Surrender

Before there had been fear and panic. Now, there was hope.

* * *

EVERYONE KNEW THAT the road between Bodmin and London was heavily used by smugglers to transport their cargoes north to the towns just outside of the city, where the black market thrived. Having been raised at Faraday Hall, just outside of Fowey, Evelyn certainly knew it, too. Smuggling was a way of life in Cornwall. Her uncle had been “investing” in local smuggling ventures ever since she could recall. As a child, she had thrilled when the call went out that the smugglers were about to drop anchor, often in the cove just below the house. As long as the revenue men were not nearby, the smugglers would boldly berth in plain sight and in broad daylight, and everyone from the parish would turn out to help them unload their valuable cargo.

Farmers would loan their horses and donkeys to help move the goods inland; young tubsmen would pack ankers from the beach to the waiting wagons, huffing and puffing with their load; batsmen would be spread about, bats held high, just in case the preventive men appeared....

Children would cling to their mother’s skirts. Casks of beer would be opened. There would be music, dancing, drinking and a great celebration, for the free trade was profitable for everyone.

Now, in hindsight, Evelyn knew what had brought Henri to Cornwall and her uncle’s home in the first place. He had been investing in the free trade, as well, as so many merchants and noblemen were wont to do. It wasn’t always easy making a profit, but when profits were made, they were vast.

She suddenly recalled standing with Henri in his wine cellars, in their château in Nantes, perhaps a year after giving birth to Aimee. He had insisted she come down to the cellar with him. His mood had been jovial, she now recalled, and she had been in that first flush of motherhood.

“Do you see this, my darling?” Still dashing and handsome, exquisitely dressed in a satin coat and breeches with white stockings, he had swept his hand across the rows of barrels lining his cellar. “You are looking at a fortune, my dear.”

She had been puzzled, but pleased to find him in such good spirits. “What is in the barrels? They look like the barrels the smugglers in Fowey used.”

He had laughed. “How clever you are!” Henri had explained that they were the very same kinds of casks used by smugglers everywhere, and that they were filled with liquid gold. He had untapped a barrel and poured clear liquid into the glass he held. She now knew that the liquid was unfiltered, undiluted, one-hundred-proof alcohol, which in no way resembled the brandy he drank every night, and had been drinking a moment ago.

“You can’t drink it this way,” he had explained. “It will truly kill you.”

She hadn’t understood. He had explained that after it arrived at its final destination in England, it would be colored with caramel and diluted.

And he had hugged her. “I intend to keep you in your silks, satins and diamonds, always,” he had said. “You will never lack for anything, my dear.”

Like her uncle, and a great many of her neighbors, Henri had financed and invested in various smugglers, both before and after their marriage. She knew he had stopped those investments when they had left France. There hadn’t been enough in their coffers for him to finance those ventures anymore; he had become averse to taking risks.

He had intended to make certain that she had the resources with which to raise her daughter in luxury, but he had failed. Instead, she was the one fighting for enough funds to raise Aimee. She was the one seated in a carriage now, about to enter the kind of establishment no lady should ever enter alone, because she had to locate a smuggler, in order to provide for her daughter.

The Black Briar Inn was just ahead on the road, and Evelyn stared. Her heart skipped. She had taken the single horse curricle by herself, ignoring Laurent’s protestations. If she was going to locate Jack Greystone, she would have to begin making inquiries somewhere, and the inn seemed like the most logical starting point. Surely John Trim knew Greystone—or knew of him. Surely Greystone had, at some time or another, used the coves in and around Fowey to land his cargoes. If he had, they would have had to traverse this road in order to reach London’s black markets.

There was no other dwelling in sight. The inn sat upon the Bodmin Moor and the road to London in absolute isolation—a two-storied whitewashed building, with a slate-gray roof, a white brick stable adjacent. Two saddled horses and three wagons were parked in the stone courtyard. Trim had customers.

Evelyn braked her gig and slowly got out, tying her mare to the railing in front of the inn. As she patted the mare, a young boy of eleven or twelve came running out of the adjacent stables. Evelyn told him she wouldn’t be long, and asked him to water the mare for her.

Evelyn pulled her black wool cloak closed, while removing her hood. As she crossed the front steps of the inn, she pulled off her gloves. She could hear men speaking in casual conversation as she pushed open the front door.

There was some tension as she stepped directly inside the inn’s taproom. She realized she hadn’t been inside an inn’s public rooms in years—not since she had briefly paused with her family in Brest, before fleeing France.

Eight men were seated at one of the long trestle tables in the room, and all conversation ceased the moment she shut the front door behind her. One of the men was John Trim, the proprietor, and he leaped to his feet instantly.

Her heart raced. She felt terribly out of place in the common room. “Mr. Trim?”

“Lady D’Orsay?” His shock vanished as he came forward, beaming. “This is a surprise! Come, do sit down, and let me get the missus.” He guided her toward a small table with four chairs.

“Thank you. Mr. Trim, I was hoping for a private word, if possible.” She was aware now of the silence in the room, that all eyes were trained upon them, and that every word she uttered was being heeded.

Trim’s dark brows rose, and he nodded. He led her into a small private dining room. “Please, have a seat, and I will be back in one minute,” he said, and rushed out.

Evelyn sat down, rather ruefully, certain he was racing to his wife to tell her that she had called. She laid her gloves down on the dining table, glancing around the simple room. A brick fireplace was on one wall, several paintings of the sea on the others. He had left the door open, and she could see into the common room if she wished to do so.

She had no intention of explaining to Trim why she wished to engage a smuggler, and a specific smuggler at that. But she did not expect him to press her.

Trim returned, smiling. “The missus is bringing tea.”

“That is so kind of you.” Evelyn smiled as he took a seat, now clutching her reticule tightly. “Mr. Trim, I was wondering if you are acquainted with Jack Greystone.”

Trim was so taken aback that his eyes widened and his brows shot up, and Evelyn knew his answer was yes. “Everyone knows of Greystone, Lady D’Orsay. He is the greatest smuggler Cornwall has ever seen.”

She was aware of her heart racing. “Do you know him personally, sir? Has he passed through this inn?”

His expression of surprise was as comical as before. “My lady, I mean no disrespect, by why do you ask?”

He was wary, but of course he was—smugglers were hardly free men. “I must locate him. I cannot explain why, exactly, but I am in need of his services.”

Trim blinked.

She smiled grimly. “Greystone got my family out of France, almost four years ago. I prefer not to say why I must speak with him now, but it is an urgent matter.”

“And it isn’t my concern, of course,” Trim said. “Yes, Lady D’Orsay, he has passed through my inn, once or twice. But I will be honest with you—I haven’t seen him in several years.”

Her disappointment was immediate. “Do you know how I can find him?”

“No, I do not. The rumor is that Greystone lives in an abandoned castle on a deserted island, in the utmost secrecy.”

“That is hardly helpful,” Evelyn mused. “I must find him, sir.”

“I don’t know if you can. There’s been a bounty on his head, which would explain why he lives on that island. He is wanted by the British authorities, Lady D’Orsay.”

Evelyn was slightly amused. “Aren’t all free traders wanted by the preventive men?” Smuggling had been a capital offense for as long as Evelyn could recall. Bounties were hardly uncommon. However, a great many smugglers got off scot-free, once they agreed to serve in His Majesty’s navy, or find a few friends to do so in their stead. A smuggler might be able to plead down his case, as well, if he had the right solicitor. Many smugglers were deported, but they often returned, illicitly, of course. No smuggler took a bounty very seriously.

Trim shook his head grimly. “You don’t understand. He has been running the British blockade. If His Majesty’s men catch him, he will hang—not for smuggling, but for treason.”

Evelyn froze. He was running King George’s blockade of France? He was supplying the French in a time of war? Suddenly she was cold. “I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, he’s running the blockade, Lady D’Orsay—they say he brags often and openly about it. And that is treason.”

Evelyn was shaken. “Is he a spy, then, too?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She stared, but rather than seeing Trim before her, she saw Jack Greystone at the helm of his ship. So many Cornish smugglers were spies for the French. But he had helped them escape France. Surely a French spy would not have done that.

She did not know why she was so dismayed. “I must speak with him, Mr. Trim, and if you can help me, I will forever appreciate it.”

“I will do my best. I will make some inquiries on your behalf. But my understanding is that he lies very low, to avoid His Majesty’s Men. If he is not at sea, he is on his island. I do know that, once in a while, he has been seen in Fowey. You might try the White Hart Inn.”

Faraday Hall was just outside Fowey. Was it possible that her uncle might know, or know of, Greystone?