Chapter Eighteen
If anything, Robert prided himself on it was his ability to stay calm in whatever circumstances occurred.
A cool, rational head was the best thing for dealing with smugglers.
Likewise, it would come in extremely handy when managing interrogations.
He was sure it was one of the reasons he was recommended to the baron and rose to Captain.
Staying cool around and about Abigail Fossey was proving nigh impossible.
As he crashed into the Dower Royale prepared to break tables, arms and faces, the jolly expressions of the owners shrank back but for a moment Robert had seen their jubilance—and he had a growing suspicion they were involved in smuggling. Hell, perhaps the whole town was.
“Weir,” Robert snapped, and the proprietor hurried forward with a paper, his wife in his footsteps carrying a tray laden down with a teapot.
Both of them were flushed. Robert could only imagine the bloom was done to a celebration of their smuggled goods—a sense of cheating the system.
Guilt twisted through him, at how he had failed his Montacute.
“You awake mighty early, sir.”
“Aye,” Robert lied, “a morning stroll.”
“Miss Fossey does keep a tight ship for her adventures.”
Robert shot the older man a sharp look. “I have not seen Miss Fossey this morning.”
To a certain extent it was true. He’d only heard the elder Miss Fossey and hadn’t seen the girl’s mother either.
What was he to do? He had made promises to people that pulled him to opposing directions—his mind crying out that he honor the profession he’d given blood, sweat, and tears to, compared to the promises his body had made to Abigail last night…
Mrs. Weir walked past, and Robert’s hand shot out to her. “My dear woman, a moment of your time.”
He waited until Mr. Weir had moved off to talk to another customer and then looked down at Mrs. Weir. Her maid had called Abigail dangerous, and Bessie had known about the Pinhayers and who Punch was.
“Mrs. Weir, do you know where Bessie might be?”
“Dratted brat, left me high and dry without a moment’s notice.” She made a tutting noise.
A nagging worry darted through Robert in case something had happened to Bessie.
“Do you know what Bessie might have meant when she called Miss Abigail dangerous?”
Mrs. Weir sighed dramatically. “Oh sir, I think Bessie might have been jealous. Or perhaps she was listening to Reverend Hillard. He is forever saying how much dangerous Miss Abigail is, because of what she finds in the ground.” Mrs. Weir shook her head, “You shouldn’t believe a word of it.
Miss Abigail is a trifle odd, but she’s a good girl. ”
“You think that was all she meant, that Abigail is a danger because of her fossils?”
Mrs. Weir squeezed his arm, “Ten to one that’s what she meant. Please pay it no mind. I should never have hired an Enskin.” And with that Mrs. Weir bustled off, cursing Bessie and how much work she now had to do.
Robert stood alone in the Weirs’s morning room, wondering what the hell he should do next.
Cursing himself for a fool.
Memories cascaded through him. The feel of her body under his.
The taste of her—sweet and tart on his knuckles.
The sensitive underside of her breast, that in a moment of sleepy tenderness he had brushed, and her lapsing giggle—if he were to truly tickle her, she would lose herself to the mirth as much as she had given in the passion.
Or the sense of true calm he felt, pressed against her side. How could he betray that?
Snatching up a nearby teacup, and sloshing a quality of dark tea over the side, Robert forced himself up the stairs to his own chamber.
It was obvious what he had to do next. He might have denied and refused to admit as much even to himself, but as a gentleman it was clear what needed to be done.
Marriage. He had bedded Abigail, taken her virginity.
It might be something she considered just ‘an experience’, but he hadn’t, and it demanded a remedy. He needed to propose to her.
*
My lord Montacute—
I write to you of my failure. Whilst I have seen some evidence of smuggling especially conducted by the named suspects overleaf, I can see no definitive sign of the famed female smuggler, that you sought most ardently.
I have received word of the Pinhayers, a violent gang of smugglers, and I have witnessed some evidence of recent occurrence of free trading, however I have not been able to prevent it occurring as it is deeply embedded within Lyme society.
I have the codename of your female smuggler too—Punch.
But no clue as to who the real suspect is.
My ruse of a gentleman seeking a permanent residence here has not gone as well as I would have hoped, and I believe given the close-knit links in this particular town a new approach may well be necessary to undercover a greater amount of information, or indeed a permanent body of customs officers to patrol and guard the coastline.
Given my failure I offer my resignation of my post, and will return to London to await your orders.
Yours etc,
Captain Robert Davenport.
With that done, Robert ordered up a bath, from a rather disgruntled Mrs. Weir.
She set about bringing up the water, as Robert read his letter to Montacute carefully.
He hoped it would be considered to be a truthful account of his time in Lyme.
He had made no mention of the Miss Fosseys and nor could he think of a way of including the family, without incriminating himself—the baron had little time for romance or a soft heart, and would never consider Robert’s affections a good judge of character.
However, he had of course included Abigail’s cook on his list of suspects to Montacute, but he would endeavor to explain in person how he had his doubts that the elderly and grandmotherly Miss Schillers was a prime suspect.
He doubted Miss Schillers was the woman that the baron sought as his female ringleader, yet stranger occurrences had happened.
Once the steaming tub was ready, Robert sank gratefully into the heated depths.
He would send the letter and then call on the Fosseys to make his proposal to Abigail.
After that he would need to proceed to London, settle matters with the baron, hopefully retain his position in Sussex…
and then ask Abigail to move to Hastings with him?
It was a muddle. Admittedly of his own making. Robert shook his head as he dipped it in amongst the water, enjoying the soft quiet of the water. The question was how precisely to admit the truth to Abigail: that he had been lying to her since they met.
Reaching for the soap, Robert set about ruthlessly cleaning himself.
“Robert?” her voice was softer than he expected, and yet it called to him through the screen that Mrs. Weir had put in place.
Snatching up his towel, Robert dragged himself from the bathtub. “Abigail?” He emerged from the water, with the towel draped around his waist, grinning to see her back in his room. Had she decided the formality of waiting downstairs was beyond her? How like his Abigail.
“What’s this?” she asked, in her hand she had held up the freshly written letter, the curve of his handwriting dark in the midday light.
“Work.” Robert came forward, taking the letter from her and slipping it back into the envelope.
“I meant to help.” Abigail looked pale. “It fell to the floor…”
“Have you read it?” Robert looked at her face.
She knew very little of the smugglers, but would her association with him if she let something slip condemn her?
Was she now in danger? Would his connections to the customs officers mean she would become a target if she had admitted their romance to a member of the Pinhayers?
All of the vile stories of smugglers with their easy attitude toward the law, toward violence and on occasion murder, cartwheeled painfully through his mind.
With an effort Abigail pulled herself out of his grip, taking several steps away from him. “Why did you lie to me?”
“You knew I was interested in smuggling.” He tried to delay the charge.
“That is not what I meant.”
“I was commissioned to find out the truth about the gangs in this area. I will defend Miss Schillers, and ensure you are not incriminated in any way. Her age will protect her from anything too serious a levy.”
An unpleasant sort of look passed over Abigail’s face, twisting her features until she settled on a frown to stare at him. “You lied to me.”
“You’ve said that already.”
With a quick step she was in front of him again, her fist coming to rest on his chest, above his heart.
“You have made a liar too. I took you around town, I told people—I introduced you, when all along… I thought…” She sniffed and then blinked to focus herself.
“I believed you. The most important thing in the world to me was those sea creatures we sought—and miracle of miracle, we found one. I have searched for years to find such a discovery. You have dirtied it. You—Robert—” she paused again, her eyes hard as stone as she surveyed him, “you said you would help me take these to London. And yet…yet you are not at liberty to make such arrangements. In service to the crown. I suppose I should be flattered that you at least told me your Christian name.”
“I meant what I said. I gave you my word I would help—”
“And what is that worth now?” She snorted and moved away from him.
Suddenly Robert felt extremely conscious of his near nakedness, so he hastily set about dressing, despite the dampness.
Abigail continued regardless of the state of his undress, “How am I meant to trust you, when you could not even tell the truth? I told you everything about myself—I have… I have ruined myself—” she let out a small huff of noise, “because I believed you and it was for nought.”
Abigail made as if to leave the chamber, Robert only having donned his breeches, closed the distance, blocking the doorway. “Please listen—”