Page 88 of The Duchess Games

There was quite a bit of it. She had no idea where he had found it, but she intended to keep every inch. It would fetch a pretty penny.

And luckily, she did not think Mr. Armstrong or his men knew the kind of time and work that went into making lace. It was enough that it was dainty, women’s work. Which Viola had attempted for one winter before declaring she would cut all of her fingers off before doing again.

Thankfully, they had kept her bobbins.

“I can’t think why someone would accuse us,” she murmured, pulling out a worn wooden box filled with those bobbins. “But here are her tools.”

All three agents peered into the box as though it contained a great mystery. Or possibly a snake. “May we speak to her?” Mr. Armstrong asked.

She was deeply grateful that her siblings were not here. It might be the only thing preventing her from outright murdering Juro. “I’m afraid she’s gone to London to visit a friend,” she said. “Lady Ruby Chatsworth. I’m sure you remember her. She is a friend of the Duke of Tremaine.”

“Ah,” he said, eyes widening. “Very good, very good. We’ll be on our way then.”

Perhaps titles were good for something after all.

Juro did not agree.

“That’s rubbish,” he seethed. His plans had been thwarted and no one needed to tell her that he would keep at it. “Ask her what she’s keeping in that cave down there.”

Mr. Armstrong turned. “What cave?”

“There’s a cave down there, nice and secret like.”

“Miss Sparrow?”

“Of course, there is,” she agreed. “This is Cornwall, after all. There are caves everywhere.”

“Let’s have a look then, and we can put this business behind us.”

“Certainly.”

When Juro smirked at her, she nearly smirked back. He had no idea.

They climbed down to the cave, Mr. Armstrong leading the way. He marched as though he was on a very important mission. “See,” Juro crowed, shoving forward. “What’s that then?”

“It’s a barrel, sir,” one of the agents whispered excitedly to Mr. Armstrong.

“A smugglers barrel,” Juro insisted.

“I don’t know what those look like,” Cat said. “How do you?”

“We’re going to have to open it,” Mr. Armstrong said.

“I wouldn’t suggest it,” she answered.

Juro produced a crowbar, tucked in the back of his belt. He had come prepared. If only to smash her cottage to pieces, she was sure. “It’s not safe here until you catch all the smugglers.”

They crowded close, working at the tight lid. Something moved in the shadows behind them. Juro swore.

Sir Bartholomew ambled out of the cave, upholding his reputation for finding himself in odd places. He was no worse the wear from his altercation with Lady Siddal. Juro shifted, crowbar in his hand.

“Don’t you dare,” Cat said in the kind of voice general suited for haunted mansions where bodies turned up mysteriously murdered. He turned back to the barrel, muttering.

“Are you sure about this, Mr. Armstrong?” she called from the safety of the beach. She kept the turtle behind her.

“I insist.”

It took a few moments of straining and grunting to pry the lid off. She knew, from the gagging and the howling, the exact second it popped off.