Chapter Three
“These arrived in the post this morning,” Mrs. Sands told Caroline and placed the silver salver with several embossed envelopes down near her breakfast plate in the dining room. “I thought you would want to see them right away.”
Not really, Caroline thought, although she didn’t say so. “I am not sure I finished with the stack from yesterday.”
The housekeeper smiled at her. “Well, now that you are betrothed to an earl, I suspect we will keep receiving more invitations.”
Since that fateful night nearly a week ago when Lord Tisdale had announced he planned to marry her, she’d received numerous invitations to luncheons and teas, not to mention soirees, recitals, routs, and dinners. If the prince regent weren’t planning his huge house party in Brighton, there would no doubt be a number of balls planned as well.
“I have not agreed to any betrothal.” She hoped she didn’t sound as testy as she felt.
Mrs. Sands’ lips pursed. “Your father will be displeased if he hears you talk like that. He only wants what is best for you.”
“What is so wrong with a female wanting freedom to do what she wants?”
Mrs. Sands looked suitably shocked. “It simply isn’t done.”
Caroline stifled a smile. “There are women in business who operate shops and boardinghouses and such.”
“They areworking-class, not aristocrats.”
Caroline shrugged. “And then there are the artistes, singers, and actresses.”
The housekeeper practically sputtered. “Those…women…are not received in Society at all.”
While that was unfortunately true, Caroline sometimes envied them. Without having to be concerned about a proper role in Society, those women had the freedom to do what they wanted to do…like maybe run off with the Midnight Marauder. If only she could find him.
Looking at Mrs. Sands’ red, flustered face, Caroline decided not to continue that line of conversation. “Do not worry. I am not planning to take to the stage. I just would like to experience a little bit of the world outside of parlors and ballrooms…have a little adventure.” Like having another kiss from the Midnight Marauder. Lord, she dreamt of that almost nightly.
Mrs. Sands gestured to the invitations on the tray. “These are where a lady’s adventures lie. You have become very popular.”
Only because of the earl’s announcement. The gossip hounds—always with ears pointed for what wasn’t said—had probably latched onto the fact that Caroline had not officially agreed to anything. And if the gossips could smell even a hint of discord, they would focus in like a pack of wolves circling a wounded deer.
She sighed. “Would you go through the invitations and recommend which would be best for me to attend?” she asked Mrs. Sands.
The housekeeper’s expression changed from a near scowl to beaming. “Of course. At once. I am so glad you understand that you must take your place in Society. I am sure your father—and the earl—will be pleased.”
Maybe, Caroline thought as she watched the older woman walk away. At least, she hadn’t had to contend with the earl these past few days. A boat from France had been accosted by pirates just off the Cliffs of Dover, and a huge shipment of liquor belonging to Tisdale had been taken along with spices and bolts of silk from the Orient. The earl had gone down to the Kentish coast to check into the matter himself, saying he’d see her at Brighton.
Caroline sighed and prayed that Brighton would not be her Waterloo.
…
“Did you get an idea of the haul?” Stephan asked Eric, the captain of his fishing fleet, as they sat inside the cabin of the fishing trawler tied to the pier in Horne Bay. Stephan had received word a week ago from his contact in Le Havre that the French shipLa Mer Espritwould be sailing with the words “livraison par exprès” attached to part of its manifest. The special delivery phrase that had aroused the interest of his contact.
Eric nodded, his blue eyes looking eerily like glaciers in the light from the oil lamp. Theirs was the only boat docked this early in the day, but he still stood and poked his head out the companionway to make sure the dock was deserted. He grinned when he sat back down.
“One hundred cases of fine French cognac, several dozen bolts of silk, and about fifty pounds of spice.”
“Were you able to hold a bit of the clove out?” Stephan asked. It was the only booty he usually kept when his crews intercepted a ship. His men swore it cured toothaches, but he liked the fresh scent of it in his mouth.
Eric reached under the bolted table they were seated at and produced a small leather pouch. “Aye.”
“Thank you.” Stephan placed it in a pocket of his sea coat. “Was there any trouble?”
Eric shook his head. “The French captain never questioned fishermen approaching in small skiffs. Thanks to your source in France, we’ve managed to keep another shipment out of the wrong hands.”
Stephan nodded. Befriending Pierre Girard while they’d been students at Eton, where he’d been bullied for being French, had led to a lifelong, loyal friendship. Both wanted to keep warmongers from reaping the benefits of promoting strife between their two countries.
