Page 98 of Gentleman Jim

The answer to that question came in much the same fashion.

“We don’t want any trouble.” Lionel Beresford’s languid words drifted up to them in the darkness. “Only tell us where we can find the lady and the rogue who’s abducted her.”

“Abducted!” Maggie bristled. She sounded more outraged than worried about being discovered.

St. Clare supposed it hadn’t yet occurred to her how all this might look. The two of them, alone in a tavern in the middle of the night, emerging from a long while spent in an upstairs bedroom.

He led her down another few steps—carefully, quietly—until they were but two steps away from the floor of the taproom.

“Don’t much like the gentry coming into my tavern making threats,” the barman said. “Nor waving pistols about.”

Pistols?

“The bloody idiot,” St. Clare muttered. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

“Where are they?” Fred demanded again.

“Don’t be too hasty with that weapon, my friend,” Lionel said. “I think I can guess where my cousin has taken his captive.” And to the barman: “You have rooms above, do you not, my good fellow? A place a man can be private with a lady?”

The barman guffawed. “Did you hear that, Bill? A lady? In the Crossed Daggers?”

An elderly warble answered him, Bill presumably. “Don’t see no ladies here.”

St. Clare squeezed Maggie’s hand. There was no way to duck out to the kitchen without being observed. Their only hope was that Fred and Lionel would lose interest and back away to the other side of the tavern.

It was a scant hope, and one that was quickly dispelled.

“I’ll send my valet up to have a look around,” Lionel said.

St. Clare tensed. It was either wait to be discovered or reveal themselves voluntarily. Exchanging a swift glance with Maggie, he knew at once which one she’d prefer.

“No need,” he said, descending the final steps with her at his side.

Fred stood by the tall counter, a pistol hanging loose in his hand. Lionel was nearby, wrapped up in a fashionable overcoat, his hat still on his head. His valet, a shifty-faced man of indeterminate age, stood next to him.

At the sight of St. Clare and Maggie, Fred’s ruddy face mottled with fury. He advanced on them, his pistol half raised against any perceived interference on the part of the tavern’s customers. “I didn’t want to believe it,” he said, giving Maggie a look of disgust. “You, sneaking out of the house like the veriest light-skirt. For an assignation at a hedge tavern of all places.” He pointed his pistol at St. Clare. “You’ll answer for this.”

“I intend to,” St. Clare replied “Though I do wonder how it is you came to find us here?”

“Ah,” Lionel said. “That would be my doing.”

Maggie dropped St. Clare’s hand. “You set your valet after me, didn’t you? Of all the cheap, underhanded tricks. And you a guest in my home!”

“He did follow you, I confess, and then returned to fetch me. I thought it only prudent to summon Mr. Burton-Smythe.” Lionel gave St. Clare a lazy smile. “Apologies, Cousin, if I’ve interrupted your pleasure.”

“My pleasure has just begun,” St. Clare said. And reaching into the inner pocket of his greatcoat, he smoothly withdrew his own pistol—a nasty-looking double-barreled flintlock.

Lionel took an involuntary step back.

The table of old men in the corner laughed heartily. “Where’s your magistrate now, guv?” one of them cackled.

Fred’s hand trembled, but he didn’t waver. “Come, Margaret. At once. I’m taking you home.”

“Oh, do put that thing down, Fred,” Maggie said in exasperation. “You’ll never best him with pistols, and well you know it.”

There was more laughter from the old men in the pub. “You tell him, missus!” one of them said. “He won’t get the better of our lad.”

“That’s right,” another cried. “You show our lad some respect.”