The Smuggler Wore Silk Read Online Free PDF

little one.”
    “Yes, I thought so.” She tapped her forefinger against her upper lip as she formulated a menu. “Use the trout in the first course—trout en matelot, I think. Roasted leg of lamb can join the second course. For the third, perhaps a pudding or a cream. Do we still have blackberries?”
    “We have enough for blackberry cream.”
    “Good. I shall arrange the proper wines for each course and provide Binkle with the list.”
    “Thank you, Miss Gracie. I knew you would know what to do.” Cook bustled out in the same manner she had come in, waving the ladle and muttering about proper notice.
    With a fond smile, Grace returned her attention to the mortar and pestle containing the comfrey root. With each pass of the pestle, she leaned into the tough root until she found the familiar measured rhythm. The monotonous task turned her thoughts inward.
    What was wrong with her? The Earl of Langford arrived in Devon less than a week ago. She’d met him once. He shouldn’t have entered her thoughts so quickly.
    It must be that the local gossips, both gentry and laborers, discussed the earl continuously. The prodigal son returning to his ancestral home after twenty-three years was sensational news and would no doubt keep tongues busy for months.
    With a vicious thrust of the pestle, Grace reminded herself there was no reason for her mind to dwell on him. No reason why her body should remember the feel of his hands or the heat of his fingers on her waist. She had learned long ago that physical desire meant nothing.
    Of course he was a rake and a rogue. He was a Travers. What more did she need to know? Still, it wasn’t her place to criticize the Earl of Langford. She was only the Cannon family’s poor relation.
    She pushed a loose strand of hair out of her eyes and looked out the window at the bouncing blooms delineating Cannon Manor’s pathways. Her eyes didn’t see the delicate white clusters of yarrow, the bloodred amaranthus, or the pale purple nigella that bordered the walkways.
    She rubbed a hand over her chest, as though doing so would ease the lonely ache that had settled there. Why did she feel this way? Why did the darkness so often drag her down, like cold fingers tugging at her?
    She shrieked when a shadow blocked the light from the ancient window. Her heart gave a terrified leap that had her gasping for air. It was a moment before she recognized the grotesque mask as a face blurred by the glass’s impurities. The abundance of whiskers pressed against the window told Grace it was the village cabinetmaker. She gestured him in through the door to the kitchen gardens, still trying to catch her breath.
    “Beg pardon, Miss Gracie.” The man whipped his hat from his head as he stepped over the threshold.
    “It’s all right,” she said, still patting her chest lightly. “What can I do for you?”
    The cabinetmaker began running the worn brim of his hat nervously through his fingers. “It’s young Ben, Miss Gracie. He’s got the croup, I think.”
    Concern washed through her. “Is he having trouble breathing?”
    “Some. It’s not too bad yet. I remember when my oldest girl had the croup and it’s not near that bad, but the missus is worried sick.”
    “I’m sure she is,” Grace murmured, moving toward her cabinets. She began to sort through jars and bottles, measuring out roots and dried leaves as she spoke. “Try to keep him sitting up. It will ease his breathing. He may have an attack in the middle of the night. If he does, I want you to come straight here and wake me, no matter what time it is. You know the nighttime procedure?” She glanced at him, brows raised in question.
    “Knock on the third window from the right of the kitchen door to wake the butler.”
    “Correct. Binkle will know where to find me.” She handed him the small packet of dry ingredients she had mixed. “This is marshmallow root, mullein, elm and licorice. Use the blend to make tea and give it to Ben twice a day.