Page 118 of Counting on a Countess
She nearly sank to the sand in relief. Surely, he would have pointed out the opening to the customs men if he knew about it.
Her relief perished quickly as Jory made straight for the rocky outcropping at the farthest end of the beach. He stopped beside it and pointed.
“There,” he said exultantly. “All the proof you need.”
Kit went to Tamsyn, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Perhaps it was an attempt to reassure her, or maybe it served as a signal to get ready to fight, then flee.
She prepared for both eventualities, making herself light on her feet and recalling Kit’s instructions on how to punch someone.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Edwards ventured. “I see only a collection of rocks.”
“It’s what’s on the other side of them,” Jory shot back. Moving with the stiffness of middle age, he scrambled over the rocks. When he reached the top, he called back, “Up here.”
Tamsyn’s breath sawed through her as she watched both riding officers scale the rocks. Hands on their hips, they stared down at the other side. Wright removed a pad of paper from his pack and sketched what he saw.
“You see?” Jory crowed. “It’s a pier. I found it yesterday after I heard her in the garden talking of her crime. They use it for their smuggling. Haul it out into the water, and then the boats can land and unload their damned cargo.” He sneered at Tamsyn. “Drag them away. There’s the evidence.”
Edwards climbed down from the rocks and walked purposefully toward her and Kit. “Can you explain this?”
“What’s to explain?” Jory cried, awkwardly lowering himself from the rocks. “I’ve already told you—”
“I’d like to hear from Lord and Lady Blakemere,” the senior officer said, his voice measured.
“It’s...” Tamsyn’s ability to dissemble deserted her. “The purpose of that pier is...”
“It’s the private dock, naturally,” Kit said in a matter-of-fact tone. “For the rowboats bringing the sea bathers from town.”
Tamsyn suppressed her urge to look at Kit with the bewilderment she felt.
“My lord?” The senior officer frowned in confusion.
Kit gestured as he spoke animatedly. “For visitors who want to bathe in the sea but want a sheltered place to do it, we will ferry them from the pier in the village to this spot. It will spare guests of more delicate constitution from struggling to walk over sand. Everyone will wear bathing costumes, of course,” he added with a nod, “since women and men will have access to the water. We’ll have bathing machines and people to act as dippers.”
“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Jory snapped, stalking toward them.
“A dipper is someone who holds a person in their arms and dips them into the water,” Kit explained. He turned to the customs officers. “They’re at all the best seaside resorts. Excellent especially for ladies who might not have the ability to swim.”
“Notthat,” Jory said tartly. “The whole sodding bit about bathing machines and dippers—you’re babbling nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Kit raised a brow. “Shall I tell them, Lady Blakemere?” he asked, glancing at her with a fond smile.
“By all means,” she answered, utterly mystified.
Kit wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. He beamed at the customs men. “My wife and I have decided to turn Newcombe into England’s most sought-after seaside holiday destination.”
As the riding officers murmured their interest, Tamsyn pasted a smile on her face—even though her insides were a riot of shock, amusement, and disbelief. Newcombe—the next Brighton?
“There’s no such scheme,” Jory spat.
Kit glanced at him coldly. “Lord Shawe, your opinion on the matter is not being solicited.”
“But—” Jory protested.
“A seaside resort,” Edwards said skeptically.
Without pause, Kit began speaking with excitement. “We built the pier first to test if it was possible to ferry people from town to the cove, and it was a rousing success. But the introduction of the ferries is just one of the many features and improvements we will be undertaking.” After gently releasing his hold on Tamsyn, he strode back toward the village. “Please, sirs, follow me.”
In contrast from their grim plod before, their procession now worked in reverse as Tamsyn and the others hurried after Kit, who walked with wide, eager strides. “We’ll have tents and chairs to hire,” he called over his shoulder, waving toward the beach. “And refreshment kiosks selling lemonade and ices.”
