Myriah Fire (18 page)

Kit cast his brother a look of warning and hastened to respond, “He was due back at his destination and thought it best to ride off at once.”

“Right. I know very well that he is from London, and how he could return there on the same steed is beyond me.”

“Damnation, Kit … I told you—too knowing by far.” Billy laughed.

“What—because I knew he was from London? He spoke like one born and bred.”

“And being from London yourself, of course, you recognized that?” asked Kit, putting up a brow in a
manner she could not mistake.

“Yes, I’ve spent time in London. Picking up some knowledge of the great city’s dialect
is
not difficult and does
not
take much time, my lord.”

“I see,” his lordship said quietly.

“Well, so he is returning to London tonight. How will he manage? His poor horse must be ready to fall …?”

“Dunce!” Billy declared, laughing. “He is using posting house horses, changes ’em at the posting house at Tunbridge Wells.”

“Oh!” Myriah said. “Of course. I had forgotten about that.”

“Well, my Billy, I leave you in the best of capable hands,” his lordship said suddenly.

Myriah turned open eyes on Kit, realizing that was what Fletcher had been mumbling about. They still had business to take care of. Still she asked, “You … you are going out again …?”

“I must. I left some rather unfinished business at the inn. There is no hope for it … I must go back. I shouldn’t be too long and will relieve you here when return.” He touched her hand, and a shiver shot through her arm. She felt him study her, and he laughed suddenly; it was a youthful, joyous sound. Its music thrilled her heart.

Billy’s eyes went from his brother to his nurse, and a
slow
smile curved his lips.

Myriah eyed him narrowly and asked, “What is so funny?”

“You and m’brother!” he answered, unashamed.

“Horrid puppy!”

“Me horrid?” He shook his head. “Lord keep me … it seems I’m bound to have a she-devil for a sister.”

Kit smiled but said nothing to this.

“Nonsense,” Myriah returned with heightened color

“Said you meant to stay awhile—didn’t know it was going to be a
lifetime!”

“Oh, Billy Wimborne … quiet … sister … lifetime … I haven’t a clue what it is you are going on about.”

“Stuff!” he retorted, unabashed.

~ Nine ~

SIR ROLAND FOLDED his greatcoat over the empty wooden chair beside a small corner table. His curly-brimmed top hat and white gloves followed before he took up his seat. It was late, and most of the Mermaid’s patrons had made their way home.

He glanced around the half-empty tavern, idly stroking his chin, which was just beginning to shadow. Strange, thought he, still immersed with his problem, very strange indeed. What would that boy be doing with Myriah’s Silkie—and he was certain it had been Myriah’s horse.

He had never before known her to allow anyone the use of Silkie!

Something was off here … something tickled his mind with an answer, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. An odd boy … with a greatcoat that was extremely too large and too well made for a peasant, and breeches that looked as though they belonged to an older brother.

This and many other questions occupied his busy mind, proposing several fascinating possibilities, and it was not until
the
uniformed young man standing before him had coughed deprecatingly several times that Sir Roland looked up into the shallow eyes of Corporal Stone.

“Pardon?” said Sir Roland, frowning up at the young man and wondering what he could want with him.

“So sorry to trouble you, sir, but may I sit with you for a moment?” His voice held an urgent note.

Sir Roland’s brow went up, and a haughty look commanded his features. “I am certain you have your reasons for wanting to do so, but I do assure you that while I have no objection to company ordinarily, I must decline your offer as I chose this table for the privacy it affords,” Sir Roland said

The young Corporal Stone looked a bit harried. “To be sure, sir, I understand. However, if you would but allow me … there is a very good reason for my intrusion.” He took the liberty at this point of pulling up a nearby chair while he cast Sir Roland another anxious glance.

“Very well,” he answered reluctantly, as he had no liking for excisemen; however, his curiosity was beginning to nibble at him.

Stone breathed a sigh of relief and straddled the chair he had appropriated, leaning forward over the chair back and peering intently at Sir Roland’s countenance across the table. “’Tis this, sir—I’m on government business tonight. If you will but cast your eyes in the direction of your left shoulder, you will see a table full of coveys.”

Sir Roland sighed heavily and turned his head slightly in the direction indicated. He shrugged a shoulder and returned a bored countenance to Stone. “Evidently a rough lot … but they appear no more so than any other fishermen I have seen. Really, sir, I fail to see what all this has to do with me.”

“Fishermen? Lord love ya … ’tain’t so … though they would have us think so. Look, it’s not anything to do with you at all. Fact is, I know you are new in Rye! Made it
my
business to know. That’s why I can trust you with this much. You’ve got no call
not
to cooperate with me. You see, sir,” Stone explained, lowering his
voice
and yet managing to convey the portentousness of the information he was about to impart, “those coveys are, I have no doubt whatsoever …
smugglers!
”

Sir Roland’s brow shot up, and his head went around involuntarily for another look at the alleged tidesmen.

Stone, satisfied that he had impressed the nobleman, grunted in a tone meant to convey his momentary gratification.

Intrigued, Sir Roland’s eyes brightened, and he sat up, now ready to continue the conversation. “Upon my word—never say you are about to make an arrest tonight?”

“Arrest?” young Stone said, opening his eyes wide. “Bless me, no!” His voice took on an inflection of disgust. “Haven’t the proof, you see.”

Sir Roland stifled a yawn, and as he observed the innkeeper crossing the room and heading their way, he put up a hand for service. The tavern keeper caught Roland’s motion and sidled over, sniffing affably. “What be yer needs, gents?”

“A bumper of ale,” Sir Roland said.

“Make it two, Thomas,” added the landsman.

“Aye,” the innkeeper agreed, going off.

Sir Roland turned back to Stone, and the look of boredom had descended over him again; he had some serious thinking to do, and what did he care about smugglers and such? “I am certain you will think me a dunce, but it is still not clear what all this”—he languidly waved his hand in the air—“has to do with me.”

“Eh, sorry, thought I had explained, sir. You see, I need to keep m’eyes on ’em! Best vantage point be this table. That way I can observe all their comings and goings. Traitorous lot, the pack of ’em!”

Sir Roland resigned himself. “Yes, I suppose, but …”

Stone’s eyes flew suddenly to the narrow doorway, and Roland followed the man’s glance. There stood the man locals had identified as Lord Wimborne, his uncovered honey-colored hair falling in waves around his ruggedly handsome face.

* * *

Kit’s tall figure shouldered a two-tiered caped riding cloak whose folds were negligently slung back across one shoulder, exposing a superbly cut riding jacket and tight-fitting breeches of the same material. His Hessians were covered with dust from his recent hard riding, and his eyes were alight with merriment and more—the quality of command.

“Back are ye, m’lord?” the innkeeper cried loudly as he spied Kit in the entranceway and hurried over to stand before him. He dropped his voice to a whisper, and his words tripped out quickly, his eyes darting sideways as he spoke. “Thought ye ought to know. That flash sitting wit the bloody revenuer … he was asking after ye jest when ye rushed off before.”

Lord Wimborne’s gray eyes found Sir Roland, though his glance in that worthy’s direction was perceptible to no one. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll be taking the blue room. See to it that we are not disturbed.”

“Aye,” Thomas said as he moved off.

Kit then glanced at his men, sitting patiently around the oak table beneath the observation of the excisemen, as several of the government agents were scattered about the room.

His men were to all outward signs every bit what they appeared to be: big, hard-working, hard-living fishermen. Not a word or another look passed between them and Lord Wimborne.

Kit moved agilely with Fletcher silently at his back as he made for the corridor to the stairs.

Stone saw the table of ‘fishermen’ suddenly emptied; open-mouthed, he watched them file out of the tavern room.

He got to his feet and rushed after them, noting with a grunt of annoyance that any hope of discovering anything of use was put to the stake. There would be no getting near enough to overhear anything they said, for any room they occupied would be well guarded against eavesdroppers.

He gave a chair in his path a vicious kick, which sent
it
hurling and brought some attention upon himself, before he returned to Sir Roland’s table. Thomas, the innkeeper, gave him a long, speculative look as he slammed the two pints of ale down on the table and waited for his money.

Stone produced the coin but reached out and held the innkeeper by the arm. “Thomas, you know what is afoot tonight. Spill it out, man—’tis your duty as an Englishman!”

“You be daft, man
. Ain’t got a notion what ye be blabbering about!” Thomas snapped, pulling away his arm and walking off.

“N
o
notion … no notion at all!” Stone spluttered irritably. “You’d all sell your souls if there were a profit in it. They are all closed-mouthed about the
gentle
men.
Not the name I would
call these damn smugglers
.”

“Lookee ’ere!” the innkeeper shouted from across the wide, now almost empty room. “There ain’t no call for the likes of ye to talk to me that way. ’Tis none of m’affair what me customers do, and that’s a fact. Onct they pay their due, makes no ha’porth o’difference to me where they go … or what they be doing.”

The exciseman, barely twenty-five, eager, ambitious, and drastically impaired by the close-mouthed community of a smugglers’ village, was continuously put out by such attitudes. He was stifled by a job with little reward and little chance of success. What he needed was a royal coastguard to aid him. What they had were but a few revenue cutters—simply not enough.

He bent over his ale and began cursing the fates for his no-win job. What he needed was a break … just one break, and then he’d have ’em.

Sir Roland’s interest had revived with Lord Wimborne’s emergence on the scene. He sat watching the young exciseman, for now, here was something he might be able to use to help him in his own situation.

He had not noticed Kit glance his way; however, he had most definitely been quick to note that the so-called fishermen—alias Rye smugglers, or
gentlemen
, as they preferred—had indeed picked themselves up and followed in Lord Wimborne’s wake. Somehow Myriah was connected in this … perhaps his lordship had a sister she was visiting? It would take looking into. “Tell me, did I hear that the gentleman who preceded your smugglers upstairs was in fact Lord Wimborne?”

“Aye—the devil!” Stone answered sourly.

“Does he, do you know, have a sister? I am trying to recall the family …?” Sir Roland asked casually.

“A sister—no, a younger brother, though … a part of all this as well.”

“But no sister …” Sir Roland frowned and nibbled at his lower lip.