Page 20 of The Duchess Games

Like hell.

She knocked softly on the door, two short, pause, three short, pause, one short. She waited, hearing the scrape of a chair leg on the floor, footsteps. Then nothing. “Don’t be a git,” she said through the crack of the door. “I know you’re in there.”

Behind her, Granny Goodwin cackled.

When the door finally opened an inch, Cat pushed through with her black dog. Fishermen were a superstitious lot and they tended to give her a wider berth when King Arthur walked at her heels. No one needed to know he limped in the cold now and sometimes had nightmares which required soothing belly scratches. Let them think him an ill omen, a warning.

She intended to need one to announce her.

The pub smelled like spilled ale and fish pies. The innkeeper had gone to bed. He preferred to know no secrets so he could spill no secrets. But everyone who needed it, knew where he kept the key to the back door.

“Cat,” Ambrose, the innkeeper’s brother, greeted her from his usual spot, cap on his head, tankard in his hand. The others sat on benches or leaned against the counter. Cat counted five, with Little Simon lurking in the kitchen, his ear to the door. “Weren’t expecting you.”

“Don’t see why not,” she shot back. She liked Ambrose. He was kind and fair. But she wouldn’t let him underestimate her any more than the others. “We said three o’clock. I’m even early.” Not as early as they were, mind you.

“So you are.”

“Have a seat,” Juro offered, pulling out a chair. His pale cheeks were ruddy. He smiled at her and resisted the urge to shudder. Juro she did not like. He didn’t like her either, which suited her fine. He was a terrible judge of character. But he was wily. And everyone thought they needed wily.

She’d show them wily.

She might not have three fishing boats to her name, but she had a captain. And a key still tucked into her stays.

Offering her a seat seemed a polite gesture, but Cat knew he was trying to point out that she was unsuitable for the hard, physical work of smuggling. That a walk might tire her out. That as a woman, they would need to mind their manners. That she might be offended by the smallest thing. That she might fall for the appraising look he sent in her direction, or the way he stroked the back of her chair which bordered on lewd.

She considered gagging. Loudly.

“Juro?” she asked instead.

“Yes, dove.”

“What are you doing?” She stared at him, her expression hard. She would call it her “Duke Look.” She suddenly understood this new Callum much better. It worked like a charm. It took only moments before Juro shifted from foot to foot.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Being polite.”

Walter laughed. Juro made a fist.

“I’m not here for polite,” she said.

“Figured you’d be too busy eating cakes at the big house to be here at all,” he sneered at her.

“I can eat cake and do my job, Juro,” she said crisply. “Unlike some, I can do two things at once.”

His ears turned red. Everyone knew she was referring to the time he’d capsized his boat because he’d been too busy trying to catch the attention of the weaver’s daughter. He was still sore over it. And if he continued to try and undermine her, she’d use far worse against him. She’d work with Ambrose because Ambrose was clever and just. And he wielded his cane like a spear. Juro was temperamental and thought he was much cleverer than he was. A lot handsomer too. Frankly, it was exhausting.

“I’ve had word,” she announced, because she’d had enough of games at the big house, as he put it. “From the captain.”

“Finally,” Ambrose said. “A spot of good news.”

“He’ll be here in a week.”

After a moment of excited chatter, Walter turned to her.

“You should tell us the signal,” he suggested. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?” she asked.

“In case you get held up dancing with the toffs,” Juro agreed.