Chapter 5 #2
“Because of rumors the house is haunted. I assume it gave them the idea to decoy our men here instead of where the goods were,” the lieutenant said with a sigh.
“From now on, ma’am, make sure your house is locked up tight at night, and that all the windows are bolted, too. You’re lucky you weren’t harmed.”
“Yes, I see that,” she said faintly, realizing that Mrs. Wix smelled not only male in an attractive sort of way, but headily familiar.
“It can be dangerous for a woman to live alone,” the revenuer said. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but you look too young to be on your own. Don’t you have family to take care of you?”
Mrs. Wix’s arm tightened a fraction. “She has me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wix. I’m a widow,” she said firmly, “and old enough to manage for myself.” She softened, for he was only trying to be kind. “I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, but now that I’ve been warned, I’ll hire a footman to guard the house at night.”
“Aye, but…if any other revenue officers come here, don’t let them in. There are some who won’t hesitate to take advantage.” He sighed again, shaking his head, and they left.
“It was kind of him to warn me,” she said uneasily.
“Aye, he’s a good man, and he knows what he’s talking about,” Mrs. Wix said. “There’s a revenuer along the coast who’s a right bastard, begging your pardon, missus, but he’ll get his comeuppance soon, never you fear. For now, as I said, you have me.”
* * *
Reluctantly, Gervaise removed his arm from around the delectable Mrs. Rose. He bolted the door after the revenue men and chuckled. “You handled them nicely, missus.”
“I thought so,” she said vaguely, as if her mind were elsewhere. Surely, she wasn’t taken with that riding officer! A decent sort, no doubt, doing a thankless job, but he wasn’t right for her.
“You did well, too,” she added. “I shall go upstairs and finish, ah, what I was doing.” She headed for the stairs, then turned. “I hope you have informed the smugglers that we shall no longer signal from here?”
“Aye, missus, I took care of that today.” Why was she frowning at him?
“I feel sorry for the lieutenant. I didn’t like to deceive him, but nor could I let him arrest you or Sergeant Dolman. By the way, where is he?”
“In the kitchen, missus. He’ll eat there with me.”
“Good. I wouldn’t put it past the revenuers to question him.”
“Right, missus. I’ll keep him safely here.”
At the foot of the stairs, she turned again, her brows knit. “I apologize for accusing you of weeping, for I’m almost certain that is something you rarely, if ever, do.”
What the devil did she mean by that? “It was a nice touch, but you’re right, love. All my tears dried up years ago.”
* * *
She—he?—had called her love again.
Mrs. Wix was a woman, not a man, so how could she smell like one?
Specifically, like the one who had kissed her four years ago!
Thisbe tried to look at it rationally. Surely a man’s scent wasn’t completely unique.
She’d caught the personal aromas of various men when dancing with them, but although there was sometimes a similarity, it wasn’t the same.
Eddie, for example, had smelled quite pleasant, more so than many others.
And of course, too many men wore bottled scent which competed with their own personal odors, often with distressingly unpleasant results.
But not the man who had kissed her. He’d simply smelled like himself.
Perhaps her memory was at fault. Surely one didn’t remember aromas, particularly those from years ago, so very exactly. And yet…
Gervaise Transom had visited Sir Simon Best the previous evening, only a few miles away. He could have ridden back to Lucky Cottage in time to signal in the middle of the night.
Mrs. Wix was tallish for a woman, but about medium height for a man. So, she recalled, was Mr. Transom, but Thisbe was petite, so she’d gazed up, entranced, at his smiling face.
Mrs. Wix had a creaky voice, and she kept clearing her throat and making those horrid champing noises… Could that all be Mr. Transom’s way of disguising his voice?
Something else popped into her mind—a memory of that wide, mischievous grin last night—with completely clean teeth. And a long cloak over…what? A man’s clothing?
Unbelievable!
Yes, that was precisely what it was. Unbelievable, and she was foolish to even imagine such a thing, but she couldn’t help doing so. Miss Transom had called him what…Ghostie? He’d tricked the masters at school, so why not trick people now?
No. She wanted to meet that man again, which was a foolish sort of wish, and she mustn’t let that folly color her perception now. She must consider Mrs. Wix more carefully before reaching such an unlikely conclusion. However, if the housekeeper really were Gervaise Transom…
Thisbe sat in the chair by her dressing table, flummoxed.
No wonder he didn’t want her here, for if anyone found out she was sharing the house with a gentleman, her reputation would indeed be ruined.
But why would he dress as a woman and live alone, cooking and cleaning?
He certainly knew a great deal about smugglers and revenue officers—far more than a mere housekeeper would know.
Was he a fugitive, accused of some dreadful crime, who daren’t risk being unmasked?
No, she thought suddenly, remembering something Lady Best had said about a wager with Sir Simon, just like when he’d been a boy. Like when he’d kissed her at the ball. What fun! And yet…
There was also Miss Transom’s concern for her brother, who had come back from the war a different man—restless, impatient, unwilling to return to home and family.
A man who had cried all his tears.