Page 87 of The Duchess Games

She wanted rain and wind and dark threatening clouds eating the sky. She wanted everything the color of a bruise.

On top of everything else, Callum had made her melodramatic.

Damn the man.

She would not let regret and sorrow take away the pride and the sense of accomplishment that came from achieving the first part of her goal. A good portion of the contraband had been moved, some of it even already fenced. Viola had left for London at first light, and for the first time her pockets were not empty. Matthew had taken the dogs for a ramble in the fields and would then head down to the village, to negotiate with Angus for time in the forge. His wife had carried so many barrels that she had a considerable percentage of the incoming profit. Everyone was in a good mood.

Everyone but her.

And Juro.

She had walked the beach, visiting Rumpelstiltskin, a gull with a broken wing she had set last year. He stayed close to the cottage now, waiting for treats. She tossed pebbles in the waves until her arm ached. She did not cry.

Climbing back up the slipway, she heard a murmur of voices. But she was spoiling for a fight, so instead of hiding she marched over the crest of the cliff.

The sun shone behind four men, casting them in sinister silhouette. As she got closer, Juro smirked at her, flanked by Mr. Armstrong and two of his agents. She refused to show the chill of dread that snaked through her. Anything she had to hide was well and truly hidden. And she knew enough about Mr. Armstrong to know how to work around him. Daintily.

Juro, on the other hand was unpredictable and vindictive.

“Mr. Armstrong,” she called out pleasantly, the wind whipping at her skirts. “How do you do?”

“Miss Sparrow, I’m afraid I come on Crown business.”

Of course, he had.

She pasted a look of confusion on her face when she desperately wanted to growl like one of the dogs. “How can I help you?”

“We’ve had a tip that you might be hiding contraband.”

She blinked, as though it was such a big word she could not quite understand it. The agents’ postures softened. “Another tip? That is odd.”

“Juro here was kind enough to direct us to your cottage.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“I’m afraid we must search the premises.”

“Of course,” she said, pushing open the front door. “Do come in.”

After her dealing with Juro and his lads, she wasn’t stupid enough to store the contraband in her cottage. Unfortunately, he wasn’t stupid enough to assume she would either. And so he’d taken matters into his own hands.

The absolute tosspot.

The agents marched in behind her before she could do anything. The dogs were still out with Matthew. Juro had used that to his advantage before calling the revenue men. And she’d been stomping the beach in a fit of temper. She might have to punch herself as well.

“Sir,” one of the agents said eagerly, pointing to the kitchen area.

Where the perfect summer day sunlight streamed through the window, landing right on the pale perfection of French lace.

As if she would keep ill-begotten French bloody lace piled in a basket by the fireplace. It was sloppy work and that offended her most of all. Juro would pay for that, above all.

Mr. Armstrong straightened his already military readiness. “Miss Sparrow, would you care to explain this French lace?”

“Yes,” Juro drawled. “Do explain.”

“Of course,” she smiled again although her heart was racing, and her palms were starting to sweat. Dainty, she reminded herself. “My sister Viola is a skilled lacemaker. She will be most flattered that you thought her work fine enough to be French.”

“Rubbish,” Juro spat. “She can’t have done all that.”