Someone brushed beside Felton. “The old woman can tell you nothing. If you wish to know about Ozias Bay, follow me.” Then he walked on—a man with hunched shoulders in a too-large frock coat, with a tattered bicorn hat and a limp to his walk.
Felton followed him into a cobblestone alley, where two more beggars slept in arched doorways. Hope flared as the man turned. “What can you tell me?”
“Keep yer voice down, gent. Ye might be fine with getting yer bleeding head knocked off, but I just as leave keep mine to my neck, if ye know what I mean.” A smile spread onto the middle-aged, whiskered face. “I hope ye have more coins than those ye gave away to that old beggar woman.”
“How much do you want?”
“Those be dangerous questions ye been asking.”
“I said how much do you want?”
“Couple of crowns ought to do it.”
Felton smacked them into the man’s waiting hand. “Where is it?”
“Hour from here. No one knows about it ’cept those who favor free-traders, if ye know what I mean. Nasty business if a customs officer should know. Many a night, men goes out there and the goods is sold while—”
“I said where is it?” Felton flexed his hands and towered over the man. “An hour from here. Which direction?”
“Road east of the village. Stay with it ’til ye get to the tree with two trunks. Ye’ll know the place. There be a path behind it that cuts off to the sea, and if ye be following it six or seven miles, it be taking you to the bay itself.”
Felton dug for another crown. “If a company of men arrives in Quainford, a constable among them, give them the same directions you gave me. Understood?”
“Two things I always do well, gent. Doing my bidding and holding onto my head.” The man tipped his bicorn hat back with a second grin. “Ye’d do well, where ye be going, to hold onto yours.”
The darkness was thick and velvety.
Bowles leaned back against the damp rock wall, the cool air and his perspiration making him chilled enough to flip the collar of his box coat.
Breage spoke in tones low and monotone. A price had already been settled for the twelve tea chests, and the only detail left was to arrange a delivery place and time.
If the wretch of a man had thought ahead, he might have brought a wagon and taken the contraband with him. As it was, the only thing he’d brought was a lack of brains and a banknote.
Bowles fingered it in his pocket and leaned off the wall. “Are you quite finished?”
Breage cleared his throat. “Err—yes. Mr. Haggitt, you leave now. Have to see yourself out o’ here, you will, like the note said.”
“Yes, quite. No faces are to be seen, as I remember.” The scratchy-voiced villager must have stepped toward Bowles, because he patted his arm first, then grabbed his hand in a clammy shake. “Jolly doing business with you, sir. Fine thing you do here. Man of guts, you are.”
The praise rolled over Bowles, almost as pleasant as the music of his harp. But not quite. He withdrew from the handshake. “Go.”
Seconds later, after the man’s footsteps left the cave back in silence, Bowles lit a torch. He hooked it back on the iron sconce.
Wooden chests, crates, and barrels lined the perimeter of the oval-shaped cave room, and the back wall sported makeshift beds, a crude table and chairs, and the two hard-faced guards who occupied them.
Bowles flicked his wrist their way. “Lomas, Martyn—get back outside and make sure our new friend is as appreciative of our ventures as he portrays himself to be.” ’Twould not be the first time a buyer had tried to cross them by bringing a customs officer on his trail. “And Breage?”
“Sir?”
Bowles removed his hat and tossed it to the empty table. Bats fluttered into motion at the movement. “I believe it is time I deal with the little matter we have been avoiding.” An itch of anticipation brought on a smile. “Get her.”
The black-painted rowboat careened as they lowered it into the water. She grasped the edge, a light spray of water misting her face, and squinted against the harsh light of the afternoon sun.
“Dark down there, was it, eh?” Across from her, grabbing the oars, the man she’d heard called Breage barely smiled. No trace of remorse lined his stout face. Not like the older man from the cellar.
She took her gaze back to the ship as they sailed away from its looming shadow. In dirty yellow,Célestine IIwas painted on the bow, and the entire seaworn vessel seemed miserable against a horizon so blue and calm.
Calm.She latched onto the word and tried to grope for it.Please, God, give me calm.How many minutes before the rowboat reached the shore? Before they reached the cave?
