Chapter 3 #2
“No, I just have the sense I was born with,” she replied tartly and made her way back down the stairs.
Ben chuckled and took a large bite of the bread. Ah, Miss Honey was a darling, and no mistake.
The High Street, Little Valentine, 22nd January 1816
Izzy thanked Mrs Doomsday as she left the haberdasher’s and lifted her basket from the counter.
She looked at her list again once she was outside, confirming she had everything Mrs Mabbs had asked for.
Caspar had ripped another hole in his britches and, having lost so many buttons in the past weeks she’d run out of stock, the woman needed supplies.
If Izzy had known she’d be keeping a smuggler in the attic the following day, she would never have volunteered to make the trip, but she could hardly back out.
Naturally, then her father had asked her to buy ink while she was out, and Mrs Adie remembered they were low on cheddar, oh, and could she buy some more onions?
Before Izzy knew it, she had a full list of requirements.
She’d also bought bread and cheese, hoping to sneak that to Boreas so he didn’t go hungry if she could not get to him.
Checking the list once more to ensure nothing had been forgotten, she tucked it away and turned to hurry back home, disliking being away from the vicarage for long in case something unexpected happened. No one but her ever went up to the attic, but that didn’t mean no one ever would.
A fierce wind rose, sending leaves and debris skittering over the cobbles, and Izzy reached up, holding the brim of her bonnet lest it be ripped away.
She hugged the wall as she came to the corner of Madame August’s shop, thinking to take the little alley around the back to get out of the wind, and froze instinctively as she saw Captain Underwood.
She ducked back out of sight before he noticed her but peered around the corner to watch.
He looked furious, his handsome face white with rage.
“I don’t care if the orders come from Prinny himself.
I’m not a damned assassin and neither are my men.
Catching smugglers is what I’m paid to do and handing them over to stand a fair trial.
No more, no less. That you have the temerity to suggest I would sink so low, and for money!
Take your filthy offer and tell your superior that I’m no man’s puppet. ”
“Ah, a noble sentiment, I’m sure, but Boreas is no ordinary smuggler.”
Izzy’s heart kicked hard behind her ribs, and she wished the speaker would step out of the doorway he stood in and show himself. His voice was at once cultured and oily, wheedling, as if he believed Underwood could be turned up sweet if he only considered the deal from a different angle.
“If he’s taken up, he’ll hang for treason, but that’ll mean a trial and a good deal of embarrassment to the crown, and to some powerful people who don’t like being made to look foolish.
That fellow was a spy for the French and ran rings round our men, giving English secrets to our enemies.
You’d be doing your country a service, putting him down like the dog he is. ”
Izzy bit back a cry of denial, pressing her fingers to her lips to keep the sound from escaping. No! No, surely not. She did not believe it. Yet fear tiptoed down her spine, making her shiver.
“Prove it,” Underwood demanded, taking Izzy’s attention once more.
Whoever it was he spoke to had not endeared themselves to the good captain, who was looking at them with disgust. “I’ll not see a man killed on your say-so and, if your superior wishes me to consider this demand seriously, he can provide chapter and verse to support his case.
In the meantime, I’ll remind you, we don’t know where the slippery devil is, which makes the point somewhat irrelevant. ”
“As you wish, Captain. Then merely do your job and capture the fugitive. Tear this town apart if needs be, for if you fail, there are others who would relish the role of Riding Officer.”
Underwood snorted, apparently doubting the veracity of that statement with some force. The shadowy figure was undeterred, though.
“Send word to me once you have him and I will do the job you’re too nice to do yourself. Someone needs to put the country’s interests before all else and I’m not too afraid to get my hands dirty.”
“Go to the devil,” Underwood snarled, and stalked off.
Izzy waited, her stomach twisted into a knot, but saw no one else. Taking a deep breath, she hefted her basket and turned the corner, walking briskly forward as if she had not a care in the world, but when she got to the doorway where the man had stood, it was empty.
The Vicarage, Little Valentine, 22nd January 1816
Ben woke with a start, wondering for a moment what had startled him from the uneasy sleep that had stolen over him.
Then he heard another hard knock at the door of the vicarage and knew.
Somehow, he’d developed a sixth sense over the years, and could recognise the rap of a Revenue man’s fist with no question in his mind that he might be mistaken.
Cursing under his breath, Ben reached for his pistol.
Rapidly, he considered his options. He could leave the attic and hope to conceal himself somewhere in the house, but if Underwood was as thorough as he’d proven himself to be before now, there was little point.
His only hope would be to take a hostage and try to bargain himself out.
Straining his ears, Ben listened, recognising the tone of Captain Underwood’s voice, and the one that answered it, Reverend Honeywell.
He heard their footsteps moving along the entrance hall as he held his breath, waiting.
Their words were too faint for him to catch, but the front door closed, and all was silent, and all Ben could do now was wait.