She smiled back and then squinted into the lights of Whitechapel beyond the bridge. “Should I also learn to ride a horse?” she teased.
“Oh yes. That too. Ah, but there is my man, Loring. Alljoking aside. Imogene, please. I implore you. For God’s sake. Keep quiet and follow along. He will lead us to the smugglers. From there, he and I are meant to get the lay of the land. One of us—likely Loring—may approach them about weavers in Dorset.”
“I will—” began Imogene.
“You will be silent and biddable, Imogene, or I swear to God, I’ll pack up your bedchamber and install you with Timothea. Would you like that? Think on it, I am as serious as the tomb. Unless you wish to be attached to your mother’s side and suffer, night and day, the very odd worldview that is uniquely hers, you will do as you’re told.”
Imogene made a face. “You play dirty.”
“It runs in the family,” he said. “Obviously.”
Ian and Imogene returned to Pollen Street just before three o’clock in the morning.
The night had been as much of a success as one could expect from stalking known smugglers through the London docks with an uninvited niece. To her credit, Imogene had been (mostly) the picture of biddability. She’d kept back, she’d said very little, and she’d done what Ian bade.
Because someone had to keep back with her, Ian had dispatched Loring to approach the smugglers. This was likely for the best, as Ian had already failed once in pretending to be a peasant. Meantime, Imogene had identified an errant spy while they waited. Smugglers, apparently, were wary of uninvited callers, and they sent out a man to canvass the area as soon as Loring approached them.
Imogene had spotted the spy, and Ian had managed to get off his horse and pretend to examine the hooves of her mare. They transformed themselves into two riders with a lame horse, and the spy left them undisturbed.
An hour later, they’d met Loring back in Whitechapel, and the man had confirmed—yes, these were the smugglers engaged by Avenelle weavers. They would sail for the Dorset coast when their boat was repaired, they wouldcollect a season’s worth of lace, they would set course for France, and sell it to the highest bidder.
Or so they’d claimed.
“I don’t believe it for a second, Your Grace,” Loring had said.
“Why not?” Imogene had asked, cutting in before Ian.
“Ahhh,” Loring had said, uncertain how to address his employer’s uninvitedniece.
Ian sighed. “Why not, Mr. Loring?” he repeated, shooting Imogene a look.
The young steward had looked back and forth between Ian and Imogene, clearly unsettled. He cleared his throat. “Gut feeling,” he finally said. “A very bad, very uneasy feeling. You’ve heard of a man who won’t look you in the eye? In my opinion, the same goes for a man who starestoodirect-like, who holds your gaze and won’t let go. They pinned me to the wall, Your Grace, with their hard, greedy eyes. I know when I’m being sized up for a fleecing. They were too interested, and ‘doin’ business’ with them was made to sound too easy. The profits sounded too ready. I know a liar when I meet one.”
Ian had considered this. “So you told them you’d come from Avenelle, like we discussed? You said you wanted in on the shipment?”
Loring nodded. “They believed me too. Barely controlled zeal at the notion of adding raw wool to the shipment. They were practically chomping at the bit. But I’d not trust that lot with a sack of grain, let alone a year’s worth of sweat and toil. The weavers will lose everything. Mark my words. I’ve suspected this from the beginning, and now I’ve seen it. I’d not have sought you out in London if I didn’t believe this would come to a very bad end.”
Ian nodded gravely and reached into his purse. He provisioned Loring for another week’s stay in London, bade him to carry on with surveillance of the smugglers and keep in touch.
“Now what?” asked Imogene when they parted wayswith the steward. They rode side by side toward Pollen Street.
“Now,” he sighed, “I cannot say. Now I... make certain about the smugglers. I’m unsettled by surprises. We’ll continue to watch them. I want to know everything I can learn about their plan.”
They rode the length of one street in silence, Ian regretting his honesty. Imogene had enough about which to worry without adding the weight of estate management, smugglers, and desperate tenants to her life.
Hastily, he added, “You need not wrestle with it, Imogene. I’m the duke, I’ll sort it out. Ignorance is a very great enemy, and it’s fought with careful study. I’ll determine exactly what the tenants intend. When I understand their motives, I’ll think of something else.”
“Right,” dismissed Imogene, sounding not worried at all, “what I meant was, what will you do when we’ve reached home? To Pollen Street?”
“Oh,” said Ian. And now he felt steeped in ignorance. “Now I will... go to bed?”
“You will return to Miss Trelayne, you mean?”
“Ah... I’d not given it a great deal of thought,” he said. Although that was a lie. In between managing smugglers and Imogene herself, he’d given his new wife a very great deal of thought. Their wedding night had been an odd mixture of unplanned and explosive, and he had very little idea how Drewsmina felt about it. He’d been forced to leave in such a hurry. He knew only that she’d been quiet and watchful afterward, responsive and glorious during.
None ofthis, of course, would be discussed with his niece; in fact, he’d prefer not to discuss any part of his marriage with Imogene. He glanced at her. He was curious, however, about why she’d asked about Drewsmina. Of all things. After all they’d seen and done.
“Are you worried I’ll tell Miss Trelayne that you’ve snuck out of the house?” he guessed.
