Predictably, she was looking about her with open curiosity, transparently interested in all she could see. He took her arm, steadying her over the cobbles as he guided her back through the archway to the street. He halted on the pavement in front of the inn; while Ellen looked interestedly up and down what was one of Hastings’s busiest streets, he wondered how best to handle the situation—meaning manage her.
In the end, when she glanced at him and arched a brow, patently inquiring as to what came next, he opted for the unvarnished truth. “I need to go to a tavern by the waterfront.” He tipped his head toward the end of the road, beyond which lay the sea. “At this hour, the men I know should be there, but the tavern—that whole area—is a rough sort of place. Definitely no place for a lady, and I wouldn’t be at all comfortable taking you there.”
He steeled himself for her arguments—that she could come and wait in the street, watch through a window, or some such notion.
Instead, she smiled quite happily. “That’s all right—I’ll amuse myself by looking in that shop.” With one gloved finger, she pointed to a haberdashery on the other side of the street. “And once I finish there”—she glanced at the inn—“I’ll order some tea and wait in the inn’s parlor until you return.”
She lifted wide, golden-hazel eyes to his face. “If that will suit?”
Ellen registered Christopher’s surprise at her sudden interest in fripperies, but it would take too long to explain what lay behind it, and it was hardly a topic a gentleman would be interested in. So she waited, and eventually, he dipped his head in acceptance.
“Very well. That seems…sensible.”
He sounded distinctly suspicious, which made her smile all the more. Really, what did he think she was going to get up to in a haberdashery?
He continued to hold her arm as they crossed the busy street and halted before the haberdashery’s door. Releasing her, he caught her eye. “I’ll be back, certainly within the hour, but most likely earlier.”
She continued to smile brightly. “I’ll be waiting, sipping tea in the inn parlor.”
With that, she opened the shop door and stepped inside, leaving him, apparently still suspicious and faintly befuddled, on the pavement.
Christopher eyed the door she closed behind her, then shook his head, turned, and strode rapidly down the street. The faster he dealt with his inquiries, the sooner he could return and learn what she was up to.
The Old Dolphin Tavern in George Street was exactly as he remembered it, with low beams across the ceiling, smoke-stained walls, and a long, well-worn, highly polished bar counter.
He leaned on the counter and, while the barman tended to another customer, squinted through the fug of tobacco smoke that wreathed the taproom. He spotted his quarry in the far corner, hunched over a table.
The barman came up, and smiling, Christopher ordered three pints of the tavern’s ale. After paying the barman, he hefted the three large mugs and made his way between the intervening tables to the far corner.
As he neared, the pair of ancient mariners seated at the table looked up, eyes narrowing in suspicion and distrust—then they recognized him, saw what he was carrying, and their faces split into wide grins.
“Christopher, old son!” Old Edgar reached out to claim one of the pints Christopher set down. “You’re quite a sight for these old eyes of mine.”
“Aye.” Cam, Edgar’s younger brother, reached for a mug. “A reminder of the good ole days and all.” As Christopher pulled up a chair, Cam raised his mug to him. “Here’s to you, matey!”
Christopher grinned, sat, and raised the third mug.
After a suitable pause for refreshment, Edgar lowered his mug with a satisfied “Aah.” He focused his old yet still bright eyes on Christopher. “So what brings you here, heh?”
Christopher set down his mug and met Edgar’s gaze. He’d spent long minutes during the drive deciding on the best way to broach his subject. “There have been suggestions, you might say from on high, that at least one of the old smuggling gangs has started up again.”
The brothers pulled surprised faces and looked at each other, then Edgar said, “Haven’t heard anything about that.”
Christopher arched his brows. “No whispers of any activity around Hastings?”
“Nope.” Edgar shook his head definitively. “Ain’t none of us plying that trade these days. Not for the past ten years and more. Besides”—shrewdly, he studied Christopher—“what would anyone be smuggling?”
Christopher grimaced. “I’m not free to answer that, but I can say that anyone becoming involved in this latest sort of trade would be very ill-advised.”
“Hmm.” Edgar slowly nodded. “I’ll pass that on, but truth be told, there’s not anything going on around here.”
Christopher accepted that with a tip of his head. Edgar was the oldest representative of the erstwhile smuggling fraternity, and if there was anyone—no matter who they were—running goods in through Hastings and the beaches around the town, Edgar would know of it.
“Only cargo we run these days is fish,” Cam said. “And let me tell you, there’s no excitement in that!”
Christopher grinned and spent the next twenty minutes chatting about others—including his brother, Gregory, and several well-heeled friends who had run with the gang years ago—and reliving close escapes from the local excisemen.
After buying the old sailors another round, Christopher left them deep in reminiscences and walked back to the Royal Sussex Arms.
There, exactly as she’d said she would be, he found Ellen in the inn’s parlor, sipping tea and staring meditatively out of the window at the haberdashery across the street.
He sat in the chair opposite, drawing her gaze. He arched his brows. “Did you find what you wanted?” He could see no sign of any purchase.
She smiled and lowered her cup. “I did, as it happens. I wanted to compare the price of something I’d seen in the shop in the village.” She waved dismissively. “Pure curiosity.” Her eyes met his, and her smile deepened. “As you’ve probably noticed by now, curiosity is my besetting sin.”
He arched his brows cynically and allowed her to pour him a cup of tea.
Ellen waited until they were bowling along, heading toward Benenden once more, before she asked, “Did you locate the men you’d hoped to find, and if so, what did you learn?”
“I found them, but they were very sure there’s been no smuggling activity of any sort around Hastings and environs recently.”
She considered, then asked, “How reliable is their information?”
“If Old Edgar says there’s been no activity on what was—and arguably still is—his patch, then there hasn’t been.”
Curiosity jabbed and jabbed, until she asked, “How did you come to know them—Old Edgar and whoever else was there?”
His lips quirked in a wry smile. He whipped up his horses, took a rising curve in style, then eased the pair to a steady pace. “When we were younger, my brother and I joined the Hastings smuggling gang.”
“The gang this Old Edgar ran?”
“Along with his brother, Cam.” He paused, then went on, “We only went on two runs. It was brandy they still smuggled in those days, but even then, smuggling was a dying trade—nothing like it used to be in the glory days of Edgar and Cam’s youth.”