Read Online Endure My Heart by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Smith
Tags: Regency Romance
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miss.”
“That's all right. I don’t want it done at once. If there is anyone snooping around, let him get good and tired and go home. We’ll make the move toward dawn, Jem.”
“Seems a bit unnecessary, like,” he thought.
“Better safe than sorry.” Jem was not satisfied with this platitude. Of course he was tired after a hard day, poor boy, and wanted to go home to bed. I decided to divulge to him my fears regarding the special investigating agent.
“Gorblimey, it’s a good thing you read the papers. We’ve never heard a word of this. I’ll round up the lads and bring the load here.”
I felt a pang of pity, to see the poor boy dart from the yard, Lady a shadow at his heels, and to know he had a sleepless night before him. My own was hardly more restful. I had a great deal of thinking to do. The agent had arrived, and was already beginning to become a nuisance. He had discovered somehow that we used the school—Crites of course would have mentioned it. But why had he not arrested the men and taken the cargo on the spot?
This puzzled me for nearly half an hour, till I realized the new agent was more ambitious than Crites had ever been. He did not mean to content himself with my carriers. He was after the chief—he was after me, and had very nearly caught me. Had he followed Jem to the rectory?
The barrels arrived at the crypt door at four-thirty in the morning. I watched from the kitchen window, unseen, terrified that at any moment a shout or a shot would ring out. None did, nor did any subsequent hammering at the door come to signal my arrest. My care had paid off. The agent, if he had been lurking at the school, had given up and gone away, thus missing out on the second move. But he was dangerous. Thank God the men wore masks. Even if they had been seen, they could not be identified.
I blush to consider all the hours I sat puzzling over who the investigator could be, suspecting first the traveling salesman who had been selling brooms and brushes on Monday, the cousin of the Trebars, who stayed from Tuesday to Thursday, even the colonel visiting at Squire Porson’s place, trying to remember if I had seen any of them in conversation with Crites.
The answer had been staring me in the face, and I should have been shaken for not seeing it sooner. It was Mr. Williams. He even had the lame leg, from being wounded at Waterloo. He was Colonel Sir Stamford Wicklow, with his military haircut. But how had he got himself into Owens’ store? The government could arrange anything—had worked some deal with the Owenses—a lucrative deal you may be sure. Owens’ business would not be worth a Birmingham farthing when this came out. Not a smuggling family in town (and that was the majority of the families) would go next or nigh them.
All Williams’ courting of the local wenches was similarly explained. He was sniffing around for news, trying to work his way into confidence with the men via the girls, calling at any house that would give him sitting space. I had to get a warning out to my men at once that Williams be told nothing.
I gave up any pretense of sleep, and went downstairs to make myself a pot of tea to help me work out my arrangements. There is nothing like a pot of tea; it is the greatest panacea there ever was. It can wake you up, put you to sleep, settle your nerves or steel them to do your unpleasant duty. It performed all those functions for me that night, in a little different sequence than I have mentioned.
Of prime importance was that Williams not suspect I was on to him, which made it poor policy to tell the men directly. They were a close lot, but if even one let anything slip, the secret would be out. They would be warned that old bogeyman, the government, was taking special steps to trap us, but Wicklow would not be pinpointed. Next item was to find a new hiding place, for the school was now useless, and I had no desire to implicate myself or Andrew by using the crypt.
The cautious, the
“That's all right. I don’t want it done at once. If there is anyone snooping around, let him get good and tired and go home. We’ll make the move toward dawn, Jem.”
“Seems a bit unnecessary, like,” he thought.
“Better safe than sorry.” Jem was not satisfied with this platitude. Of course he was tired after a hard day, poor boy, and wanted to go home to bed. I decided to divulge to him my fears regarding the special investigating agent.
“Gorblimey, it’s a good thing you read the papers. We’ve never heard a word of this. I’ll round up the lads and bring the load here.”
I felt a pang of pity, to see the poor boy dart from the yard, Lady a shadow at his heels, and to know he had a sleepless night before him. My own was hardly more restful. I had a great deal of thinking to do. The agent had arrived, and was already beginning to become a nuisance. He had discovered somehow that we used the school—Crites of course would have mentioned it. But why had he not arrested the men and taken the cargo on the spot?
This puzzled me for nearly half an hour, till I realized the new agent was more ambitious than Crites had ever been. He did not mean to content himself with my carriers. He was after the chief—he was after me, and had very nearly caught me. Had he followed Jem to the rectory?
The barrels arrived at the crypt door at four-thirty in the morning. I watched from the kitchen window, unseen, terrified that at any moment a shout or a shot would ring out. None did, nor did any subsequent hammering at the door come to signal my arrest. My care had paid off. The agent, if he had been lurking at the school, had given up and gone away, thus missing out on the second move. But he was dangerous. Thank God the men wore masks. Even if they had been seen, they could not be identified.
I blush to consider all the hours I sat puzzling over who the investigator could be, suspecting first the traveling salesman who had been selling brooms and brushes on Monday, the cousin of the Trebars, who stayed from Tuesday to Thursday, even the colonel visiting at Squire Porson’s place, trying to remember if I had seen any of them in conversation with Crites.
The answer had been staring me in the face, and I should have been shaken for not seeing it sooner. It was Mr. Williams. He even had the lame leg, from being wounded at Waterloo. He was Colonel Sir Stamford Wicklow, with his military haircut. But how had he got himself into Owens’ store? The government could arrange anything—had worked some deal with the Owenses—a lucrative deal you may be sure. Owens’ business would not be worth a Birmingham farthing when this came out. Not a smuggling family in town (and that was the majority of the families) would go next or nigh them.
All Williams’ courting of the local wenches was similarly explained. He was sniffing around for news, trying to work his way into confidence with the men via the girls, calling at any house that would give him sitting space. I had to get a warning out to my men at once that Williams be told nothing.
I gave up any pretense of sleep, and went downstairs to make myself a pot of tea to help me work out my arrangements. There is nothing like a pot of tea; it is the greatest panacea there ever was. It can wake you up, put you to sleep, settle your nerves or steel them to do your unpleasant duty. It performed all those functions for me that night, in a little different sequence than I have mentioned.
Of prime importance was that Williams not suspect I was on to him, which made it poor policy to tell the men directly. They were a close lot, but if even one let anything slip, the secret would be out. They would be warned that old bogeyman, the government, was taking special steps to trap us, but Wicklow would not be pinpointed. Next item was to find a new hiding place, for the school was now useless, and I had no desire to implicate myself or Andrew by using the crypt.
The cautious, the
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