“Very well,” she said.
He strode to the door, gave some instructions to Mr. Crutchley, and came toward her after closing the door again. He took both her hands in a bruising grip.
“Perhaps I should be horsewhipped,” he said, “except that this is precisely the reason they need to be confronted. I am sorry, my l—. Ah, dash it all, I am sorry, my love. I will not allow anything to happen to you. I will not. Of that you may rest assured. And when this is over, you may consign me to hell and I will go there without a murmur.”
He raised her hands one at a time to his lips and kissed them fiercely before releasing them and striding over to the window to stand with his back to the room. The letter was sticking out of one of the pockets of his coat.
The uncles and cousin and friends were the first to arrive, all in a body, all clearly bursting with curiosity.
“We will wait for Knorr,” Percy said after one glance over his shoulder.
They waited in silence until there was a firm tap on the door and Mr. Knorr stepped inside.
A mere moment later it opened again, and Mr. Crutchley admitted—of all people—Cousin Adelaide. She looked about her disagreeably and made for the chair closest to the fire.
“The others may say until they are blue in the face,” she said, “that the ladies have not been invited, but there is a lady down here already, a young one, and she will not be left alone at the mercy of a roomful of men while I have anything to say in the matter.”
She seated herself and continued to look disagreeable.
21
Percy had realized from the start that he was playing a dangerous sort of game of dare, something with which he was long familiar. The difference this time was that he was not doing it merely for his own amusement. He had not expected it to be easy. Hardford was a convenient base for smuggling—right on the coast but up away from the valley, with a secluded, relatively safe landing place and a way up to the top, which was private ground—an earl’s property, in fact—and hence less likely to be the target of patrols by customs officers. There were roomy cellars in both the dower house and the hall itself, and until recently the owner of both was willing to aid and abet the trade even if he was not actively involved in it. And even after the death of that earl, the new one had been obliging enough to stay away for two full years.
Oh, he had not expected that rousting them permanently off Hardford property would be easy. He had even realized that he was putting himself in possible danger by being so open and determined in his opposition. He could not forget Colin Bains with his broken legs. He had never suffered from a wild imagination, but he did not believe he was weaving too fantastical a tale about the series of events that had preceded—and followed—the departure of the late Richard, Viscount Barclay, for the Peninsula. Nevertheless, the possibility of danger had not particularly bothered him. He had thrived upon it, after all, for ten years.
Never in his wildest fancy had he imagined that the threat of danger would come, not to him, but to Imogen.
How fiendishly clever, had been his first thought upon reading the letter. How did he know? had been his second thought. But it was not altogether surprising. Percy had really quite recklessly endangered her reputation by trotting off to the dower house for each of the last several nights and not leaving it until early morning. It would be more surprising if no one knew. The whole world probably knew.
He was more angry than he had ever been in his life. But it was a quiet, leashed anger. There was no point whatsoever in blustering and lashing out with either words or fists—not unless or until he had a target for those fists, anyway. And at least half of his anger was directed against himself.
He drew the letter from his pocket and turned from the window.
“Smuggling is rife along this stretch of the coastline,” he said. “I called a meeting of the whole of my staff yesterday morning and made it clear that I would no longer harbor either smugglers or their contraband on my land.”
“Smuggling is rife along every stretch of coastline, Percy,” Uncle Roderick said. “There is no way of stopping it, I am afraid. And I must admit that I enjoy a drop of good French brandy now and then, though I am careful never to ask my host where it came from.” He chuckled.
“That was probably not wise of you, Percy,” Uncle Ernest said. “And it will do no good, you know. Your servants may pay you lip service for a while, but they will surely slip back to their old ways soon enough. If I were you, I would let the matter drop now that you have made your point.”
“You had better sharpen your cutlass even so, Perce,” Sidney said with a grin.
“And load your pistol,” Cyril added.
“The sooner we get you back to London, Perce,” Arnold said, “the better for everyone, I think.” But he did turn and look at Imogen, Percy noticed. She had gone to sit on a chair beside Mrs. Ferby, who was patting her arm.
“But there is viciousness underlying it all,” Percy said. “A bit of brandy, a bit of lace I might be tempted to ignore. Broken legs and murder I cannot.”
“Murder?” Uncle Ted said sharply.
“I have no proof,” Percy said, “but yes, murder. Ten years ago there were threatening letters when the late Viscount Barclay voiced his concerns about the trade encroaching upon his father’s land. Today Lady Barclay received another such letter. I did not ask, but I believe I can guess the answer. As far as you can recall, Lady Barclay, does this one appear to be written in the same hand?”