A wafted hand and his cousin was gone, footsteps fading in the hallway.
With a long slow breath, Miles sat back and relished the silence. No distant cannon fire or groans of the wounded.
He was blessed to be here.
All he needed was a better plan than Dair’s.
8
“WE MUST CULTIVATE OUR GARDEN.”
(VOLTAIRE)
“Wot’s the plan, Captain?” Lynch cradled his bub of ale.
“I’ll inadvertently bump into her, commence interrogation, get her on the back foot, get answers, forget about her and get some debutante like Miss Juliet Tait to marry me.”
A slurp. “If yer don’t mind me sayin’, that plan has more holes than marchin’ boots.”
“It was Alasdair’s plan.”
Lynch muttered into his tankard so Miles looked to his pocket watch – a halfafterthe agreed hour of six – and signalled the barmaid for more tankards.
This establishment was a convenient stroll from his townhouse and owned by a Mr Suggs, who had fought with Wellington at Salamanca. Returning injured in 1812, Suggs had then purchased this pub with his cashiered coin and named it The Marquess of Wellington.
Hence, Mr Suggs was perhaps the lone soldier to bemoan the bestowment of a dukedom on Wellington as the pub’s signage would require ten shillings for a repaint.
So in this public house, at least, Wellington had been demoted.
“There’s yer cousin,” muttered Lynch. “Couldn’t he have worn…”
Miles twisted.
Resplendent in a bottle-green jacket and gold waistcoat, Dair stood in the doorway exchanging words with a raddled old fellow who’d a matted beard. His cousin then sauntered over as though it was a halfbeforethe hour of six. “Ho, Miles! And the esteemed Mr Lynch. How are we all?”
Lynch sniffed; Miles peered to his timepiece; Dair winked at the barmaid as she lowered brimming tankards to the table, froth absconding as she blushed.
“You’re late.” Miles seized one of the ales. “Where have you been?”
His cousin mopped the table with an embroidered handkerchief and sat. “Attending to matters. So, did you come up with another plan?”
Miles was irked to admit this but… “No.”
“Splendid! So, my good Lynch, I presume you have reconnoitred Miss Seymour and noted her habitual haunts. Where did she visit? And, more importantly, did she and the Scarlet Spinsters indulge in anything scandalous?”
Lynch rolled his eyes. “Walks in the park. Dull. Hatchards. Duller. They did have a visit from a Lady Rentree and–”
“Ah. Scandalous indeed.” Dair touched his nose. “She has three lovers. And a husband.”
“And a cat fer sketching.”
“Dull.”
Miles frowned. “Anywhere else, Lynch? No modiste or theatre?”
“Nah. Days duller than a wet Wednesday in Wales. The three ladies did venture out in that deathtrap of a phaeton, which she drives at full tilt, by the by, nearly lost ’em.”
“Where did they go?”
