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Amused at their antics, Ailie shot Nash a glance. “Kindred spirits, aye?”

Nash gave her a wink.

“Ah,” sighed Will, patting his stomach after his second helping of eggs. “I am finally ready to face the moors.” He rose from his chair. “To the stables, lads and lasses!” He marched from the room, shouting over his shoulder. “Ailie, bring the setters!”

The front door slammed as the rest of them got to their feet. Ailie glanced toward Kit and Tara. “The adventure begins.”

Robbie ate breakfast with Muriel, Emily and the Ormonds before setting out for Arbroath. He made a point of tasting the smoked haddies, a sweet smoky flavor, which, once sampled, would long be remembered. Like Nash, he preferred bacon with his eggs.

He had thought to take a horse to Arbroath but, at breakfast, Hugh and Mary spoke about venturing farther afield in their morning ride, so Robbie thought it best he walk. If he encountered them in the woods, he could always dash behind a tree. Walking might be messy after the rain, but it would obviate the need to see to his horse once he arrived.

As he set out, a gray sky hovered above the trees. Beneath their branches, the snow lingered in the shadows, stubbornly refusing to give up its ground. He supposed when one lived with snow and ice most winters, one got used to such weather. In London, snow was rare and, for the most part, insignificant, though it could leave a pretty mess when mingled with the soot.

By the time Robbie reached Arbroath, the townspeople were going about their business. The ships docked in the harbor were now washed of snow and the streets clear.

Since Nash had observed the man “Georgie”, with the map in mind, Robbie headed toward High Street and the tavern named for a saint. Being the middle of the day, he was unsurprised to find St Thomas Tavern crowded with men looking for both food and drink.

A plump tavern wench Nash had not mentioned bustled between the tables serving tankards of ale and meat pies while trying to avoid the pats on her bum.

The round table Nash had spoken of was occupied with what appeared to be the same men as before, including the giant-fisted Hamish, Derek and Lachy and one other who sat beside the man he presumed was “Georgie”. The man’s odd hat didn’t quite seem to go with the rest of his clothing. In truth, he didn’t seem to fit with his companions either. He did not partake in their conversation, but stared into his ale, his forehead creased in worry.

Robbie bided his time, intending to follow the men whenever they departed, no matter how late. He ordered ale from the wench, who appeared in some distress for all she had to do.

“Yer ale, sir,” she said, setting the tankard in front of him. He smiled and looked into her kind but haggard face ringed in dark curls beneath the mobcap sitting askew on her head.

“Thank ye. A guid job ye do, miss, with so many tae serve.” Robbie hoped his terrible accent was hidden in the din of the tavern’s many conversations.

“Aye, ’tis a dreich day an’ the puir withir has the fellows doon aboot the mou.”

Not having a clue as to her meaning, he placed an extra coin on the table. “Fer ye.”

She dropped a brief curtsey and smiled broadly, showing him her imperfect teeth. “Thank ye.”

As long as she was here, Robbie thought to learn something. He looked about. “All yer usual customers?”

She scanned the room before returning her attention to him. “Aye, most.” Shooting a glance at the round table, she added, “Them comes in every day and stays fer ’ours. The one w’ fair hair, Lachy they calls ’im, ’as a tairrable tempir.”

If Robbie remembered correctly, Lachy had started the fight that Nash had become involved in.

“That be all, sir?”

He nodded and followed it with a smile of encouragement.

An hour passed and Robbie gained no new information, but when a spy spends hours in a tavern, he notices many things. Like how closely Hamish and the man with ferret eyes guarded George, wedged between them. From the way Nash had described Derek, the man who had hustled George to safety, Robbie deduced the ferret eyes belonged to him. Frequently, Derek patted his jacket pocket as if assuring himself the weapon he carried remained with him. If Lachy was the man the tavern wench described as having a terrible temper, then the only one Robbie could not name was a younger, thinner version of Hamish.

The other customers paid the five men scant attention, another hour passing as customers came and went.

Derek finished his ale and stood. “Enough fer the now, lads.”

Robbie feigned a look of disinterest as the five men got to their feet and shuffled past him toward the door. When they’d gone, he rose, pulled his cap down farther on his head and followed, glad to leave the tavern behind.

Outside, he paused, watching the five men walk toward the harbor. He followed but kept at a distance. When they turned right on Bridge Street, so did he.

The blast from a shotgun made Ailie turn in the direction that Will, Nick and Tara had gone when they went in search of a red hind they’d spotted some distance away. At Ailie’s feet, Goodness and Mercy whimpered, waiting for her command. The dogs had sniffed the deer tracks she and her companions had been following till they disappeared at the edge of a small burn winding its way between two hills on either side of the glen.

“Get on!” she commanded. The dogs bounded ahead. “Let’s see what they’ve found,” she said to Nash and Martin. Kit, too, was with them, sketching from her seat on a nearby rock that Martin had cleared of snow and covered with a blanket.

Extending the spyglass, Martin peered through the lens. “Looks like they got one.”