A Warriner To Seduce Her

However, for years her childish heart had secretly hoped one day her uncle would come to rescue her and she had assumed for the longest time he was prevented from doing so because her father was still alive. Even after the demise of her sire, she continued to kindle the tiny flame of hope with regular missives to remind him she was still alive and still hoping. Still praying that he might miraculously become someone she could depend upon.

It was only after she turned twenty-one that she stopped sending him an annual letter at Christmas, by which time she had embarked on her new life as a schoolmistress at the same school she had called home from eleven, and couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to feel anything other than mild disappointment any longer. Anything more for a virtual stranger was self-indulgent and Fliss much preferred to march onwards and upwards rather than wistfully glance behind.

When his only letter finally came out of the blue, she had been surprised and dismissive. Something about it did not ring true and as she was well past the age of majority she was under no obligation to acquiesce to the odd request. She had been on the cusp of writing him a brief thank-you, but no-thank-you note when Sister Ursuline had intervened.

A perpetual romantic soul at heart, Sister Ursuline was prone to see the good in all. Including feckless men—an odd trait for a woman who dealt with unwed and abandoned mothers, scandalously ruined young ladies and the most precocious and troublesome girls society had to offer. What if her mother had tasked her uncle with giving her a Season? And what if the poor man had been so financially embarrassed he could not do so until now? She deserved some adventure and it was only right and proper she met her only kin. While a dose of healthy scepticism was necessary in a young woman, Fliss was in danger of being an outright cynic. What was the harm of spending one month with her relative to find out which of them was right?

It had only been a little over a week and she already had his measure. Uncle Crispin was detached, clearly didn’t give two figs about his only niece and seemingly only cared about what others thought of him. His fancy and no doubt expensive box at the opera had been purchased only so that others could be impressed. He had less interest in the actual opera than he did in Fliss. A decidedly good thing, else he might have seen Jacob Warriner’s scandalously blown kiss.

Oh, for goodness sake! Stop thinking about that man! Now there was an untrustworthy, undependable libertine if ever there was one. Eminently likeable, yet as dangerous to a young lady’s virtue as it was possible to be. But it was too late. Her body was already misbehaving. The rapid heartbeat, the fluttering pulse, the overwhelming suffusion of heat...

Good lord, she was hot.

Fliss flung the covers off and threw out her arms and legs to cool them. After five minutes, during which time the unwelcome warmth did not subside, she flung her legs over the side of the mattress and padded over to her window. A bit of cold February air was exactly what she needed to banish all thoughts of the dark-haired, blue-eyed rake who had lodged himself in her mind and stalwartly refused to leave.

She cracked open the window and stood directly in the draught. The icy breeze was delightful, as were the goosebumps which instantly prickled her limbs. Anything that brought down her erratic temperature had to be a good thing. The trouble with living in a convent was there was a distinct shortage of young men. Fliss collided with them infrequently—at the assemblies or parties Sister Ursuline insisted all the girls attended to help them cope better with social situations—but not on a day-to-day basis. Therefore, it was difficult to make oneself completely immune to their charms. Familiarity breeds contempt, yet the opposite sparks interest. Her traitorous body was interested in the dashing Mr Warriner. Too interested. And that simply wouldn’t do.

Somewhere below, she heard a door creak open, closely followed by the sound of the gravel crunching as someone walked down the garden path. More curious than scared, because everything about her uncle’s house was still strange, Fliss hid her nightgown-clad body behind the heavy curtain and peeked out through the glass. There was a man walking around the edge of the lawn. It was difficult to make out much in the pitch-black darkness without her spectacles, but from his silhouette he appeared to be wearing what looked like shabby workmen’s clothes.

‘Wait—we’re not done.’ Her uncle appeared, probably from the same door, although she couldn’t be certain. From his tone, he seemed angry. ‘Next week is not good enough!’

The shabby man stopped in his tracks and slowly turned. Fliss squinted, but still could not discern his face. ‘It’s next week or not at all.’ He had a London accent. A common one. His coarse diction matched his attire. ‘I’ve other buyers, Rowley, and if you can’t wait someone else will happily take your place.’ He turned, but as Uncle Crispin came level with the Londoner, he grabbed the sleeve of his coat.

‘Tell them I’ll pay them double the usual. I need the goods now!’

‘Double. Treble. Even if you quadruple it I doubt it’ll make much difference. Dead men can’t spend. And the boss won’t like it if his cargo gets seized. He’s lost enough already this month. There are many new eyes along the water. I told you, this is not the time for haste.’

‘But you’re in haste for my money! This costs me. It costs me dearly, damn it, every time a shipment is late.’

The man pulled his arm free with such force her uncle took several steps back, his posture wary. It made no difference, as the other man closed that distance quickly, grabbed his lapels and loomed over him menacingly.

‘Don’t get all brave on me, Rowley! If you don’t like the boss’s terms, then we’ve got plenty of others who’ll happily step into your fancy shoes. If you’re not our man...’

‘I’m your man. You know I’m your man. I’m doing my best for you and the boss...just like you asked.’ His voice came out a few octaves higher than usual and pathetically desperate. ‘I didn’t mean to complain... But I’ve made promises. People are relying on me. What am I supposed to do in the meantime?’

‘You wait.’ The Londoner slowly uncurled his fingers from her uncle’s coat and made a great show of rearranging the lapels before he patted his head roughly. ‘Like a good boy.’ His gravelly voice sent involuntary chills though Fliss, her every instinct warning her he was a dangerous man. ‘Be ready.’ With that he left, disappearing into the shadows behind the shrubbery and into the night.

Her uncle watched him leave, the clenched fists at his side evidence his temper was barely controlled, then he stalked back towards the house and she heard the angry slam of the door in his wake.

It had been an odd exchange. She couldn’t shake the feeling that it had been a bad one. Dangerous, even. If her relationship with her uncle had been better, she might have gone downstairs and asked what was happening, enquired if he was all right, but Fliss knew he wouldn’t deign to confide in her. At best, he ignored her. If they spoke, he was curt and dismissive, or downright aloof. When she had first met him just a few short days ago, she had thought him a cold fish and he had done nothing in the time since to alter that opinion. If he was in trouble, then it was doubtless of his own making and therefore nothing to do with her. In a few weeks she’d be gone.

Besides, there was no point in allowing her vivid imagination to run away with itself. There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation why Uncle Crispin had met with that man.

In secret.

In the dead of night.

Perhaps this was the way things were done in town? Having little experience of the world outside her sleepy part of Cumbria, much of the ways of the capital baffled her. And she was tired. It had been a long day. Why, only five minutes ago her silly mind had been conjuring up images of kisses with an untrustworthy rake, so clearly she wasn’t thinking entirely logically. Sleep would put a different perspective on things. A problem was always best considered when the mind was at its sharpest and had one of her charges at the convent confessed to Fliss the same emotion Fliss was currently feeling, with no other proof than the peculiar disquiet she was experiencing, she knew she would scoff and be dismissive of unsubstantiated flights of fancy conjured during the witching hour. She would send the girl to bed, which was exactly what she should do herself. With an uneasy feeling, she silently closed the window and crept back under the covers, certain sleep was considerably further away now than it had been a few minutes ago.

* * *

‘Rowley has recently bought shares in another small shipping company. The Excise Men have boarded every one of their boats in the last three weeks the moment they have docked in British ports and performed thorough searches. There is no contraband. The cargoes are all legitimate and all the taxes are paid.’ Flint was pacing back and forth as he spoke, his frustration evident in every step. ‘That’s three merchant fleets he’s directly involved in, yet all apparently clean.’

‘He’s bringing the stuff in somehow. Perhaps those ships are decoys? Perhaps he deliberately bought those shares to take us off the scent?’ Lord Fennimore’s reasoned tone did little to calm Flint’s temper. ‘There is a chance he is smuggling the goods in on other boats. The old way—in the dead of night and onto quiet beaches.’

That didn’t make sense to Jake. This single band of smugglers had flooded the London market to such an extent they now dominated it. Both London and the entire south-east. ‘The volumes of brandy alone make that impossible. Even if he were using rowing boats, transporting that many barrels of illegal French spirits across the country to the capital would be problematic. They would be seen. We’ve had men watching all the roads into the town for months. He’s got to be bringing the stuff straight into London. By sea.’

‘The Excise Men assure me they have searched every nook and cranny of every ship linked to Rowley. They’ve had the cargoes apart the moment they’ve off-loaded and found nought that hasn’t been recorded on the ships’ manifest. Those vessels are clean.’

‘Too clean.’ These were the first words Leatham had said in the hour they had been sat in Lord Fennimore’s study. They all turned to look at him. He didn’t say much, but what he did was always worth waiting for. ‘In my experience, the best place to hide is in plain sight. I’ll wager he’s using those ships and bringing the goods right into London just as Jake said—right under the Excise Men’s noses. They won’t use the roads. Not when it makes sense to keep everything in the water. Quieter, darker and harder to stop.’

He had Lord Fennimore’s attention. ‘You think he’s solely using the Thames?’

‘I would.’

‘The river police patrol those waters like hawks. He’d be taking a risk.’

Leatham shrugged. ‘Maybe they offload the big ships well shy of London. Transfer the stuff onto local coasters or barges. There are thousands of smaller vessels which run those waters every day and never get challenged—just as generation after generation of Thames watermen have done in the past. If they can fool the Excise Men with legitimate loads like fish, bricks or hay, then I doubt a paltry few river police will worry them and that’s assuming it stays on the Thames. There’s also the Fleet, the Lee. Or the canals. There are hundreds of miles of canals, remember. There aren’t enough river police to watch everywhere or to check every boat and everyone knows they focus on the big ships and the docks. The ones that cross the sea rather than the local waters.’

Lord Fennimore nodded thoughtfully. ‘Smaller boats? There’d have to be a lot of them, a whole rotten network. Perfectly synchronised. But I suppose if they avoid the docks, once they are through the city they can move largely undetected and unchallenged throughout the country.’ His bushy eyebrows drew together and he nodded decisively. ‘Send some of your men to do some digging around the wharfs, Leatham, and see what you can find. Flint, see if Crispin Rowley, or any of his cronies, has any links in any canal companies or river hauliers. I’ll arrange for the Excise Men to pay close attention to the Essex and Kent stretches of the Thames Estuary. Get them to covertly follow a few of the regular wherrymen. It can’t hurt to explore the possibility further. Better safe than sorry, even if we are just shouting into the wind until we have credible intelligence on Rowley’s actual business dealings.’ At that, Fennimore’s head turned to Jake. ‘How are things going with the niece?’

‘We’ve met.’ That awkward introduction still grated.

‘Met? It’s been a week. Have you lost your touch, Warriner?’

‘Miss Blunt is not the sort of woman one rushes.’ Because she saw right through flannel. ‘I flirted with her tonight at the opera.’ Well, he’d gazed longingly at her. ‘And thanks to subtle enquiries—’ which involved flirting outrageously with several well-connected society ladies ‘—I’ve managed to piece together most of her engagements for the next few weeks. She will be attending the Renshaws’ Ball on Friday.’ Where he fully intended to sweep the pithy Miss Blunt off her canny northern feet.

‘Engage her in conversation about Rowley’s business interests. See if she’s heard any mention of canals over the dinner table.’

Jake rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, that ought to do it. Nothing says seduction like talk of barges.’ Although with hindsight, that might have been better than waffling on about birds of paradise. Anything would have been better than waffling on about those damn birds. ‘Leave Miss Blunt to me. By the time I’m finished wooing her, she’ll sing like a canary.’ Another crass bird analogy! Good lord, he was doomed.

If only he’d been able to stop thinking about the delectable Miss Blunt, then Jake would be more on his game. But there was something about her which had got under his skin and, even when it shouldn’t, his mind kept wandering back to her. It wasn’t just her beauty which appealed, although there was no denying the physical attraction he felt. Tonight, he could barely take his eyes off her. From the moment she had appeared in Rowley’s box, he had been transfixed.

She had looked stunning with all that honey-gold hair piled loosely on top of her clever head, outshining every other lady in the opera house. When the done thing was to appear bored, Miss Blunt had flown in the face of convention and been utterly charmed by the occasion. Openly smiling at the actors on the stage and swaying in time to the music. To do that when all around you were people behaving properly showed a tremendous amount of confidence. That confidence, that comfortable sense of self, made Miss Blunt very alluring indeed. The way she had closed her eyes in bliss at the taste of the champagne had done peculiar things to his nerve endings, creating all manner of unwelcome images of the vixen in the grip of pleasure. Images which resolutely refused to leave his mind now, when he was supposed to be concentrating.

Of course, it didn’t help that the copper-silk gown had shown off her magnificent figure to perfection. Cut to sit off the shoulder, the acres of creamy peach skin had tormented him each time the lights went up and haunted him in the darkness. Skin he now knew blushed more beautifully than any skin had blushed before—and from something as simple as a cheeky blown kiss when nobody was looking. A kiss he had every intention of delivering properly, in person, at the first available opportunity. And not because he’d been told to.

Flint’s fingers snapped in front of his face and Jake realised he’d missed an important part of the conversation. ‘Sorry. I was...’

‘Daydreaming about your conquest, if your expression was anything to go by.’ Flint grinned. ‘I said you might have some competition for Miss Blunt’s affections, dear boy. The word among Rowley’s crowd is he has her earmarked for Redditch.’

‘The Earl of Redditch!’ The very idea was disgusting. The man was in his sixties and smelled like feet. ‘I sincerely doubt I’ll have much competition from that quarter. Miss Blunt wouldn’t entertain an obnoxious fellow like him.’ Or at least he hoped she wouldn’t. Not that imagining her in the throes of passion with the aged Earl was any more distasteful than imagining her in the throes of passion with any other man. The mere thought made him strangely jealous and, if he was entirely honest, a tad nauseous.

‘Perhaps not—but her uncle is keen to make a match. I’ve heard he fetched her to town with the express intention of presenting her to the Earl. Redditch is recently out of mourning and has been quite vocal about his desire to marry again. His first marriage was barren, so it stands to reason he wants a wife young enough to give him heirs and he is as rich a Croesus. Despite his stinky disposition, he’s still quite a catch and one Rowley seems intent on catching. Miss Blunt does make attractive bait.’ Flint and Leatham shared a knowing, wholly masculine look which made Jake yearn to punch the pair of them for the heinous crime of having perceptive eyes.

‘Miss Blunt is a woman with her own mind and well past the age of majority. I wish her uncle all the luck in the world trying to bring her around to his way of thinking.’

Lord Fennimore frowned. ‘This is a dangerous and unforeseen complication.’