“Such as what?”
“I won’t know until I get a better idea of what he’s been asking. Is he really setting himself up as Granville’s active replacement, or is he merely trawling to learn which group Granville used for running the secrets so he’ll know who has to be kept quiet?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t heard enough to say.” Leaning forward, setting her elbow on the desk, she propped her chin in her hand.
Charles watched her face as she thought, watched her thoughts flow through her expressive eyes.
“Given we’re certain Granville and Nicholas were in this hand in glove, wouldn’t Granville have told Nicholas which group he used?”
He shook his head. “Secrecy is a byword among the fraternity. Granville played at being a smuggler for a good many years; he would have absorbed that lesson well. Unless there was some exceptionally strong reason-and I can’t see what it might be-I seriously doubt telling Amberly or Nicholas who his smuggling friends were would have entered Granville’s head.”
She grimaced. “That sounds right. He was as close as a clam over anything to do with smuggling.” Her gaze dropped to his list. “So what have you written there?”
He had to smile, even though the message she was sending his way-that she wasn’t going to let him pat her on the head and tell her to go and embroider-wasn’t one he was happy about. “It’s a list of the gangs that might have been involved. I’ll need to contact them myself. They’ll hear soon enough why I’m here-I need to make clear that neither I nor the government has any interest in them but only in what they can tell me.”
“What if you run into Nicholas?”
“I won’t. You said he visited Polruan two nights ago-I’ll start there.”
“When? Tonight?”
No point trying to prevaricate. “I’ll ride down after dinner. If they ran goods last night, they should be in the Duck and Drake this evening.”
She nodded; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“Tell me about Amberly-how frequently did your father and he meet?”
She thought, then answered, telling him little he hadn’t already surmised. But his questions served to distract her. After ten minutes of steady inquisition, she stirred. “I’ll take the tray-I want to speak to Mrs. Slattery.”
He rose and held the door for her. She departed with the air of a lady with her mind on domestic concerns. Closing the door, he paused, then returned to his desk and his plans.
They met again over dinner; he came prepared with a stock of friendly familial inquiries designed to keep her mind far away from his evening appointment in Polruan. In that, he thought he succeeded; when they rose from the table, she retired for the evening, electing to go straight to her chamber. She didn’t even mention his planned excursion; he wondered if it had slipped her mind.
He returned to his study to read through the report he’d penned for Dalziel. He’d thought long and hard, but in the end he’d named names, accurately setting down all he’d learned thus far. Even more than his six collegues from the Bastion Club, he’d entrusted his life to Dalziel’s discretion for thirteen years; Dalziel had never let him down.
Even though they’d yet to solve the riddle of who exactly Dalziel was, whoever he was he was one of them-a nobleman with the same sense of honor, the same attitude toward protecting the weak and innocent. Penny and Elaine and her daughters stood in no danger from Dalziel.
Sealing the letter, he addressed it, then rose. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed ten o’clock. Opening the study door, he called Cassius and Brutus from their sprawl before the fire; stretching, grumbling, they clambered up and obeyed.
Shutting the door, he strolled to the front hall, dropped his letter on Filchett’s salver on the sideboard, then went upstairs, the hounds at his heels.
Ten minutes later, dressed to ride, he opened the garden door, stepped outside, softly closed the door, and turned for the stables.
He’d taken three strides before the shadow glimpsed at the edge of his vision registered. He halted, swore softly, then, hands rising to his hips, swung around to face Penny. Clad once more in breeches, boots, and riding jacket, with a soft-brimmed hat cocked over her brow, she’d been leaning against the wall a yard from the door-waiting.
So much for his successful distraction.
He set his jaw. “You can’t come.”
The moon sailed free tonight; she met his eyes. “Why not?”
“You’re a lady. Ladies don’t frequent the Duck and Drake.”
She straightened from the wall, shrugged. “You’ll be there-I’ll be perfectly safe.”
He watched her tug on her gloves. “I’m not taking you with me.”
Lifting her head, she looked at him. “I’ll follow you, then.”
With an exasperated hiss, he dropped his head back and looked up into a nearly cloudless sky. She knew the area almost as well as he did; with the moon shining down, she could follow him easily, and in any case she knew his destination-because he’d been idiot enough to tell her!
“All right!” He looked at her again, scanned her attire, shook his head. “You’re never going to pass for a male.”
“It’s not a disguise.” She smiled-a light, relaxed smile as if she’d never doubted his capitulation-and fell in beside him as he turned and strode for the stables. “Everyone in Polruan knows who I am. They know it’s easier to ride astride than sidesaddle around here, and they’re not the sort to be scandalized by my wearing breeches. They’ll barely notice.”
He glanced down at her long legs, booted to the knee, sleek thighs occasionally visible when the material of her breeches drew taut, and managed not to snort. The smugglers of Polruan were no more blind than he.
Exercising rigid control, he managed to keep his mind from contemplating her anatomy-any part of it-while he saddled their horses, then tossed her up to her saddle. On her mare, she trotted out of the stable beside him. Inwardly shaking his head-how had he let this happen?-he set course south, over the moonlit fields to Polruan.
A small fishing village situated on the easterly head of the Fowey estuary, Polruan consisted of little more than a cluster of tiny cottages and the obligatory tavern in which the men of the village, virtually all fishermen, usually spent their evenings, at least when they weren’t out running some illicit cargo through the breakers just east of the estuary mouth.
Although the area was riddled with smuggling gangs, each had its own patch, its own favored inlets and coves. While the Fowey Gallants, who had taken their name from the local pirate raiders who’d been the bane of the French coastal towns throughout the Hundred Years War, were the largest and best organized gang in the area, Charles suspected Granville might have used one of the smaller gangs for making contact with the French.
As Penny had said, Granville hadn’t been a fool. The fewer people who knew anything of his business, the better.
They reached the Duck and Drake and dismounted. Charles gave their horses to a towheaded lad from the crude stable beside the tavern. Returning to where Penny waited near the door, he yanked her hat low. A floppy, wide-brimmed affair sporting a pheasant’s feather, it would pass for a man’s hunting hat at first glance. “Keep your head down and do exactly as I say.”
She muttered something unintelligible; he didn’t think it was a compliment. Grasping her elbow, he opened the door, swiftly glanced around as he propelled her over the threshold. Giving thanks for the poor light, he steered her to an unoccupied table and benches in one corner.