Page 45 of The Scholar’s Spy

Staying cool around and about Abigail Fossey was proving nigh impossible. As he crashed into the Dower Royale prepared to break tables, arms and faces, the jolly expressions of the owners shrank back but for a moment Robert had seen their jubilance—and he had a growing suspicion they were involved in smuggling. Hell, perhaps the whole town was.

“Weir,” Robert snapped, and the proprietor hurried forward with a paper, his wife in his footsteps carrying a tray laden down with a teapot. Both of them were flushed. Robert could only imagine the bloom was done to a celebration of their smuggled goods—a sense of cheating the system. Guilt twisted through him, at how he had failed his Montacute.

“You awake mighty early, sir.”

“Aye,” Robert lied, “a morning stroll.”

“Miss Fossey does keep a tight ship for her adventures.”

Robert shot the older man a sharp look. “I have not seen Miss Fossey this morning.”

To a certain extent it was true. He’d only heard the elder Miss Fossey and hadn’t seen the girl’s mother either. What was he to do? He had made promises to people that pulled him to opposing directions—his mind crying out that he honor the profession he’d given blood, sweat, and tears to, compared to the promises his body had made to Abigail last night…

Mrs. Weir walked past, and Robert’s hand shot out to her. “My dear woman, a moment of your time.”

He waited until Mr. Weir had moved off to talk to another customer and then looked down at Mrs. Weir. Her maid had called Abigail dangerous, and Bessie had known about the Pinhayers and who Punch was.

“Mrs. Weir, do you know where Bessie might be?”

“Dratted brat, left me high and dry without a moment’s notice.” She made a tutting noise.

A nagging worry darted through Robert in case something had happened to Bessie.

“Do you know what Bessie might have meant when she called Miss Abigail dangerous?”

Mrs. Weir sighed dramatically. “Oh sir, I think Bessie might have been jealous. Or perhaps she was listening to Reverend Hillard. He is forever saying how much dangerous Miss Abigail is, because of what she finds in the ground.” Mrs. Weir shook her head, “You shouldn’t believe a word of it. Miss Abigail is a trifle odd, but she’s a good girl.”

“You think that was all she meant, that Abigail is a danger because of her fossils?”

Mrs. Weir squeezed his arm, “Ten to one that’s what she meant. Please pay it no mind. I should never have hired an Enskin.” And with that Mrs. Weir bustled off, cursing Bessie and how much work she now had to do.

Robert stood alone in the Weirs’s morning room, wondering what the hell he should do next.

Cursing himself for a fool.

Memories cascaded through him. The feel of her body under his. The taste of her—sweet and tart on his knuckles. The sensitive underside of her breast, that in a moment of sleepy tenderness he had brushed, and her lapsing giggle—if he were to truly tickle her, she would lose herself to the mirth as much as she had given in the passion. Or the sense of true calm he felt, pressed against her side. How could he betray that?

Snatching up a nearby teacup, and sloshing a quality of dark tea over the side, Robert forced himself up the stairs to his own chamber. It was obvious what he had to do next. He might have denied and refused to admit as much even to himself, but as a gentleman it was clear what needed to be done. Marriage. He had bedded Abigail, taken her virginity. It might be something she considered just ‘an experience’, but he hadn’t, and it demanded a remedy. He needed to propose to her.

*

My lord Montacute—

I write to you of my failure. Whilst I have seen some evidence of smuggling especially conducted by the named suspects overleaf, I can see no definitive sign of the famed female smuggler, that you sought most ardently.

I have received word of the Pinhayers, a violent gang of smugglers, and I have witnessed some evidence of recent occurrence of free trading, however I have not been able to prevent it occurring as it is deeply embedded within Lyme society. I have the codename of your female smuggler too—Punch. But no clue as to who the real suspect is.

My ruse of a gentleman seeking a permanent residence here has not gone as well as I would have hoped, and I believe given the close-knit links in this particular town a new approach may well be necessary to undercover a greater amount of information, or indeed a permanent body of customs officers to patrol and guard the coastline.

Given my failure I offer my resignation of my post, and will return to London to await your orders.

Yours etc,

Captain Robert Davenport.

With that done, Robert ordered up a bath, from a rather disgruntled Mrs. Weir. She set about bringing up the water, as Robert read his letter to Montacute carefully. He hoped it would be considered to be a truthful account of his time in Lyme. He had made no mention of the Miss Fosseys and nor could he think of a way of including the family, without incriminating himself—the baron had little time for romance or a soft heart, and would never consider Robert’s affections a good judge of character.

However, he had of course included Abigail’s cook on his list of suspects to Montacute, but he would endeavor to explain in person how he had his doubts that the elderly and grandmotherly Miss Schillers was a prime suspect. He doubted Miss Schillers was the woman that the baron sought as his female ringleader, yet stranger occurrences had happened.