Page 17 of The Spinster's Secret Scoundrel
Ada froze. Did he know?
“The head of the Excise Office grows weary of Desmarais’ exploits. If I cannot bring him into custody, I might lose my position.”
“Oh, no.” He didn’t deserve that. Uncle Patrick worked so hard. He was right. In the three years since he plucked her out of her home village and brought her here, Ada hadn’t given him much information to work with. Worse, she’d joined the very smuggling operation she’d been sent to spy upon. She’d been an ingrate.
“Yes.” He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment before adding, “I wanted to tell you before I bring the other men. You know the residents here dislike us. They refuse to provide us with decent lodgings. I could prevail upon the viscount to house us, but I cannot impose upon his lordship as frequently as I do yours. My men and I must intrude upon your hospitality for a night.”
“Of course,” she said woodenly. Ada never protested when her uncle made such requests, despite the way his Riders made her feel like a servant in her own home. Dread turned her limbs to lead as she followed him to the door. How could she turn him away? Impossible. She couldn’t say no.
But then—what to do about Thierry and his cognac? The stuff he’d been willing to risk his life for?
Ada excused herself for fresh air.
Sitting on her flagstone stoop were three bedraggled men. They looked weary and smelled as though they hadn’t bathed in days. She sighed. Unlike Thierry, who had washed his own clothing, the three Riders would expect her to launder their garments and cook for them. She was only a woman, after all.
“Might need your—your help—” Ada inhaled. She had every reason to be nervous. “With the wood. I—it’s heavy. I could use—for the water.”
Gah. She could hardly make eye contact with the men.
“Course, miss. I’ll be glad to help.” The three men came to their feet. One spoke.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, gesturing for them to enter. The sight of a wagon lumbering up the road from the village had changed her hand-waving into a frantickeep movingmotion.Don’t stop here.None of the men noticed her flailing.
In the driver’s seat, with his hat’s brim tipped low to conceal his features, was Thierry.
Now would be an excellent time to turn him over to her uncle and save him the way Uncle Patrick had saved her.
She couldn’t do it. Apparently, Ada’s susceptibility to bad men hadn’t abated in the years since her downfall.
She cast one final glance over her shoulder to see whether her attempted message had the intended effect. To her immense relief, the wagon rolled past just as she turned to close the door. He touched his hat brim but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her.
“Where do you store your firewood, Miss Naughton?” asked one of the men, eyeing the small stack beside the stove.
“Out in the—”Drat and damnation.“In the shed.”
They wouldn’t notice Thierry’s crates. Probably. She should go with the man to make certain, though.
“I’ll assist you, Miss.”
“We have enough for now,” she managed to say without tripping over the words. “You must b-be—tired.” She busied herself in the kitchen. “I’ll make a pot of tea.”
Once they had their boots off, they’d be less likely to volunteer for a trip to the shed, she reasoned. Most of the time, her uncle and his men treated Ada like a servant instead of their hostess.
Later, when the four men were at her table, ruddy-faced from doctoring their tea with splashes of liquor and eating the egg pie she’d baked for them, Ada slipped on her shoes and went to the shed. They would need hot water for washing, and she would need enough wood to cook breakfast and wash linens in the morning…
The shed door creaked loudly, startling her. Even in the low light of deepening dusk, she could see that crates were gone. A grim smile tugged the corners of Ada’s mouth. Leave it to Le Fantôme to move his cargo out from an excise officer’s nose.
THIERRY
A VISIT TO A VISCOUNT
Thierry whistled and flicked the reins as he drove up the long road to Viscount Prescott’s spacious country seat. Long shadows pursued him. The sun dipped low on the horizon, but he was sure of his welcome, despite the late hour.
The labels might be a bit scuffed from their adventure with the dinghy, but the bottles he’d brought all the way from France were still worth a fortune. Irreplaceable. Every club in London, and half the aristocracy, would vie to purchase them at auction.
And now, his precious cargo was safely stored in his borrowed wagon. He might have worked up a sweat while dragging the crates behind the shed, then loading them into the wagon, but the day’s exertions were nothing a good night of sleep wouldn’t cure.
The soft clink of jostling bottles made Thierry impossibly happy. It was the sound of money, of a prosperous, secure future. After paying Miss Naughton, he’d be…
