Free Smuggler's Glory by Rebecca King Page A

that was almost claustrophobic.
    Sliding
his hands behind his head, Simon turned his thoughts toward the
mission Hugo had given him. He had no idea if Francesca, Madeline
or Bertie were involved, and certainly wouldn’t find out lying
around in bed. With a deep sigh, he threw back the covers and
slowly eased out of the bed, shaking his head at the deep groan
that rumbled from the bedstead. He was certain that any moment now
the entire thing was going to collapse in an exhausted heap of dust
and splinters.
    Within
moments, he was standing in the corridor, waiting for his eyes to
adjust to the darkness. The wall sconces hadn’t even been lit;
another sign that finances were tighter than they ought to be. He
thought briefly to his own fortune, part-inherited and part-earned,
that sat idle in his bank, and knew he owned enough to easily cover
the complete refurbishment of both Thistledown Manor and Ulverton
Priory. If he was inclined, which he wasn’t. Neither of the houses
was of any importance to him, and he had no intention of laying
down roots in either property, especially the one he currently
resided in.
    A quick
inventory of the house revealed the usual plethora of rooms for a
mansion of this size. Several downstairs rooms included a morning
room, a sitting room, what appeared to be a large ballroom, one
long conservatory that ran down the length of one side of the house
and several smaller rooms as well as the kitchens and the rear
sitting room he and Francesca had shared earlier, which appeared to
be part of the housekeeper’s quarters.
    On
closer inspection, there was nothing out of the ordinary with the
room. Its contents were an eclectic mix of decorative porcelain,
fine china and expensive crystal, sitting atop plain and somewhat
basic and shabby furniture. But the one thing that became apparent
to him as he wandered through the lower floors was that there were
very few portraits. The handful that hung on the walls in the
entrance hall had been painted many years earlier, and were of long
deceased descendants. He had no idea which, if any, was of
Francesca’s uncle. There was nothing of Francesca or her sisters,
or any children for that matter and for some reason that bothered
him, leaving him to wonder if her childhood had been as cold and
stark as his own.
    Having
toured the entire ground floor of the house, minutes later Simon
eased out of the conservatory door, and silently vanished into the
shadows. Once in the sheltered protection of the small copse of
trees, he paused to gather his bearings and scout the area.
Although he couldn’t see anyone, he could feel eyes watching him,
and frowned. There was no way of scouting the area without being
seen. Keeping a wary eye on the gardens, he slowly began to
circumnavigate the perimeter of the house. Learning the layout of
the land in the darkness would give him an advantage if he was
chased, or needed to pursue anyone.
    Several
hours later, having gone as far as he could for the time being at
least, Simon slowly returned to the house, approaching from behind
the stable block. As was habitual for him, he didn’t walk straight
up to the building, and instead paused in the shadows, studying the
area carefully for any sign of movement. The house was truly in the
middle of nowhere and left him feeling as though he could easily
have been the only person left in the country.
    He was
about to leave the sheltered protection of the stable block when
the sudden flurry of movement at the end of the block drew his
attention. A dark frown swept over his face and he watched the
heavily cloaked figure scurry across the side garden and disappear
through the kitchen door.
    “ Well, well, well,” Simon whispered, noting that once inside
the cloaked figure felt they knew the house well enough not to need
to light a candle.
    Within
seconds he was entering the side door of the conservatory in
pursuit of his quarry. He felt reasonably certain that Madeline and
Bertie were, unusually,