“She must be up to something rather serious, then.” Lysandra bit her bottom lip as she thought the matter over. “You’d best hurry home and see what she’s up to. Take our coach.”
“Thank you.” Lydia embraced her friend and rushed outside to wait for the Russell coach to be prepared. She had a sense that whatever her sister was up to, it had to do with Brodie Kincade and finding a way to entrap him in marriage. She could only hope that whatever scheme her younger sister had in mind had not yet been set in motion and that Lydia would be able to stop it.
4
Jem Webster and three of his men lingered in the shadows inside the tavern as they kept a careful eye on their intended target, a tall, dark-haired Scotsman who was drinking heavily with a blond-haired fellow who looked equally dangerous.
Harvey watched his boss carefully. “I don’t know about this, Jem.”
“We took the money, and there’s more where that came from when we bring Mr. Hunt that man.” Jem nodded subtly in the Scot’s direction. He could understand the reservations his men had about tackling the fellow, given his size and muscled build, but he also knew that they would do just about anything for money. “I’ll not pass up an opportunity for that kind of coin.”
Jem stroked a hand along his scruffy jaw. It had been a lean few years working at various odd jobs, usually underappreciated and always underpaid. The best work only came when it was a bit out of the gaze of the law.
So when the fancy Mr. Hunt had presented his need for a group of men to bring him a Scotsman by the name of Brodie Kincade by this evening, Jem had accepted it without a second thought. Of course, that was before he had a chance to lay eyes on the man. Still, the money was too good to pass up. If he and his men got a bit bruised, it was worth it.
“There are four of us,” Jem reminded Harvey. “He can’t fight us all and win.”
Harvey, a tall, burly fellow, rolled his shoulders and tried to look more menacing. “I hope you’re right, Jem. My jaw is only just healed from the last job.”
Jem rolled his eyes. “Well, that was your own fault for falling face-first onto that table.”
“I was thrown by a bloke we tried to grab, Jem. You sure know how to pick ’em.”
“Just be ready, Harvey.” Jem ignored his second-in-command’s complaints.
Jem and his three men moved deeper into the tavern, and at Jem’s subtle direction, they all took seats at the table beside the Scotsman and his friend. It had taken the better part of the day to locate the man called Brodie Kincade, but they finally had. Now the challenge lay in how to catch the man.
A comely wench approached their table. He and his men ordered ale and stew, and the wench wandered off to check on the other patrons. Jem carefully strained his ears to listen to Kincade and his companion.
“You know,” the blond man said, “I think we ought to return to London.”
“Why’s that?” Kincade asked.
“It’s that business with the chit, the one whose father came to see you today. Damn if it doesn’t strike me as odd.” The Englishman played with his glass, contemplating.
Kincade leaned on the back two legs of his chair. “Odd? In what way?”
“If a man is bold enough to ask you to propose to his daughter . . . well, it’s highly improper. And if a man has resigned himself to such conduct on behalf of his child, it makes one wonder what else he would resort to, with the proper motivation.”
“Ah, I ken what you mean. You think he might try something else?”
“I do. I fear he might do something reckless. Not that I can say for sure, ’tis simply a feeling in my gut.” The blond Englishman lowered his voice. “Or perhaps it is simply this ale. Still, I think we should go back to London.”
Kincade reached for the empty pint glass the blond man held. “We can leave tomorrow, then. Bur first, another round?”
“Yes, yes.” The Englishman passed his glass to Kincade, who stood.
Jem was struck with sudden inspiration.
“Harvey, pass me the bottle of laudanum,” he whispered. Harvey discreetly passed Jem the dark-blue bottle from his coat pocket. Jem stood and walked toward the bar, standing close to Kincade while the man waited for his glasses to be filled. The man nodded when he received them, then returned to his table.
Jem bumped into him with the practiced ease of his cutpurse youth, draining half the bottle into the man’s glass before muttering an apology and moving away. He returned to his table and signaled to his men to drink their ale, but they did not empty their glasses. After watching the Scotsman, they all knew he was still likely to put up a hell of a fight. Jem settled in to wait for his prey to weaken.
Brodie was secretly rather glad to be returning to London. He did not, however, like to feel as though he was running away from Jackson Hunt and his troublesome daughter. A Kincade never backed down from a fight. He might choose not to fight, he might merely hold his ground, but to run with his tail between his legs? Over a girl with stars in her eyes? It was a bit much for a man to stomach. Nevertheless, Bath had proved to be far less entertaining than London. It was too . . . safe.
Taking a deep drink of his fresh ale, he listened to Rafe talk about his exploits from his time as a highwayman. His elder brother, Ashton, had been holding tight to the family’s purse strings, and so Rafe had been robbing rich travelers in the fifty-mile radius around the Lennox family estate for the last two years. He was always careful to choose those who could afford such involuntary donations to his cause, or those who Rafe knew to be worthy of being brought down a bit. He also did it as much for the thrills as he did for the coin.
“So there I was, pistol aimed at this grumpy old chap, and he has the bloody nerve to tell me off when I’d only asked him for his gold pocket watch.”
“What did you do?”
Rafe snickered. “Let him keep the watch, but I might have left him in his underthings and made off with his clothes.”
“And what did you do with those?” Brodie asked.
“There was an old beggar who sits outside a traveling coach inn a few miles away. I gave him the lot.”
“That’s rather kind of you, for a highwayman.” Brodie chuckled.
Rafe shrugged. “Yes, well, it’s not always about the money.” Rafe finished his ale and sighed. “Well, shall we head home? It’s better to get an early start. I would like to give my valet a decent amount of time to pack. Otherwise, Timmons complains like a mother hen.”
“Aye. I imagine Alan would like the same.” Brodie found it was a new experience to have his whereabouts and his plans affect the life of a servant.
Brodie and Rafe stood. “I’ll be a moment, Brodie.” Rafe nodded toward the door where he could go through and relieve himself.
Brodie leaned heavily against the chair back, his hands braced on the thick wood as he drew in a slow breath and wiped his mouth. Why had this last pint tasted a little bitter? Everything began to feel a tiny bit fuzzy. Fuzzy was a silly word, but his mind seemed suddenly full of wool. Warm, fuzzy wool. It was getting damn hard to string any thoughts together.
He looked about the tavern, but his throat felt sick, and his tongue was swollen. Something was wrong. He’d never been drunk like this on so little alcohol. He’d barely even had half of that fourth drink. He had to find Rafe.