Page 4 of Secrets of a Duke’s Heart (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #25)

CHAPTER FOUR

C larissa had not yet finished dressing to come down to breakfast the next morning when a commotion from the yard brought her to the window. In truth, she was having considerable difficulty selecting from one of her five dresses. There was the comfortable but unflattering pink one she usually wore to breakfast. The green-sprigged cream would have been the next logical choice, but upon arriving back at the Prescott mansion her maid took the soggy linen frock away for cleaning. So that was out.

She pulled on her nicest silk-cotton blue gown, then immediately took it off. Nathaniel would suspect if she chose her best dress.

Suspect what? Her pride prickled stubbornly.

That you are making a fool of yourself over Mr. Montague , a little voice whispered. Admit it, if only to yourself. He intrigues you.

But you will never intrigue him, the rational part of her insisted. It’s never reciprocal. You are invariably attracted to men who have their pick of ladies. They never choose you.

Clarissa pushed away memories of the last time she had been so foolish as to entertain romantic feelings toward a man, and chose the gray wool. It was a bit heavy and not especially flattering, but it would have to suffice.

Clothed, she was finally free to go to the window and find out who was yelling. She had to crane her neck to see from this angle, but those were almost certainly the Riders of the Waterguard.

The Preventive Waterguard, formed several years before to patrol the Chanel and stop illicit trade, consisted of teams of land-based Riders coordinating with a fleet of boats watching the shore. The Excise Officers were only doing their jobs, but no one liked paying taxes and popular sentiment in Cornwall mostly leaned toward the smugglers. Everyone here had a hand in the trade, supposedly. Including, Clarissa suspected, her dear cousin.

This Leacham seemed like a rough fellow. Clearly, he and Mr. Monty didn’t care for one another. A smile touched her lips at his curt tone. It faded immediately when she realized she should go down there and defuse the situation before Montague ran the Riders off. This might be her only chance to question them.

She rushed downstairs and out into the courtyard where two haggard-looking men in rough woolen coats with insignia stitched to the sleeves stood with their arms crossed and their feet wide. An aggressive posture. Neither had shaved in days. Nor, as she approached, bathed. She wrinkled her nose and tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. They had been searching tirelessly for a missing woman, in foul weather. Expecting them to appear clean and presentable was unreasonable of her.

Yet Clarissa couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast with Montague’s dark coat, somber slate waistcoat devoid of ornamentation beyond a subtle pattern in the brocade, and his pristine white cravat. Nor could she ignore the fact that the Riders were representing the Crown, and rather poorly, at that.

One of them eyed the white geese clustered on the lawn darkly. She could almost believe the bird was eyeing him with suspicion, too.

“What news of Miss Harriet?” she asked briskly. The gray-templed Rider glared at her.

“Are you acquainted with the missing lady?”

“I am not.”

“Then I have no time to indulge idle gossip.” He returned his attention to Mr. Montague, whose normally thunderous expression darkened further.

Despite this, her heart skipped when his gaze cut to her and mirth glinted in those gray depths. The color of his waistcoat enhanced the steely shade.

Do all men have such long lashes?

“Miss Penfirth has agreed to aid me in my search for Harriet. She is Viscount Prescott’s cousin and an astute observer. I insist you share the information you have related to me with her.”

A vain part of Clarissa preened to be called an “astute observer,” until she realized the only thing she had been observing just now was the man’s attractiveness. She collected herself with a little cough.

The Riders didn’t look happy about having to explain themselves to a woman.

“The girl tossed a stack of pewter tankards off a shelf. Just went...” He swept his arm to demonstrate. “That’s why I say she must have known him. No lady would have helped a smuggler escape. Especially a French one.”

“Are French smugglers unusual?” she said at the same time that Montague spoke.

“She did not do it on purpose—ladies first, Miss Penfirth.”

“To Mr. Montague’s point, you seem certain that Miss Turner knew her assailant. What other evidence do you have to support this claim?” she said. Warmth fluttered in her middle. Don’t be such a goose. He’s only showing you common courtesy.

Which was more than she could say for the other two men.

To her left, Montague’s brows rose. To her right, the Riders both scowled. Clarissa understood that certain men could not abide being questioned by a woman. Her estimation of Montague rose when he gestured, indicating that the Riders should respond.

He couldn’t be one of Nathaniel’s peers. Although he was clearly wealthy, aristocratic men, even the mere Honorables—second, third, fourth, fifth sons and so on—usually had a particular sense of entitlement that irked her.

Mr. Montague irked her for many reasons, but not that one. He was admirably willing to concede a point, which in her view ruled out a title, although clearly he was well-connected enough to have arranged for his niece to marry an earl.

An Irish earl, however, would be scorned by most upper-class Englishmen.

She would grill him about his background later. His wealth could be a material reason for Harriet’s kidnapping.

“The lady didn’t protest much when she was snatched,” said the second Rider. Montague cast him a sharp glare in rebuke. “What? It’s true. He picked her up and ran into that passageway like she was a bag of goosedown feathers.” The man cast a gimlet glance at the geese milling about nearby.

“Harriet’s screams will haunt me to my dying day,” Montague declared warningly.

“There is an echo in those caverns,” said Leacham.

“I should like to see these caves,” Clarissa insisted.

“Nay, miss, we have already searched them thoroughly and boarded up the one entrance at the back of the Cock and Bull Tavern.”

In Cavalier Cove, it was a good guess that everyone was in on the local smuggling trade—a victimless crime, really. A visit to Maggie, Caden and Derwa Bulloy’s daughter, ought to yield interesting gossip.

“I know you and your companion spent a long and uncomfortable evening searching for Miss Harriet. Why don’t we all go into town together? You can take rooms at the inn and get a hot meal while I visit with Maggie.”

A little coddling of the masculine ego never went amiss. Bribing tired, hungry men with the prospect of a soft bed and good food ought to soften their rough tempers.

Leacham scoffed. His companion spat. Her brows shot up at their rude manners.

“Old Bulloy wouldn’t let us a room even if we had the scratch.”

“Ah. Perhaps at the other inn in Cavalier Cove? The Mermaid’s Rest?” She knew the excise officers weren’t well-liked in this town. She shouldn’t be surprised.

The Riders exchanged an incredulous glance. “Wouldn’t expect a woman to know how money works.”

She had inadvertently embarrassed them. Mr. Montague came to her rescue.

“I shall secure your lodgings on the condition that you inform Miss Penfirth of all that you have told me,” Montague said in a tone that brooked no argument. He turned on his heel and strode away, his coat tails flapping. “I’ll fetch the buggy.”

“Miss Turner was taken out to sea. We gave chase but the Waterguard’s boats are no match for the Spectre,” Leacham said grudgingly. “We lost our quarry in the storm cloud. We’ve been riding the shoreline all morning looking for her.”

“I see.” She could understand why these men believed that Harriet had pre-planned her own kidnapping. Indeed, she was half inclined to arrive at the same conclusion. But she still wanted to inspect the scene of the crime herself. “Here is Mr. Montague with the horses. Shall we?”

* * *

The day was still early enough that the Cock and Bull’s dining room held a handful of visitors. Sure enough, Maggie scowled when the four of them made their entrance. Ignoring her furrowed brow, Mr. Montague strode to the counter and slapped coins on the scuffed wood.

“Two rooms for the night. Starting now.”

“For you and the lady?” Maggie jerked her head.

“No, I am staying with my cousin, Viscount Prescott.” Clarissa smiled warmly despite gritting her teeth over the barmaid’s cheeky implication that she was there with Mr. Montague. “We are working with these gentlemen,” —she gestured at the haggard Riders— “to track down the missing Miss Turner, who was stolen from this very taproom yesterday evening.”

Which Maggie knew perfectly well. She was a fine actress, though, for her eyes flared wide and she pressed her hand to her heart in feigned shock. “I have never been so frightened as when that strange man leaped out of the shadows, knocked over the tankards I’d been drying, and nabbed that poor girl.”

She was lying, if not well, then at least entertainingly. Clarissa almost forgave her for implying that she was there with a strange man. Maggie wasn’t yet twenty and clearly had a flair for the dramatic.

“Are you certain you didn’t recognize him?” asked Montague suspiciously. “I swear I saw you pointing over there and whispering to my niece.”

“How would you have noticed?” the girl said tartly. “You were too busy arguing with that lot.” She jerked her head at Leacham and his companion, then pushed the pile of coins back at him. “We don’t want the likes of them staying here. You can take your money and stick it?—”

“Nobody was their best self yesterday.” Clarissa scooped up the coins, placing them in a row. Click. Click. They glinted against the wood. “Please. Everyone is worried. The Riders can get settled while Mr. Montague shows me the tunnels.”

Forced to see how much money she’d be turning down, Maggie relented. “I’ll have to check with Papa.”

“We want meals, too,” the second Rider, who didn’t seem to be the sharpest tool in the shed, called out. Leacham elbowed him.

A few minutes later, a grumbling Cadan Bulloy had granted begrudging permission for the disliked Riders to stay for one night, meals and care for their weary horses included.

“Bloody highway robbery,” Montague grumbled as they picked their way through a crowded alcove used as a storeroom. It was little wonder that a man had been able to hide himself in the gloomy depths.

“Regretting your generosity?”

“Immensely.”

Clearly, Montague had money, but he wasn’t above having to think about his spending. Her pulse ticked up a notch. She still couldn’t quite figure him out. While it was uncouth and impolite to ask about one’s wealth, there were a hundred tiny indications that usually allowed her to accurately peg a man’s social status quickly. His clothes, his mannerisms, his interactions with his inferiors, and who he deferred to socially, all pointed to a man’s position in highly regimented English society.

She hadn’t developed this skill out of avarice, but out of necessity. The Prescott family had been nearly bankrupt when Nathaniel inherited the viscountcy, and financially, they were still relying on him to bring them out of debt. She wished he would marry an heiress and get it over with, but she supposed that was easier said than done. No matter how young, titled, and handsome Thaniel was, hard-pressed men with expensive country estates to maintain outnumbered rich young ladies.

She had not been monied. While she had caught the eye of a coveted younger son, he had thrown her over in favor of a richer, younger, less challenging lady. Clarissa refused to think about him ever again. Starting now.

At the back of the alcove were boards nailed across a jagged hole in the wall. Mr. Montague unlocked the chain holding the makeshift door to a bolt embedded in the stone and picked up the lantern Derwa had given them.

“Ladies first,” he said.

What gallantry , Clarissa mused apprehensively as she picked up her skirt and descended the rough stairs into the depths.