Page 16 of Secrets of a Duke's Heart
But there was this cheerful little cottage with a fishing dinghy moored out front and a garden with a chicken coop. For the first time since his kiss with Clarissa this morning, he felt hope.
Leacham pounded on the door rather rudely, in Jude’s estimation. The Rider’s company had begun to grate many miles and several hours ago. He was grateful not to have to work this way. Part of him admired Leacham’s toughness and determination, despite knowing it was motivated by vengeance toward the smuggler who had bedeviled him for years. He cared little for Harriet’s safe return apart from hoping that her safe return would finally mean the smuggler’s capture.
Fine. Jude could work with a man bent on revenge. But the sooner he could stop, the easier he would feel about the situation. It was absolutely imperative that no one in Cornwall discover that he was the Duke of Montague until Harriet was safe and she was safely wed to Lord Lucarran. That included Clarissa Penfirth.
First he would find Harriet. Then he would handle Clarissa.
The thought of handling her lush curves sent an inconvenient rush to his loins. At that exact moment, the door jerked open and a petite woman with amber skin and black braids peered out. Her wide smile fell when she saw them.
“Where is your husband?” demanded Leacham.
“Benoit!” she shouted. A dark-skinned man stepped out onto the small porch and shut the door with his wife inside. Given the Rider’s overt aggressiveness, Jude didn’t blame them for leaving them standing outside, though he had been looking forward to getting out of the weather for a few minutes.
“We can talk here.” Benoit crossed his arms over his chest.
“Where is theSpectre?”
“An’ how should I know? My boat is there. She is theHaint.”
Benoit was a Yankee, Jude realized with a start. His French-American accent wasn’t one typically found in Cornwall, and it took him a moment to place it.
“Don’t deny it. Two days ago, your ship was seen tied to the back of theSpectreheading into heavy weather. Tell me where she is.”
“She offered aid when I needed it. On the sea, we are all friends.” He shrugged, but the tense set of the man’s shoulders belied his nonchalance.
“You expect me to believe a smuggling ship stopped to help you out of the goodness of her captain’s heart?”
Jude winced at the way Leacham spoke to this man on the front stoop of his own home. Little wonder the Riders were so disliked when they treated people with such disdain.
“Is there anything you can tell us?” he pleaded. Benoit’s gaze darted to him, then narrowed as he returned his attention to Leacham. “Did she sail east or west? Could you identify her captain if you saw him again?”
“Aye.”
“Let us into your house.” Leacham attempted to swagger past.
“No.” Benoit blocked him. “You leave us alone, Rider. We ain’t nothing to do with smuggling in this house. You have no authority here.”
Before the scene could turn into a scuffle, Jude grabbed the belligerent Rider by the back of his jacket and hauled him off the porch. “Stop.”
“He is in cahoots with Le Fantôme,” Leacham seethed, shaking him off. “I have come too far not to succeed at capturing him now.” He stormed back up the steps, forcing Benoit to back up. “A search of the premises would reveal hidden stores of lace and tubs of brandy, wouldn’t it?”
Benoit shook his head vehemently. “If I tell you which way they sailed, will you leave us alone?”
“Yes,” Jude said firmly, cutting off Leacham.
“They sailed toward Falmouth. The captain, he’s a Frenchman. Young. Handsome.” He glanced uneasily at Jude. “There was a young miss with them. Didn’t seem too happy to be there.”
Jude’s pulse quickened. She was alive, and relatively unharmed. Harriet didn’t have a quick temper, but once set off, she could be fiery. Being kidnapped would certainly do the trick.
“Them?”
Benoit hesitated. “There was another crewman on board. Old.”
“What were their names?”
“Didn’t get the crewman’s. The captain is called Rémy.”
“Not Thierry?” Leacham leaned in eagerly. Warily, the American shook his head. “There must be an entire gang of them. Le Fantôme isn’t one man, he is a syndicate!”
