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Once on the quay, the heels of their boots made a sharp sound on the paved surface, echoing back to them in the thick fog.

For this meeting, Jean wore all black and had foregone his morning shave, allowing his rough appearance to speak of the pirate he had once been. ’Twould be a mistake to look the nobleman where they were going.

Émile hunched down in his heavy wool great coat, his collar meeting his tricorne. “The London fog is the worst, as thick as gutter mud.”

“I remember it well from the last time we were here,” said Jean. “Lucien was at the helm and almost ran into another ship.”

“Worse than rain in Paris,” added Émile, clutching his coat to his chest. “At least in Paris, the rain washes away the stench of raw sewage. Here, I can still smell it.”

Jean drew his collar up against the sodden murk, his mind on the meeting ahead. “What do you know of this agent?”

“’Tis an acquaintance of the go-between who arranged our last delivery. His message said the goods were for Bognor, same as before.”

Bognor. Perhaps he would see again Lady Joanna acting the smuggler.

“Only this time,” Émile continued, “the English customer wants lace as well as brandy and tea. I thought it best ye and I meet this new agent rather than send one of the crew.”

So she wants lace, does she? “And how are we to find the agent in a crowded tavern?”

Émile pulled a small leather-bound volume from his coat pocket and held it up. “He’ll be looking for two Frenchmen, one carrying a book.”

“Very clever.” Jean admired his quartermaster’s plan. “There are many countries’ ships in the Thames, but it’s unlikely any man in this tavern would be carrying a book.”

Émile returned him a satisfied smile. “I borrowed it from one of yer shelves.”

Jean glanced at the book’s cover. “You chose well. Gulliver’s Travels is one the English would recognize in the unlikely event any in the tavern can read.”

“My reading is confined to ship’s matters, but I knew ’twas English.”

Jean had a sudden thought. The English seamen by and large didn’t like the French any more than his crew liked the English. “You don’t suppose because we are French this new agent thinks to have the goods at a bargain?”

Émile gave him a side-glance. “Je ne sais pas. But when he sees ye, he’ll soon drop any such notion. Still, it brings me comfort to feel my weapons beneath my coat. Some of the crew know this place and told me ’tis known to serve smugglers, thieves and pirates. They offered to come along as chiens de garde.”

Jean laughed, peering ahead into the mist as they strode along. “The day you and I need a guard dog to see our way out of a tavern fight would be a sad day, indeed. ’Tis more likely we will be greeting some of our old friends.”

“I was of a similar mind and highly offended when M’sieur Ricard offered to come along.”

Jean raised a brow and inclined his head to Émile. “Does Lucien worry we are not up to a fight?”

“Non. ’Tis only that the men have become very fond of their capitaine and would not like ye to lose yer life in some squalid London tavern.”

Jean smiled to himself but said nothing.

A quarter of an hour later, they neared the tavern. The mist had begun to clear and the fingers of fog were pulling back from the ships tied up at the quay. Riding the tide, their hulls caused the river to slap against the wooden piles.

Jean stopped in front of the door. Hanging over the entrance to the building, looming over the waterfront like a slumbering stone giant, was a sign. In gold letters lavishly painted on blackened wood were the words The Devil’s Tavern. Above the sign, silhouetted in skillfully worked iron, snaked a long lean dragon, its open mouth breathing out black flames.

A bell on the door jingled as they entered, telling everyone inside a new customer had arrived. Jean was certain the ensuing silence, as heavy as the earlier fog, had likely been boisterous conversation a moment before.

He paused in the shadows, scanning the smoke-filled room. Half the tables were occupied by what appeared to be the crews of various ships, men hardened by the sea, sun-browned, weather-creased and lined with salt and tar. They stared back at him with scrutinizing looks. He recognized no one. After a minute, the men turned back to their conversations.

To his left, stretching into the murky depths of the tavern, was a pewter-topped bar. Every stool was occupied, the men focused on their drinks or engaged in hushed conversations.

To his right, a dozen feet away, paned windows looked out on the quay and ships tied up on the Thames. Directly in front of him was a huge stone fireplace at least five feet long where a fire blazed.

In the corner, between the fireplace and the windows, Jean spotted an empty table. Catching the eye of the serving wench approaching from the bar, Jean jerked his head toward the table and, with Émile at his side, crossed the flagstone floor to settle into one of the chairs. With his back to the corner, the light from the windows fell over his shoulder so that anyone looking in his direction would be staring into the glare of the gray light outside.

Émile slid his brawny frame into the chair adjacent to Jean’s as the dark-haired serving wench sidled up to the table. “What’ll ye be havin’, gents?”