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Thirty-five minutes later, they left their skiff tied at the river's edge and climbed the rickety wooden steps leading to their destination.
The Cove, thankfully, was a bit less dilapidated than the Brine, but its patrons were equally as unkempt and a lot drunker than the others had been, probably because it was now almost an hour later, giving the sailors ample time to sink deeper and deeper into their cups.
Again Julian checked Aurora's appearance. Then, confident that she was as concealed as her layers of clothing would allow, he drew her close to his side, holding her tightly—and possessively—as he led her through the front door and to the counter.
"We got no rooms 'ere," the tavern keeper announced, his bloodshot gaze sliding from Julian to Aurora. "So ye'll 'ave to take this pretty morsel somewhere else." He leaned forward, his teeth so yellow, his breath so hideous that Aurora winced with disgust. "Unless, of course, ye want to share 'er with me. Then, we can take 'er to the kitchen and…"
"I don't want a room," Julian ground out, clearly battling back the urge to throttle the man. "My wife—" He emphasized the word. "—and I are looking for someone. We want you to help us find him."
"I sell ale, not information."
"I want both." Julian slapped a ten-pound note on the counter. "And I'll pay for them."
The tavern keeper's eyes gleamed. "That's a different story." He snatched up the money. "Who're ye lookin' for? And why?"
"A sailor named Barnes. He's old, gray-haired, with a gravelly voice. A reliable source tells me he spends his evenings at the Cove."
An assessing pause. "Ye still haven't told me why ye're lookin' for this fellow Barnes."
"He and I have a mutual friend I have some questions about."
"A friend? Or someone ye're plannin' to steal from or kill?"
"A friend. Someone I want to discuss."
"Nothin' more?"
"Nothing more." Clearly Julian sensed victory, for he withdrew two more notes, waved them visibly about like bait, then folded them neatly and tucked them into his palm. "As I said, I'll pay handsomely. No trouble, no fights, just information. After which—if Barnes should happen to be here—my wife and I will buy him a few rounds of ale, chat with him for a time, then take our leave. Period." Julian rubbed the pound notes between his fingers. "Well?"
The bloodshot gaze shifted hungrily to Julian's hand. "I guess a fellow 'is age can't be in any trouble," he rationalized aloud, reaching for the money. "'E's 'ere."
"Where?" Julian's fingers inched away.
"Over there." Scratching his bearded jaw, the tavern keeper leaned forward, pointing to a table along the side wall. "Ye can't miss 'im. 'E's tellin' 'is stories to whoever'll listen. 'E's older than all the other men combined."
"Thanks—" Julian made a move to hand over the notes, then paused. "What did you say your name was?"
"Rawley."
"Rawley. Thanks." He slapped the bills into the tavern keeper's dirty palm, then seized Aurora's elbow, leading her across the room to the broken wooden table in question where four men—three elderly, one ancient—sat chuckling and drinking their ale.
Julian didn't have to guess which sailor was the one he sought.
"Barnes?" he inquired casually, looking at the stooped old man whose gnarled fingers clutched his tankard of ale.
"That's me. Who're ye?"
"Someone who needs to talk with you—alone."
"Sorry," Barnes said in that gravelly voice Stone had described. "I don't go nowhere with no one I don't know. 'Specially without a reason."
Julian blinked. "I'm not asking you to go anywhere. Just join me at that table way over there—" He pointed. "—for a drink."
"Nope. Can't. Talkin' to my friends. Tellin 'em about the time my brig almost capsized when we was leavin' India."
"It'll only take a few minutes."
