Page 79 of A Figure of Love

“Are ye?” He turned his attention back to the boot, filing something with a short rasp. “And who might choo bey?”

“Etienne Bardot sent me.”

The dull rasping sound stopped. “Da!” he called out loudly enough to be heard at the customs house across the way. He resumed his filing.

The blanket shifted behind him and a hunched, older man came out. The two consulted with each other in low voices, eying her with hard looks. Just when she was beginning to wonder if she should leave and try one of the others on her list, the older man waved to her.

“Come on beck.” He disappeared behind the curtain.

Serena swallowed; he wanted her to follow him in there?

The cobbler kept working on his boot, not paying her any mind. She did not want to go through a door covered with a blanket in a cobbler’s shop that smelled of mildew and boot blacking, but what else had she expected?

She picked her way past piles of ragged footwear and gave the young man a wide berth. On the other side of the blanket was a cramped living space smelling strongly of cabbage and unwashed bodies. It was everything in one room—kitchen, scarred table covered with dirty crockery, two cots with twisted lumps of blankets, and a small coal fire that barely cut the damp.

The old man was already seated in one of the room’s two chairs and motioned toward the other one.

“Bardot sint ye?”

It took her a moment to decipher his words, spoken with a Kentish accent that was even stronger than those around Rushton Park.

“Yes. I’ve come to warn you to abort your plans for the next shipment. You might know Mr. Bardot’s last shipment was intercepted?” He continued to stare. “I believe two men died and one is in jail.”

The old man smoked his pipe and regarded her through the smoke. His face like a mask of cured leather.

“And Bardot sint ye?”

Serena wondered if he’d even heard what she had just said.

She spoke more distinctly this time. “I am here to make sure none of you get caught by the excisemen. It is possible they might know of the shipment from the man they are holding.”

He sucked the stem of his pipe.

Serena sighed and stood. “That is all I came to say. I wish you will tell your associates. I hope I have spared you some trouble.”

She turned and walked back through the curtain. The young cobbler had gone, and a tattered yellow shade had been pulled down over the window. When Serena tried the door, she found it was locked. She pulled again, harder, thinking she must not have turned it the right way or pulled hard enough.

The scuffing sound of a boot on grit came from behind her, right before a bright light exploded, accompanied by a sharp pain and the sound of her own voice.

“What—” She wanted to say more, but that was all that came out.

The last thing Serena thought as she slid to the floor was that she should have told Gareth she loved him.

Chapter Nineteen

Gareth quickly realized he couldn’t simply pack up Dec and leave. The man had been abusing himself for weeks. He was half-starved, weak, and had developed a terrible thirst for spirits. Without discussing the matter outright, the Irishman had tacitly agreed to the removal of anything stronger than the inn’s homebrew.

The first night had been bad, but the next two had been even worse. By the fourth night Declan was able to sleep most of the night, even if Gareth was not.

The dream came to him almost immediately when he laid his head on a pillow. It had been years since he’d been tormented by it night after night. He’d been grateful that his yelling, which had woken him on two occasions, could not possibly be heard beyond the empty rooms that surrounded him. And on his other side was Declan’s suite, and his friend was in no condition to hear anything beyond his own agony.

They spent most days playing cards, dozing, or reading. Only in brief catnaps did he find any sleep and rest. When he couldn’t sleep, he worked the problems in the journal he’d brought with him. As Dec began to feel better, he spent most of the afternoon reading a cherished novel loaned to him by the innkeeper’s wife.

By the fifth day without drink and with regular meals Declan was looking pink-faced and almost healthy. This morning the man who Gareth had engaged as a temporary valet had assisted the Irishman with a bath, a shave, and had given him an acceptable haircut.

He was dressed in a clean nightshirt and banyan, lounging in a chair beside the window, reading the wretched novel, Emma. He was enjoying the book immensely and had already interrupted Gareth a dozen times to read choice lines.

“Here, now, Gare—listen to this one: Silly things do cease to be silly if they are done by sensible people in an impudent way.” He laughed and slapped his thigh.