Page 4 of Counting on a Countess
Staring into the narrow, dark alley, Tamsyn Pearce calculated her odds of surviving the next ten minutes and determined they weren’t good.
“Did you bring a firearm?” Nessa asked as she peered over Tamsyn’s shoulder.
“I have a knife in my garter,” Tamsyn answered.
Nessa clicked her tongue. “A blade won’t do much against a pistol.”
Straightening her spine, Tamsyn said in what she hoped was a confident tone, “I’ve learned a few things after eight years of smuggling—including how to avoid the dangerous end of a pistol.” She aimed a smile at her friend. “Haven’t been shot yet.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Nessa replied grimly.
Tamsyn shook her head. “A fine way to show your encouragement.”
Nessa attempted to look more cheerful, but the worry never left her eyes. She gently smoothed a hand down Tamsyn’s cheek. “Ah, my bird, forgive my worry. You’ve done so much for Newcombe, ever since you were but a child, and your poormabmikandtasat God’s table.”
An old, familiar ache resounded in Tamsyn’s chest, even though it had been ten years. Her parents, Adam and Jane Pearce, had taken their pleasure boat out to sail along the rocky Cornish coast of their home, leaving fourteen-year-old Tamsyn behind to finish her schoolwork. They had not returned alive.
The barony had passed to Tamsyn’s uncle, Jory. But if the villagers of Newcombe had hoped to find in the new baron the same measure of concern for their welfare as his brother had demonstrated, they were bitterly disappointed. A poor fishing yield and strangling taxes decimated Newcombe’s livelihood. To Tamsyn, orphaned and adrift, there had been one audacious solution to the village’s plight.
But all that could come to an end if she couldn’t move this sodding shipment of brandy and lace. She’d journeyed all the way to London to help the village and if she failed, she imperiled over four hundred souls depending on her.
She glanced back into the alleyway. It smelled of copper and standing water, and shadows gathered thickly. Somewhere in that gloom, a tanner named Fuller kept a storefront, but that business was merely a pretense for a much more profitable enterprise.
“Can we be sure of this bloke?” Nessa pressed, giving words to Tamsyn’s own worries.
“He’s the best lead we’ve had in a fortnight.” Everyone else had fallen through. “Come on.” She stepped into the alley.
More than once, Tamsyn had evaded customs officers, running down the beach and hiding in caverns to lose her pursuers. She had learned how to fire a pistol and where to stick a man with her blade so that she dealt a punishing but not fatal wound. Every time a new shipment needed to be offloaded, she faced danger.
The fear that made her palms sweat had little to do with physical peril. So many relied on her. She couldn’t fail them.
Nessa’s nervous steps tapped behind her as she strode deeper into the alley, echoing her own rapid heartbeats. But Tamsyn vowed that she would brazen this out just as she’d done with everything else in her life.
She passed a man sleeping on the ground. He opened one eye as she went by and gave a grunt of surprise. Women of quality didn’t haunt shabby London alleys. Not for the first time, Tamsyn wondered if she ought to have changed her clothes before leaving Lady Daleford’s this morning. Too late to do anything about it now. She had to move forward.
Fuller’s shop front was little more than an awning-covered table strewn with hides in different stages of tanning. The reek of lime brought tears to Tamsyn’s eyes, and she heard Nessa gag quietly behind her. A jowly man in a heavy apron stood behind the table, warily watching Tamsyn’s approach.
He said with barely concealed disdain, “Looking for fine leathers, miss?”
Tamsyn fingered one hide, pretending to contemplate it. “Bill Conyer said you could help us.” In desperation, she’d gone to the docks to look for leads. Conyer, an out-of-work stevedore, had given her Fuller’s name and direction—though he’d had to be financially compensated for the information.
Fuller scowled. “Conyer don’t send no one to me for leather. Only...” His eyes widened. “But you’re a lady. Ladies don’t—”
“This one does,” Tamsyn interrupted. “Are you interested?”
“How do I know you ain’t playing?” Fuller demanded. “No ladies in this business.”
Tamsyn fingered the diaphanous fabric around her neck. “Chantilly lace. Fifty yards of it.” She calmly pulled a flask from her reticule and held it out. “This is a sample of my brandy. Five hundred gallons are sitting in Cornwall this very moment. I’m looking for the right buyer for both.”
Fuller glared at the flask but didn’t take it.
“Go on,” Tamsyn urged. She fought to keep her tone calm. It would scare Fuller off if she showed her desperation. “You’ll never taste anything finer.”
He snatched the container from her hand and took a drink. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said with reluctant admiration, “That’s prime fuddle.”
Her heart rose, all the while she kept her expression calm.
“But I ain’t going to be your fence,” he added.
