Page 33 of The Swindler’s Daughter

My brow jumped and I blinked several times before my brain started to work again. “Mr. Kenton’s idea? The Bridgefield gamekeeper had the idea for you to steal game from the land of the Duke of Winberg?!” I shouted, unable to believe it.

“Yes,” he said simply.

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. He’s the duke’s gamekeeper. He’s supposed to protect the animals from poachers.”

His mouth hardened into a thin line. “And he does. We aren’t poachers.”

“Oh,” I scoffed, narrowing my eyes at him. “Do explain how you can possibly make that claim with a straight face.”

He sighed as though it was a great frustration to have to explain this to me. “One day, John and I were out walking Bridgefield land with Mr. Kenton. We all noticed the way the number of animals had increased, and eventually he turned to John and me and said, ‘All these animals and no one in residence to shoot them for sport or to put on the table.’ He said it was a waste—an ‘utter disgrace,’ he called it—that villagers should be going hungry when there was an overabundance of game on the duke’s property.”

I just shook my head. “It’s one thing for a gamekeeper to lament about the waste of such things, but you can’t tell me that he truly meant for you to start stealing game from the duke’s land.”

He waved that aside. “Whether he meant to suggest it or not, he was right. It is an utter disgrace to have food aplenty running around these woods while villagers can’t scrape together enough for a meal. We started on Sutton land, of course.”

I blanched. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m the son of a gamekeeper, Miriam. It’s part of my father’s job to utilize the resources of this land. And this is an excellent use.” He looked at me as if daring me to contradict. “But being a gamekeeper’s son also means I know not to thin the herds too much. We branched out to Bridgefield land when the demand became too high.”

“With Mr. Kenton’s knowledge?”

He shrugged. “I think he knows it’s us, but he hasn’t said it in words.”

“And what about last year?” I asked, suddenly remembering the poaching that had happened soon after I’d come here. “Was that you?”

He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, his voice apologetic. “I knew people were going hungry and I could help. Bel would have wanted me to help.”

The mention of his wife made me ache for him, but I couldn’t let his grief excuse his behavior. “It’s still wrong,” I insisted with a shake of my head.

He gave a shrug. “I think the hungry mouths we feed would disagree.”

“I’ve been hungry, Rowan. That doesn’t mean that what I did to get food was right.”

He took a deep breath, pressing his lips together as he exhaled through his nose. Then he nodded once. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” His tone made it clear that he did not expect to come to an agreement.

He was right. I could not agree with his methods, and he would not admit they were flawed.

I should have stuck to my original determination not to discuss Rowan’s lawlessness.

My shoulders dropped in defeat and I turned my attention to the target, disappointment washing through me as I realized we might never agree. The rest of my lesson was routine and unfulfilling as I came to the conclusion that I might always be at odds with Rowan.

8

It had only been a week since I’d been to market, but everything felt significantly worse, like a disastrous turning point in one of Cecily’s stories. But instead of being exciting, it was just terrifying. I didn’t like how the story was going. It wasn’t merely the occasional harassment of vendors, subtle enough that they could be ignored or brushed off. Magistrate Reeve patrolled the market himself, encouraging and participating in the intimidation. Instead of the energetic hustle and bustle that had been so prominent only a month ago, the air was filled with tension. Voices were tight and wary as they called to one another.

I didn’t like it at all. I went immediately to Wick’s stand at the other end of the market. Even he looked wound up, like he was ready to throw a punch at any moment.

“Wick,” I called as I approached.

His eyes darted up, softening only a little when he saw me. “Miss Miriam.” He tried to smile. “What can I do for you?”

I looked around, even more unsettled by how unsettled he seemed. “What’s happening?”

He gave a deep sigh, fixing his eyes over my shoulder. “What do you think?”

I followed his gaze and saw Magistrate Reeve standing with his hands on his hips, the dark brown of his uniform standing out against the faded colors of the people who moved past him, giving him a wide berth.

I traced the magistrate’s line of sight and saw one of his constables speaking with a vendor who was arguing, gesturing widely toward his goods and then himself.