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Smuggled Rose
by Amy Corwin
ISBN: 9781419956447 

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CHAPTER ONE

1813, Folkestone near the straits of Dover

“Pardon, Mademoiselle Lane, it is awkward, but if you don’t take him, he’ll go into the English Channel. He can’t return to France with us.” Didier Chantal nearly fell through the cellar doorway, supporting a large young man who sagged over his shoulder. “Oof! This English one—he is heavy.”

Against her better judgment, Margaret Lane stepped aside, trying to see how badly the young man was wounded. His clothes dripped with rainwater and blood, and her heart clenched at the sight of his white face, lips blue with cold. When she pushed back the damp hair, his eyelids fluttered, revealing startling blue eyes. He groaned and then lapsed into unconsciousness.

Behind Margaret, a procession of Chantal’s crew stepped around her while Chantal ordered them to hurry and shifted the wounded man into a more secure position. The heavy, sloshing noise of wet boots echoed out of the tunnel as the smugglers trudged through the cellar door, burdened with brandy and silk. The last two men carried bundles of what appeared to be sticks, wrapped in sodden burlap sacks.

“Dépêchez-vous, monsieur! Quickly!” Margaret said. “This young man is badly wounded. What happened? I didn’t expect you on a night like this and I had already retired for the night!”

Monsieur Chantal smiled. “The Excise, they do not expect us either, and a little rain—pooh—what does it matter? There is no moon to make of us a target.”

“And yet despite no moon, an Excise managed to shoot this young man,” she replied dryly, chafing the icy hands of the nearly unconscious youth. When he didn’t respond, she anxiously checked his pulse. It pounded steadily in a slender wrist.

He was so young—barely old enough to shave…

“This is dreadful! What if he dies?” she asked.

He gave her a crafty look. “What could we do? Maintenant, we have roses, mademoiselle, and so we come.”

“Roses?” she asked suspiciously, trying not to appear overly interested and throwing her own shawl over the wounded man to give him some much needed warmth. Despite her concern for him, her attention strayed to the bundle of sticks stacked in one corner.

“Mais, oui! Roses, mademoiselle. We have three bushes from Château de la Malmaison—Damask roses,” he said, and then added cunningly. “And a cutting.”

Shatterbrained though it was to love roses more than life, she couldn’t help herself. “What is the cutting?” she asked. “And quickly, for I must get this man upstairs—”

“Ah, I see you are interested,” Chantal interrupted. “That one is the Damask rose, Marie Louise. She is very sumptuous, mademoiselle. In bloom—oh là là! Très belle.”

She bit her lip to keep from smiling and answered him in her driest tone, “I see. And I suppose the Empress Josephine’s gardeners approved of their removal?”

He gave her another smile and a Gallic shrug, shifting his burden awkwardly. “We do our poor best to provide you with the barest essentials of life, mademoiselle,” Chantal offered modestly. “The war, she cannot prevent us.”

“Well, I hope your young friend survives and we don’t all end up hanging for the sake of a few rosebushes.”

“Oui. We hurry, allez, for the Excise will arrive soon.”

“Soon? How soon?” She turned abruptly and the wounded man swayed, slipping through Chantal’s grip to lurch against Margaret’s back. Thrown off balance by his weight, she stumbled on the wet floor, catching the edge of a crate as Chantal levered the unconscious man away from her.

“Mademoiselle, pardon! Are you hurt?”

Shaken, Margaret turned back to the men. “No, but is he all right?” She checked his pulse again, her fingers slipping on his clammy skin. “And what about the Excise?”

“Le monsieur is merely shot. He will live, but the Excise, they follow closely. And of course, the brother…” He sighed and shook his head.

Wet hair hung in long strands over the boy’s forehead, and he slumped forward, supported awkwardly against Chantal’s thick shoulder. Despite the seawater, rain and blood saturating his raiment, the fine wool coat and expensive boots left no doubt that the youth was wealthy either by birth or through the fortunes of the smuggling trade.

“Brother?” Her low voice sharpened. “Never mind—wait here while I find Henry and Alice. I’ll need their assistance to get him upstairs, and then you must go.”

Halfway up the stone steps to the kitchen, she met her housekeeper rushing to find her. “Miss Margaret!” Alice gasped, grabbing Margaret’s arm. “There are men at the front door! What are we to do? They must be the Excise!”

“Find Henry—we have a wounded man here, and he must be hidden. Henry will help you carry him upstairs, and then we’ll see who’s at the door.” Margaret ran back down the stairs to Chantal and the wounded man. “Leave him, Monsieur Chantal. Someone is at the door and it may be the Excise. Please go!”

Grunting, Chantal deposited the wounded man on top of a stack of crates. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Perhaps it is the brother—not the foolish Excise.”

“Brother?” she asked again, shivering in the damp air. She wished she had had time to dress, but smuggling had to be performed in haste or not at all.

“He was on the cliffs—he signaled—but he was too crafty, that one, to let the Excise see him.” He shook his shaggy head, the movement flinging droplets of rainwater into the flickering light of his lantern. “This boy, Edward, stood in the boat and exclaims—he sees his brother, oui? A young fool. So now, he waves to his brother. And the Excise…well…” He shrugged. “They aim at the boy, and he is foolish to make of himself a target—the brother is already well away. Most assuredly this clever brother will find him, maintenant.”

“So we may have the Excise or this boy’s brother at the door, and perhaps the Empress Josephine’s head gardener searching for his stolen bushes. Rare treats indeed.” Margaret snorted inelegantly before waving Chantal off. He had already passed beyond the light, his stocky form obscured by the dense shadows of the tunnel entrance when she called after him, “Stay safe, monsieur!”

He paused. “Oui, mademoiselle, if I make haste, all will be well. Carine is waiting, and her I do not make to wait.”

Margaret’s smile softened. “Give her my love and please take care. You risk too much and leave Madame Chantal alone too often.”

Didier Chantal’s rich chuckle rippled off the stone walls. Then, with a flap of his hand, he disappeared, the sounds of his boots echoing away to nothing.

When he was gone, she thrust the heavy door shut and barred it. She barely managed to push a crate forward to disguise the opening when she heard Alice’s firm step returning. A clatter of boots behind her indicated she had found her husband, Henry Carmichael. Margaret waited for them, wishing she could go to bed instead of facing whoever pounded at their front door.

The lean, dark-haired housekeeper emerged first around the curve of the winding stairway, followed closely by Henry. Alice’s dark eyes were somber with worry. “Miss Margaret, those souls at the door—they won’t wait much longer.”

“I know,” Margaret said resignedly. “But we must get this young man—his name is Edward—upstairs. We’ll have a busy night, I fear.”

Bracing the sagging man between them, Henry and Alice wobbled up the stairs, pausing at each step to keep the uneven weight of their burden from dragging them over the edge of the staircase. Margaret watched them until they disappeared through the kitchen door. Then she turned, holding a lantern above her head to survey the cellars. The stone floor was awash with puddles of rain and seawater, a few tinged a dull red.

If the Excise came down here tonight, they would find all the evidence they needed to hang her. She must truly be a simpleton to risk such a fate for a few roses and a keg or two of brandy. And a wounded Englishman she didn’t even know.

Grabbing a pile of rags, she mopped up the worst of the rain and blood, glancing about as she did so. The Excise would not worry about a few rosebushes stored in her cellar for the winter, but the brandy and silk would have to be hidden.

By the time she finished with the worst of the stains, she could hear the rapid patter of Alice’s shoes running down the cellar stairs.

“The front door…” Alice wheezed, trying to catch her breath.

“I’ve done what I can here. I’ll try to keep the Excise occupied for as long as possible, and perhaps Henry can lead them away from the house.”

After Margaret ascended the stairs and entered the flickering light of the hallway, Alice, trudging a few feet behind her, gasped and touched her arm.

“Miss Margaret! Your gown!”

Margaret turned and raised a brow.

“There is blood down to your hem, miss! Did that French heathen injure you?”

“What? No, the gentleman fell against me.” She pulled the skirts of her nightdress around her knees to study them. Several long, rusty streaks smeared the white linen. “Fetch a long shawl—there’s no time to do otherwise. It’ll hide most of the stains, I hope.”

Without hesitation, Alice handed over her own gray woolen shawl. Margaret draped its concealing folds over her shoulders, grateful for the warmth. Straightening her spine, she strode toward the great hall.

When the pounding grew louder, Margaret increased her pace, gliding through the hallway leading to the foyer while composing herself. She caught sight of Henry leaning against the door, holding it open only the barest crack. His booted foot was firm against the base of the heavy wooden panel, thwarting any attempt to force him back. Behind her, she heard Alice padding softly through the hallway.

“Alice, get the rags from the kitchen and see to the young gentleman. Then hide tonight’s shipment.” She waited for Alice to leave before stepping toward the door. “Let them in, Henry.” She pulled the rough shawl more tightly around her arms.

As soon as Henry stepped back, the door burst open in a gust of sleeting rain. The scents of wet earth and sea air filled the foyer. Two men shrouded in heavy cloaks and hats stepped inside, glancing around.

“Who are you?” Margaret asked.

“Excise. We’re after smugglers, miss,” the taller of the two Excise men said. He pulled off his sodden hat and twisted it in his hands. Water streamed in a rivulet between his thick fingers, forming a puddle on the flagstones. Another blast of wind howled through the open door behind them, bringing with it the sound of distant thunder. “We’ve followed a pair of ‘em to this here location,” he boomed above the noise of the storm.

Margaret stilled. How much did they know?

“Do you mean smugglers are on my property?” she asked, feigning shock.

“They be last seen heading in this direction, miss,” he replied. His eyes rose to her face before a wave of red cascaded over his unshaven cheek. He hurriedly glanced down to stare at the pond forming around his heavy boots, clearly uncomfortable of her reception of them in her nightclothes.

“Our doors are locked after dark, and we haven’t seen any strangers.” When he stared at her with a sullen frown on his face, she waved her hand in mock acquiescence.

“Well, search where you wish—I can’t see how we can stop you. However, Henry will escort you so you don’t become lost.” She nodded at Henry, who leaned against the heavy door. He would have to keep the Excise from the cellars as long as possible. Perhaps he could start their “search” at the tumbledown stables at the side of the house, away from the English Channel.

The two men exchanged glances before the foremost one spoke again. “We have your permission to search the premises?”

“Is this absolutely necessary, gentlemen?” a deep voice drawled.

Alarmed, Margaret spun. Had the wounded lad come downstairs, not realizing that the Excise were standing in the hallway?

Her gaze caught and held the figure of a tall man lounging against the newel post of the grand stairway.

No, it wasn’t the young man. It was a stranger. She stiffened, heart pounding. Had another Excise man gained entrance through the kitchen door? Had he seen the cellars?

Slowly her initial panic subsided and she realized he was not wearing a heavy cloak like the others. He did not look like a law official. In fact, he looked more like some dissolute rake reeling after a night or two of energetic debauchery.

His black hair was unkempt, as if he had threaded his fingers through his hair while he spent the evening drinking. His rumpled white shirt hung open at the neck, exposing a shocking amount of bronzed flesh. The Hessian boots on his feet declared he was a gentleman, or at least dressed like one.

Then her eyes flew to his face, taking in the blue eyes and dark hair. Was this the older brother, the man Chantal had seen on the cliffs?

It had to be. Unexpectedly, her pulse again leapt.

One long-fingered hand held a half-empty glass of amber fluid. The contents of his glass looked suspiciously like some of her fine, smuggled brandy. A soft sheen caught her eyes and she noticed his boots glistening damply. A clump of grass and mud clung to the heel as if he had just come inside.

The air around her suddenly seemed too thin. No matter how unintelligent the Excise were, they would understand that a gentleman who was supposedly inside drinking all evening would not have fresh mud on his boots. She took a deep, deliberate breath and stepped to the left, hoping to block the Excise’s view of the damp boots.

She glanced at the two men standing at the door. They had already leapt to the inevitable conclusion. Their small, piggish eyes rested on the apparently drunken man before traveling down the length of Margaret’s body. She felt naked, standing in the hallway in a thin linen gown with only Alice’s shawl draped around her shoulders.

When the Excise left, they would carry tales to the village of a disheveled stranger entertaining Miss Lane in her nightclothes. Sordid gossip about orgies at the manor would spread. This single incident would nullify six long years of living like a nun, trying to repair her reputation. All that effort destroyed in one brief instant.

She turned to find the stranger’s eyes focused hazily under their heavy lids on the two Excise men. The expression in their deep blue depths reminded Margaret of Henry’s disgusted look when he found a dead rat stiffening in the flour bin.

A sudden, hysterical desire to laugh at the stranger’s revolted expression tickled her throat despite her tension. If his cold, cynical glance was any indication, the storm raging outside would be mild compared to the tempest about to be unleashed in her damp entryway.

“My lord, I’m sorry you were disturbed. I hadn’t realized you and my grandmother, the baroness, were still awake,” she said, hoping he would understand her message and accept the hasty title she had granted him to intimidate the Excise. She glanced at them. Would they believe that the baroness, not Margaret, had been drinking with the gentleman? When they grinned at her, she offered a further feeble excuse. “I retired early this evening and abandoned my grandmother and her guest. I was feeling a trifle…unwell.” She turned slightly and hitched up the shawl as if her throat was cold. It was embarrassing, but female indisposition gave them a logical excuse for the blood on her gown.

Both men blushed violently, their eyes flickering to her skirts.

The taller one thrust his misshapen hat back onto his head. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” he said, bowing slightly before turning his squinting eyes toward his lordship. “My lord, we’ll just search these premises and be on our way.”

His lordship’s slow, hard drawl filled the hallway. “I really think not. In fact, I insist you vacate these premises immediately so my hostess can return to her rest and I to my very excellent brandy and the company of the…baroness. I see no reason for these infernal interruptions.”

The Excise men cringed. Their shaggy heads hunched down into their shoulders like turtles retreating into their shells. “Aye, my lord.” The men cast a last bold glance at Margaret. “But we’ve permission—”

“You do not have my permission, nor that of the baroness. So I suggest you leave,” the gentleman interrupted.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. We meant no offence.”

“None taken—if you leave now.”

The tallest officer nodded. He shook his cape and stomped, loosening a last clod of filth from his heel while the gentleman stared coldly at them. The moment the two men stepped over the threshold, Henry slammed the door and bolted it. He turned with a triumphant grin, but his expression faltered when he caught his lordship’s eyes on him.

Henry straightened. “Miss?” he asked, plainly hoping he could throw the man out into the storm on the heels of the Excise.

“It’s all right, Henry,” Margaret said. “Why don’t you see to our guest—” She stopped, interrupted by Alice’s return.

“I’m sorry, miss.” Alice’s thin fingers flickered toward the stranger. “He came through the kitchen door afore I could stop him. Lord knows I tried…”

Margaret’s attention fixed on the big man, feeling a frisson of danger. Without warning, he dropped his lazy appearance and advanced. He stopped when Henry moved closer to Margaret and dropped a hand to the pistol wedged carelessly into his belt. The two servants flanked her protectively, watching him, but their presence did not make her feel safe.

His lordship’s blue eyes danced darkly in the faint candlelight. Laughing, he shrugged his massive shoulders before knocking back the rest of his brandy. Then he sat the empty snifter down on a nearby table with a snap.

“Never mind,” Margaret said, breaking the strained silence and trying to control her emotions. “The Excise men are gone. Henry, take your wife and see to our young guest. Then prepare the adjoining chamber for—I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“Where is my brother?” the gentleman asked as he moved closer, ignoring her question. “I followed him here, so there’s no point in denying it.”

“Your brother is here,” Margaret replied while she pried her housekeeper’s hand from her arm. “He’s our guest’s brother, Alice, just as Monsieur Chantal warned us. Now please go upstairs. I’ll come up shortly.”

Alice took a step toward the stairway and signaled to her husband. Ignoring her, Henry moved behind Margaret and pressed the dueling pistol into her hand before stomping over to his wife.

Slipping the weapon under the shawl’s fringe, Margaret stepped back, away from the looming stranger. Henry, muttering and casting black glances over his shoulder, dragged his wife up the stairway with a hand on her elbow.

“Give me the weapon, woman. I’ve no interest in anything but my brother. Come, you’ll only hurt yourself.” The gentleman’s rather sleepy eyes were apparently sharp for all that he appeared to be drunk.

Margaret’s fingers tightened around the reassuring heft of the pistol’s smooth, wooden grip, feeling dazed when she stared into his blue eyes. “I think not. We’re strangers and I’m not a fool. Who are you?” She grimaced. “Your brother never gave us a name…”

“I’m loath to make introductions at the wrong end of a dueling pistol, madame.”

“For now, there’s no pistol pointed at you, so if you wish to see your brother, I suggest you introduce yourself.”

The stranger moved forward, dangerously swift. He twisted the gun out of her grasp before she could protest. Margaret stepped back, heart thudding against her too-tight chest.

“I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t want your pistol to go off unexpectedly.”

“It would never have gone off…unexpectedly,” she replied, expelling a deep breath. Men could not be trusted, and anyone who could move like this man was someone to be feared. She retreated another step.

“Sir,” Margaret said in a calm voice. “Please, it grows late. I’ll show you to your brother after the return of my pistol.” She held out her hand.

With an urchin-like grin, the gentleman shook his head and wedged the weapon into the waistband of his breeches at the hollow of his back. “I’m sorry, but I believe I’ll keep this.”

“Well, could you at least tell me your name? You’ve already made free with my finest brandy and best dueling pistol, so why be coy about your identity?”

His eyes sparkling with easy laughter made her heart pound like the thunder outside. He bowed with a flourish. “The Earl of Ramsgate, at your service. And may I have the honor of making the acquaintance of my charming hostess?”

At his name, Margaret stiffened, forgetting how attractive he was and how warm his eyes were. Michael Peyton, the current Earl of Ramsgate, had a reputation as a womanizer and brawler and held a leading position in the sporting set called the Fancy.

Margaret’s brother had been an avid member of the Fancy while he was alive and regaled her with tales of the other sportsmen, including Peyton. Despite their physical prowess, Margaret did not admire the set. They were ramshackle gamesters and rakes who thought more of cockfights, fisticuffs and their own hedonistic pleasures than the lives of those they recklessly destroyed through carelessness and spite.

Harsh reality taught her this view. Margaret’s reputation had been shattered by another leading member of the Fancy, Lord Bridgewater. He had personally ensured her ruin when she refused him her favors, and although she escaped his attentions, her reputation had not.

Her back straightened. “I am Miss Lane.”

There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, and her spirits sank. Had he wagered on Bridgewater’s success with Miss Lane of Folkestone like the rest of the Fancy? Although Bridgewater had lost, only she knew it.

Knowing that, she feared the earl, a member of the same set, would act just as badly as the rest of them.

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