Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

Eamon shrugged. “Can I help it that I’ve seen that stretch of road a fair few times already? It’s not new to me. I’m still going with you.”

The carriage slowed and then shuddered to a stop. Above them, the Romsey coachman began swearing expansively at whatever it was that blocked their way. Oliver ignored the noise, staring out the window and down a narrow alley, reconsidering what it would take to convince Eamon to see sense. He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that it took a moment to register what his eyes were seeing. Henry Turner stood on the cobblestones of Portsmouth beside a grim dark inn, arguing with the proprietor.

That was impossible.

They shook hands and Turner reached into the carriage and dragged a small figure against his side. George. The boy struggled and although he watched intently, he did not see Elizabeth step from the carriage before it rolled away. Oliver’s attempts at marshaling his patience ended.

He slammed his fist into the roof to signal he was getting out and threw the door open. “Excuse me,” he said to Eamon.

He jumped from the carriage quickly, keeping his eye on the building George had been dragged into. Still no sign of Elizabeth and he couldn’t believe she would willingly leave her son in Henry Turner’s company, today of all days. How the devil had they got here so fast anyway? Surely they hadn’t traveled at night?

“What the devil, Ollie? I thought we were going to be tucked up at the inn for the morning.”

He glanced up at the coachman. “Wait for me here. I just saw George Turner go into that inn down there with his uncle and that associate of his.”

The coachman nodded and ordered the grooms down to tend the horses.

Eamon peered down the laneway, but of course had missed seeing the boy. “That’s impossible. They’re not due to sail for two days.”

“Impossible or not, I’m certain it’s the boy. I must investigate.”

Eamon caught his arm. “You knew they were leaving. What’s the problem with an early departure?”

Oliver shook off his friend’s grip. “Elizabeth wasn’t with them, Eamon. I saw no sign of her luggage on the carriage, either.”

“Hell’s bells. They’re in trouble, all right.” Eamon patted at the bulge in his coat pocket where he’d stowed his pistol for when they’d been at the docks. “Ready.”

Oliver had no time to argue that he didn’t require company for this errand. He hurried up the lane and when the tavern came into view, he released the clip on the short blade strapped to his arm. Two bulky ruffians entered before them and he exchanged a long speaking glance with Eamon. “Watch your back.”

Oliver pushed the door open, hearing the merry tinkle of bells over the noise of the patrons. He paused and scanned the room through thick drifts of pipe smoke. The patrons fell silent one by one, yet Oliver couldn’t see or hear George anywhere. A man behind a slab of wood held up by two barrels squinted at them. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Information,” Oliver answered, keeping one eye on those standing nearest. A low murmur filled the room as he approached the innkeeper. “I’m looking for a boy, about as high as my chest. Dark hair, blue eyed.”

The innkeeper spat on the floor. “Ain’t seen anyone of that description come in.”

The murmurs returned at a louder pitch. “He’s important to me,” Oliver insisted.

The innkeeper leaned forward and grinned, showing off a toothless smile. “If he’s so important, then how come he’s not with you?”

“That is what I intend to find out.” Oliver took a coin from his pocket and flicked it onto the battered table. “I’ve been away. He should be with his mother. She’ll be distraught.”

The innkeeper took the coin and examined it, his eyes brightening. “And if I should have seen him?”

“Then I’ll pay for any damage caused in his retrieval.”

Oliver sensed men closing behind him at the mention of payment. He turned, caught one man’s wandering hand near his coat pocket, kicked another in the bollocks, and pressed the tip of his knife against the first fellow’s right wrist. “You really shouldn’t do that until you know where I’ve lived these past years. The things I’ve seen would make a depraved man beg for his mama’s tit to nurse upon. Did you know it’s possible to slice a man’s john from his body and make him eat it before he draws his last breath? I can give everyone a demonstration of how it’s done here and now if you’d like.”

The innkeeper protested and the thief began to shake. The edge of the blade beaded with bright blood. Oliver eased back so he wouldn’t inflict a deep cut that would hamper the man’s criminal activities. The only man that deserved his anger was Henry Turner if he’d harmed one hair on Elizabeth’s or George’s head.

Eamon had taken a defensive stance behind him, pistols drawn and at the ready. “We just want the boy,” Eamon said loudly.

The thief tipped his head toward the rear of the room. “He went in back.”

Oliver released the would-be thief with a quick shove, but kept the blade ready in his hand. The injured fellow cradled his wrist but had the sense to remain at a distance.

The patrons shuffled out of the way, granting them access to the rear of the taproom. Not a soul made a sound. He glanced behind and nodded to Eamon.

He strode to the back room, pulse thundering in his ears, where a closed door greeted them. Oliver listened and heard Henry Turner speaking to someone beyond the wood. The words were indistinct, but he sounded well pleased with himself.