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“But he didn’t try to stab me.” She felt warmth in her chest from his outrage. Over her. Miss Vinegar. “But he did try to stab you, so feel free to shake him around a little, but don’t hurt him too much. Yet.”

“Yet?”

“Red dove means he’s telling the truth,” she explained. “Between Spinsters. Or he will be as soon as he tells us anything of value. Isn’t that right, Mr.…?”

“Y-yes,” the man said. “Martin. Martin Townsend.”

Bram sighed, jaw clenching, before dropping him.

Martin half-slid down the wall. “You’re the size of a bloody bear.”

Clara narrowed her eyes in case he had not meant that as a compliment. “I beg your pardon?” Icy, disapproving. Every bit the old-maid spinster. Something about it made him wince, as if he’d been reprimanded by his nursemaid.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “But I think he dislocated my shoulder.”

If he was expecting sympathy from the earl’s daughter in the ball gown, he was destined for disappointment. She only sniffed. “You did try to stab him.”

Bram smiled briefly before grabbing Martin again. “Ready?”

“No! For what?”

Too late. Bram had already shoved his shoulder joint back into place with a great crack. Martin paled, choking on a yell.

“Better?” Bram asked.

Martin looked like he might be ill, but when he moved slightly, he only winced. “Yes, actually.”

“Wrap that up in a sling. You’ll be fine.” Bram stepped back. “Don’t be sick on my boots.”

“I won’t.” Martin was shaky but regaining his color. He was tall, rather handsome. And clearly frantic.

“Who told you about the red dove?” Clara asked, handing Bram the whiskey. He accepted it with surprised appreciation, as if it had been a very long time since someone thought of his wellbeing. “It’s not rum,” she said. “Isn’t that what sailors drink?”

“You’re thinking pirates again, lass.”

He was smiling again, just for her. It made her feel invincible. It was a struggle to turn to Martin, who was turning his neckcloth into a sling, teeth gritted. He was the approximate color of boiled fish. “You know Miss Taunton, don’t you?” she asked.

Martin nodded as Bram tossed back his whiskey and took up his usual spot near the door.

“What does she look like?” Clara asked.

“Dark hair, boundless energy. A bit terrifying, actually.”

“And a beauty mark under her left eye?”

“Her right eye.”

Clara nodded, satisfied he had passed the test. “Very well. Why are you running around trying to stab people, Martin? Did she put you up to it?” It was absolutely something Sybil would do.

“Not exactly.” Martin sank onto a bench. Clara handed him a cup of tea with extra honey. If he passed out now, they’d never get any information. “She was supposed to meet me here with Heloise. But they never showed. It’s been a week now.”

“Why were they meeting you here?”

“So Heloise and I could run away to Gretna Green and get married. He kept her confined to that house. Wouldn’t let any visitors see her. There was a lock on the attic, where she slept. Did you know that?”

“How did you manage to see her often enough to want to marry her, then?” Bram asked.

“My father was the marquis’s solicitor,” Martin explained. “I inherited the job, despite not wanting it. The marquis has many estates, thousands and thousands of acres, most of it unentailed. It requires a lot of paperwork. So does having a ward. Several wards.”