Экономическая теория. Учебник и практикум для СПО. Геннадий Евгеньевич Алпатов

had worked for so long. What it would feel like to get the upper hand for a change? To at last put a stop to the smuggler known as The Sovereign—a murderer who thought so highly of himself that he called himself after the king.

      While Wyling used the spyglass, Tavin’s thoughts returned to Miss Lyfeld, her light brown hair framing her sad blue eyes when she spoke of being forgiven. Did she question God’s forgiveness like he did? She had no reason to. Of course she was absolved. Her sins were no doubt the sort God could easily pardon. She was no thief, no liar. No murderer.

      Something he could never claim.

      “I upset Miss Lyfeld. Again.” He fumbled with the cuff of his black coat.

      “Did Gemma wish to know your whereabouts yesterday? I gather you didn’t tell her.”

      “No, I walked in on her and Beauchamp.”

      “Did he do it, then?” Wyling lowered the spyglass, his expression eager. “Are they betrothed?”

      “He looked like he was being strangled by his cravat, so it’s possible he was about to ask. But they hadn’t finished their conversation when Beauchamp left.”

      “You didn’t leave them to it?” Wyling’s brows lowered.

      “I made an attempt.” The words sounded feeble.

      “You should have tried harder. She’s waited years for Hugh to gather his courage.”

      “Don’t give me that look. I thought he was just making moon eyes.”

      “Cristobel would not have allotted privacy for mere moon eyes.”

      “I don’t have sisters. How should I know?”

      “Because you’re a gentleman. Alone means betrothal.”

      Tavin shook his head. Had he known that? Perhaps. But he was no gentleman anymore. These past years, he had stuffed his upbringing away with the natural efficiency he demonstrated when tucking a trouser cuff inside a boot.

      Nonetheless, the trouser cuff was still there, even though it was not visible. Why had he forgotten everything he’d been taught?

      “I am incapable of interacting with decent people anymore.”

      “That’s not true.” His friend clapped his shoulder. “But you have been among a different sort for too long. I hope it will not be much longer before you can stop this sort of thing.”

      Tavin took the spyglass, aiming it toward the New Forest, as thick with thieves as trees. Weary as he was with his life, he had a debt to repay. Perhaps if he succeeded today, he’d be able to cease being an undercover agent for the Board of Customs. He could serve King and country in another—less dangerous—capacity.

      He scanned the view. No activity on the hilltop. “I’ll apologize to her again later, but right now—”

      He thrust the spyglass at Wyling. “This makes no sense.”

      “What?”

      Tavin pointed to a red-cloaked figure emerging from the trees, ascending the hill at a smart pace.

      “It’s Gemma. Out for a walk.”

      “Wearing a red cloak.” His plan unraveled like a skein of yarn at the paws of a cat. “I’ve got to stop her before—”

      “What?” Wyling gripped his arm, wasting precious seconds.

      “She’s signaling the smugglers, whether she knows it or not. There’s a woman in these parts. She mounts that hill to signal her brethren to turn back if a government man is nearby. By night she burns a lamp. By day, she dons a red cloak. Like the one Gemma is wearing.”

      “And the smugglers will see her.” Wyling’s ruddy complexion paled.

      “Aye. And if they turn ’round, they’ll smack into the revenue agent. If they stay the course, they’ll encounter Miss Lyfeld and may not treat her kindly.”

      Tavin spun from Wyling’s grasp, bounding downstairs and out the front door. The spongy earth sucked at his boots as he ran across the park toward the hill.

      You have no reason to answer me, God, but she’s an innocent. And this job is too essential to fail.

      His breath came in stabbing gasps. His side ached as if he’d been dealt a blow to the ribs. But nothing would slow him. He’d worked months for this day—planned and prayed and waited.

      This was justice for his sins, he supposed. He’d ruined Miss Lyfeld’s marriage proposal. And now she was about to ruin his chance to end this case once and for all.

Chapter Two

      “My life is not ruined.” Gemma’s breath grew labored as she ascended the gentle slope. “Cristobel is wrong. Hugh is too honorable to go against our families’ wishes.”

      Saying the words aloud helped her believe them. If only Mr. Knox had not scared Hugh away... No. It was not worth playing the if-only game. Once started, she would never quit. Her list of losses was lengthy enough to fill pages of foolscap. And writing such a pitiful list accomplished nothing.

      Unlike a list of blessings. She had much to be grateful for, regardless of her circumstances. All around her, the glossy green leaves of bluebells carpeted the landscape. Gusts of wind stirred yellow-flowered gorse and rustled through the budding oaks, carrying the clean fragrance of rain.

      Thank Thee, Lord.

      How pleasant it would be to reach the summit of the little hill and enjoy the view. Gemma marched on. Then stopped.

      She was no longer alone.

      A plain-dressed man hiked toward her, his gaze on the trees. Skirting the hill behind him, a loaded cart trudged across the chalky Smuggler’s Road. A small party of musket-bearing men trailed in its wake, followed by a lone rider on an ink-dark horse.

      Free traders.

      Not that ladies spoke of such things in polite company. Nevertheless, the wealthy and poor alike avoided paying taxes and Customs duties on their tea or laces by purchasing smuggled goods, illegal though it might be. Who knew how much revenue the government had lost to smugglers? Peter and Wyling obeyed the law and shunned smuggled goods, of course. But as a child, Gemma hadn’t understood the illegal nature of the smugglers’ work. Years ago she and Hugh had followed Smuggler’s Road, pretending they hauled exotic wares from Christchurch Harbor, with plans to sell their imaginary spoils from the sanctuary of a ditch under the trees.

      It was one thing to play a criminal as a child. It was quite another to engage the illicit fellows. Gemma hastened back down her side of the hill. Perhaps she had gone unnoticed.

      “Ho!” The yell dispelled the notion she had not been seen. She quickened her steps, rolling her ankle in the process and slowing her gait to a painful, awkward trot.

      A hand gripped her shoulder and turned her about. He was young, this smuggler, with pocked cheeks, a slack jaw and protruding teeth. “’Oo are you?”

      “No one who wants trouble.”

      “’Oo is it, Bill?” A shout called from above.

      “Nobody, I think.”

      Then let go of my arm.

      A shot boomed from the trees, echoing off the hill. The sound reverberated while the smugglers burst into activity. The inky horse galloped up the hill. Its rider wore a look of thunder to match the rumble of his horse’s hooves.

      “She’s not nobody, you fool.” He dismounted and yanked her from Bill. His free hand smacked her cheek, sending shock and pain through her jaw.

      “She’s a trap.”

      Gemma’s vision sparked red. “I don’t know what you mean. Unhand me.”