Page 3 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

Annabeth didn’t continue; she had doubtless known what his answer would be. They continued along the path, fingers intertwined, stopping now and then for a kiss, until they reached the copse of trees where they had tied Annabeth’s horse. Sloane saddled the mare, and for a moment they stood there, not wanting to part.

“I can wait for you in the gardens tomorrow evening, if you can come out there.”

“You could attend the party, you know,” Annabeth said. “You don’t have to lurk about in the garden to see me.”

“With Lady Lockwood there? I think not.”

“She doesn’t dislike you.” Annabeth laughed at the look of disbelief Sloane shot her. “Well, not more than any other person.”

“I don’t blame her for wanting you to marry a better man than I am. But I’ve no taste for being raked over the coals by her, either.”

“Very well, you stubborn man. Of course I’ll come. I’ll slip away from the dance as soon as Grandmother has started playing whist.”

She went on tiptoe to kiss him lightly, and he pulled her in for a deeper, longer kiss. Then he gave her a leg up onto her horse and stood watching her until she was out of sight, feeling, as always, the clutch of emptiness Annabeth left behind.

THERE WAS A man waiting in the entry hall when Sloane reached home. He checked his steps—the day had been too good to be ruined now by one of his father’s creditors demanding money—but continued toward him. The chap wouldn’t go away; they never did.

“Sloane Rutherford?” the man said.

“Yes.” Sloane offered nothing more. He had long ago become adept at stony silence.

“My name is Harold Asquith.”

Asquith didn’t really look like a creditor—he had the air of a gentleman, not a tradesman or some ruffian they had sent to force the money out of his father. But neither did the man look like any of his father’s friends, none of whom would have dressed in such sober clothes or looked so serious. Certainly he was no one Sloane had ever met before. It stirred his curiosity.

“Is there somewhere we can talk privately?” Asquith asked.

Sloane frowned, but his curiosity won out and he led the man down the hall to the small sitting room. He gestured toward one of the chairs as he closed the door behind him, then sat down on the sofa, slouching, legs stretched out and arms crossed in the pose that usually set the back up of any gentleman who wanted to lecture him.

“I understand you’ve a little business with Sam Redding,” Asquith began.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let’s speak straightly, Mr. Rutherford. I know you help the local smugglers, so I know you’re a man willing to take risks. One happy to make money.”

“Do you have a point?”

“I have a proposition for you.” Asquith leaned forward a little, his cool expression gaining a little animation. “I can provide you a ship.”

“You want me to smuggle for you?” Sloane hadn’t known what to expect from this plain, sober—even a trifle priggish—looking man, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“No, though smuggling is, of course, an excellent disguise, as well as profitable. Given your current association with Redding, I presume you have no moral qualms about that.” Asquith paused. “What I require is a man with the means to travel unnoticed between here and France. To carry messages, say, or certain people, in and out of France. Even, perhaps, to accomplish a few tasks for me there.”

“A spy?”

“In short, yes. Though, I prefer to call them my agents.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Sloane asked flatly.

“One might hope you would feel some bit of patriotism, some loyalty to England. To the Crown.”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the Crown. And I’m not really sure that I care about England, either. Spying’s a hanging offense.”

“If you’re caught, yes.” Asquith looked at Sloane challengingly.

“If you’re thinking to dare me into it, I stopped that sort of game as soon as I was old enough to have any sense.”

“The ship would be yours, of course, free and clear. Whatever profits you made, and of course, you would receive compensation from the Foreign Office as well.”