When his only letter finally came out of the blue, she had been surprised and dismissive. Something about it did not ring true and as she was well past the age of majority she was under no obligation to acquiesce to the odd request. She had been on the cusp of writing him a brief thank-you, but no-thank-you note when Sister Ursuline had intervened.
A perpetual romantic soul at heart, Sister Ursuline was prone to see the good in all. Including feckless men—an odd trait for a woman who dealt with unwed and abandoned mothers, scandalously ruined young ladies and the most precocious and troublesome girls society had to offer. What if her mother had tasked her uncle with giving her a Season? And what if the poor man had been so financially embarrassed he could not do so until now? She deserved some adventure and it was only right and proper she met her only kin. While a dose of healthy scepticism was necessary in a young woman, Fliss was in danger of being an outright cynic. What was the harm of spending one month with her relative to find out which of them was right?
It had only been a little over a week and she already had his measure. Uncle Crispin was detached, clearly didn’t give two figs about his only niece and seemingly only cared about what others thought of him. His fancy and no doubt expensive box at the opera had been purchased only so that others could be impressed. He had less interest in the actual opera than he did in Fliss. A decidedly good thing, else he might have seen Jacob Warriner’s scandalously blown kiss.
Oh, for goodness sake! Stop thinking about that man! Now there was an untrustworthy, undependable libertine if ever there was one. Eminently likeable, yet as dangerous to a young lady’s virtue as it was possible to be. But it was too late. Her body was already misbehaving. The rapid heartbeat, the fluttering pulse, the overwhelming suffusion of heat...
Good lord, she was hot.
Fliss flung the covers off and threw out her arms and legs to cool them. After five minutes, during which time the unwelcome warmth did not subside, she flung her legs over the side of the mattress and padded over to her window. A bit of cold February air was exactly what she needed to banish all thoughts of the dark-haired, blue-eyed rake who had lodged himself in her mind and stalwartly refused to leave.
She cracked open the window and stood directly in the draught. The icy breeze was delightful, as were the goosebumps which instantly prickled her limbs. Anything that brought down her erratic temperature had to be a good thing. The trouble with living in a convent was there was a distinct shortage of young men. Fliss collided with them infrequently—at the assemblies or parties Sister Ursuline insisted all the girls attended to help them cope better with social situations—but not on a day-to-day basis. Therefore, it was difficult to make oneself completely immune to their charms. Familiarity breeds contempt, yet the opposite sparks interest. Her traitorous body was interested in the dashing Mr Warriner. Too interested. And that simply wouldn’t do.
Somewhere below, she heard a door creak open, closely followed by the sound of the gravel crunching as someone walked down the garden path. More curious than scared, because everything about her uncle’s house was still strange, Fliss hid her nightgown-clad body behind the heavy curtain and peeked out through the glass. There was a man walking around the edge of the lawn. It was difficult to make out much in the pitch-black darkness without her spectacles, but from his silhouette he appeared to be wearing what looked like shabby workmen’s clothes.
‘Wait—we’re not done.’ Her uncle appeared, probably from the same door, although she couldn’t be certain. From his tone, he seemed angry. ‘Next week is not good enough!’
The shabby man stopped in his tracks and slowly turned. Fliss squinted, but still could not discern his face. ‘It’s next week or not at all.’ He had a London accent. A common one. His coarse diction matched his attire. ‘I’ve other buyers, Rowley, and if you can’t wait someone else will happily take your place.’ He turned, but as Uncle Crispin came level with the Londoner, he grabbed the sleeve of his coat.
‘Tell them I’ll pay them double the usual. I need the goods now!’
‘Double. Treble. Even if you quadruple it I doubt it’ll make much difference. Dead men can’t spend. And the boss won’t like it if his cargo gets seized. He’s lost enough already this month. There are many new eyes along the water. I told you, this is not the time for haste.’
‘But you’re in haste for my money! This costs me. It costs me dearly, damn it, every time a shipment is late.’
The man pulled his arm free with such force her uncle took several steps back, his posture wary. It made no difference, as the other man closed that distance quickly, grabbed his lapels and loomed over him menacingly.
‘Don’t get all brave on me, Rowley! If you don’t like the boss’s terms, then we’ve got plenty of others who’ll happily step into your fancy shoes. If you’re not our man...’
‘I’m your man. You know I’m your man. I’m doing my best for you and the boss...just like you asked.’ His voice came out a few octaves higher than usual and pathetically desperate. ‘I didn’t mean to complain... But I’ve made promises. People are relying on me. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’
‘You wait.’ The Londoner slowly uncurled his fingers from her uncle’s coat and made a great show of rearranging the lapels before he patted his head roughly. ‘Like a good boy.’ His gravelly voice sent involuntary chills though Fliss, her every instinct warning her he was a dangerous man. ‘Be ready.’ With that he left, disappearing into the shadows behind the shrubbery and into the night.
Her uncle watched him leave, the clenched fists at his side evidence his temper was barely controlled, then he stalked back towards the house and she heard the angry slam of the door in his wake.
It had been an odd exchange. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been a bad one. Dangerous, even. If her relationship with her uncle had been better, she might have gone downstairs and asked what was happening, enquired if he was all right, but Fliss knew he wouldn’t deign to confide in her. At best, he ignored her. If they spoke, he was curt and dismissive, or downright aloof. When she had first met him just a few short days ago, she had thought him a cold fish and he had done nothing in the time since to alter that opinion. If he was in trouble, then it was doubtless of his own making and therefore nothing to do with her. In a few weeks she’d be gone.
Besides, there was no point in allowing her vivid imagination to run away with itself. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why Uncle Crispin had met with that man.
In secret.
In the dead of night.
Perhaps this was the way things were done in town? Having little experience of the world outside her sleepy part of Cumbria, much of the ways of the capital baffled her. And she was tired. It had been a long day. Why, only five minutes ago her silly mind had been conjuring up images of kisses with an untrustworthy rake, so clearly she wasn’t thinking entirely logically. Sleep would put a different perspective on things. A problem was always best considered when the mind was at its sharpest and had one of her charges at the convent confessed to Fliss the same emotion Fliss was currently feeling, with no other proof than the peculiar disquiet she was experiencing, she knew she would scoff and be dismissive of unsubstantiated flights of fancy conjured during the witching hour. She would send the girl to bed, which was exactly what she should do herself. With an uneasy feeling, she silently closed the window and crept back under the covers, certain sleep was considerably further away now than it had been a few minutes ago.
* * *
‘Rowley has recently bought shares in another small shipping company. The Excise Men have boarded every one of their boats in the last three weeks the moment they have docked in British ports and performed thorough searches. There is no contraband. The cargoes are all legitimate and all the taxes are paid.’ Flint was pacing back and forth as he spoke, his frustration evident in every step. ‘That’s three merchant fleets he’s directly involved in, yet all apparently clean.’
‘He’s bringing the stuff in somehow. Perhaps those ships