Page 49 of The Duchess Games

Matthew bristled. Cat shot him a warning glance. Better to be underestimated.

Because someone had sent these men to her door.

Juro.

She’d bet her share of the cargo on it. Damn the man. If they used the revenue men against each other in this way, only the revenue men won in the end.

“We were given a tip about contraband.”

“About my cottage?” Cat asked. She tried to step around Callum but he wouldn’t let her. She might have fought him on principle, but it was better if these men thought her scared and confused. It stuck like vinegar in her throat. She blinked innocently. “Sir, if I had contraband I would be living in a much grander house, don’t you think?”

“Get out,” Callum snapped. “And tell Armstrong I want to talk to him.”

“Wait,” Cat said, an idea taking hold. A bad idea. But in the long run, it might do her good. “They’re only doing their duty.”

Callum glanced down at her. “What?”

“I would hate for them to get into trouble,” she continued. Would it be too much if she fluttered her eyelashes? She’d probably look like a bewildered goose. “I’m sure there’s been some sort of mistake, but wouldn’t it be best to let them search the cottage to clear things up?”

A risk. All of her hiding spots were empty but if they found the trapdoor under her mattress, it would engender questions. On the other hand, if they searched and found nothing, they would remember how accommodating she was. That she had the trust of a duke and was still willing to have her belongings tossed. If her name came up again, they’d be far more likely to disregard it. She would need that. Because the next time they searched there would be plenty to find.

The agents straightened their spines, as if she was their commanding officer. “You’re very kind, miss.”

“Mmh.” Callum did not sound convinced. He mostly sounded disgruntled. She could have sworn he nodded companionably at King Arthur when he growled again.

“If you’ll just let me take the dogs out,” she said, touching King Arthur’s collar. He subsided, but he didn’t like it.

They stepped aside as she ushered four very suspicious dogs past them into the yard. Matthew was still in his smalls, frowning. “Can I put some pants on?”

The agents looked at each other, then at Callum. He inclined his head.

“Very well,” the agent who fancied himself in charge said. “But be quick about it.”

Matthew went up the ladder and they busied themselves lifting every cushion, every basket, every jug. They poked inside her knitting basket, tapped the walls with the ends of their cudgels. Cat watched them, taking careful notes as to where they searched so as to choose any future hiding spots more carefully. They approached her trunk of dresses. It was an odd, not terribly good feeling to watch strangers paw through her meager collection of stockings and stays. One of them toed her mattress.

She forced herself not to jump forward, not start babbling to distract them from the trapdoor hidden underneath. Not to act guilty.

“You’ll be careful with her belongings,” Callum ordered. “And courteous.”

He stepped back. “Yes, sir.”

“Your Grace.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

It didn’t take them long to search the cottage, it was small, and they didn’t have a lot of decorative clutter. There were seashells in the walls and hanging on strings. A few candles, a bowl of blackberries gathered from the hedges. Their dirty plates from stargazy pie and Figgy ’Obbin. The red ribbon a smitten boy had once given Viola.

“Nothing here,” the first agent said. “Begging your pardon, Miss. We have to investigate every tip.”

She nodded. “Of course, you do.”

“If you’re quite finished?” Callum cut in, coldly.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Off with you.”

They bowed smartly and left in haste. Cat released her breath. Matthew dropped into a chair, visibly sweating.