He opened the office door without first tapping upon it.
The estate books were piled neatly on shelves and tabletops and upon one side of the desk. But surely half their usual number was missing.
So was the steward.
He had better not ever think of applying for a position as an investigator with the Bow Street Runners, Percy thought. He had been signaling his suspicions ever since Saturday afternoon, when he had gone knocking upon Mawgan’s door.
Ratchett was gone, and so were all the books and ledgers that were, presumably,notestate records.
***
They were down on the beach again, a large party of them, on a gloriously sunny afternoon that felt more like full spring than very early March. And everyone was merry after all the tensions of the day before.
Imogen still felt a bit numb with shock. Mr. Ratchett! Not only was he involved in the smuggling ring that had plagued their part of the coast for years, but it also seemed very possible that he was the leader, the ruthless organizer and beneficiary of the trade, the man who ruled his subordinates with a fist of iron but whose identity very few even of his own men knew or suspected. There was no proof that would stand up in a court of law, but the fact that he had disappeared and that he had apparently taken with him half the contents of the steward’s office was strong corroborative evidence.
He had been living among them for years and years, a seemingly harmless eccentric.
Imogen wondered if her father-in-law had had any inkling.
It was no wonder they had tried to get Percy to leave almost as soon as he had arrived. It was no wonder they had resorted to threats when he had not only refused to budge but had also declared war on the trade on his land.
Oh, how they had had everything their own way for the past two years, with only two unsuspecting women living in the main house and one at the dower house!
And it seemed more than probable that Mr. Mawgan had drowned Dicky’s valet. But what had upset Imogen more than anything else and kept her awake through much of last night, listening to the light snoring of Mrs. Hayes’s maid, was the equally unproven theory that James Mawgan was a trusted lieutenant of Mr. Ratchett’s army, perhaps even his heir apparent, and that it had been carefully arranged that he accompany Dicky to the Peninsula to ensure that he did not return.
But... it was a French scouting party that had come upon them in the Portuguese hills and captured them. James Mawgan could not have had anything to do with that. Could he?
He had been put briefly under house arrest yesterday. But with the disappearance of Mr. Ratchett there had been no grounds upon which to hold him, and Percy’s groom, who had been guarding his cottage, had been called off.
James Mawgan had also disappeared by the time Sir Matthew Quentin had sent for him later in the evening to question him further in his capacity as the local magistrate.
Percy had sent for him, and Sir Matthew in his turn had summoned a customs officer, who had arrived late in the evening. The three of them, as well as Mr. Knorr, had conferred well into the night. Meanwhile Elizabeth, who had come with her husband, had sat in the drawing room holding one of Imogen’s hands and listening to the story being told and retold and told again by everyone else who was gathered there.
The four men had spent the morning together again, conducting interviews both at the house and in Porthmare. The ladies, with a male escort, had buzzed about in what Imogen deemed pointless preparations for the ball in four days’ time. The servants had the mammoth cleaning chores well under way, and the cook had the menu fully organized.
Now this afternoon, at last, they were relaxing. Mr. Wenzel and Tilly had arrived at the house soon after luncheon, full of concern over the news. The three Soames sisters arrived soon after with their brother to see if the young people cared to walk with them. Mr. Alden Alton came on their heels, escorting Elizabeth, who had come to be with Imogen since Sir Matthew had not been able to deliver any very comforting news at luncheon. And everyone in the house was bursting for air and exercise. At least, the younger element was. The older people seemed quite thankful to watch Imogen being borne away, safely surrounded by a large body of exuberant youngsters as well as Mr. Welby, Viscount Marwood, Mr. Cyril Eldridge, and Percy.
A number of possible destinations had been suggested, but almost inevitably they had ended up descending the path to the beach like a long, slow-moving snake and then frolicking on the sand. Parasols were raised above bonnets while their owners chatted and giggled and flirted. Tall hats were pressed more firmly upon heads though there was not much of a wind, and their owners looked ruefully down upon boots quickly losing their shine beneath a thin coating of sand. Hector, with so many people wanting to throw items for him to chase, ended up chasing his stunted tail.
And yet, Imogen noticed, the scene was not quite as carefree as it might have appeared to a stranger. She walked for a while with her two friends, one on either side of her, each with an arm linked through her own. But a number of the gentlemen, without making it at all obvious, formed a loose ring about her and directed frequent glances to the top of the cliffs.
Mr. Wenzel, Imogen was interested to note, after showing her all due concern up at the house, was walking arm in arm with Meredith, a little apart from everyone else.
And then, almost as though the move had been orchestrated, both Elizabeth and Tilly moved away to talk with other members of the group, everyone else moved back a little so that the circle about Imogen became larger, and she found herself walking beside Percy. He did not offer his arm, and she clasped her hands firmly behind her back. They seemed suddenly isolated in a little cocoon of near privacy.
“I miss you,” he said softly.
She ached for him as she lifted her face to the blue sky and watched a couple of seagulls chase each other overhead.
“Dicky was not ever going to come home, was he?” she said. “It must be a hugely lucrative business. Mr. Ratchett, if it is indeed he, must be enormously wealthy as well as powerful. Please find him, Percy, and destroy his power and release all the people who do his bidding out of fear.”
“I will,” he promised, though they both knew his chances of fulfilling that promise were slim at best.
“Imogen,” he said, “save every waltz at the ball for me. Please?”
She turned her head and looked at him briefly. It was almost her undoing.
“I cannot do that,” she said. “Perhaps not even one. All these people—allof them—believe us to be lovers, and the dreadful thing is that they are right. Orwereright. I have been justly punished. You will be leaving here after the ball, when all your guests leave?”
