The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  The brute to his right stiffened. “Why you askin’?”

  “Like I said—” He tossed the bag from one hand to the other. “Just keeping accounts. I hear there’s some Leaguers hereabouts. I’d like to have a little conversation with them.”

  Bane eyed him. “Snitches don’t live long enough to enjoy any gain.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” A slow smile curved his lips. “I’m a collector. I deal in the trade of black market information. Buying. Selling. Sharing the wealth. Ain’t that right, Slingsby?”

  “All I know is you ain’t ne’er one to play by the rules. Still, my pockets are always padded a little thicker whenever yer in town. Must say, ye always done me right.” Slingsby folded his arms. “All right. There’s a few new faces that joined the ranks since last you were here. None of ’em Leaguers, though, leastwise not that I know of. I can give you names, but they’re as real as Morton or Ratter, Bane or Thrush—”

  Thrush jumped to his feet, hauling Slingsby up by the collar. “Watch it, old man! I warned you not to bandy my name about.”

  Slingsby grinned. “Ye ought be worried more about crossing Morton than me.”

  By the time Bane turned to face him, Alex had knocked Thrush out cold and gripped his blade, ready to slash Bane if challenged.

  Bane hacked out a curse and stalked off.

  Slingsby chuckled, shaking out his rumpled coat. “There’s always action when yer around.” Reseating himself, the old man lifted his face. “I’ll only say this once, so listen up. Besides those two ye just met, the new brethren are Beak and Sniper. Oh yeah, and a new fish that showed up just a week ago. Goes by the name o’ Que.”

  “Que?” Alex scrubbed a hand across his face, stalling for time. Short for Quail, perhaps? Blowing out a long breath, he swallowed the idea, leaving behind a salty aftertaste.

  Slingsby eyed him. “Bludgeoned you, did I?”

  Alex rubbed his stomach, hopefully masking his previous hesitation. “Your cooking did. Thanks, Slingsby.” He took a few steps, then turned. “Oh, and watch your back. Blackjack and Charlie are hereabouts.”

  The old man’s face drained of color, as bleached as the bones dotting the sand. “Blast! If they’re tangled up with guinea boats again, it’ll be the devil to pay for all of us.”

  “Knowing those two, it’s likely that and more.”

  Alex strode away, then stopped at the crest of the earthen mound ringing the bay. A movement near the cliffs caught his eye. Maybe. Maybe not.

  Squinting in the last of the sun’s rays, he shaded his eyes with a hand to his forehead. A dark silhouette nearly blended in with the rocks, but not quite. The attempt at stealth was valiant enough, just not successful. The shape wasn’t necessarily familiar—but the slight limp was. By the time the figure ducked between two rocks, Alex had no doubt about the man’s identity. But what interest did Lord Coburn have in smuggler’s hideouts?

  Hopefully Slingsby had an extra torch on that derelict he called a fishing boat, for Alex intended to find out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Darkness rushed in. Nothing more. Johanna craned her neck to look down one length of Blue Lane, then the other. Not a patron in sight. Stooping, she propped open the front door with a brick. Maybe the enticement of the band making merry inside would call to those outside. The music was certainly loud enough. Still, it was a shame Mr. Morton didn’t lead the musicians instead of Mr. Quail, for though the man played with enthusiasm, his notes were just enough short of key to set her teeth on edge.

  She braved one more glance down the road, conjuring customers with full pockets scrambling toward the Blue Hedge. A week’s worth, no, more like a fortnight’s worth of ale-drinkers might give her enough money to pay back Mr. Morton, but the only movement was the streak of a cat darting into an alley.

  Rubbing her arms against the chill of the early evening air, she turned and strode through the taproom, trying to ignore the fact that there was only one patron nursing a mug in a corner seat. Perhaps a good chat with her mother would set things a’right.

  “Mam?” she called as she entered the kitchen, but the room was as barren as Blue Lane. The remnants of a sliced loaf of bread, a few cabbage leaves, and an uncovered jar of applesauce littered the table. Of course. She should’ve known her mother would’ve made Thomas a dinner tray and was likely even now serving it.

  She reached for the jar lid, but just as her fingers grazed the metal, she was yanked back by the arm and twirled around.

  “A dance, milady?” Mr. Quail spun her so fast, she could hardly breathe let alone answer.

  He laughed and pulled her against him, waltzing down the length of the small room and back again.

  “Mr. Quail!” She wrenched from his grasp and dashed to the other side of the table, putting a stop to the crazy jig and any other inappropriate ideas he might be entertaining. “Really!”

  “Of course, really. And actually, and even truly.” Laughter rumbled from deep inside his chest. “Oh, Miss Langley, do not look so aghast. Do you never dance? Sing? Laugh out loud?”

  “Not if I can help it.” She frowned down at the way her skirt hem had hitched itself atop her half-boot and shook it loose, covering her lower leg. Had he seen?

  “Life’s too short not to enjoy it, especially for a beauty such as yourself.”

  Insolent man! She stiffened. “Should you not be out in the taproom?”

  He shook his head, never once pulling his gaze from her face. “They won’t miss me.”

  She inched closer to the tabletop—and the bread knife. “Was there something you wanted?”

  “Just a few words with a pretty lady.” In two long strides, he snatched Mam’s stool from the corner and perched atop it. Hooking his feet on the lower rung, he settled comfortably. Clearly the man had more than a few words in mind.

  Jo folded her arms, scowling. “You can stop the flattery, sir. It doesn’t work.”

  “Can’t blame a man for trying, can you?” A rogue grin curved his mouth, which probably worked for other tavern wenches, but not for her.

  “What do you want, Mr. Quail?”

  “Aah, direct. I like that in a woman.” He curled a swath of dark hair behind his ear, then asked, “What do you know about Mr. Morton?”

  Her brow tightened. He could’ve brought up a hundred other topics, but this? “I am not in the habit of conversing about other patrons. If there’s something you want to know, why not ask him yourself?”

  “I would, were he here.” Quail shrugged. “The man is in and out at all hours. It’s hard to corner him.”

  True. She’d not seen Mr. Morton since he’d given her the pouch of money, and that’d been early this morning. She glanced at the mantel clock. It was after seven now. What did he do all day?

  “Tell me, Miss Langley,” Mr. Quail’s grin faded. The tone of his voice flattened into a gravity he’d never before employed. “Mr. Morton’s not asked you to pass off any notes or attend any … er … meetings while he’s been here?”

  She frowned. Other than the stolen kiss, Mr. Morton had been nothing but kind. “What an odd question. What are you insinuating?”

  He leaned forward. “Merely looking out for your interests.”

  Her interests—she narrowed her eyes—or his? “No, Mr. Morton has asked me nothing untoward. For the most part, he’s been a gentleman, even paid up his rent in advance with guineas.”

  “He paid you in yellow boys?” Quail’s eyes widened. “That is interesting. He does seem a bit well to do, hmm? Clothing impeccable. Grooming exquisite.”

  She pictured Alexander, standing in the hall where she’d last seen him. His brown dress coat rode the crest of his wide shoulders, cut to perfection. An ivory cravat had been knotted and tucked into a collar set just below his strong jawline. Tan trousers of fine wool followed the long lines of his legs and—Johanna tugged at her own collar, suddenly a bit short of breath. Why was it so hot in here?

  “Is it not strange that a man of such mean
s chooses to reside here?”

  Mr. Quail’s question was a slap in the face. Heat of a different kind curled her hands into fists, and she popped them onto her hips. “And why not? The Blue Hedge is a respectable establishment. Furthermore—”

  “Tut, tut, little miss. No disrespect intended.” The man stood and planted his hands on the table, leaning toward her. “All I’m saying is that it’s a curiosity when a man who rubs shoulders with the viscount lodges at an inn on the farthest reach of town instead of residing in a more fashionable neighborhood.”

  “The viscount?” Her fists uncurled, and she smoothed her moist palms against her apron. Mr. Quail was right. As much as she’d love to house a grander clientele, why would a man of social standing stay here? With drafty windows, lumpy mattresses, and meals nothing to boast about?

  “I hear Mr. Morton’s a new gaming partner at Lord Coburn’s table, and apparently is quite a favorite despite the rumors of his nightly wins.”

  Her breath stuck in her throat. Mr. Morton was a gambler? The thought set her teeth on edge—but so did the way Mr. Quail eyed her. She met the man’s stare head-on. “How would you know such information?”

  “Oh … hearsay.”

  “From whom?”

  “Connections.” Quail straightened and sniffed. “It pays to know with whom I share a roof. And so I ask, confidentially, of course, what else do you know of the man?”

  “Well, I …”

  What did she know? She gazed at the pots hanging from the rack, more sure about them than the lodger who’d managed to crawl into her thoughts day and night. All she knew for certain was that Alexander conducted buying and selling affairs for his father, had recently arrived from Porto Moniz, and was on his way back home, somewhere up near Sheffield. And that he played the violin with so much emotion it made her weep.

  She frowned. That was all she knew. Precious little. Much too little for him to have given her a bag of money and a heart full of feelings she’d rather not sort through. If Alexander Morton belonged in society, why had he befriended her rascal of a brother? Or her, for that matter? What could he hope to gain?

  Mr. Quail searched her face as she nibbled her lower lip. Drat the man for raising such questions! And what did she know of the rascal in front of her, a flirtatious, itinerant musician—and a bad one at that. “You, sir, take an inordinate interest in Mr. Morton. Why is that, I wonder?”

  “Just looking out for you, my little beauty.” He angled his head to a rakish angle. “I’d hate to see him pluck such a delicate flower and crush it beneath his heels.”

  “I am not sure of your meaning, sir, nor do I want to.” She snatched the broom by the back door and swooshed it out as if she might scare off a mouse. “What I am sure of is that you ought be out there with your men, playing music as you promised.”

  Mr. Quail’s hands shot up in the air. “I’m going. But, Miss Langley.” He lowered his arms, all merriment fleeing from his voice. “Do be careful. Treacherous times are afoot, I fear.”

  He stalked out, leaving her alone with a room full of doubts.

  Who was the real imposter—Mr. Quail or Mr. Morton?

  Alex’s foot slipped, sending a spray of gravel plummeting into the crashing waves below. Sucking in a breath, he righted himself and breathed out a “Thank God.” From the beach, this route hadn’t appeared nearly as treacherous. Spare moonlight slid out from the clouds now and again, but not steady enough to grant dependable light.

  Balancing one hand against the rock wall, he set off again. The trail was a little more than the width of his foot, forcing him to put one boot in front of the other. Thankfully, the dirt was compacted, flattened by how many men before him? A fair number, apparently.

  He inched his way forward, keeping his fingertips against the cliff, and when his hand suddenly gave way into nothing but air, he stopped. The blackened maw of a cave opened to his right.

  Cocking his head, he strained to listen above the breakers. No drone of men’s voices came from inside. Gravel didn’t crunch. Nor did light of any kind exit the cleft. Good signs, unless someone had heard him coming and an ambush awaited.

  A smirk lifted one side of his mouth. No risk, no gain.

  Edging inside, he entered darkness so alive, it squeezed his chest. He pulled out Slingsby’s torch from where he’d tucked it into his waistcoat, the tang of pitch mixing with the earthy air. Mentally, he added a new shirt to his supply list. Ford was going to love this expense tally.

  He bent and planted the torch in the gravel, freeing his hands to feel about in his pocket for his flint. With each strike, sparks dazzled a miniature fireworks show, then finally grabbed hold of the pitch and spread into a flame. He blinked and looked away.

  Blackness rushed at him, barely stopping at the edge of his circle of illumination. He’d have to examine the area in increments. Starting at the entrance, he hung to the right, scanning the sand and the rock wall with each step.

  Twenty paces in, a crate lay on its side. Stooping, he swiped away a layer of grey dust covering some kind of printing. A large V, with a small o on the descending slope, and a c on the ascending. He grunted. East India Company, though their dockyards were miles away in London. A handspan from the crate, two glass balls, smaller than marbles, lay in the sand—spirit beads, used to distill alcohol to the proper concentration. Was this a rum runner’s hideout? The disturbed dust tickled his nose, igniting a sneeze—instantly reminding him of the sneeze at the viscount’s home. The man’s taste ran toward French liqueurs, so maybe not rum after all.

  Straightening, he stared down at the display. A slow smile curved his mouth. That was it. This was a display. No reputable smuggler would leave behind his spirit beads, and judging by the layer of dust on that crate, it hadn’t been used in quite some time.

  Hefting the torch, he continued his search. Twenty paces farther in, a black gap punctuated the wall. He ducked, holding the light aloft. The space was as wide as his shoulders, and about as tall, with a tunnel that stretched farther than the flame dared reach. Might be a cramped walk, but the passageway appeared to be stable enough.

  He entered, counting every step, memorizing each jut and twist of the trail. By twenty-five paces, he began to wonder if it would ever end. At fifty, he felt sure it soon must. One-hundred erased that certainty.

  And at one-twenty-five, his torch started to sputter.

  Sweat trickled down Alex’s back despite the damp chill. Shadows and earth pressed in, wrapping around him like a casket. What would it be like to be buried alive? Nothing but bones for a smuggler to trip over. His bones. The flesh eaten off by rodents and insects. Breath stuck in his throat, and he swallowed. Was that his heart pounding in his ears—or the foreboding rumble of a cave-in?

  Gah! He gave himself a mental shake. He’d heard of men losing their minds in the dark, and he had no desire to find out if that were true.

  Turning around took a bit of shimmying and unwedging, at one point almost catching his hair afire from the dimming flame. He snorted, not so desperate for that extreme, but eager enough that he quit counting steps and hastened back the way he’d come.

  Naught but an eerie blue light glowed from his torch by the time he unfolded himself from the passageway and reentered the larger cavern. No time to revel in the wide, open space, though. He’d have to finish fast. He scanned what little he could in the poor illumination. Colors were nonexistent. Only greys and lots of blacks.

  With his next step, he pitched forward. Curious, when thus far the ground had been flat. He squatted. The dirt and sand compacted into a trail. One direction led to the opening in the cliff. The other revealed a host of boot prints ending at the base of the cave wall.

  Why the devil would so many men walk into a wall?

  The blue light fizzled dimmer. Even squinting didn’t help. Propping up the torch, he yanked off his dress coat, waistcoat, and finally tugged his shirt over his head. Fingers flying, he ripped the fabric into several strips and tied them at the
top of the dying flame. Fresh light blazed.

  Ford was really going to love this expense tally.

  The light wouldn’t last long, though. Alex shot to his feet and studied the wall. God hadn’t created this. That many stacked boulders and rocks smacked of human hands sealing something in—or maybe out.

  There, just about shoulder level, a hole. Three feet wide. A handspan tall. Not big enough for a man to crawl through. Why such an odd size?

  He shoved in his torch, but that only served to blind him when he looked through the opening. He needed a light on the inside, which is probably where that tunnel he’d followed earlier led. Even if he stripped naked and torched all his clothing, he’d never make it back there and get out before the light was spent.

  Working at breakneck speed, he bent and snatched his dropped waistcoat, fastening it into a knot. He took care to leave a piece of the fine silk dangling and touched that corner to the flame. Once it caught, he threw the ruined waistcoat into the hole. It took a moment before growing into a ball of fire.

  Alex stared, trying to make sense of the crazy lines and shadows. Hundreds of what appeared to be small wooden ladders filled half of a cave larger than the one he stood in. On the other half were triangle-shaped frames. All uniform, stacked in rows. Why would the viscount feel the need to hide wood? What were the ladders and frames for? Somehow they were connected. Think. Think.

  The flame flared out.

  His torch fizzled to near nothing.

  Yet a single, horrid idea burned inside his mind, birthed by the memory of an artillery show he’d recently attended at Woolwich. He stood still, no longer dreading the dark. If he were right, there was a much more ominous threat to not only his life, but also to all those in Dover. He’d have to find Thatcher on the morrow and confirm, for the fellow was better versed in artillery than he.

  But as a betting man, he’d stake all he was worth on the wager that those frames were for shooting off some kind of rockets.