Page 30 of The Duchess Games

Mr. Popewell was the nosiest, most sanctimonious man in the village.

“Mr. Armstrong, I applaud your dedication to the law,” Callum said.

Of course, he would.

“And I am also quite certain you did not mean to suggest one of my guests might have unsavory associations? And a woman, at that.”

Mr. Armstrong blanched. “Of course not, Your Grace. The ladies are far too dainty for that sort of thing.”

Cat stifled a snicker. She’d never been called dainty in her entire life.

And she knew perfectly well that Callum was not defending her but defending the honor of his title and his house and whatever tiresome posturing that was required by a duke. She still liked it though. Too much. While Mr. Armstrong went pale, she might blush inappropriately at any moment.

“But what’s a wrecker?” one of the ladies asked.

Mr. Armstrong explained with a grim gleefulness generally reserved for ghost stories and children. His sideburns practically quivered with indignation. “Wreckers are the scourge of good God-fearing sailors, and a particular stain on Cornwall.”

Cat doubted very much that wreckers were not found along every coast of England.

She did not say so, of course. However much she longed to.

“The tin miners and the fishermen of this county put out false lights to draw ships onto the rocks and dash them to pieces.”

As expected, a shocked gasp from the London visitors.

Cat clenched her teeth together harder. Shipwrecks did happen, as they happened everywhere. And claims were made immediately to salvage the debris, she wouldn’t deny it. When cargo barrels floated into reach, or trunks of clothes, all hands tried for their piece. But the idea that the villagers of Little Crumpet crept along the shoreline with lanterns to murder dozens of sailors for their possible goods was gossip, pure and simple.

“But why?” Lady Imogen breathed.

“So that the Cornishmen might row out and steal every bit of cargo, every lamp and floorboard for themselves. Just imagine them plucking boots and brandy bottles from between the bobbing bodies, drowned and broken from the crash. It’s an unlawful people, either stinking of fish or covered in soot from the mines. No regard for the proper order of things.”

“How awful,” Lady Imogen said. “I had no idea.”

Cat might not know the rules of proper etiquette at a duke’s table but punching a fellow guest was probably frowned upon.

“Are we quite safe here, do you think?” Summer, a Cornishwoman if not a villager, asked. Mr. Armstrong did not notice the sarcasm laced through her words.

“Not to fear, the King’s own revenue men are here.” He straightened, like a hero in a fairy tale. “And we mean to catch every one of them. Smugglers, wreckers, criminals all. We have plans, you see.”

This dinner might be awkward and interminable—just like the entire week promised to be—but she might yet learn something of value. If she could keep herself wholly uninteresting to Mr. Armstrong, she might discover a useful detail or two. It was risky, of course. Being in the close company of custom agents always was.

“A problem to be sure,” Callum said sternly. “Let us discuss it privately, Armstrong.”

“It would be my honor, Your Grace.”

Trust a duke to be so amenable to a revenue man. Cat kept her eyes on her plate lest her expression give her away. A spinster out of her depths was a much more useful shield than the tirade she desperately wished to unleash. A defense of her fellow Cornishmen, a reminder that the tax on salt made it impossible to store food, to work leather or glass. To live. A tax on brandy might irritate the ton, but they could drown their tears in champagne.

And the finest French brandy she intended to smuggle.

Not like that swill Callum drank.

Luckily, the footmen returned with a procession of platters before her shield could crack. There was baked trout, oysters in their shell, lobster bisque, peas with butter and thyme, slices of lamb with mint sauce, a pie filled with duck, potatoes and carrots, spears of asparagus and partridges roasted in honey and sage. Wine glasses were refilled, mouths were discreetly blotted with napkins.

Cat had never seen so much food. And there were still two more courses left. She was accustomed to bread and potatoes and endless pilchard fish so salty it was known to give an enthusiastic eater mouth ulcers. With illegal salt, naturally. A family such as the Winters had likely never had pilchard in their entire lives, though it was a staple of livelihood in the villages, both for fishermen to sell and to see one through the winter. Apparently, it was considered a delicacy in Rome.

It did not smell nice.

At least not while being processed before it reached fine Roman mansions. Or estates such as Penhallow.