The old inn was spruce and welcoming, fresh and warm with the late June air. Jonah was outside, flying a kite with Agnes, Ben suspected. The children of Pellore were all obsessed with kites now, ever since Jonah had made one for Agnes and rescued it from the church steeple in a spectacular vertical manoeuvre. Ben had told him off for reckless showmanship, but his words had been drowned by the delighted shrieks of children and adults both, and he grinned at the memory now.
He was tending the as-yet-empty bar because Bethany was down in the village, courting. Aaron was back on the repaired Dainty Jane, now his broken arm was mended. There would be no wedding for a while yet, after the young fisherman’s enforced break in earnings, but the Green Man was doing well enough to make a spring marriage a possibility, and Dora seemed happy with that. She sang, sometimes, surprisingly tuneful. She claimed it was satisfaction at her newfound prosperity. Ben put it down to the joy radiated by Jonah, irresistible Jonah, with his bright eyes and rippling laughter.
The letter he’d written lay folded in their bedroom. It bore no date or return address, and it would only be posted when he could find a carter or carriage going sufficiently far that the postmark could not lead back to them, but it was done. A letter to his parents. Perhaps they’d tear it up; perhaps they’d read it and know he was safe and well, and be glad. He’d never know, and in some ways it didn’t matter. All he could do was send them his love, and what they did with it was up to them.
Eight months ago, he’d been doing hard labour in a gaolyard. Four months ago he’d been alone, lost and so bitter the taste of it had choked him. Now…
Now they were safe. There had been no more mention of separate bedrooms. Dora hadn’t spoken of him and Jonah since the night of the storm. Ben had no idea what she thought, and didn’t care. She had a prosperous inn, free labour and contented daughters. He and Jonah had a safe harbour and a shared bed with no questions asked. Jonah was absurdly happy, bounding over the fields or playing the fool with the girls.
Their peace might be fragile. They would always be on the edge of a precipice, he knew. But for now it felt like home.
The bright rectangle of sun that streamed in through the open door went dark. Ben looked up with his best welcoming smile as two men walked in.
“Afternoon, gentlemen. What can I get you?”
As they entered, no longer silhouetted against the light, Ben could see “gentlemen” was a mistake. It was very definitely “gentleman”, and a striking one at that. A blond man, well over six feet tall, with coldly handsome features, impeccably dressed in light grey. He looked as though he’d stepped out of a London season. His companion looked more like he’d stepped out of a London gaol. Several inches shorter, with cropped, grizzled hair and shrewd fighter’s eyes, he wore a manservant’s respectable black with the air of a saloon-bar brawler. If he hadn’t been at the gentleman’s side, Ben would have been reaching for the short cudgel that gathered dust under the bar.
“Ale, if you will.” The gentleman came to the bar, somewhat to Ben’s surprise. He drew the drinks and passed them over.
“There you are, sir. Thirsty weather.”
“And a long journey,” the gentleman agreed. The words sounded friendly enough, but there was something in their cool cultivated drawl that set Ben’s nerves on edge.
The gentleman wrapped a long-fingered hand around the pewter tankard, making it look cheap with the touch. One finger bore a rather striking ring, Ben saw, a gold band set with chips of quartz and onyx to suggest the shape of a magpie in flight. “Obscure little place you have here.”
“It’s not the biggest, sir, no. Are you on your way through?”
“God, I do hope so.” The tall man spoke with casual dismissal that made Ben bristle. “That’s not a Cornish accent.”
“No, sir, it’s not.” Paying customers, Ben reminded himself. “Hertfordshire, originally.”
“And what brings a Hertfordshire man down to these remote lands?” The tall man smiled, not very pleasantly. “Peace and quiet?”
“Getting away from it all,” suggested the manservant. His voice was as rough as his appearance, and his light hazel eyes were fixed on Ben.
“I like it here, sir,” Ben said. “Decent folk. Anything else I can get you for now?”
“I don’t think so, Spenser.”
“Right—”
Ben stopped, a cold prickle creeping up his spine. He hadn’t given his name and it wasn’t on the door, and a memory was coming back to him now, Jonah’s voice. The right noble earl of Crane. Six foot three of money, mouth and cock. And his pet murderer.
The thought had come to him in a second. He coughed, repeated, “Right, sir,” turned to the door as casually as he could, and bolted, with a cry that was almost a scream. “Jonah! Run!”