Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Within minutes, Tony was striding down a winding path along the cliff to the Happy Jack Inn, Sylvia’s hand tucked in the crook of his arm. Her ever-present basket was slung over her free arm, the contents covered by a green-checked cloth. She’d refused his offer to carry it. Gray clouds still hovered above but kept the rain to themselves.

“Are we moving the casks to a new hiding place?”

They took several steps before she replied. “Not exactly.”

Tony didn’t blame her for her reticence, though couldn’t help wishing she’d be a little more forthcoming with the details of the illegal operation in which he’d become involved. He’d never before done anything more illicit than help dismantle the headmaster’s carriage and reassemble it inside the gent’s sitting room.

The cliff path eventually joined a road, and soon they were strolling down High Street in the middle of the village. They passed cottages with broken windows and missing thatch, and more than one whose bare rafters left the upper floor open to the sky. Yesterday he hadn’t noticed, so intent was he on tracking down the pretty widow who now had her arm tucked through his. Viewed in the unforgiving light of day, the entire village had obviously been lacking funds for quite some time. What were they spending their smuggling profits on? Certainly not building materials.

But the streets were uncluttered and free of offal, unlike London. Here, the air was swept clean by the near constant breeze fresh off the Channel. A man could breathe deeply here and not choke.

Even the most run-down cottages had well-tended gardens, though their seedlings seemed much smaller than he expected this far into summer, and just the occasional flower. Tony recalled that his brother’s cook sometimes served those particular blooms as edible garnish. Seemed the entire village shared Sylvia’s penchant for the practical over the ornamental.

Other pedestrians called out cheery greetings to Sylvia as they walked, and gave Tony the once-over. A preponderance of the women they passed were dressed in the gray or lavender of half-mourning. To the few who paused, Sylvia introduced him simply as “Mr. Sinclair” with no hint of the nature of their relationship.

Her grip on his sleeve tightened when a mounted rider in an outdated coat and breeches slowed to their pace and tipped his hat. “Lady Montgomery,” the man drawled.

“Mr. Tipton,” Sylvia returned, her nose in the air, though her face had gone pale.

The rider stared pointedly at Tony.

Sylvia coughed. “Tipton, Mr. Sinclair. He and I were recently, er, married.”

Tipton’s eyebrows rose, disappearing above his hat brim. “Really? I don’t recall the banns having been read.”

“Special license,” Tony jumped in. “As soon as she consented to make me the happiest of men, I didn’t want to waste a single day.”

“Certainly understand your point of view.” Tipton c****d his head to one side. “But why would she give up the title to marry a plain mister, eh?”

“A title without a fortune is of little use.”

“You don’t say.” Tipton’s gaze grew more calculating, blatantly studying Tony’s well-tailored garments.

He let the confirmation of his wealth speak for itself. Though Tony was no tulip, his embroidered silk waistcoat alone had probably cost more than Tipton’s entire ensemble. Sylvia’s knuckles were white where she gripped his sleeve, as Tipton continued to stare. Tony covered her hand with his own. He wished she had let him carry the basket. She was trembling, making the glass containers inside clink against each other. Must be an interesting story behind her acquaintance with Tipton.

Sylvia cleared her throat. “We don’t wish to keep you from your rounds any further. Good day, Mr. Tipton.” Sylvia gave a slight push on Tony’s arm, urging him forward.

The two resumed their walk, and Tipton nudged his horse into a trot.

“What was that about?” Tony said as soon as Tipton was out of earshot. “I thought everyone in the village was in on our charade.”

“That doesn’t include the Revenue agent.” Sylvia’s face was now flushed with color.

“That was a Revenue agent?” Tony stared after the figure disappearing around a bend. A man whose job it was to catch them at their illegal nighttime activities, and who would gladly see them hung for it. Tony could have happily gone his entire life without actually meeting one.

And here Sylvia stood, carrying paraphernalia in her basket necessary to the smuggling business. No wonder she had trembled.

Perhaps Tony hadn’t fully thought through the potentially negative aspects of pretending to be the lovely Sylvia’s new husband, before agreeing to the scheme. But unlike his decision to travel with Alistair, this time he could at least blame his rash decision on the blow to his head he’d received.

“What is he doing about in the day? Thought Revenuers only tried to catch smugglers at night, when they’re landing their cargo.”

“The cargo has to be moved sometime. Tipton is probably dead certain one was brought in last night.”

Tony couldn’t help wincing at her choice of the word “dead.” He cleared his throat. “So, what are we doing today?”

Sylvia entered the yard of the Happy Jack. “We’re just a couple out to have lunch at the local pub.”

Tony shrugged and opened the door for her. At the innkeeper’s request, they took a table in the corner, the same that he had occupied with Alistair. Had that been only yesterday afternoon? Once again his life had taken a dramatic turn in a short span.

From his father’s suicide, to Ben suddenly joining the army and leaving Tony as temporary head of the family, to setting out on tour with Alistair in order to avoid a boring job, Tony had become adept at adjusting quickly. Surely that too was a requisite skill for a successful career as a rake?

They had barely pulled their chairs up to the table when Spencer came over with one tankard and a pitcher, and poured less than a finger’s worth.

“Baxter says he knows what he’s doing, my lady, but I think you should lend a hand just the same.” Spencer set the tankard down in front of Sylvia.

Tony watched as she took a sniff from the tankard, then a sip … and delicately spat it back. She cleared her throat. “Baxter never has been able to get the ratio right.” Sylvia pushed her chair back and stood, gesturing for Tony to do the same. “You might as well come along. In for a penny.”

Spencer finally gave his attention to Tony. “Sorry about the misunderstanding last night. No hard feelings, eh?”

“How could I say yes?”

The innkeeper laughed and gave Tony a hearty slap on his sore shoulder that made him stagger the first few steps as he followed Sylvia. She was headed for the kitchen, and he caught up just as she went down into the cellar.

Tony was glad of his coat as the temperature dropped significantly by the time they wended their way past sacks, barrels, and crates of supplies. Sylvia opened a door that Tony didn’t at first recognize was even there, it blended into the wall so well.

Inside was another room, with small casks stacked to the low ceiling, lining two walls. A worktable sat in the middle, surrounded by open barrels, and topped with glass carafes and other vessels of various sizes, as well as several packets of what looked and smelled like burnt sugar. Three men that Tony recognized from last night were arguing but broke off when they saw the newcomers. Jimmy was nowhere in sight.

“Gentlemen,” Sylvia said.

In perfect unison, all three pulled off their caps and chorused, “My lady.”

“You’re just in the nick of time,” the eldest of them said.

“I thought we was doing right fine,” a second said.

“Not if the pitcher abovestairs is any indication,” Sylvia said.

The second man jutted his chin, preparing a protest.

“If you make it too weak, Baxter, we’ll have to find new buyers for each batch.”

Baxter lowered his chin. “Aye, m’lady.”

“Told you, you was putting in too much water.” The third man finally spoke up.

“And you was putting in too much sugar, Corwin.”

Baxter gave Corwin a light punch in the arm, which Corwin returned, with more force. Baxter swung his fist back, but before he could strike, it was caught by the eldest of the three.

“Knock it off before I plant you both a facer,” the old man growled. He had to be seventy if a day, but Tony didn’t doubt he could hit both men. Baxter and Corwin also apparently believed, as they straightened their coats and looked away, grumbling under their breath.

“Thank you, Trent. Where’s Jimmy?” Sylvia pushed the containers on the table out of the way and set down her basket.

“He said none of these was right, and went back up to fetch the proper one. Is that it, then?” Trent pointed at the glass Sylvia had just retrieved from her basket.

Before Sylvia could respond, they heard the grind of wood on stone. Daylight and a gust of fresh sea air poured in through an opening in the wall. Jimmy stepped through, then leaned his shoulder against the door to push it closed.

“There you are, Syl. Did you bring it?”

Sylvia held out the carafe. “If you’d taken the street instead of the tunnel, our paths would have crossed, and I could have saved you the trip back to the house.”

Tony folded his arms. “I thought you said the secret tunnels and passageways were hogwash.”

“Montgomery said the tunnels were hogwash.” She untied the strings on her bonnet and hung it on a peg near the door. “Two carafes full to each cask, and one of these.” She pulled a spoon and salt cellar out of her basket and handed them to Corwin.

As Tony watched, Baxter picked up one of the half-ankers of brandy they’d unloaded from the boats last night and tipped the contents into a larger barrel, while Jimmy filled Sylvia’s carafe with water from a bucket and tipped that into the barrel, too. Corwin, meanwhile, spooned burnt sugar into the salt cellar, leveled it off, and emptied the contents into the barrel.

“Isn’t that sacrilege?” The intoxicating, rich scent of brandy and sugar permeated the air.

“The distillery ships out their product in concentrated form,” Sylvia explained. “Drinking it as it comes straight from the cask can be dangerous.”

“Just ask Corwin,” Trent said, dumping in another carafe of water.

“Sick as a dog, he was,” Baxter added.

“Shaddup,” Corwin grumbled. He tipped the barrel back and forth, stirring the contents.

Jimmy dipped a clean glass in and held the contents up to the lamplight. “Looks about right, don’t it, Sylvia?”

“Let’s check it in the daylight.”

Jimmy opened the door. A fresh sea breeze swept through the room, clearing Tony’s head of the brandy fumes. He followed Sylvia and Jimmy outside. Weak sunlight broke through a few of the clouds. The path leading up to the door was barely visible, just a tiny break in the tall grasses whispering in the wind, clinging to the hillside that rolled away, down to the shore. Off in the distance was the ever-present sound of crashing surf. Gulls squawked and soared on the breeze.

“Well, Mister— Tony? What do you think?”

Tony brought his gaze from the distant sea to Sylvia’s green eyes, the same color as the ocean in a spring storm. “What?”

She waved the glass under his nose. “What do you think?”

I think I could drown in your eyes. He kept his mouth shut, and took the glass from her, brushing her fingers. He held it up to the sun, squinting.

“Did we add enough burnt sugar? Too much?” Jimmy shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Wish I could have had some in my tea this morning, burnt or not.” Tony swirled the amber liquid, then held the glass under his nose. “Looks right. Smells right.” He tasted, let it slide down his throat. Sighed. “My brother would be proud to have this in his London cellar.”

“Excellent.” Sylvia took the glass from him before he could even think about drinking the rest, and went back inside and poured it into the barrel. “This first barrel is for Spencer, as usual, then start loading the cart as soon as Doyle finishes repairing it. The Seven Feathers Inn at Wool is expecting a delivery from us today. And make sure all the barrels have a stamp. Tipton is out riding.”

“Aye, m’lady,” the men said. Jimmy joined them, and the four settled into a routine of reconstituting the brandy and sealing it in larger barrels, complete with tax stamps.

Tony watched them for a bit, Sylvia at his side. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, leaning over to whisper in her ear, “I’d think you actually paid customs on those barrels.”

“We did, once. Or rather, Mr. Spencer did. He buys legal provisions for the inn, including brandy.”

“Illegal mixed in with the legal. Brilliant, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Her smile lit up the room as though the outside door had been opened. “Now that we have set aside payment for Mr. Spencer, let’s go upstairs and have some provisions sent up to Galen. This afternoon you shall have sugar for your tea.” She put her bonnet back on, grabbed her basket, and led the way upstairs.

They exchanged greetings with Mrs. Spencer and her daughter, baking pies in the kitchen. “The package you’re expecting is here,” Sylvia told her.

“I’ll let everyone know, my lady. Thank you.” Mrs. Spencer accepted a slip of paper from Sylvia and glanced at it before tucking it in her apron pocket. “I’ll have one of the lads deliver these later.”

“Shopping list?” Tony teased.

“Since we don’t have a grocer in the village, we buy many of our supplies through the inn.” Sylvia turned back to Mrs. Spencer. “May I see the list again? I want to make sure I wrote down everything Galen requested.”

The women chatted about groceries. Tony stepped toward the door. “I’m just going to get a bit of air.” Sylvia waved at him and continued discussing with Mrs. Spencer how much more flour they should buy this week, given they’d be feeding an additional person.

Tony had taken only a few steps outside when a girl peeked around the corner of the stables. “Mister!” she whispered, gesturing for him to come.

He glanced around the yard, seeing if anyone else was about.

“Mr. Sinclair!” the girl whispered again, gesturing. Still in pigtails, she couldn’t be more than eight or ten.

Tony walked over to the stables, but she disappeared by the time he turned the corner. Before he realized what had happened, an old woman grabbed him by the lapels and pushed him up against the wall. Six other women gathered in a semicircle, blocking him in. All were old enough to be his mother or grandmother, and each held a knife, knitting needles, rolling pin, or other implement he couldn’t identify but did recognize as capable of inflicting pain. Two of the women were among those who had exchanged pleasantries with Sylvia on their walk to the inn.

“Ladies,” he managed after the initial moment of shock. The first woman had let go, but a tiny old woman still pushed on him, her palms flat against his chest. She looked like she would break in two if he so much as breathed on her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“We know what you’re up to, laddie, and it won’t work.” The old lady in dark blue pointed her rolling pin at him in emphasis.

“Up to?”

“Trying to get under Lady Montgomery’s skirts. Didn’t work for that nasty captain, won’t work for you, neither.”

“You tell him, Edith.” This came from the stoutest and youngest of the bunch, at least forty, who had first grabbed him.

Edith nodded, shaking her rolling pin.

“I assure you, good ladies, I have the most honorable of intentions—”

“We know you kissed her last night.” The speaker pointed her knife at him. A very large, sharp-looking knife that looked quite capable of gutting a pig. Or a rake.

“Right, Mildred. That weren’t honorable, no how. You can pretend to be her new husband, but that don’t give you a husband’s rights.” This speaker backed up her point with a long, pointed meat fork, aimed at Tony’s throat.

He swallowed. “Perhaps not, under normal circumstances, but it did accomplish the goal of fending off the captain. If anyone was going to kiss the lady, wouldn’t you prefer it was me rather than him?” He flashed his best, most charming smile.

“Wouldn’t mind a kiss for meself.” The words were almost lost in Tony’s waistcoat, mumbled by the octogenarian still trying to press him against the wall.

“Hush, Marge.” The fork wavered between Tony and the little old lady attached to his shirt.

Marge glanced up at the fork-wielder. “You’re just jealous, Bernice. Look at that mouth of his. Made for kissing, it was.” Tony was a grown man, not a green lad, too mature to blush. “And he’s all nice and hard, in all the right spots.” She squeezed his chest for emphasis.

A hole should open up in the ground right now, and he’d sink blissfully from sight.

“That don’t change nothing.” Edith waved her rolling pin. “We ain’t going to let you hurt our lady.” The other three women, silent until now, murmured in agreement.

“If you do,” Bernice said, stepping closer until her long-handled fork touched the knot in Tony’s cravat, “you’ll soon be singing a different tune.” The sharp tines glinted in the sunlight.

Mildred took a step closer as well, both her voice and knife dipping low. “And you’ll be singing it soprano.”

Tony gulped. “I’m touched, as I never have been before—” he glanced down at Marge, still clinging to his waistcoat “—by how much you all care for Lady Montgomery. I can only assure you I have no intention of hurting her, and merely want to help her through this difficult time.”

“Out o’ the goodness of yer heart, laddie?” Edith scoffed. She hadn’t lowered her rolling pin, but at least it wasn’t pointed directly at him.

“What little boy doesn’t dream of becoming a pirate? But most boys grow up to be upstanding citizens. Smuggling isn’t quite piracy, but still has an element of risk, a dash of danger. And I’m only doing it for a short while.” The ladies weren’t backing away. Time for the truth, or at least a version thereof. “And yes, I admit, Lady Montgomery is delightful and easy on the eye. What man wouldn’t want to spend time in her company?”

The weapons lowered a bit at his confession.

A door opened and closed in the inn yard. Tony turned his head at the sound of Sylvia calling his name. “Just a moment,” he shouted. He looked at the ladies expectantly.

“Don’t forget what we said.” Edith shook her rolling pin at him.

“You keep your word, or we’ll keep ours.” Mildred tapped his shoulder with the flat of her knife.

Marge flashed a grin missing several teeth, and gave his chest a last little two-handed pat before she followed the others down a path that quickly disappeared among the tall grasses headed toward the beach.

Tony chuckled as he watched the ladies disappear. “What champions you have, Sylvia,” he whispered, before heading back to the inn yard.

He doubted any London rake had to contend with such defenders.