Harry traveled to Gannett Hall in his father’s crested coach to make a suitably impressive entrance. He would have to sail a fine course, ingratiating himself enough to gain the squire’s confidence, while holding off any agreement to an actual betrothal—deep seas, indeed.
Devil take him if he didn’t end up dashed against the rocks.
Miss Gannett greeted him at the door of the ancient Hall with a low, melting curtsey. “Welcome, my lord. I’m sure it’s not so fine as the castle, though it is nearly so old.” She conducted him into the vaulted Tudor interior with a nervous pride that instantly made Harry feel even more guilty at so knowingly using another female.
What had Kent called her—gormless? Poor girl.
“It is a very handsome building, Miss Gannett,” he enthused. “Quite ship-like, with all the wonderful carved wood, but almost too fine for a rough sailor like me.”
“But you’re not rough at all,” she exclaimed, all coy protest, “being a marquess’ son.”
Gormless but lethal—Harry would do well to remember Kent’s exact words. “I am the marquess’ second son, Miss Gannett, not his heir. I stand to inherit nothing of substance from my father’s estate.”
“La.” She waved the concern away. “That is of no account, for I am the heir, or rather, the heiress. My father has no other children—and thankfully no inclination to get a new wife—so there is no one to inherit but me.”
This, Harry knew, was meant to entice him into considering her and the engagement in a more profitable light. And if he were a different man, such an alliance might have had its advantages and appeal.
But he was not a different man—he was a man committed to duty.
And a man who was already in love with another.
The thought pierced him like a single bullet from a sharpshooter—he was in love with Nessa Teague. He was in love with her solemn smiles and fey kisses, her quiet humor and happy good sense, and her wide blue eyes that looked at his so levelly.
If only he had bitten her apple and entangled himself with her in an engagement, he would not find himself in such a tenuous, impossible position.
If only her father were not entangled in treason.
The sobering thought firmed his purpose.
“My lord?” Elowen Gannett conducted him to the other end of the hall, where the Squire stood gazing into the low fire. “You’ll remember my father, Squire Gannett. Da, Lord Harry Beck, as you’ll remember from the fête.”
“Squire Gannett.” Harry bowed properly before extending his hand, which the Squire chose not to take. “Captain Beck, at your service.”
“Put off our supper to have you to ‘dinner’,” the squire growled by way of greeting. “But you’re here, so let us eat before my haunch of beef is ruint.”
“There, there, Da.” Elowen patted her father’s arm. “The haunch is quite safe. Mrs. Blackstone has it all in hand.”
Her father thumped into his chair at the head of the carved Tudor table set with covered dishes. “Don’t like my schedule disrupted,” the squire groused. “I’m no man of leisure to be putting off my supper till all hours of the night. Time and tide wait for no man.”
“My apologies, sir,” Harry said in an attempt to be a sympathetic guest and because he, more than many, understood the absolute tyranny of the tide. “Do you have sailing or fishing interests, as well as this farm estate?”
The squire shook his jowls like a wary bulldog, peering at Harry over his plate. “Never you mind my interests on this estate.”
“Da,” Miss Gannett warned. “It’s only natural Lord Harry will want to know such things for the marriage settlements.”
And there was the rocky shoal in this deep sea.
Harry lost his appetite. Not so the squire, who speared a piece of roast beef into his mouth and considered Harry narrowly as he chewed.
“It’s a pretty property,” he finally allowed. “Some fourteen hundred hectares divided evenly between arable and pasturage. And I’ve another farm up by Truro of some six hundred hectares.”
“And the Hall,” Miss Gannett added. “Our family has been on this land since the days of the Conqueror.”
Harry tried to give all this information the proper interest, but he was a navy man and knew halyards, not hectares. “Impressive,” was all he could manage.
The word seemed to please the squire—he sat back in his chair and took a deep drink of his dinner wine. “And you? What have you to show for yourself?”
“Not much, I am afraid, sir,” Harry was happy to lie. “After twelve years of service to His Majesty’s Royal Navy I find myself injured and without a career, put ashore to fend for myself.” Which he had done superbly, even if he did say so himself, earning the rank of Post Captain at a young age and winning a more than respectable fortune for himself in prize monies from ships he and his men had captured. But the squire didn’t need to know that.
“And your father, the marquess? Could he not be expected to do something for you?”
“He did so by buying my place aboard ship twelve years ago. His estate is entirely entailed upon my brother, the Viscount Redgrave.” Though it was his own particular kind of hell to paint himself as some sort of idle ne’er-do-well, Harry attempted to do so. “Damn fine claret, sir.” He toasted the squire and drained his goblet, holding it up for immediate refilling.
The squire said nothing, but when Harry’s glass had been filled, he indicated to the servants to take the decanter of wine away. “Can’t respect a man who don’t work. And can’t hold his liquor.”
Excellent. Harry lobbed another shot across the squire’s bow. “This seems a snug enough berth.” He cast a glad eye about the hall. “Though I don’t take up much room.”
“Devil take you for a greedy pup.” The squire thumped his fist upon the table, making the cutlery jump, but his descent into a tirade was stopped by the arrival of his steward.
“Message, Squire, from the vicar.”
Harry’s hand tightened into a fist—the enemy was within his sights.
The squire opened the note, read it, and then tossed it directly into the low fire. “You’ll excuse me.” He scraped back his chair. “Elly. Captain Beck.” He went immediately out, leaving Harry no excuse to follow.
Elowen Gannett carried on eating her dinner as if nothing had happened. Indeed, there was a small, satisfied smile across her lips, as if the idea of dining alone with Harry was quite to her tastes. “Do tell me more about yourself, Captain Lord Harry.”
Harry had much rather talk of what business with the vicar might take the squire from his keenly anticipated dinner. “There is not much to tell, Miss Gannett. But—”
“Do you like me?”
The blunt question took Harry off guard, but he was equal to the moment. “I hardly know you, Miss Gannett.”
She waved away his concern. “That hardly signifies. We will have ample time to get to know each other once we are married.”
“Miss Gannett.” Harry tried to make his voice gentle, to soften the blow. “I have told your father that I am not free to marry without my father’s consent.”
But Elly Gannett was made of stern stuff and weathered his blow with ease. “A second son with no career marrying the heiress to a very pretty property? I should think your father will agree quick enough.” She smiled at him, as if such news ought to encourage him. “And besides, what matters his approval if he can do nothing for you anyway? The important thing is that I can do something for you. And you can do something for me.”
It was as if a chill wind had blown straight down his spine. Kent’s warning came back to him—watch your back. “And what is that?”
“You are an experienced sea captain, are you not?”
“Aye.” That truth was easy enough to give.
“Then tell me what you see.” She got up from the table before Harry could hold her chair and led him to the back of the house, where a lawn overlooked the sea. “Look down there. What do you see?”
What Harry saw sent that cold sense of purpose sliding under his skin like a blade. “A perfectly sheltered landing place.”
“Just so.” She rewarded his acuity with a knowing smile. “What you can’t see, but which I am sure you can guess at, are the caves for smuggling—the free trade, as we call it.” She waited, gauging his reaction, but when he betrayed neither surprise nor outrage, she went on. “I’m not supposed to know anything about it, but, of course I do—I have eyes and ears, and I know French claret when it is served at my father’s table. And I can see my father abandoning his good dinner to follow some sudden instruction to move a cargo into the caves or from the caves into the countryside. Everything at the last moment.” She turned to him. “With proper management, the tuns of wine and brandy that might be put into our caves tonight would be opened and served in the public houses of Taunton and Bristol tomorrow. But there is no proper management. There is only my father jumping to do someone else’s bidding. And stacks of useless grain and flour that cannot be sold for a profit, and attracts foul rats.” She gave her curls a vehement shake. “Which is where you, my dear captain, come in.”
Harry could not quite follow all of her logic. “For my experience with rats?”
“Perhaps. I can manage things on the land—I need you to manage things asea. Someday soon—when my da dies, or can no longer command the villagers to his bidding—I want my chance. But I can have it sooner if I have a husband who understands time and tides and can convince Da to do as I suggest.”
“Why do you simply not suggest it now, yourself.”
She made a female sound of disdain. “I have. I have told him that the entire operation needs to be run more like a shipping firm and less like a hotchpotch of farmers and fishermen. But he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t think I have a thought in my head. No one does—the more fools them.”
Harry was one of those fools—he had been so entirely taken in by her wide, innocent eyes and breathless appearance, that he hadn’t seen her shrewd ambition.
Another thought intruded. “Was it really even your apple, at the fête?”
“What do you think?” But her smile was answer enough. “Suffice it to say, I picked you, Lord Harry. Because I need you to get rid of another who fancies himself my father’s son-in-law. I don’t think he’s the right man for the job. Or for me.” She turned those lethal golden eyes on Harry. “I think you are.”
Harry knew he was—but for an entirely different reason than ambitious Miss Elowen Gannett had in mind. Because he was entirely ambitious, too.
He gave her his brightest smile. “My dear Elly, tell me about this useless grain.”