“I noticed.”
Fitz took as much offence at Leopold’s sarcasm as Lady Amelia had, but shot a suspicious glance around Leopold into the carriage. “Trouble?”
Leopold tugged the red mask over his head and ran a hand through his hair as they strolled away from the carriage and towards the horses.
“Not that I’m aware of.” He’d stay alert, however.
“Right.” His old friend exhaled. “I don’t know why they don’t just off the bloody duke. That would put an end to his dealings easy enough.”
Leopold grunted, bemoaning the Rotten Rakes’ commitment to trying Crossings’ crimes before Parliament.
Unfortunately, Leopold wasn’t in the majority. The group was convinced that the loss of social status, freedom, and the resulting public humiliation would sound the greater warning. Evidently, falling out of favor with one’s equals was considered a fate worse than death. The duke’s shame would prevent other lords from involving themselves in similar criminal dealings.
Though he disagreed with their priorities, Leopold nonetheless had no choice but to commit to keeping Crossings alive—unless the duke forced his hand, that was.
He smirked. He was no stranger to death, and ultimately, he’d do what was necessary.
“You know how I feel about that,” Leopold eventually answered. “We simply need more evidence. If I’m right, we’ll find something useful in the next shipment. An invoice or correspondence will eventually come to light. He’s been lucky thus far, but he’s bound to slip up soon.”
As a smuggler in his own right, Leopold corresponded quite regularly with sea captains, various port authorities, and pirates. Just last week he’d gotten word of an unmarked ship entering the waters near Smuggler’s Manor… allegedly loaded with tea.
Leopold hated tea and all that it represented. The damned beverage wasn’t worth the damage inflicted on those who ultimately died at the hand of the poppy. Innocent people.
Vulnerable people.
“We’ve men on the lookout already—lest they try landing,” Fitz said, referring to the various coves situated along his estate’s southern border. It was the true key to what had madeSmuggler’s Manor such an attractive investment—one of many strategic properties in Leopold’s growing collection.
It bordered a full mile of coastline, sandy coves hidden by tall cliffs but easily accessible for small boats filled with illegal goods—or legal ones that could go untaxed.
“It shouldn’t take more than three days to get home.”Weather permitting.
Leopold ran a hand down one side of Loki’s neck. Normally, he didn’t mind riding in the rain, but if he rode inside the carriage, he might learn something new from their little prisoner.
“I’ve sent word to Mrs. Waddle at the King’s Inn,” Fitzy said. “She’ll have chambers prepared for our arrival.” He shifted a wary glance in Lady Amelia’s direction. “They’re full-up, I hope she doesn’t expect anything fancy.”
Leopold exhaled a dry laugh. But in his mind, he pictured her in her soaked gown. She hadn’t complained nearly as much as he thought she would. “Oh, hell. She can have mine. That way, we won’t have to bother taking her through the pub. Better no one sees her anyway.”
That would leave him sleeping on some lumpy cot most likely. She’d better appreciate it.
“Right.” Fitz nodded. “The carriage, then?”
“I think I’d better.”
KIDNAPPING ETIQUETTE
Watching the highwayman standing with his horse and conversing with a much smaller man outside, Amelia straightened her spine and shifted uncomfortably. This bench seat, although clean, wasn’t nearly as luxurious as her father’s. And depending on where he planned on taking her, she could only hope the carriage was well-sprung.
Especially if the rain kept up.
Amelia pressed her knees together, her hands clasped in her lap, trying to forget how that… man had carried her—trying to forget the indignities she’d suffered at his hand.
It hadn’t been painful, really. But it had been horribly inappropriate.
Wasn’t it? None of her governesses had ever taught her the proper etiquette for a kidnapping. Not even her favorite, Miss Merry.
Amelia stared down at her lap, embarrassed that she hadn’t had the wherewithal to bring her gloves. Her fingers ached with the cold.
She’d believed her father would protect her. She’d expected that her maid, if not her mother, would have argued on herbehalf. Instead, they’d all simply watched as she was carried away.
