Harry flattened himself on the picnic blanket, wishing for his spyglass. There was a small collapsing glass at the bottom of his trunk up at Castle Keyvnor. And speaking of which— “Is this Banfield land?”
“No.” Nessa’s voice was as thin and strained as frayed rigging. She was nervously eyeing the lugger, still idly anchored in the deepest part of the cove. “That’s Black Cave. It’s said to be haunted by the ghost of the man who wrecked his ship and all his crew in this cove. But the coast is riddled with such caves,” she said, as if it might underplay the importance of this particular one. As if she felt disloyal for providing him with any information at all.
He felt a sharp pang of conscience pierce the armor of his duty. But finding the traitor—or traitors, for such endeavors were rarely the work of only one man—was more important than any misapprehension or misplaced loyalty she might feel. The cave might house treason. “Then whose land is it?”
She took a long moment to answer, still reluctant to spill local secrets. “Hollybrook Park, Viscount Lynwood’s estate. It abuts Castle Keyvnor’s park.”
The Lynwood name fell like a hot cinder into Harry’s ears, lighting him up—his sister had mentioned something about Lynwood or Hollybrook. Or something. Harry hadn’t paid much attention—his mind had been on their traitor. “Banfield and Lynwood—were they on good terms?”
“No,” Nessa’s glance slid to the emerging cave. “The earl and the viscount were said to be at odds, even mortal enemies, though it was only village rumor.” She sat up, brushing the crumbs of their meal from her skirts. “I think I must go.”
“No.” The denial sprang from his lips too quickly. There was clearly more she was not telling. “Were Banfield and Lynwood rivals in the smuggling?”
“No.” She hesitated. “Banfield forbade any smuggling on his land.”
Harry tried to cast his mind back twelve years, to that singular invitation to tea at the castle. To the earl’s pointed questions about the course of studies at Reverend Teague’s school and what else Harry had gotten up to. Could the earl have been suspicious about the reverend’s connection to the smuggling even then?
Was that why Nessa was so uncomfortable now? “I must go,” she insisted. “I must— There are sermons that need copying.”
“Surely the sermons can wait. We were having such a lovely day—”
“Aye.” The word sounded as though it had been wrenched from her. “We were.”
It was accusation enough for Harry to know he had been too eager, both about the kissing and about the smuggling—he had rushed them both. “I’ll see you home,” he offered. He could make amends on the sail back to the harbor, where he could find Kent and give him the information about the cave on Lynwood lands. It made sense that one of the major landholders in the district was complicit in the free trade, because—
“Nessa?”
He was alone—while he had been making his plots and plans, Nessa had scrambled up the rough, steep incline toward the clifftop, where his lame leg would not allow him to follow. “Nessa!”
She stopped abruptly and looked at the lugger. And then back at him with a painful mix of accusation and plea written across her face, as if she could not believe how stupid he was to be shouting her name across the clifftops. As if she were utterly devastated to realize he would use her so.
A bilious mixture of shame and guilt swirled its sour way into his gut. Damn him for an ass. He would make it up to her. Just as soon as he told Kent about this Black Cave, and investigated it, and found his traitor.
Kent was sitting on the bench in front of the Crown & Anchor when Harry finally made his way back to Bocka Morrow’s quay.
“Afternoon,” Kent tipped his battered hat as if Harry were a stranger. “Have a nice sail, sir?”
Harry took the other end of the bench and pitched his voice low, though no one was around to overhear. “Found a cave a few miles up the coast on Hollybrook Park land, just over the boundary from Castle Keyvnor’s estate. There was a lugger anchored there for the better part of the morning. They stopped doing whatever it was they were doing while we were there, but—”
“We?”
“A friend took me out in their boat.”
“A friend? Is that what we’re calling young women these days? Careful your betrothed doesn’t find out.”
Harry chose to ignore Kent’s gibing tone. “The Rowena, it was. Know her?”
“She’s Arthur Morgan’s. He lives at the south end of the village here. Not the sort to have a large share of a cargo—modest man.”
“He was anchored in Black Cove for the better part of the day while the tide ran out. And they didn’t make any show of setting out their ship’s boats for a pilchard catch. I’m fairly certain they could identify me. Nessa said they’d have a glass on us—”
“Nessa said?” Kent’s head went back, absorbing that information as if he were deflecting a blow. “Be careful with the intriguing Teague girls, Becks.”
“What do you mean?” Was Kent implying that Nessa not only knew far more than she had let on, but that she might somehow be involved?
“I mean take care,” was Kent’s cryptic response. “Everywhere I look in this business, I see the vicar or his family.”
Everywhere Harry had looked, he’d seen Nessa. Nessa flying down the hill, eager to join him. Nessa practically throwing herself at him to distract him from the lugger. Nessa.
Damn his eyes. “We’ll head back to that cove tonight. I calculate the tide will be out for another six hours—
“No. You leave Black Cove to me—as you said, they might recognize you from your sail today.” Kent made his decision. “While Black Cove is in play to the north, I need you to head south and tend to your betrothed.”
The guilty punch in his gut was all for Nessa, and the liberties he had taken. “Nessa and I are not betrothed.”
“I was speaking of Elowen Gannett, Becks.” Kent spoke with slow deliberation, as if he shouldn’t have to remind Harry of his precarious situation with another village daughter. “And her father, the squire, who may or may not have his finger in this pie. Actually, I know he must have his finger in the pie, but I want to know how deep.”
Harry swallowed down the bitter disappointment about Nessa. “I will do.”
“Use your charm, Becks,” Kent advised. “You’re a handsome toff—an earl’s son. I reckon you can charm Elowen Gannett into letting you right through the squire’s front door.”