Free A Lady of His Own by Stephanie Laurens Page A

strategic importance.” He paused, then more quietly added, “If Granville was lost near there, you can be certain he died a hero.”
    She wished—oh, how she wished—she could believe that.
    She asked no more, and he volunteered no more. They remained on the walk, watching the rain, listening to the steady downpour, the constant drum on the lead above, the merry gurgling in the gutters, the splatter as spouts of water hit the flagstones far below. Three more times they spotted flashes out at sea, out beyond the mouth of the estuary.
    At last, she stood; shaking out her skirts, she regarded him across the shadowed space. “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
    He considered her for an instant—an instant in which she had no idea what he was thinking. Then he swept her a bow, all fluid masculine grace.
    “In the morning. Sleep tight.”
    She turned and left him, going through the archway into the west wing.
     
    At eight o’clock the next morning, she walked into the breakfast parlor, sat in the chair Filchett held for her, smiled her thanks, then looked up the table at Charles. He’d looked up when she’d entered, was watching her still.
    “Granville was involved.”
    Charles’s gaze flicked to Filchett.
    He stepped forward and lifted the coffeepot. “I’ll fetch some fresh coffee, my lord.”
    “Thank you.” The instant Filchett had left the room, closing the door behind him, Charles transferred his gaze to her. “What precisely do you mean?”
    She reached for the toast rack. “It’s Granville I’m protecting.”
    “He’s been dead for nearly a year.”
    “Not him himself, but Elaine and Emma and Holly. And even Constance, for all that she’s married. Myself, too, although the connection is less direct.” Elaine was Granville’s mother, Emma and Holly his younger, still-unmarried sisters. “If it becomes known Granville was a traitor…” Charles had unmarried sisters, too; she was sure she didn’t need to spell it out.
    “So Granville was the link to the smugglers.” He looked at her, not uncomprehending yet clearly not convinced. “Start at the beginning—why do you think Granville was a traitor?”
    Between bites of toast and jam, and sips of tea, she told him. Filchett didn’t return with the coffeepot, probably just as well.
    The frown remained in Charles’s eyes. “So you never had a chance to tax Granville with this?”
    “I had taxed him over what he was doing with the smuggling gangs—I’d known of his association with them for years, at least since he was fifteen. But of course I never got any answer other than that he was just larking about.” She paused, then added, “I never suspected there might be more to it until last November.”
    “Tell me again—your housekeeper knew of this priest hole?”
    “Yes. I gather Figgs has always known it was there, but that Papa and later Granville had insisted it be left alone, that they kept important things in there they didn’t want the maids disturbing. So Figgs never told the maids, but when it came time to prepare the master bedchamber for Amberly’s first visit—he came in early December—Figgs thought it must be time to clean and dust in there, so she asked me if she should.”
    “When you went to check, did anyone go with you?”
    “No. Figgs told me how to open it—it’s easy enough if you know what to twist.”
    “And you found a large number of pillboxes.”
    She sighed. “ ‘A large number’ doesn’t adequately describe it, Charles. Trust me—Papa was a collector, but I never knew he had boxes like these. They’re…wonderful. Gorgeous. Some jewel-encrusted, others with beautiful miniatures, grisailles, and more. And I’ve never seen any of them before—not the ones on the shelves in the priest hole.”
    Setting down her teacup, she looked at him. “So where did he get them?”
    “Through the trade, collecting. Simply buying.”
    “I kept the estate accounts for all the years Granville was