The Dubious Miss Dalrymple

“Three days? No, my beard is too long for that. Three weeks?” Hugo nodded his head in agreement. “Good God—the whole world must think me dead! Hugo—do you have a newspaper?”

The giant looked puzzled for a moment, then removed one gigantic wooden clog and pulled out the folded layers of newspaper that served as a cushion for his feet. Alastair accepted it gingerly, unfolding it with the tips of his fingers to see that the newspaper was six months out-of-date.

“Thank you, friend, but I fear I need something more recent than this,” he said politely, quickly returning the paper, which Hugo replaced inside the clog. “We’ll need money. Did I have any money with me? I should have—I was a big winner, as I recall, and hadn’t as yet gone to my cabin to change out of my evening dress. But no, doubtless the man who hit me made sure to empty my pockets before dumping me overboard—why else would he bother with the exercise at all? I should have known that at least one of them would prove to be a poor loser. Good Lord, Hugo, I think I’m babbling.”

Within moments Hugo had laid a considerable sum of money in Alastair’s lap, amazing the Earl with his honesty. The man couldn’t have spent so much as a single copper on himself the whole time the Earl was unconscious. But, relieved as he was to see the money, it also seemed to eliminate his disgruntled gambling companions as possible suspects in his “murder.”

Counting out a hundred pounds, Alastair handed it to Hugo, who refused to take it. “Here, here, man, don’t be silly. I owe you my life. Besides, I want you to go into the nearest town and buy every newspaper you can find. Where am I anyway, Hugo? East or west of Folkestone? West? Good. That means I can’t be more than a stone’s toss from Hythe—and Seashadow. That fits my plan exactly—did I fail to mention that I have a small plan building in my head? Tell me, my large friend, would you like to be a part of it?”

“Aaarrgh!” Hugo agreed, clapping his hands.

“Good for you, Hugo, and welcome aboard! All right, let’s get down to cases. I’ll need some clothes—nothing too fancy, just a shirt and breeches, and perhaps a vest and hat. Oh, yes, I’ll need smallclothes and shoes as well. The salt water has made my own clothes unwearable, even if you were so kind as to wash them. Do you think you can take care of that for me? Of course you can. You’re very intelligent, aren’t you, Hugo? Your mother said you are.”

Hugo’s gap-toothed grin was curiously touching.

“I’ll need paper, and pen and ink, of course,” Alastair added, thinking aloud. “I should think I’ll want to get word to that Captain Wiggins fellow in the War Office that I’m still alive. He may prove useful. But I don’t think I would wish the knowledge of my survival to go beyond him for the moment.” He looked across the room at Hugo, then smiled. “Not much fear of that, is there?” he joked darkly, and Hugo’s grin appeared once more.

“Yes,” Alastair said, smiling genuinely for the first time since waking to find himself in the cottage, “this could prove to be extremely interesting.”

CHAPTER ONE

THE KENTISH COAST had long been considered the gateway to England, an island empire whose six thousand miles of coastline were its best defense as well as its greatest weakness.

The Romans had landed along the Kentish coast, followed by the Germanic tribes that were united under Egbert, the “First King of the English.” Alfred the Great, England’s first great patron of learning, was sandwiched somewhere between Egbert and William the Conqueror, followed by the Plantagenets, the Tudors, the Stuarts, the terrible, tiresome, homegrown Cromwell, and finally, the House of Hanover and its current monarch, George III.

The king, blind and most decidedly mad, was not aware that his profligate, pleasure-seeking son had been named Regent, which was probably a good thing, for the knowledge just might have proven to be the death of poor “Farmer George”—but that is another story. More important was the fact that another adventurous soul was once again contemplating the Kentish coast with hungry eyes.

Napoleon Bonaparte, ruler of all Europe, had amassed the Grande Armée, his forces surpassing the ancient armies of Alexander, Caesar, Darius, and even Attila. He had set his greedy sights on England early in his campaign to conquer the world, although pressing matters on the Peninsula and to the east (where the Russians and their beastly winter had proved disastrous to the Little Colonel) had kept him tolerably busy and unable to launch his ships across the Channel. This did not mean that the English became complacent, believing themselves invincible to attack from the French coast.

Quite the contrary.

Martello Towers, an ambitious string of lookout posts built on high ground from Hythe to Eastbourne, were still kept munitioned and manned by vigilant soldiers of His Majesty’s forces. Dressed in their fine red jackets, the soldiers stood at the high, slitted windows of the grey stone cylindrical towers, their glasses trained on the sea twenty-four stupefying hours a day. In their zeal to protect their shores, the English had even dug the Royal Military Canal between Rye and Appledore, optimistically believing that it would give them an extra line of defense from the Froggies.

Five great seaports—called the Cinque Ports—lined the southeast coast, at Hastings, Dover, Sandwich, Romney, and Hythe, with the towns of Rye and Winchelsea vying with them for prominence, and these too had garrisons of soldiers at the ready.

All this vigilance, all this preparedness, the Peninsula Campaign, and the Russian winter—added to the fact that the Strait of Dover, also referred to as “England’s Moat,” was not known for its easy navigability—had proved sufficient in keeping Bonaparte from launching his soldiers from Boulogne or Calais.

It was not, alas, sufficient in preventing inventive English smugglers from accumulating small fortunes plying their trade from Margate to Bournemouth, almost without intervention.

Using long-forgotten sea lanes, the smugglers, known as the “Gentlemen,” did a roaring trade in untaxed medicine, rope, spices, brass nails, bridal ribbons, brandy, silk—even tennis balls. So widespread was the smuggling, and so accomplished were the Gentlemen, that even the Comptroller of the Foreign Post Office sanctioned the practice, as it brought French newspapers and war intelligence reports to the island with greater speed and reliability than any other, more conventional methods.

But, the Comptroller’s protestations to one side, there were the Customs House officers to be considered. The smugglers may have been helping the war effort in some backhanded way, but they were also making the customs and revenue officers a redundant laughingstock, as the flow of contraband into England was fast outstripping the amount of legal, taxable cargo landed on the docks.

Many customs officers, loyal and hardworking, employed the King’s men in forays against the smugglers. Many more did not. A few slit throats, a few bludgeoned heads—these were ample inducement for most customs officers to keep their noses tucked safely in their ale mugs on moonless nights, when the Gentlemen were apt to be out and about. Besides enhancing the possibility of living to a ripe old age, turning one’s head was a good way for customs officers to increase their meager salaries, for the smugglers were known to be extremely generous to those who were good to them.

Popular sentiment as well was on the side of the Gentlemen, whose daring at sea demanded admiration—and supplied the locals with a wide variety of necessities and luxuries without the bother of the recipients having to pay tax on the goods.

As late as July of 1805, Lord Holland, during a Parliamentary Debate, conceded that: “It is impossible to prevent smuggling…. All that the Legislature can do is to compromise with a crime which, whatever laws may be made to constitute it a high offence, the mind of man can never conceive as at all equalling in turpitude those acts which are breaches of clear, moral virtues.”

All in all, it would be easy to believe that a, for the most part, comfortable bargain had been struck between the Gentlemen and the rest of the populate, but that was not the case. As the war dragged along, the unpaid taxes on contraband goods were, by their very absence, depleting the national treasury and war coffers, making the customs officers the butt of scathing lectures from their superiors in London.

The coastal forces, made up mostly of young men who had joined the military for the fun—the “dash” of the thing—only to be denied the clash of battle with the French, were itching to do battle with anyone. The Gentlemen and their nocturnal escapades were just the thing to liven up the soldiers’ humdrum existence.

But most important, the Gentlemen, who were extremely profit-oriented, were lamentably not the most loyal of the King’s subjects. Contraband was contraband, and money was money, no matter whose hand had held it last. Along with the spices and brandy and silk, there was many a French spy transported across England’s Moat, carrying secrets that could conceivably bring down the empire.

All this had served to complicate the Gentlemen’s position, and by 1813 the many small dabblers in the art of smuggling had called it a day, and the majority of the contraband was brought to the shores by highly organized, extremely unlovely gangs of cutthroats, villains, and sundry other souls not averse to committing crimes “equalling in turpitude those acts which are breaches of clear, moral virtues.”

THERE WAS A LONG, uncomfortable silence in the main drawing room of Seashadow, broken only by the light snoring of the napping Mrs. Biggs, whose impressed services as vigilant chaperone of Elinor Dalrymple’s reputation left much to be desired.

“That was a most edifying dissertation, Lieutenant Fishbourne—even if the bits about Cromwell and the Regent did not necessarily relate to the Kentish coast. But it begs me now that you have concluded—you have concluded, haven’t you?—to ask how all this pertains to me,” Elinor Dalrymple inquired wearily as she poured the young man a second cup of tea—for his lengthy, dry-as-dust dissertation on the history of England and smuggling must surely have caused him to become quite parched. “Or should I say—how does all of this pertain to Seashadow? Surely you haven’t had reports of smuggling or spying along our beaches?”

Lieutenant Jason Fishbourne, attached to the Preventive Service by the Admiralty and stationed these past eighteen months in the port of Hythe, leaned forward across the low serving table to utter confidentially, “Have you ever heard of the Hawkhurst Gang, Miss Dalrymple?”

Elly’s voice lowered as well, one slim white hand going to her throat protectively, as if she expected it to be sliced from ear to ear at any moment. “The Hawkhurst Gang? But they are located near Rye, aren’t they—if, indeed, that terrible gang is still in existence.”

The Lieutenant sat back, smiling, as he was convinced he had made his point. “There are many gangs about, Miss Dalrymple,” he intoned gravely. “Each one more bloodthirsty and ruthless than the next, I’m afraid. And yes, madam, I do suspect that one of them is operating in this area—very much so in this area.”

Elly swallowed hard. Smugglers operating near Seashadow? Spies? And she had been walking the beach every day—sometimes even at dusk. Why, she could have stumbled upon a clutch of them at any time!

“What—what do you wish for us to do?” she asked the Lieutenant, who now commanded her complete attention. “We have only been here a few weeks, since just before the memorial service for the late Earl, as a matter of fact, but we intend to be contributing members of the community. I, in fact, have been searching for a project to occupy my time. Could I serve as a lookout of sorts, do you suppose?”

“Indeed, no, madam, I should not dream of putting you in any danger.” Lieutenant Fishbourne rose to his not inconsiderable height, smoothing down his uniform over his trim, fit body before donning his gloves. “I ask nothing of you—your King asks nothing of you—save that you report any strangers to the area and any goings on that appear peculiar. You and the Earl are not to involve yourselves directly in any way, of course. I only felt it fair to warn you about the shore, so that neither of you is inadvertently taken as one of the Gentlemen by my men, who on occasion will be, with your kind permission, patrolling the area at night.”

“I would not think to take on the daunting project of trying to capture an entire band of smugglers, Lieutenant. But if, as you suggest, there could be a spy—or even spies—operating near Seashadow, it would be my duty to do my utmost to capture him—or them!”

“Miss Dalrymple,” the Lieutenant reiterated, “we have everything well in hand. Please, ma’am, do not involve yourself. If anything should happen to you because of my visit, I should never forgive myself. If you see anyone acting suspiciously, just have one of your servants summon me.”

Reluctantly nodding her agreement, Elly escorted the Lieutenant to the door, past Lily, who was making a great fuss out of dusting a gleaming brass candlestick as she watched the handsome tall, blonde officer.

Before the man could retrieve his hat from the table, the young girl had snatched it up, dusting it thoroughly before handing it to him with a smile and a wink. “There you go, you lovely man,” Lily cooed sweetly. “Oh, you are a tall one, aren’t you? Drop in any time,” she added with a wink before Elly pointedly cleared her throat and the young girl scooted for the safety of the kitchens.

“She belonged to the late Earl,” Elly explained, only to amend hastily, “That is, she was a servant in the household when my brother and I came to Seashadow. She’s been given her head too much, I daresay, and I have not as yet had time to instruct her in the proper behavior of staff.”

The Lieutenant shook his head. “There’s no need to explain, madam. I’ve heard the late Earl was a bit of a runabout, but I’m sure you and the current Earl will set it all to rights.” He looked around the large foyer, his faded green eyes taking on a hint that could almost be termed envy. “This is a lovely establishment. It would be a grievous sin to have it less than perfect.” He brightened, smiling down at Elly. “But if your brother the Earl is anything like his gracious sister, I’m sure there is no worry of Seashadow succumbing to the vagaries of poor husbandry.”

Knowing that her younger brother was at that moment in the west wing billiard room, blocking out a mural depicting the evolution of an apple from first juicy bite to bared core, Elly smiled enigmatically, allowing the Lieutenant to comfort himself with his own visions of the new Earl, and waved the man on his way.

Once the door was closed behind him, Elly stood staring sightlessly at the heavy crystal chandelier that hung over the flower arrangement atop the large round table in the middle of the spacious foyer. “Smugglers and spies,” she intoned gravely, her curiously slanted brown eyes narrowing. “Carrying intelligence to Bonaparte so that he can kill more of our young men. Young men like my poor love, Robert—cut down before they’ve had a chance to live, to marry, to have sons.” She raised her chin in determination. “Well, they won’t be doing it from Seashadow. Not if I have anything to say about it!”

ALASTAIR LOWELL stood lost in a pleasant daydream on the small hill, gazing across the rocks and sand toward his ancestral home, watching as the sun danced on the mellow pink brick and reflected against the mullioned windows.

Seashadow was particularly lovely in the spring of the year. It was almost as lovely as it was in the summer, or the fall, or the winter. “Face it, man, you’re in danger of becoming dotty about the place. Being near to death—not to mention the weeks spent in friend Hugo’s airless hovel—have given you a new appreciation for those things you have taken for granted much too long.”

He turned toward the water, smiling indulgently as he watched Hugo at play on the shore, chasing a painted lady—one of the thousands of butterflies that spanned the Mediterranean to cross the Channel each spring and make landfall on the edge of Kent. Dear Hugo. Whatever would he have done without him?

“I would have been breakfast for some sea creature, that’s what I would have done,” he reminded himself, his grey eyes narrowed and taking on hints of polished steel. “I mustn’t allow my joy in being alive to distract me from the reason behind that joy—my near murder.”

He turned back toward Seashadow, rubbing a hand reflectively across his bearded chin. He still found it difficult to believe that a new Earl had been installed in his family home, a fact he had discovered during his first clandestine meeting with Billie Biggs—once that devoted woman had finished thoroughly dampening his shirtfront with tears of joy over his lucky escape from drowning. His eyes narrowed. “So now I have a logical suspect. I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Leslie Dalrymple, Earl of Hythe, eating my food and drinking my wine—for if Wiggins’s and my plan goes well, you are very soon going to be booted out of my house and then hung up by your murdering neck!”