The following is an old draft of the beginning of Smuggled Rose...  A very bad beginning, indeed.  It only proves that occasionally, you actually can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.  You just have to get rid of the sow's ear and find a piece of silk.

1813, Folkestone near the straits of Dover

“Pardon, Mademoiselle Lane, alors, this one, he is heavy.”  Didier Chantal nearly fell through the doorway, supporting a large young man.

A few seconds later, a procession of his men followed him through the cellar door from the tunnel, burdened with crates of brandy and wine.  Two men carried bundles of what appeared to be sticks.  Their clothes were drenched with rain and sea water.

“Dépêchez-vous, Monsieur!  Hurry!  How is it that you are here on a night like this?  I didn't expect you and retired early.”

Monsieur Chantal rewarded her with a gape-toothed smile.  “The Excise—they do not expect us either—and there is no moon to make of us a target.  A little rain—pooh—what does it matter?”

“And yet despite no moon, a ball managed to find its way into this poor creature,” she replied dryly, grasping the hair of the nearly unconscious man supported by Chantal and pulling his head up to peer into his pale face.  She felt an unwanted stab of sympathy for him and she released his hair, trying to ignore her fears for his well-being.  He was not her concern.

”Only bad luck—nothing more,” Chantal said.

“He is trifle young for a smuggler, isn't he?  Do you bring babes, now, across the Channel?  This is very awkward—”

“Mademoiselle!  You wound me!" His dark eyes widened in mock surprise before he smiled.  "He is very pretty boy, eh?  But too young, as you say.  You would enjoy his company, though, if he were a trifle older, would you not?”

“No, I would not enjoy him in the least.  I do hope you will take him back with you, Monsieur—I cannot have him here.”

He gave her a crafty look.  “Bon.  We shall see.  Maintenant, we have roses, Mademoiselle, and so we come, n’est pas?”

“Roses?” she asked suspiciously, trying not to appear overly interested and risk a sudden escalation in price.  Her pulse quickened, however, and she felt her cheeks flush.

“Mai, oui!  Roses, Mademoiselle.  We have three bushes from Château de la Malmaison—Moss roses,” he said, and then added cunningly.  “And a cutting.”

“What is the cutting?” asked Margaret.  She eyed the bundles of sticks wrapped in coarse material.  A few tattered leaves showed at one end.

“The Damask, Marie Louise.  She is very sumptuous, Mademoiselle—in bloom—oh là là!  Très belle.”

“I see.  And I suppose it is unnecessary for me to ask if the Empress Josephine’s gardeners approved of their removal?”

He gave her another smile and a Gallic shrug despite his burden. 

Margaret sighed.  “It is incomprehensible to me that you can accomplish so effortlessly what the British and French Admiralties spent weeks arranging.  Even the Empress Josephine had to request their assistance to deliver Hume’s new Tea-scented China rose to the Château de la Malmaison.  Yet here you are, crossing the Channel bearing roses of all descriptions, at your slightest whim—”

“We do our poor best to provide you with the barest essentials of life, Mademoiselle,” offered Didier Chantal modestly.  “The war she cannot prevent us.  Perhaps if they had wished to contact me for transport I could have arranged it, oui?  Effortlessly, as you say.”

He raised his brows in silent censure of the French and English traders who had such difficulties navigating the English Channel.  The fact that their respective nation’s navies, as well as the British Excise, were fully occupied trying to prevent such transactions was completely irrelevant to Didier Chantal.

“Out, indeed.  I'll offer you a bargain, Monsieur.  I shall give you cuttings from my Chinas, Parson’s Pink and my Slater’s Crimson, as well as my Portland Rose, Rosa Paestana, which the baroness received from the Duchess of Portland.  I will also offer you the choice of cuttings from any of my Gallicas.  In exchange, you will remove this young man and take him back from whence he came.”

“Mademoiselle knows I am a weak man and it is a terrible temptation, mais non!  Alas, this I cannot do.  You will take the man and I will give you all three roses and the cutting.”

“No, I can not take care of a gentleman here, as you well know.  It is impossible.”

“The bushes,” continued Chantal as if she had not spoken.  “They are the Single Red Moss, you desired.  And the Rose de Meaux and the Cabbage Rose.”

“The Rose de Meaux?” She asked, weakening. Perhaps she could take care of the boy for a day or two. Surely he would be well enough to leave in three days at the most.

“Oui.  The entire bush.  It is small, you understand, but with roots already.”

“I see…”  She eyed the man thoughtfully.  “I will not pay, then, for the roses? Otherwise, you must take the man away with you, now.  Oui?”

“Oui.  But the brandy?”

“Non.  If I take care of the man, I will pay naught.”

“Mademoiselle!  You will make of me destitution!  I must give the men something!”  He made a slashing motion over his throat and rolled his eyes in his head in elaborate imitation of a dying man. “You understand?”

“Oui.  But I do not want the man here.  We have no place for him.”

“You will take the man and pay for the brandy, Mademoiselle, and hurry for the Excise will arrive soon.”

“Oh, very well.  Oui.  I will pay for the brandy, but naught else.  You are very difficult tonight, Monsieur, and you will make of me destitution!”

As she turned, the wounded man swayed, slipping through Monsieur Chantal’s grip to lurch against Margaret’s lower back.  Thrown off balance by his weight, she stumbled on the dank, slippery floor, catching the doorframe as Monsieur Chantal hastily caught the barely conscious man and levered him away from her.

“Mademoiselle, pardon!  Are you hurt?”

Shaken, Margaret turned back to her friend.  “No, it is no matter.”  She struggled to catch her breath, suddenly nervous about accepting a male guest in her house.  And there were other bothersome aspects of Monsieur Chantal’s tale that  raised her anxieties.  She could not help voicing a small, reproachful question.  “Were you observed despite the lack of a moon tonight?”

The Frenchman shook his head, rolled his dark eyes, and shrugged in apparent apology.  “Most assuredly, Mademoiselle.  Le Monsieur is shot and the Excise most assuredly follow.  And, of course, the brother…”  A heavy sigh and another shake of the head accompanied this last remark.

“Brother?”  Her low voice sharpened, but she soon grew preoccupied with another worry as she repeated her examination of the wounded man’s face. 

Wet hair hung in long strands over his forehead and he slumped forward, dangling from Monsieur Chantal’s thick shoulders.  Despite the seawater, rain, and blood saturating his raiment, the fine wool coat and expensive boots left no doubt that the youth was well-heeled.  He was wealthy either by birth, or through the fortunes of the smuggling trade.

She caught Chantal's gaze.  He shrugged his shoulders, although this time he accompanied the gesture with a restless, forward motion as if propelled toward her by the ungainly weight of the wounded man.

Margaret sighed.  “Monsieur Chantal, I believe you're charging a distressingly high price tonight for my roses.  I trust you are not going to make a habit of bringing refugees to my cellars on a regular basis, even if they are accompanied by other rare gifts?”

“I would be most happy to allow this fine young gentleman to slip beneath the waves, if you wish, though I would have to take la Marie Louise to another.  It would break my heart, Mademoiselle.”

“Indeed,” she said.  "Perhaps you should have taken him to the vicar.  I'm sure he would be more than happy to take care of a sick man in exchange for roses."  Her tart reply could not hide her desire, however, for the luscious, mauve rose. 

Her covetousness would eventually kill her.  The dreadful trait weakened both her resolve and her innate wariness.

She reluctantly stepped aside and allowed him further into the cellar beneath the kitchens of Folkestone manor.  As he moved towards an empty area near the stairway, she placed her lantern with its insufficient, wavering light, on one of the crates of the fine goods Monsieur Chantal’s men deposited at her feet. 

Lately, all of Monsieur Chantal’s gifts seemed to come at a price. 

Margaret could only hope the price would not be so high as to result in her dancing in the wind from the end of a hangman’s noose.