The Indebted Earl by Erica Vetsch (love letters to the dead TXT) 📕

had shown it to Grayson … and then Reverend Dunhill. What had happened to it after that? He’d been so angry and frustrated … Had someone heard him confront Grayson in the street last night? He hadn’t exactly been whispering. The man in the hooded cloak perhaps? Or the bearded giant just outside the public house?

Had someone lifted it from his pocket after he’d returned to the dance? They had been speaking rather loudly in the street. Anyone could have overheard and learned of the note’s existence.

They reached the front steps of Gateshead, where a box wagon with iron bars on the openings awaited him. They had come prepared to haul him away.

The girls stood on the gravel drive, Penny in the middle, her arms around her sisters. Mamie hovered in the doorway, her face scrunched in worry. Sophie went one step toward them but stopped, as if reluctant to leave his side.

“Sophie, get me a solicitor. Not Will Owens. Someone from outside Gateshead. And contact Barrington at the Admiralty.”

“I will.” She went to the girls, cupping Betsy’s head for a moment and squeezing Thea’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, girls. We’ll sort this out.”

“What are they doing? Why are they taking him away?” Thea’s voice rose. She tried to get around Sophie, but Sophie held her back.

“He broke the law. He’s going to jail,” someone in the back of the mob shouted.

Charles’s gut burned at the injustice and humiliation, especially in front of the girls. The minute he was proven innocent and released, he would mete out a bit of justice of his own on the real culprits.

Sophie’s encouraging smile as they shoved him into the wagon gave him heart, but Thea’s look pierced him to the core. She didn’t understand that he wasn’t guilty. This thing had the stench of conspiracy all over it. But Thea’s look had been both accusatory and angry.

Sophie would have to set her straight. Or he would, once he was free.

The ride to Lyme Regis was intolerable. The closed wagon had no springs, and they were tossed about like loose cargo in a storm. Charles was pinned between two large jailers who showed no sympathy. If anything, they seemed to take great joy in arresting a titled gentleman. They spoke about him as if he weren’t there, laughing and joking.

Charles ignored them. He could only think of all the clues that had been right in front of him from the moment he’d arrived at the estate. They jumbled together in no particular order, but each one was a plank, fitting together into a whole deck.

The banner Thea had found during their picnic. It had to be for signaling ships from the cliff.

The excellent condition of the Shearwater, even after it had been wrecked once. No wonder his uncle had been eager to salvage it and get it back into service.

The apparent affluence of the villagers, from the vicar’s nice suits to the extensive inventory at the dressmaker’s that Sophie had commented upon. Each person seemed to have more and better things in their possession than their circumstances would indicate.

The rather healthy look of the estate books, in spite of the steward being less than adequate and his uncle being out of his mind in the last months.

The second path from the shore to the cliff top where the so-called “smuggler’s cave” had collapsed that Charles had spotted on their brief run up the coast aboard the Shearwater.

The French champagne the vicar had brought to the wedding breakfast.

The imported lace Mamie had mentioned seeing on a woman’s dress at church.

Even further back, the death of the Pembroke girls’ father. No wonder his uncle had taken on the guardianship of his boat captain’s children. The man had lost his life in the service of the earl’s illegal work.

Was the entire village in on the smuggling? Or were some unwitting accomplices? Were only a few guilty, but many drawn in through unknowingly purchasing illegal goods?

He had known smuggling was a widespread problem. Admiral Barrington had mentioned that the Home Secretary had requested naval involvement in stopping the flood of illegal goods into the country.

But right on his own doorstep? With his uncle providing the funds and ship and warehousing?

Charles felt like an idiot.

God, how could I have been so blind? What if I can’t prove my innocence? What will happen to Sophie and the girls and Mamie and Gateshead? How are You working here? Are You working here? Nothing has gone right. Everything was going to be so simple. I had a plan, a reasonable plan, and now it’s wrecked.

He should be captaining a naval ship right now. And yet if he had gotten his way, he would have left Sophie in a precarious position, with thieves and smugglers all around her. She would have been in danger if she ever tumbled to it, and as smart as she was, she would have discovered it sooner or later.

His chest constricted at the thought of what might have happened. Thus far no one had been hurt, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t have gone to great lengths to escape discovery and prosecution.

After what seemed ages, the wagon jerked to a halt, and the back door flung open. “Get out.” A burly gray-haired man with a truncheon flicked his head. The jailers inside grabbed Charles by his elbows and shoved him toward the door. Staggering, he emerged into the sunlight, blinking against the glare.

Lyme Regis.

He was escorted into a dingy, dank stone building. Two cages of iron bars stretched across the back of the single room. The darbies were removed, as was his coat and stock, and he was shoved into the left-hand cell.

Musty straw covered the floor, and the only light came from a narrow slot near the eaves.

“The magistrate will have a session tomorrow or the next day. When your lawyer shows up, we’ll send him in. Until then, keep quiet.” The truncheon-bearing guard slammed the iron door with a clang that went right through Charles.

Tomorrow or the