“No doxies involved.” A smug expression accompanied folded arms. “The landlord at the Six Bells in Helston isn’t averse to gossip and the professor rambles aplenty when inebriated.”
“Well done, Oliver. Anything else? Any gossip about the incident six years ago?”
“Questions in hostelries regarding coastal goings-on are met with suspicion and your drink being hastily removed.” He clutched his lemonade close. “They know about it, for certain, but I sensed anger and guilt. After all, the enemy was able to hide in their midst, and the lad Jonathan was well-liked. His widowed father went to sea soon after and never returned.”
Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, Jack pressed back against the cool stone wall. “Well, I should tell you tonight that the mission is complete, but we aren’t going anywhere, not with Tamsyn in potential danger.”
Miggens nodded, seemingly not displeased with an extended stay in Cornwall.
“But for now,” continued Jack, clanking his empty glass against his brother’s, “sluice your drought and I’ll treat you to aFair Maidenor two instead. Let’s loosen ourselves a smidgeon, and with luck cure my damnable…oddness.”
“Soooo,” Oliver slurred whilst his motley catch of fishermen leaned close, chairs tipping on the flagstone floor in their eagerness. “Numerous witnesses proclaim the comely princess stepped from the balloon basket with rumpled gown and flaxen hair all-a-tangle, the rogue himself offering an arm, cravat skew-whiff and shirt untucked.”
“Huzzah,” they all cheered, tankards thumping in approval as Oliver decided to enact the rogue’s disreputable appearance, cravat flung to the beams and waistcoat ripped open with a flourish.
Oh, how the fusty guts valet had fallen…
“My hero!” shouted Benjamin, guzzling cider as though blight was streaking through the Cornish apple orchards.
“Let’s have another tot…” hollered the professor, who’d staggered through the door not quarter of an hour past. “…to celebrate Winterbourne’s conquest.”
“Confound it,” muttered Jack from the corner. “I’ve never set foot in a hot air balloon.” But none of them gave one whit for their “hero’s” point of view, the fiction more fascinating than the man.
“Any more tales, Mr Miggens?” Benjamin stood. “I’ll fetch you aPolly Whitehair. ’Tes sweeter.” He swayed and sank down again with a groan. “Whoa, I feel a dab tadly-oodly.”
Jack felt odd too.
Some nights, it made no difference how much one drank – it scarcely had any effect, as though it leaked straight from your toes.
Oliver embarked upon the yarn of the Parisian soprano complete with accent, and Jack shrank further into the murky corner, there being an element of truth to this one.
A fellow from the next table leaned over, blue eyes that didn’t belong on land awash with amusement. “Enjoy it whilst you can, lad. I used to be as wild as the heather on the heath, but once I got hitched to my lass, she made sure I never strayed further than the bog house.”
“How? Dire threats? Retribution? Pasties?”
“Gawd, no. She loved me something fierce instead. Nary another woman like her. And when you meet someone like that, ’tes done for, you are.”
Jack shook the fellow’s bronzed hand – he’d a grip like a lobster – and was about to enquire more when a chorus of whistles interrupted them. Oliver now held the Treloor folk in raptures with a hand-whirling description of the soprano’s curvy outlines – in truth, most had been padding but a gentleman was ever discreet.
“I believe I’ll always be the rogue,” Jack admitted, turning back.
A wink from the salty azure eye. “And you caen’t believe a liar when he’s telling the truth.”
Jack made no attempt to untangle that Cornish mangle.
“More,” the audience cried, and they both twisted to view Oliver now clambering onto a stool in order to deliver the prologue for the Tuscan Contessa debacle.
Please no.
Remind him never to let his brother near cider again: he’d loosened like an oiled screw and would be rolling around the flagstones soon, lost to the cracks.
Dragging himself up, Jack pushed through the crowd. “Oliver, home.”
Hisses and boos boomed in the small bar.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Jack bowed to all and sundry. “The hour is nigh, and we must all abroad like Mary Miles, for when ’tes over, ’tes over, as Joan said by her wedding.” He hoisted an arm. “For two by two like Bassett’s three sheep, we go forth, knowing ’tes a good thing that wild cows got short horns.”
Whoops and cheers boomed in the small bar.
