Silken Secrets by Joan Smith Page B

Joseph from agreeing with me,” he murmured with an ironic flicker of his eyes toward that gentleman.
    Mary Anne chastened his irony with a blank stare. “F.H.C.—it sounds like a government commission.”
    “And you, Miss Judson, sound like my maiden aunts. A lady is always deaf to a gentleman’s solecisms. Very well, we shall discuss governmental ABC’s, if you wish. Agencies, boards, and commissions, the letters stand for, at Whitehall.”
    “How do you know that? What dealings do you have at Whitehall?”
    “Though a lowly merchant, I am allowed to sit in the visitors’ gallery and watch the elite squander my tax money,” he answered with an easy smile that concealed his gaffe.
    Mrs. Vulch nodded contentedly to see how clever her daughter was growing and what a gossoon Miss Judson was, throwing her bonnet at a drapery merchant while an excellent parti went to waste. Amazing how the girl could turn out looking half-decent in that old gown that might have been rescued from Noah’s ark.
    To cement the partners, she had dinner called five minutes early and made sure to seat Miss Judson away from Joseph, beside Mr. Robertson. Mrs. Vulch’s frequent admonitions to her daughter not to talk across the table were not entirely obeyed, but the distance severely limited Mr. Robertson’s access to Bess.
    “I see you’ve recovered from the morning’s excitement,” Mr. Robertson said to Mary Anne.
    “I’m feeling much better,” she admitted.
    “And looking admirable. What is your excuse for not being at Dymchurch at two this afternoon?” he asked. “Before you contrive some wildly improbably tale, I must warn you, Bess told me of her visit. You were at home, miss, taking a dust cloth to the furniture! Had you been in hands with your modiste or coiffeur, I could understand, but I assure you I’m not used to playing second fiddle to a dust cloth.”
    It was hard to be angry with Bess for relaying the menial nature of her afternoon’s occupation when Mr. Robertson smiled so charmingly. “Uncle had the carriage out, and he doesn’t like me to drive into Dymchurch alone in the gig,” she explained.
    “Uncles can be a sad trial, but in this case, I’m bound to say I agree with Lord Edwin. I’m happy to see the little argument the other evening was a tempest in a teapot. I made sure your uncle wouldn’t accept the Vulches’ invitation this evening.”
    “Well,” she confided, “we were only having chicken stew at home, and besides, Uncle’s all out of brandy.”
    Mr. Robertson hid the unsteadiness of his lips with his fork. “Then it wasn’t just the lure of being teased by Bess and the presence of Joseph Horton that drew you hither?”
    “No.” She scowled and promptly changed the subject. “Have you had any luck in finding your silk, Mr. Robertson?” she asked.
    “Not directly, but I could tell you ten or a dozen places where it is not hidden, which is a sort of negative success, if one is an optimist. It limits the places it could be.”
    “You can positively strike Horton Hall off your list as well. We had a visit from Codey this afternoon. He went through the house with a fine-tooth comb. Vulch used his connections with Whitehall to get a search warrant. A Lord Dicaire obliged him.”
    Mr. Robertson was well aware of the visit and made some commiserating remarks about the nuisance of customs men. “I hope whoever took it has got it stored in a dry place. That sky looked as if it was brewing up a good storm.”
    “How long can you afford to keep looking for the cargo, Mr. Robertson?” she asked. Her hope was to discover whether he would be in town for the assembly.
    “There’s no point returning to London without it. My shelves are empty.”
    “But shouldn’t you be trying to secure another cargo? There are dozens of smugglers here on the cost who might oblige you.”
    “That, of course, is why I’m remaining for a few days. I’m making contact with other importers. You sound remarkably