She returned it to the counter and met his furious eyes. “I
am Evelyn Amanda Wellington, and I wrote that letter. I will assume you are not
Lord Cranville. Does this mean I am dealing with an underling?”
Alex’s temperature shot up another few degrees. He had known
men to quake in their shoes when he regarded them with less fury than he did
this female now. His own cousin used to run at the sight of him, and even now
regarded him with caution when he went into a temper. How dared this
impertinent female keep up this game and make veiled insults?
“I am Alexander Hampton, Miss Wellington, if Wellington you
truly are. Lord Cranville is a silent partner in Cranville Enterprises. He has
no interest in the shipping line. That is my territory. Perhaps I would do
better to ask to see your father.”
Spots of red colored her high cheeks. Generous lips
compressed above an obstinate chin. “You may ask as you wish. He died last
autumn, well before this letter was written. In any case, I always handled his
correspondence when he was alive. If you have come to answer the charges in
that letter, you will have to deal with me.”
***
Evelyn met the stranger’s thick-lashed eyes with as much
ferocity as she could summon. She was accustomed to dealing with blustering
ships’ captains, irate merchants, and lecherous delivery boys. She was not
accustomed to the impact of furious square-jawed giants with eyes she would
give gold for. Lud, but a person would have to be a saint to look into those
eyes without quivering. She had to remember her anger before she could catch
what he was saying.
“. . . answer the charges! I came here to
demand you retract them before my partners believe I have taken up a life of
crime. Cranville Enterprises does not and never will engage in the practice of
smuggling. I, personally, have no desire to hang for French brandy. I trust you
are prepared to give evidence of your charges.”
“The best evidence will be the contents of your current
shipment.” Evelyn kept her simmering temper in check. That he had actually come
in person to answer her letter threw doubt on the charges, but his scornful
attitude rubbed salt in open sores. She was tired of being treated as less than
a person because she was female. She could run this warehouse as competently as
her father had, as she had in fact helped him to do these last years. This man
had no right to look at her as if she were lower than a snail.
“Then find someone to send with me, and he’s free to inspect
every damned crate and keg addressed to Wellington Storage. Then I expect a
written letter of apology to pacify my partners in this matter.”
“It would be very surprising if the smuggling continued
after that letter was received, but on the possibility that you kept the letter
quiet and are not involved, I will accompany you. Give me a minute to find
someone to mind the desk.”
Striding toward the back room and untying her smock, Evelyn
was startled into halting by her visitor’s irate reply.
“I refuse to take a fool female into the hold of a ship to
faint at the first rat she encounters! Give me someone with a little experience
and a stout stomach.”
Evelyn glared at the arrogant London gentleman with his
clipped, haughty accents and narrow mind. “I have been visiting the holds of
ships since I was ten. How many years have you spent in them, Mr. Hampton?”
She could tell she’d hit her target. Hampton gave her a curt
nod. “Very well, if that’s your wish.”
Satisfied she had pierced his thick hide, Evelyn hurried to
the back room, where she removed her smock and pinned her hair up in a thick
swirl. Generally she wore breeches only when she was working with the stock in
back, but she saw no reason to change to go into a ship’s hold. The men who
worked on the wharf were accustomed to her unusual garb.
She called to Jacob to mind the front, and he popped from
behind the stacks. “You’re going to leave me here alone?” her brother asked in
incredulity.
Evelyn grinned and tugged at a long curly lock escaping from
his queue. “You keep telling me you’re eleven going on twelve. That should be
old enough to stand out there and tell anyone who asks that I’ll be right back.”
Jacob jerked his head away from his sister’s undignified
caress. “I can do that, easy,” he said scornfully, following her to the front.
He studied their fashionably dressed visitor with evident
interest. Like Jacob, Evelyn couldn’t help but notice that Hampton’s expensive
attire clung naturally to wide shoulders and flared neatly at the waist. The
immaculate lace at his wrist and throat bespoke wealth, the black satin bow at
his nape reflected simplicity, but the short vest revealing the Englishman’s
trouser buttons held both of them fascinated, for different reasons. Jacob
always complained about the long vest hitting him above the knees. Evelyn
thought long vests far more decent than short, especially if all men were built
as… formidably… as Mr. Hampton.
“Mr. Hampton, this is my brother, Jacob. Jacob, mind your
manners!” Evelyn scolded as she turned to find him standing on his toes in an
attempt to see over the counter.
The man’s coldly chiseled features exhibited no amusement at
her brother’s obvious fascination. Irritated at her own interest, she hurried
out of the dim office into the bright light of day.
Hampton seemed uncertain whether to offer a lady in breeches
his arm. Scorning any hint that she might not be able to walk the wharf
unaided, Evelyn solved his dilemma by striding toward the crowded ramp ahead of
him.
She frowned at the mob screaming curses, but it wasn’t an
unusual sight anymore. Everyone’s temper had mounted since the rumors of
Parliament’s newest attempt to draw blood from a turnip. Things would go back
to normal once sensible heads in his majesty’s cabinet listened to reason. She
couldn’t believe an entire government could be so dunderheaded as not to
realize that there weren’t enough coins in all the colonies to pay what the
Stamp Act required if it were put into law.
As they reached the nearly impassable region between the
ships, Hampton grabbed her arm and blocked her from the overheated, unwashed
bodies closing around them. Unconcerned by the half-dressed state of the
sailors and deaf to their familiar obscenities, she shook free of his hold and walked
up the loading plank with the same ease as if it were a grassy hillside.
On deck, he caught her arm again. His grim expression as he
glanced down at her breeches brought heat to her cheeks.
She’d learned to ignore the looks of the men with whom she
worked, but she was suddenly too aware of how her men’s clothing must have
revealed more than it should as he’d followed behind her up the ramp.
He tugged her toward the hold without speaking, and she
wisely held her tongue. The captain hurried toward them, but Hampton waved him
away. Fear tickled her stomach as she recognized the power this man wielded. He
owned this ship and dozens more like it. All these men were at his command. If
he truly were a smuggler, he need only lock her in the hold and set sail. No
one on board would dare question him.
Sending Hampton’s tight-lipped visage a furtive look, she
decided he looked quite ruthless enough to do that or worse. Lud, why hadn’t
she seen that before? Was she so enamored of those dark eyes that she had taken
leave of her senses?
At her resistance to his hold, Alex sneered impatiently. “What’s
wrong? Having second thoughts about wetting your elegant slippers?”
Pride tilted her chin higher at his reference to the sturdy
leather brogans she wore to protect her toes from dropped crates. “I should
think that you would be more concerned with your pretty gold buckles and silk
stockings, Mr. Hampton. I’m dressed more sensibly for this expedition than you.”
Muffling a curse, he handed his hat to a seaman and clattered
down the steps into the dark hold. The lantern scarcely illuminated the steps.
He lit a second lantern and held out his hand to help her down.
Despite her bold words to the contrary, Evelyn despised
these excursions into the moldy confines of a ship’s interior. She didn’t like
the stench, the creaking darkness, or the ever-present threat of rats. Even
though she wore none, she had the urge to lift her skirts from the water and
debris of the lower depths. Without conscious thought, she accepted Hampton’s
offered hand.
The contact almost shocked her into flight. Large, strong
fingers wrapped around her smaller ones, making her insides do a strange little
dance. Surely she had held a man’s bare hand before. Was she coming down with a
sickness? When she would tug away, Hampton’s fingers closed tighter.
Frightened, she studied him in the uncertain light. An oddly
mocking look creased his face, but it did not seem directed at her. He scanned the
rows of barrels and crates until he found what he was looking for.
“Your shipment is over there, Miss Wellington. Shall I call
someone to pry them open?”
She could read the familiar brand burned into the wood, but
she shook her head. “Only the crates of porcelain, Mr. Hampton. And it might
not be wise to open them under any eyes but ours. I, too, am averse to having
my neck stretched.”
He turned his gaze on the mentioned part of her anatomy, and
she blushed again. She shook her hand free and strode determinedly to the
cargo, searching for the symbol that would indicate a shipment from
Staffordshire.
Behind her, Hampton shouted for aid.
“If all my men are under suspicion, Miss Wellington,” he
replied in low undertones, “then we had better remove more than the suspected
cargo to the warehouse.”
Two men clattered down at his command. Hampton pointed out
an assortment of crates he wished removed, gave orders that the porcelain be
treated with respect as it was a wedding gift.
With imperious calm, he took Evelyn’s hand again, ignoring
her tug of protest as he led her back to the gangway.
Back on deck, they were confronted by his frowning captain. “You
can’t remove the cargo until customs approves it. There’s still a ruckus down
there that don’t look like it will end soon.”
Releasing Evelyn, Hampton walked to the rail and glanced
over. “The man in orange is the one we need to see?”
He pointed to her Uncle George— looking his officious best
in satin. Sighing in exasperation at the commotion George was causing, Evelyn
muttered “rust,” but her companion ignored her correction and waited
expectantly. Once she assured him that the man in rust was the customs officer,
Hampton jammed his hat on his head and headed down the ramp.
Evelyn watched with interest as he shouldered his way to his
goal. A head taller than most of the crowd and hiding a muscular physique
beneath his silks and laces, Hampton had no difficulty carving his arrogant
path. Uncle George looked bewildered as Hampton caught his arm and began
hauling him through the crowd, but Evelyn knew he was as much relieved as
alarmed.
George Upton had never known when to keep quiet or how to
deal with the results once his tongue was loosed. Hampton was doing him a
favor. Without a target, the mob would eventually disperse.
Evelyn shook her head in despair that a relative of hers
could be so lacking in common sense. Thank goodness he wasn’t a blood relative.
Uncle George gave no sign that he recognized her as Hampton
hauled him on board and ordered that he begin inspecting the cargo. Upton
preferred not to acknowledge the fact that he had a niece who wore breeches.
Evelyn leaned back against the railing while Hampton carefully chose the crates
he wanted removed first.
Obviously accustomed to authority and expecting efficiency
to match his own, the Englishman paid no heed to the customs officer and the
captain frantically flipping through the manifest to keep up with his
selections.
When the first of the crewmen began hauling the crates down
to the wharf, Hampton took her arm and steered her down the ramp to follow them
back to the warehouse.
Once inside the dry comfort of her office with her little
brother standing guard outside, Evelyn examined the crates, pushing the
porcelain shipment to the front.
“I’ll need a crowbar to open these. Where do you keep them?”
Hampton demanded.
If he had been any one of the sea captains or effete
aristocrats who graced her uncle’s drawing room, Evelyn would already have the
crowbar in her hand. If Hampton had even wore the garb of a soldier, she could
despise him and would have no difficulty returning his rudeness.
Instead, he sauntered with muscular grace in the direction
she indicated, and she could almost feel the strength in his hands as he
returned with the tool and pried at the wood.
To her shock, she realized she had already forgiven him of
all charges of smuggling. There were many other things she couldn’t forgive him
for, but his striking looks and shiny black locks would cease to be a worry as
soon as he was gone.
The lid of the first box popped off, and he removed the top
layer of packing material. In triumph, he lifted the hand-painted porcelain. “Staffordshire,
madam. Not brandy. Have you any further proof?”
Evelyn knelt beside the crate and set aside the lovely
dishes on top. Removing the second layer of packing, she uncovered a gleaming
row of bottled brandy. Lifting a bottle for his inspection, she raised a wry
eyebrow. “Brandy, sir. Not Staffordshire. Do you need further proof?”
As he grabbed the bottle from her hand to inspect it, the
commotion outside grew louder. They both glanced out the wavy panes of glass.
A half-dozen red-coated soldiers were marching in the
direction of the warehouse. Hampton hit the cork with his hand and buried the
bottle in its bed of straw.
“Let’s get this covered before someone sees it.” He grabbed
a handful of the packing and began to cover up the contraband again.