Page 19 of Secrets of a Duke’s Heart (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #25)

A CAVALIER COVE NOVELLA

Miss Harriet Turner lived life by the rules. How, then, had she ended up far away from everything she’d ever known, in a rough-looking tavern with a carved wooden sign out front bearing an image of a rooster riding a bull?

Her lips twitched into a smile before she schooled them into the placid mask of a woman who didn’t notice cheeky, slightly off-color roadside signs.

The rough Cornish inn and taproom was no place for a lady. Technically, she wasn’t one, which meant that Uncle Monty expected her to behave with even greater decorum than a real duchess, like her mother. Harriet cast a curious glance around the tavern. The village they had just driven through, Cavalier Cove, seemed as quaint as all the other ones they had passed on their journey.

This place, however, had a personality behind its charming exterior. The Cock and Bull Tavern where they had stopped to ask for directions was certainly…lively. The two men slumped over a wooden bench with tankards of ale set before them eyed Harriet and her uncle with suspicion.

Her uncle’s thumped fist on the bar prompted her to wince. Not this again.

“No, we are not here in search of lodgings,” Lord Montague, said with evident exasperation. “We want directions to Viscount Prescott’s estate.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir. Do I look like someone who hobnobs with toffs?” The girl behind the counter looked around Harriet’s age, perhaps a bit younger. She guessed around nineteen. “I’m only a barmaid, you know. Dunno nuffin’ about nuffink.”

Harriet bit back a smile at the girl’s exaggerated accent. This was not the first time her stuffy, aristocratic uncle had rubbed a less distinguished member of society the wrong way and gotten a stubbornly unhelpful response. She adored her Uncle Monty, but he had no idea how to interact with ordinary people—including his own niece.

Outside, a frightful honking drew Harriet’s attention to the window. Her amusement died instantly as three rough-looking men rode their horses straight into a flock of geese. The birds hissed and raised their wings menacingly.

If the birds didn’t like these men, then neither did she. Harriet always trusted an animal’s judgment of a man’s character. She did not always trust her Uncle Monty’s.

Her uncle dropped a coin on the counter and slid it across the scuffed wood with a grating scratch. Harriet winced.

“Find someone who does know,” he ordered. “Your father, for example.”

Harriet wanted to bury her face in her palm. She knew he was tired from their long journey, but this was not the way to get the information they needed. Once Uncle Monty got it into his head that a person wasn’t being sufficiently respectful, he would obstinately press the issue—even if there was no way for the other person to know he was a duke.

Uncle Monty loathed relying upon his title, especially when he was traveling. He believed it led merchants and innkeepers to overcharge him. Yet he still expected to be catered to like one.

Sure enough, the barmaid rolled her eyes and sauntered away, drying a tankard with a dish towel. But the canny girl’s attention cut immediately to the door when the bell overhead tinkled jauntily and the three men strode in.

Her eyes widened, and she hurried away. The men drinking sat up straight and muttered to one another while casting dark glares at the intruders.

Interesting.

Harriet edged behind her uncle’s broad back. His height and muscularity should deter these…highway robbers? But no, they bore insignia that looked official even though she couldn’t quite identify it. Unease roiled her stomach.

As if she didn’t have enough to worry about already.

“What is your business in Cavalier Cove?” demanded the clear leader of the trio, an older man with a nose that appeared to have been broken at least once. He stared down Uncle Monty with unyielding flintiness.

“I might ask the same question of you,” he said, straightening to his full height to look down on the intruders.

Oh, dear. This wouldn’t go well. She knew better than to try and speak up, but oh, how she wanted to try and stop him. Harriet had never been what you might call brave. She was used to being forgotten, overlooked, and otherwise ignored. Mostly, she preferred it that way.

“I am Patrick Leacham. We represent His Majesty’s Waterguard. We’re looking for a French smuggler. Goes by the name Le Fant?me.”

“Scoundrels, the lot of them,” muttered a female voice from behind her. Harriet turned to find the scowling barmaid had returned, without her father.

“Who are they?” Harriet asked softly.

“Riders,” the girl answered, as if that explained anything. “The Waterguard is part of the Customs and Excise office. The Riding Officers patrol the shore on horseback, and boat crews patrol near shore in smaller vessels. This lot has been after the Phantom for years. Especially that Leacham fellow.” She jerked her head at the leader. “Got a vendetta against him.”

Uncle Monty’s baritone rose. Harriet made a face. “I apologize for my uncle’s behavior.”

The barmaid laughed. “He can yell at the Riders all day long as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather have a smuggler for a customer than these fools. At least smugglers pay well and don’t threaten Pa.”

Lord Montague and the Riding Officers’ argument heated up. Harriet backed away with a long-suffering sigh. The other girl beckoned her behind the bar. “I’m Maggie,” she said.

“Harriet.”

“What’s a sweet girl like you doing with a toff like that?” she whispered.

“He’s my uncle. I am to be married. He’s taking me to Ireland.”

She didn’t mention that her uncle was a duke. Nor did she say that he was effectively getting rid of her after five failed Seasons. Harriet did not stand out. She was reasonably pretty but not what anyone would call a diamond of the first water. She wasn’t even a diamond in the rough. She was just boring, dependable Harriet Turner. A nobody, despite her elevated connections.

While she was capable of ladylike occupations such as singing, playing piano, and speaking a bit of French, she did so without demonstrating any particular talent, never mind enthusiasm. Her looks were passable, with straw-colored hair and wide hazel eyes, but her freckles were a liability. In short, she had failed to attract a suitor, and Uncle Monty had thus found one for her.

Lord Montague had particular ideas about what constituted an appropriate match for a niece born on the wrong side of the blanket. She would have been content with a mere Mister with an adequate income, as long as he liked her company well enough. She was, after all, a merely adequate Miss.

But her uncle wanted her to marry well, and to him, that meant a title.

Titled men wanted titled ladies.

She was not titled. Her dowry, while generous for an illegitimate girl with few prospects, was not enough to tempt rich men to overlook her stupid freckles.

Nor was she a clever conversationalist. She was shy and quiet, an attentive listener, who had learned to keep her thoughts to herself.

Men weren’t looking for wallflowers. They wanted fascinating, beautiful, clever brides with pots of money.

And so, Harriet had languished on the marriage mart for five long Seasons before being summoned to her uncle’s study one day and presented with a choice: to marry the Earl of Lucarran, of Ireland, or remain at Acton Heath, Lord Montague’s sprawling ducal estate, and accept that she was on the shelf. Forever.

She chose the first option. The Lucarran estate was situated to the southwest of Dublin, and she was assured that he spent most of his time in England, collecting rents as an absentee landlord. She had several opinions about this which left her uneasy about the match, but it was presented as take it or leave it, and despite her misgivings, she took it.

What else was she supposed to do? She longed for the security of a family and children. Even Harriet’s own parents hadn’t wanted her to exist. If not for Uncle Monty, who knew where her feckless parents would have left her. Harriet’s mother had gone on to marry a marquess on the condition that no one must ever learn of her youthful indiscretion, and the lady had complied with the order by all but forgetting her first, unwanted daughter. Harriet could count on one hand the number of times her mother had visited.

Lord Montague, never one to back down from an argument with those he considered his inferiors—which, being a duke, was almost everyone—raised his voice yet again. The three Guardsmen raised theirs in response, punctuated by honking from the agitated geese outside. Tension crackled in the air.

That was when she saw him.

A man clinging to the shadows in the hallway behind Maggie. He observed the events playing out in the main taproom of the Cock and Bull with a glint of mischief in his eye. Seeing he had attracted her attention, he raised one finger to his lips and winked.

Warmth coursed through her, sweeping through her midsection and heating her cheeks. Harriet jerked her attention away, but she couldn’t resist looking at him again.

“That’s Rémy. He’s the one they’re after. But we won’t let them catch him, will we?” the barmaid whispered.

Her pulse quickened at the thought that she was standing only a few feet away from a wanted criminal. A smuggler.

That didn’t sound quite so bad, honestly. Considering the way Leacham and his Riders were threatening Uncle Monty she couldn’t quite bring herself to feel too angry about cheating the Excise Officers. Times were hard after Napoleon’s wars had decimated trade. Didn’t ordinary people deserve a bit of affordable luxury, too?

But smuggling was wrong, and she was one to abide by the rules. She ought to say something.

She watched this Rémy from the periphery of her vision. He was remarkably good-looking with longish brown hair the color of a sandy beach at sunset and high cheekbones. Suffice it to say that her husband-to-be did not possess the kind of mouth that was made for passionate kisses. This stranger did.

Oh dear. She was waxing poetic over a pirate. Harriet gave herself a little shake.

“There is no reason to resort to violence. I assure you I am not affiliated with the man you seek,” said Uncle Monty. “You may not search my vehicle. I have rights.”

“Prove it,” sneered Leacham. “We know a toff like you is working hand-in-glove with Le Fant?me to transport smuggled goods. Am I supposed to take you at your word?”

It was the wrong tone to take. Uncle Monty’s sharp features scrunched into a thunderous scowl.

“I’d better fetch Pa before this gets out of hand,” Maggie said, and darted away.

Harriet chanced another glance at the smuggler. He caught her eye and smiled. A wave of heat started in her cheeks and rolled downward all the way to her toes.

Rémy pointed across the hallway. She gave a small nod to indicate she understood. He needed to escape, which meant he had to get across the way without being seen.

She ought to alert the Riders to his presence, but the geese hadn’t liked them and therefore neither did Harriet. Nor did she appreciate the menacing way they surrounded her uncle. Uncle Monty was starchy and sometimes got his dander up over inconsequential things, but he was a good man who had cared for her like a father. She didn’t know Maggie well, but she trusted a local to know who was in the right.

Perhaps this Rémy person hadn’t done anything wrong. They were treating her uncle like a hardened criminal, when he was obviously innocent of any crime, which did not inspire her confidence in Leacham’s judgment.

She therefore did something so entirely out of character that later, she would hardly believe herself capable of it. She ambled back to the bar, pretended to stumble, and accidentally-on-purpose knocked the entire stack of tankards onto the floor. They hit the ground with hollow thunks and rolled underfoot, tripping one of the Guardsmen and dropping him onto his bottom.

Harriet clasped her hands over her ears, wincing at the noise.

From there, all hell broke loose. One of the men pulled his pistol and aimed it at Uncle Monty. A large man, presumably the owner of the Cock and Bull, with Maggie trailing behind him, shouting to get this lot out of my damn tavern this instant . The Excise Officers did not oblige him.

More tankards kept falling onto the floor, bouncing and rolling every which direction. Harriet danced backward several steps to avoid getting her toes smashed by a falling cup—until she backed right into another person.

An arm like an iron bar around her waist lifted her off the ground. Harriet squeaked. Her protest was muffled by an equally large hand clamped over her mouth. Her back pressed flush against a man’s muscular chest. He didn’t smell like the aristocratic men she was used to. She caught a whiff of salt and a hint of bay rum.

“Stay quiet. You’re coming with me,” he said in accented English.

No, Harriet tried to scream, but Rémy dragged her into a closet and bolted the door from the inside. Before she could properly inhale, he tossed her over his shoulder and started down a staircase cut into the stone at the back of the room.

Unbelievable. She’d helped him, and he was kidnapping her!

* * *