Page 53 of The Duchess Games

“Cat, I know when a man stares at a woman and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise that he’s not a good man.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “But it’s not because he’s a thief. He’s just a git.”

“I doubt he troubles himself overmuch with the law.”

Cat watched him for a moment. “Come with me.”

This was probably unwise. Actually, it was definitely unwise but she couldn’t help herself. He had so much power as a duke, power he might well wield badly without even realizing it. As vindicating as it might be to let him scapegoat Juro, there were larger issues at stake.

She led him down the hill towards the beach, turning left.

The smell hit them almost immediately.

Callum stopped. “What the bloody hell.”

“Welcome to the palace.”

He only stared at her. She smiled a little. “The pilchard palace,” she explained, motioning to the courtyard with gutters in the ground, buildings on three sides. “This is where we salt and press the fish. When we can.” She caught Percival’s collar when he tried to dart passed her. “I don’t think so, boy-o. You’re not going to meet a duchess after rolling in fish bones.”

Instead of the boisterous industriousness of the entire village gathering to process the fish, the cellar was crowded with gulls and a heap of rotting fish bones. It was painful to see.

“The last shoal harvested was a few months ago. It’s been a bad summer for them unfortunately. And on top of that, we couldn’t afford enough salt to process the lot.” She raised an eyebrow pointedly. “The taxes were too high.”

“I was under the impression that salt for pilchard processing is not taxed.”

“Sometimes. But everything else is taxed and where’s the coin left with which to purchase supplies? And French salt is the best and we both know that’s a problem.”

“Might we continue this conversation elsewhere? That smell is… powerful.”

They went back up the hill, away from the shouting gulls, the putrid fish.

“We salt and press the fish to eat, but also to squeeze out the oils. It’s what lights your London lamps.” She tilted her head. “Well, not yours, I imagine.”

“I would remember the smell.” He frowned. “Am I to gather you harbour some sympathy for the smugglers?”

“More than I do for the revenue men. You saw how they are, little men drunk on power. And we have to eat, don’t we?”

“Don’t let Armstrong hear you say that.”

As if she would. “He doesn’t care if we go hungry. He only cares about the letter of the law.”

“He’s doing his duty to the Crown.”

“Perhaps.”

Callum rubbed at his neat beard pensively. “There’s much talk about smuggling and illegal activity in Parliament. And the war. The taxes pay our defense against France. Who knows how long Napoleon will fight back?”

“Is that Armstrong’s arguments I hear? Cornishmen are born and bred evil?”

“I’m a Cornishman,” he returned, mildly offended. “And smuggling is a problem, you can’t deny that. The law must be preserved. Especially now that we’re at war.”

“Those laws were made for you, by other people like you. They don’t always help people like me. Never mind exporting goods, the taxes prevent us from salting fish and having something to eat come winter,” she pointed out. “It takes a full bushel of salt to process enough fish to feed a single family over the winter. And it’s already August. But I have no doubt you have made a great many speeches in Parliament.”

The lift of his eyebrow was censorious. “I have.”

“And do you think it’s made a difference?” She shouldn’t press the matter but the Callum she had known before was still there somewhere, under all that duke-ness. She wanted to chip away at that cold wall of privilege and power until she reached him. With her teeth, if need be.

He grimaced. “Not as much of a difference as I would like,” he admitted. “The House of Lords is mostly just men shouting.”