Caught in a Cornish Scandal by Eleanor Webster (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

particularly want to marry Mr. Edmunds, but the union would have offered her mother and sister some financial stability.

Risk-taking and misplaced optimism were the hallmarks of the Lansdowne family. Her father had lost his money in investments gone wrong. Her brother had lost his life in gambling gone wrong. And now she—apparently—might well lose her life in smuggling gone wrong.

She’d promised she’d keep Lil safe. She’d promised.

But, like her father and brother before her, she had failed to save Lil, instead making her more vulnerable.

‘Git!’ the sailor holding her said, his rough voice jolting her back to the present as he shoved her into the small doorway leading below deck.

She lurched unsteadily down the steps. The stench struck her first. It was a solid wall, a mix of sweat, stale food and human waste. Instinctively, Millie pulled back, only to feel the pistol at her spine. She continued forward into a corridor that was dimly lit by a single lantern. It swung, casting weird shadows within the narrow confines. The smell worsened.

‘Stop ’ere!’ The sailor thrust open the door and rough hands pushed her through so that she stumbled over the sill, falling to the floor.

She heard Garrett also stagger.

‘Best get ’em tied up.’

The older man’s gaze passed over her body so that she was painfully aware of the thin cotton shirt and the damp cloth clinging to her chemise. She pushed herself back, flattening her spine against the wall, as though this slight distance might provide protection. She struck her shoulder as she did so and, wincing, realised a hook stuck out of the wall. With efficient movements, one sailor grabbed the rope, looping it over the peg she had hit and wrenching her arms back with a painful twist.

‘That ought to keep you still.’ His smile widened. She shivered, although it was not cold in the belly of the ship.

The men turned. The torch flickered with their movement, distorting their silhouettes. They stepped into the corridor, taking the light with them and letting the door slam.

The bolt slid into pace with a final metallic click.

Sam could see nothing. The darkness felt impenetrable, as though made of a substance more solid than air. As for his fellow captive, he could discern no part of her form or face. The only evidence of her presence was the intake of her breath and the shuffling sound as she shifted against the wall.

‘How do you know me?’ he asked into the fetid air.

‘I have an excellent memory for faces.’

‘We have met? How? Who are you?’

She made no reply. He heard her swallow.

‘I know you are a woman. There is no need to dissemble,’ he said.

‘It is not in my nature to dissemble.’ Her voice was sharp. There was that clipped tone, a clarity of enunciation which did not sound like that of a local villager.

‘You are not from the village.’

‘I was born just outside Fowey.’

‘But you are educated.’

‘Being from the village does not preclude education,’ she said.

‘No, but it makes it less likely. What is your name?’ He sensed her reluctance. ‘I am hardly in a position to tell anyone and I imagine your absence may soon be noticed.’

‘Millicent Lansdowne.’

He startled. He knew the name. They were small landowners in the area. He had known her brother, Tom. He had eaten at their house when they’d still had a place in London. And drunk with Tom when he’d imagined his heart broken.

Granted, the Lansdownes had lost money, but they were a decent family. Why would Tom’s sister be here? In a smuggling vessel? Involved as part of a criminal enterprise? It was a role totally unsafe and unsuitable for any female, never mind one from a decent family.

‘Miss Lansdowne?’ He looked in her direction as though to discern some clue even in the darkness. ‘Why are you here?’

‘As I recall, we weren’t given much choice and were rather thrown into these confines.’

‘No, I mean, out here...at sea? Working for these people.’

‘Financial gain.’

He almost admired her composure except her brazenness shocked him. Good Lord, surely she felt something: shame or embarrassment or something.

‘But these men are...are pirates. Your family owns land. Your brother would be...distressed,’ he said.

‘They are smugglers. And my brother rather forfeited the right to such distress when he took a nose dive off his horse. It is hard to emote from the grave.’

Her voice was blunt to the point of coldness. Sam had forgotten about Tom’s tragic accident. He’d become quite wild after his father’s death, gambling, drinking, duelling and taking crazy risks.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I forgot.’

‘You may have other things on your mind at present.’

Good God, he did not know if this was dry wit or unpleasant hardness. He did not know if he was shocked, appalled or fascinated.

‘My condolences,’ he added. ‘On both your father and brother’s passing, I mean.’

‘Mr Garrett, I realise that gentlemen of fashion feel the need to fill in the silence with small talk. However, that is not required here.’

‘I was merely expressing my condolences.’

‘I am not particularly at ease with small talk or condolences.’

Just then the ship pitched sharply and he applied himself again to the ropes, determined to loosen them. They would have no chance of escape if the ship sank, tethered as they were.

‘The Rising Dawn is a seaworthy vessel,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘It has been crossing between Cornwall and France these many years.’

‘I am reassured.’

‘And I know someone on board. I hope... I am certain he will help.’

‘You know someone? A young lady shouldn’t know smugglers,’ he said.

‘Young ladies in Cornwall sometimes do.’

His mind was still reeling. He had vague memories of Tom’s mother, Mrs Lansdowne—a typical matron, as he recalled. ‘What does your mother say?’

There was a pause. ‘She doesn’t know, but I am certain she would express disapproval quite volubly.’

He did not know what to say. All young ladies of his acquaintance held their mothers in high esteem or at least pretended to do so, when in public.

‘And this friend will help?