.”

Up to now. The words hung over them.

“Well,” said Charles, breaking the moment. “I should start for London.”

Ivo shook his head. “It grows late. Stay here and start afresh in the morning. You never know who you might meet on the roads at night.”

Charles hesitated before he gave a nod. “Thank you.”

“Perhaps we can share a glass of my smuggled brandy,” Ivo added with a wry smile.

Charles smiled back, but his easygoing manner was missing. Ivo wasn’t sure whether it was the lieutenant’s visit and concern over the informant, or something else. He thought, as Charles’s gaze slid once more to the late duke’s portrait, that it was something else.