Chapter 1
“Wherein things go awry and the fates get tangled."
Alex Sinclair, fourth Earl of Falmouth, regarded his men with satisfaction. It had been another good night’s work and once the last of the cargo was away, they could breathe again.
“Well, Mousy, how are you enjoying your first run?” he demanded of the big man as he shouldered a massive barrel of the finest French brandy onto the small boat drawn up beside the larger hulk of The Bold Bessie. An Earl he may be, but he got his hands just as dirty as the rest of the men.
“I liked it fine, m’lord,” Mousy replied with a grin, reaching up to take the barrel from him. “‘Specially as it kept me out o’ harm’s way for a day or two.”
“You can’t hide from her forever,” Alex said, not bothering to hide his grin. “She’s going to want you to ask her on your return.”
Mousy went quiet and looked a little queasy. “Aye, well. Maybe I’ll jus’ lie low for a day or two. ‘Till it blows over. “
Alex chuckled. His sister-in-law’s maid, Annie, had set her eyes firmly on Mousy and had made no secret of the fact she wanted them to get married.
She was a formidable woman and Alex very much doubted the likelihood of the situation blowing over.
She expected Mousy to return with a ring and a question for her and heaven help the poor blighter if he didn’t.
“Right, thisun’ is full, ‘ow much left?”
Alex turned to regard the remaining haul.
Boxes of tea and bolts of the finest French silk, all wrapped in oil cloth to protect them from the elements and the salt spray, and over a dozen or more half anker tubs of brandy remained.
Alex could see the beach in the moonlight, a hive of activity with maybe two hundred tubmen running back and forth with barrels on a harness over their shoulders, loading the ponies and getting the shore cleared as fast as they may.
The crew of his brother Lawrence’s old ship, The Wicked Wench, had switched from pirates to smugglers like the proverbial ducks to water the moment Lawrence had given up his dangerous lifestyle.
The extra hands that had come Alex’s way made light work of the offloading.
Mousy had stood as spotsman, guiding the ship to its location from a signal offshore to one of various landing points.
The more hard-headed and ruthless volunteered as batmen and patrolled the cliffs, eyes on alert for the Revenue.
“One more and we’re done.”
“Righty’ ho.” Mousy nodded and then looked up, frowning. “Wha’s ...”
He didn’t have time to finish the question as the boom of canon fire exploded overhead and shouts bellowed from all round the beach as the men saw the boat approaching.
“Hell and damnation!” Alex cursed, untying the line. “The Revenue are upon us, lads, get moving!”
All hell broke loose as he pushed the small boat with Mousy in away from his ship, The Bold Bessie, with force. “Get back to shore, get everyone safe away,” he yelled.
“You’d bes’ come n’ all, ye Lordship,” Mousy exclaimed as Alex shook his head.
“No, I stay with Bessie, get away ... now!”
The sails unfurled with a snap as the wind caught the single-masted cutter, pulling them away from shore.
In the distance Alex could see the men scurrying back and forth but the Revenue were not on the beach at least. The greater part of the cargo had been unloaded, now all that mattered was getting free.
He looked up at the skies, frowning as the moon disappeared.
Disappearing in the dark was not a bad thing with Water Guard sticking to his arse like a burr, but the approaching storm would do nobody any good. He prayed that they’d ride it out.
“What now?” called his man from the helm and then threw himself to the deck as cannon shot screamed overhead.
Alex flinched as the cannon overshot and hit the waves on his far side, dousing him with icy water. “Back to Roscoff,” he yelled, his face grim as thunder cracked overhead. “And pray we make it.”
***
Céleste reached down and grabbed another piece of driftwood, barely feeling the smooth, worn surface between her numb fingers.
Merde but it was cold. Mimi wandered behind her, humming a little tune that had begun to irritate her over an hour ago.
Barely more than three notes, he repeated it over and over.
His voice was surprisingly childlike, considering his bulk and the ugly, craggy face.
But Mimi was a gentle giant. His mind was gone, lost somewhere on a battlefield thanks to a stray bullet that almost took his life.
Instead it let him live and simply took all the meanness and pessimism that seemed to thrive in all other men and left him sweet but stupid.
He had become her shadow, her protector, and she was thankful for that.
He had saved her more than once now, and she would happily endure the irritation of his annoying little habits and endless silly songs in gratitude for that.
She straightened as Mimi grunted and gestured further down the beach. Céleste looked up, blinking as the frigid wind made her eyes water.
“I don’t know?” she replied, looking at the large dark shapes laid out on the shingle.
They walked a little closer until the image arranged itself into shapes her mind could recognise.
“Mon Dieu! They are men,” she cried and moved to run towards them.
Mimi stopped, dropping his clutch of driftwood and it clattered to the ground.
His large hand grasped her arm, and he shook his head, his eyes fierce.
“Let me go!” she said, her voice firm. “I won’t let men die if I can help them.
” She had seen enough death in her short life.
Death from war, from violence, from poverty, from filth, illness, starvation and old age.
No matter how many times she saw it, it was ugly and to be fought at all costs.
She shook her arm from his grasp and ran to them.
Turning the first, her heart grew heavy.
Certainly dead, drowned last night, and by the stillness of the three others they were all beyond saving.
She looked around and saw other shapes among the corpses.
Barrels and boxes wrapped in oil cloth. A wreck.
They must have run afoul of the storm last night, the poor bastards.
Smugglers most likely, the English were always here, stocking their boats with brandy and gin, tea and silk and lace.
All of it a fraction of the price without the heavy taxes the English Prince Regent levied.
Well, it would do them no good now but . .. It was an ill wind.
“Mimi, see all the boxes and barrels?”
Mimi nodded, his slow eyes scanning the beach.
“They’re ours now, our secret. We must get them hidden as fast as we may. Can you do that? Can you be clever and fast, mon brave?”
Mimi beamed at her and nodded.
“Alors, off you go then.”
With a heavy but practical heart, Céleste began to search each of the bodies in turn, checking pockets for money or gold.
She left anything personal but took what she could that might keep the cold out and her belly full for a little longer.
They’d be robbed soon enough of boots and anything else when the scavengers found them. She’d been lucky to get here first.
She was methodical, checking each body in turn with quick fingers.
The farthest away was a fair distance up the beach and she ran, her feet slipping on the shale, aware that they could be discovered at any time and their plunder taken from them.
Turning, she noted with satisfaction that Mimi had done well clearing the beach and disguising their haul under the hull of a ruined boat.
It would do for now. They’d have to come back when it was dark and find a better hiding place until it could be sold.
Turning her attention to the last body she struggled to turn him over.
He’d been a huge man. Heavy broad shoulders and long, long legs, he would have towered over her.
She gasped as he finally rolled onto his back and looked in sorrow at the still face.
My, he’d been a handsome one, she’d bet he’d been a scoundrel with the women in life with a face like that.
Carefully she pushed the thick dark hair from his face and leapt back with a squeal as he murmured, and his eyelids flickered.
“Mon Dieu,” she whispered. “You do have the luck of the devil, smuggler.” She looked up to see Mimi walking back towards her and gestured for him to hurry. “He’s alive!” she called. “Quick, we must get him indoors and out of the cold before he freezes to death.”
This was easier said than done. Big as he was, Mimi struggled with the dead weight, dragging him by increments, and it was a blessing when the man came around, though he seemed not to know what had happened.
“Bessie?” he mumbled as Céleste patted his hand. “Non, not Bessie,” she said with care, her English was excellent, or so she’d been told, but she hadn’t practised it since her mother died. “I am Céleste, and you are very ‘eavy. Please, you must help us and walk.”
The man did his best to oblige and leaned on Mimi, putting one foot in front of the other with effort until they reached the door of Madame Maxime’s.
At least the whores would all be abed at this early hour of the morning.
They might just make it up to the attic if they took care.
She turned to the man and his eyes flickered open, trying to focus on her.
Flinty grey, they spoke of a determined soul and for that she was glad.
He was half drowned and frozen, his teeth chattering fiercely now.
He’d have a fight to recover his strength.
“You must be quiet. Silence,” she whispered, putting her finger to her lips.
He nodded his understanding, and they began the arduous journey up the stairs to the cramped attic where she slept.