“I want to trust you, Uncle,” Imogene continued, speaking to the horse. “But your behavior must... mustbe consistent. You’ve just been married. You are meant to be tucked away with Miss Trelayne, not gallopingawayfrom her. When you ride away from Miss Trelayne, it feels as if you’re riding away from all of us.”
The whip cut him again.
“Right,” he said finally. He let out a frustrated breath and swore. He looked at his timepiece. He looked again at his niece. She was gently stroking the neck of her mare, murmuring quietly in her ear.
She was correct of course. As loathe as he was to admit it. Secretsdidlead to distrust. Heshould beat home with Drewsmina. Anyone as astute as Imogene would be watching and waiting. He couldn’t say what she’d endured, but clearly, her past was marked by painful betrayal.
Was there great harm in revealing this business with the smugglers to his niece? That was debatable, but pursuit of him seemed almost like a test. Why he, the adult, was being put through the paces oftesting, while Imogene, the child, roamed London freely at midnight, he couldn’t say—but he did not want to fail. Not the test, not Imogene.
And anyway, he hadn’t the time escort her back to Pollen Street, and she could hardly ride home alone. He and Loring had earmarked tonight for little more than surveillance and information gathering. Loring couldn’t say for certain thatthiswas the smuggling crew with whom his tenants had engaged. They meant to observe them and pin down proof.
IfImogene remained close to him...ifshe kept quiet...ifshe did as she was told—highly unlikely scenarios, one and all—perhaps tonight would not be a complete waste.
And perhaps he would pass the bloody test, whatever it was.
“Fine, Imogene,” he said, reining his horse around. “I’veestate business in the docks of Blackwall tonight. Andthatis why I’ve left home, andthatis where I’m going. Tangling with you has put me off my schedule and I’m due to meet my man, Mr. Loring, in Whitechapel, so I haven’t the time to escort you home. My only choice is to take you with me. Would that be amenable to you?”
Imogene’s eyes grew large. She nodded.
“No surprise, that. But can you promise to be a very good girl?” He kneed his horse forward. “Can you do exactly as I say, when I say it? Can you conceal yourself in that cloak and not reveal yourself until we are safe and sound, back in Pollen street?”
“Yes, Uncle,” said Imogene, guiding her horse beside his.
“How compliant we now are,” he sighed, kicking his horse into a gallop, trying to make up for lost time.
“But what is the business?” Imogene asked, keeping pace with his horse.
“We’ve suspicion that some Avenelle tenants are entering into an agreement with known smugglers. To move their lace out of the country illegally.”
“Smugglers,” said Imogene. “How exciting.”
“It’s illegal—a hanging offense.”
“Why would they risk it?”
“Because the Crown levies a steep export tax on English products sold abroad. They are small craftsmen and cannot pay the export tax and also make a profit on their lace. Smugglers could, in theory, sell their lace for no tax at all.”
She was quiet for a moment; then she asked, “All of this for lace?”
“Not the cloak-and-dagger-y contraband one might expect, is it?” He glanced at her. She was a remarkable rider—and all with no saddle. It was a marvel.
He continued, “Quick lesson about Dorset, Imogene. It’s been the home of Flemish craftsmen for generations, and their particular livelihood is a very fine type of handwoven lace called Honiton lace. It’s highly prized throughout the world. Unfortunately, their old-world technique, which isslow and meticulous, is being edged out by lace made in mills. Mills can make lace cheaply. Mills can make lace very quickly. And mills can also pay export levies. My tenants are struggling to compete.”
“But why have you not helped the craftsmen be competitive?” Imogene asked.
“I’ve tried, but they have a long, painful history of animosity with the mills, and I have been a friend to the mill owners and their businesses. In the end they are good for our village, despite the competition they create. All of it has caused a great deal of strife. Lives have been lost—and with those lives, I lost the lace-makers’ trust in me. I would pay their export taxes, but they will not allow it; they want no part of me or my solutions. Instead, they’ve turned to smuggling. Or, we believe they may be considering the option of smuggling. If it is true, I must find a way to dissuade them.”
“And it’s just so terrible, is it? Smuggling? What if the smugglers are very good? What if they’re never caught?”
“Because,” Ian intoned, leading them over a bridge, “smugglers of any skill cannot be trusted. They may take the lace, sell it, and keep all the profits. Then my tenants would have no lace and no money. Also, the risk of arrest is too great. My people have tangled with the law enough.”
Imogene was quiet and Ian thought,There. Now you know my deep dark secret.
“I will help you,” Imogene said finally, a concession.
Ian stifled a laugh. “Ah—no. You willnothelp me. You will remain with your sister and mother and Miss Trel—andyour new aunt. You will learn French and table manners and embroidery.”
This sounded ridiculous and now she was the one to laugh. He glanced at her.
