“You’re going to pay them,” she guessed.
He almost laughed at her astuteness. Her astuteness and her utter lack of confidence in his ability to intimidate smugglers.
“You are aware that I was a captain in the army?” he said. “I fought the French in a small conflict known as the Napoleonic Wars?”
Imogene crossed her arms over her chest, waiting. Now Ian did laugh.
“Fine,” he said. “Here is the plan. Idointend to simply ask them: leave my people be. I’ve no interest in turning them over to the authorities, and I’m not seeking retribution. Certainly I’ve no desire to fight them. I’ll tell them as much. I don’t want anything to do with them except to compel them tostand down. And yes—I’ll pay them if I must.”
Actually, the verbalization of this very loose plan—and the mention of the army—gave Ian an idea. A potentially brilliant, almost feasible idea. First, he’d need to send out a note by private messenger. And he could not tarry, not a moment longer. There was no more time to quarrel with Imogene.
“I mustgo, Imogene,” he said, turning to stride down the landing.
She called after him, “But I shall—?”
“No, no,no,” he said spinning back. “This is not open for debate. I implore you. This, I will do entirely alone. It’s as dangerous as it is delicate. The smugglers could turn tail and run or they could garrot me. The tenants could do the same. I cannot manage all of thatandworry over your safety. And time is of the essence. I must clear out the smugglers before the tenants make London. I’ve no idea where they are, only that they’re nearly here.There is no time.”
Imogene narrowed her eyes, considering this. For a long moment, Ian wondered what he would do if she refused to cooperate. He didn’t have time to explain it all to Drewsmina or, God help him, Timothea. Not that either of those women possessed the authority to contain the girl. She must be made to cooperate.
“Fine,” Imogene finally said. “I shall keep back and look after Mama and the others.”
“Perfect,” said Ian, wondering why he’d not invoked her protective bent in the beginning. “Thank you.I should be home by dawn, and by then, hopefully this terrible mess with the smugglers will be—if not over, then far less urgent.”
Imogene said nothing and Ian backed away, pinned her with what he hoped was a threatening look, and then spun again, striding to his bedchamber.
Next he bellowed for Pruitt, his valet. If ever he needed to look like a bloody duke, it was now. Also, he’d want his oilcloth tonight. The sky was low and heavy. The return carriage ride from Kew Palace had been illuminated by intermittent lightning that cracked open a darkening sky. Fair weather would, naturally, be too much to ask.
“Pruitt!” he bellowed again but didn’t wait for a reply.
Fine, he thought,no Pruitt. What about my wife?
He stuck his head through the door that adjoined their rooms and called her name. Nothing. Had she gone out? Surely not so late in the evening.
He looked around his own chamber. Why the devil was it so hot? He looked at the grate. A fire blazed as if the sky were pounding snow, not rain.
Beside the fire, someone had moved his bathtub to the center of the room. And there were flowers... he spun in a circle... everywhere.
Ian frowned, wondering why Pruitt was not available to produce his riding boots, but had clearly been rearranging furniture.
It couldn’t be helped, and he had no time to sort it out. He hated not to see Drewsmina before he went, but he was given little choice. He’d be forced to leave her a note.
He went to his writing desk and took up a pen and parchment. Scrawling quickly, he wrote:
Drew,
I’ve left the house in a blind sprint and not managed to find you to explain. Forgive me? I’ve been forced to go out again, but pray do not worry, I should return by morning. Despite the urgency of the summons, there’s no cause for alarm. It’s more bother with Avenelle and tenants. I hope to reconcile the late-night nature of this business tonight.
Yours,
Ian
He frowned at the hastily scrawled letter, and then looked up. It suddenly occurred to him that the chamber blazed with dozens of candles—scores more than he would normally use—and the brightness served only to illuminate the piss-poor vagueness of this note.
He would make it up to her, he thought. He would explain everything, whether she was ready for the burden of Avenelle or not. When he returned, he’d never bolt away in the middle of the night again.
He sealed the letter and scrawled her name.
“Pruitt!?” Ian called again, whipped off his coat—the room was an oven—and took up a second sheet of parchment. This letter was addressed to his old friend Jason Beckett, the Duke of Northumberland.
