Flicking Crusader’s reins, he followed her onto the road.
At noon that day, eight men, all hailing from the London stews, gathered in the small parlor of a ricketty cottage outside Gweek. They knew each other at least by repute; a motley collecton of bruisers, thieves and cutthroats, they found themselves joined in what would in the general way of their lives have been an unlikely alliance.
As ordered, they’d traveled down to Cornwall singly or in pairs. They’d arrived at the cottage over the previous day.
The cottage, they’d just learned, was to be their home while they performed the duties required by their new master. For all of them the accommodation, cramped and run-down though it was, was a significant improvement over their London holes; when their master, taking up a stance before the cold hearth, asked if they had any complaints, all eight shook their heads.
Even had they had complaints, none would have voiced them; quite aside from the fact the gentleman paid well, there was something about him that discouraged even the most hardened from even contemplating crossing him.
“Good.” The gentleman—he was obviously and unquestionably that, even though he wore a black cloak, a hat low over his brow and a black silk scarf loosely wound around his chin—spoke with the bored accents of one born to rule. “As I informed you in London, I need you to locate and seize a cargo of mine that was due to arrive here, delivered to the banks of the Helford River, nine nights ago. The ship…”
He paused, dispassionately surveying their faces, then imperturbably went on, “Sailed from France, from a port in Brittany, by way of the Isles of Scilly. It was crewed by Frenchmen, not locals, although I was assured the French captain was one of the sort who knew these waters well.”
The largest of the men, a hulking brute with small, surprisingly intelligent eyes, shifted his weight. “Smugglers?”
The gentleman looked at him. “Is that a problem?”
The bruiser shook his head. “No, sir—just wanted to make sure we knew who we might be rubbing up against.”
The gentleman inclined his head. “A wise question, and in that regard I can tell you that the crew of this French ship was not connected with any of the local arms of the fraternity. This run was one executed without their knowledge.”
He hesitated, then went on, his tone growing chillier, “However, after leaving the Isles, the French ship appears to have disappeared without trace. It’s possible the local smugglers intercepted the run. They might have seized my cargo, or know where it is. In addition, my sources tell me that there are wreckers active on the Lizard Peninsula. And the night the ship was due to arrive, there was indeed a storm. So it’s also possible the wreckers are now in possession of…what’s rightfully mine.”
He paused, mastering the anger that welled at the thought. Fate, a fickle female he’d long thought to be irrevocably on his side, had, it seemed, suddenly turned against him and handed his treasure—his prize—to others, denying him his due, his rightful triumph.
How could he gloat over outwitting his nemesis without his prize?
With an effort of will, he blocked off the thought; he would find his treasure, then he would gloat. “The wreckers are secretive, violently so, as one might expect. Your task is to investigate the local groups—smugglers and wreckers alike—and discover what they know of any recent cargo.”
Shaking back the enveloping cloak, he tossed a heavy purse on the small table in the room’s center; the purse landed with a dull clinking, immediately transfixing all eight pairs of eyes. “That’s for your expenses.” He looked at the bruiser who’d spoken earlier. “Gibbons, you’re in charge of the purse. See that the money’s used well. If you need more, more will be forthcoming, but only as long as it’s spent in the right cause.”
Gibbons nodded and reached for the leather pouch. “Aye, sir.”
The gentleman glanced around. “You’re all experienced—you know how to ingratiate yourselves, and how to cover your backs, and your tracks. That’s why I hired you. Operate in pairs, drink the locals under the table, buy them a woman, loosen their tongues by whatever means come to hand.”
Coldly, he ran his gaze around the circle of speculative expressions. “I want that cargo, and I don’t care what you do as long as you locate it.” He smiled in chilly promise. “Once you have, we’ll decide how to seize it.”
All eight men grinned, avarice gleaming in their eyes.
Satisfied, with a curt nod he turned to the door. “I suggest you get to it.”
The eight waited until the door closed behind him, then waited some more, until they heard the retreating clop of horse’s hooves. Then and only then did they relax.
Gibbons hefted the pouch, weighing it. “I’ll say this much for him, he doesn’t stint.” He glanced around at his companions, then grinned. “Well, lads, no time like the present. We’d better do as he said and get drinking.”
With laughs and cackles, all eight headed for the door.
Three hours later, Madeline sat in the drawing room at Crowhurst Castle inwardly smiling in pleased approval as Gervase presided over the final meeting of the festival committee. With only two days to go, all the myriad details were coming together nicely, but her satisfaction was occasioned more by Gervase’s ready acceptance of his rightful role.
She was really very pleased she’d suggested that the festival return to the castle.
Mrs. Entwhistle, beside her on the chaise, consulted her copious lists. “And the barrels for the apple-bobbing will be brought in by Jones, the innkeeper from Coverack, so that’s one thing your people won’t need to deal with, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Sitting negligently at ease in an armchair, Gervase crossed that item off his own list, the one Mrs. Entwhistle had handed him when she’d arrived. “And the horseshoes?” He looked at Gerald Ridley.
“Oh, indeed! We—my stablelads and I—will take care of that. The area by the stable arch, you said?” Brows knit, Gerald scribbled on his own list.
“That’s right.” Gervase amended that item, then scanned the page. “Have we covered everything?”