A Lady of His Own (Bastion Club 3)

She pretended to sip, and wished something would happen.

More than ten minutes dragged by, then two burly fishermen at the table before the fire nodded to their friends and rose. Straightening, the pair studied Charles and her, then slowly came their way.

Watching from beneath the brim of her hat, Penny kicked Charles’s ankle.

He kicked her back. Since he’d been staring into his ale for the past several minutes, she cast him a narrow-eyed glare.

The fishermen paused by the bench on the other side of the table.

“Evening, Master Charles—ah, no, that’d be m’lord now, I reckon.”

Charles looked up, his expression easy, and returned the men’s nods. “Shep. Seth. How’s buisness?”

Both men grinned, showing gaps in yellowed teeth.

“Fair to middling. Can’t complain.” Shep raised his brows. “We was wondering if you was after anything special-like?”

Charles waved them to sit, simultaneously shifting sideways, squashing Penny farther into the shadows of the corner. She moved as far as she could, but he crowded her, his hip and thigh against hers, trapping her, his shoulder partially screening her even from the men settling on the bench opposite.

Both had thus far rather pointedly kept their gazes from her.

Charles signaled the barkeep, who came, wiping his hands on his apron. Charles ordered three more pints; Seth and Shep were clearly pleased.

He waited until the tankards were delivered and Seth and Shep had taken a long draft before saying, “You’ll hear soon enough for it’s no secret. I’m down here looking for information on meetings Granville Selborne had with the French. Before I go on, I should explain that I was sent to ask the questions because the government has no interest in anyone who might have helped Granville meet the French. All the bods in Whitehall want is to know how he did it, anything I can learn about who he met, and about any English gentleman who might have been Granville’s associate in such matters.”

Both Seth and Shep held Charles’s gaze, then both lifted their tankards again. As they lowered them, they exchanged a sidelong glance. Then Seth, older and sitting more or less opposite Penny, said in his slow, ponderous way, “That’d be Master Granville as was killed at Waterloo.”

The implication was clear; neither Shep nor Seth wanted to speak ill of the dead, especially one who had died on that bloody field.

Especially with her sitting there; she was perfectly sure they knew who she was.

She drew in a breath, held it, and looked up. “Yes, that’s right. Granville, my brother.”

Her voice, so much lighter and clearer than the men’s deep rumbles, startled them. Both Seth and Shep blinked at her.

Beside her, she felt Charles’s muscles turn to steel.

She could almost hear his teeth grinding, but both Shep and Seth deferentially bobbed their heads to her.

“Lady Penelope. Thought as it was you.”

“We’re right sorry about Granville—he was a good ’un. A real lad.”

She found a smile, lowered her voice. “Indeed. But we—Lord Charles and I—need to know what Granville was up to. It’s quite important, you see.”

Shep and Seth studied her, looked at each other, then Seth nodded. “As it’s you asking, m’lady, I guess it’d be all right.” He nodded to Charles. “Beggin’ your pardon, m’lord, but it wouldn’t seem right otherways.”

Charles waved aside the comment. “I quite understand.”

Only she noticed how clipped his accents had become. “So what can you tell us?” she prompted.

“Well, let’s see.” With considerable qualification, the two described how on several occasions over a period of years, Granville had asked them to take him out to meet with a lugger.

“Never would come close, but it always seemed the same ship.” Shep’s gaze had grown distant. “We assumed she was French, but we thought as how she must sail for those on the same side as us—Frenchies who didn’t like Old Boney. Howsoever, we never did see who Master Granville met with—he’d take the dinghy out, and the man he met would do the same. They’d meet on the waves like, alone, each in his own boat.”

“How often?” Charles asked.

“Not so often—maybe once a year.”