Free Smugglers' Summer by Carola Dunn Page A

tactless, if not downright dangerous, to expect them to deliver a letter to the stronghold of their adversaries.
    She set it aside for the moment and, unable to restrain her curiosity any longer, joined the pair at the cabinet.
    Julia’s cupped hands contained, besides the agate marbles, a pale blue, speckled bird’s egg, a champagne cork, a jay’s feather, a cartridge, and a horse-brass depicting a Cornish piskie and the motto “Trelawney shall not die.”
    “A veritable treasure trove!” exclaimed Octavia, laughing. “I trust the cartridge is empty.”
    “That was William’s. The first time he ever bagged a pheasant. We were ten or twelve, I suppose. The game-keeper was teaching us to shoot and I cannot say whether he or William was more astonished when he hit the bird. Out of season, I may say.”
    “You mean Lord Valletort?” asked Julia. “He died last year, did he not? I met him only once or twice, though he was some sort of distant cousin.” She noticed the sadness on Sir Tristram’s face. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to grieve you, sir. I spoke without thinking.”
    “We grew up together.” The baronet basked in her pity but had the good manners not to push his advantage. He turned the subject. “Miss Gray, there is a sort of box in there—you see it?—which we were never able to open. Perhaps you can fathom the trick.”
    Octavia inserted her hand in the space he indicated and felt around. There was a knob, which she pulled on without effect.
    “It seems to be stuck,” she said, just as her fingers found an edge of paper. “Wait a minute. There is something here, if I can only grasp it.” Trying to slide it out, she touched some hidden catch. There was a click, the box came loose, and she pulled both it and the paper out of the interior of the cabinet.
    The box was small but surprisingly heavy. There was a leather bag in it which clinked when Sir Tristram lifted it out. He thrust his hand in and pulled out a couple of gold coins.
    “Louis d’or! From the reign of Louis XV.” He emptied the bag on the desk. “A Venetian ducat, and some Roman pieces. Nothing later than 1750.”
    “This paper fell out of the bag,” said Octavia, bending to pick up a scrap which had fallen to the floor. “Do you think I ought to read it?”
    “Yes, do!” cried Julia eagerly.
    “Perhaps it should be given to Lord Edgcumbe unread.” She looked at Sir Tristram and thought he agreed with her but in the face of Julia’s enthusiasm he said nothing. “Very well. There are some numbers on the back. Inside, an old-fashioned hand, a gentleman’s I would guess but somewhat shaky. ‘For my son,’ it says, ‘lest I gamble away all that is not entailed.’ It is signed, ‘Richard, Second Baron Edgcumbe.’”
    “The bad baron,” said Sir Tristram. “Losing money at cards or dice, probably foxed to judge by the uncertain writing, suddenly struck by maudlin repentance and setting aside the relics of his Grand Tour: I can picture the scene clearly.”
    “The coins are no pirate’s hoard, then, but merely belong to Lord Edgcumbe,” said Julia, losing interest.
    Sir Tristram shook his head. “No, not to Lord Edgcumbe. I hope you ladies will trust me to pass it to its rightful owner."
    “Who is that?” asked Octavia. “You are being very mysterious, sir. Surely the earl must be the baron’s heir.”
    “His heir, but not his son. I cannot say more. It is not my story to tell. Will you entrust the gold to me?”
    Julia shrugged and turned away.
    “Of course,” her cousin said quickly. “Wait, Ju, we have not yet looked at the other paper I found.”
    “Have you not read Northanger Abbey? I thought Jane Austen was a favourite of yours. It is probably a laundry list.”
    “You know how little opportunity I have had to read.” Octavia’s hurt sounded in her voice and Julia was immediately contrite.
    “I’m sorry, love.” She hugged her. “That was beastly of me, forgive me. What is on the