The wedding of Miss Ada Grandison to Peter Rathbone, Duke of Compton, took place on a glorious May morning at St. George’s Church in Hanover Square. The bride’s family had done their utmost to make it a glittering occasion, and the church was crowded with their friends and the cream of the haut ton.
The young duke, who had no close family left, had asked Arthur to stand up with him at the altar, and Arthur was touched and pleased to do so. The bride looked lovely in a pale-blue gown and flowered bonnet. The couple spoke their vows in clear, confident voices and beamed with happiness when they greeted the waiting crowd after signing the register.
The wedding breakfast at the Grandison house overflowed with more guests than the church could hold. Arthur found the crowd frustrating because he knew Señora Alvarez was in attendance, and he very much wanted to find her. He’d seen less of her in recent days as she had no project at the theater workshop. He didn’t want to think that she was avoiding him, but he feared that in fact she was.
He was searching for her in the sea of faces when Compton found him. “I wanted to thank you again,” said the young duke. “You made all this possible.” He gestured at the celebration.
“An exaggeration,” replied Arthur. “As I have said before. You won your happiness by your own efforts.”
“I’d have had no chance without your—”
Arthur stopped him with a gesture. “You have thanked me enough, Peter. Too much. Let this be the last time. Look, your wife is beckoning.”
The smile that broke over the younger man’s face illuminated his somewhat bony features. “My wife.” He moved away like a man in a happy dream.
Seeing an acquaintance nearby, Arthur went to join him.
“Has your new great-nephew or great-niece been born?” the man asked.
“She, or he, remains imminent according to the latest letter.”
His companion nodded. “Say, do you know some foreign chap, name of Cerda? I was at Manton’s the other day. This fellow seemingly heard me mention your name, and he came slap up to me and introduced himself. Bold as brass. Said he’s a good friend of yours.”
“He is not,” answered Arthur. It was time to administer the setdown this fellow deserved, he decided.
The other nodded again. “Seemed like an encroaching mushroom to me.”
“Precisely.”
“I thought so. Town seems to be full of them. I’ll be glad to be back in the North.”
“You are leaving London?”
“In a few days.”
The season was nearly over. He would be expected to depart as well. Arthur excused himself and went hunting for Señora Alvarez.
He slipped through the press of people, nodding to greetings on all sides. He had nearly made it to the back of the house when he was accosted by Miss Julia Grandison, large and resplendent in magenta silk. “Hullo, Macklin,” she said. “A splendid event, eh?”
“Indeed. I was just going…”
“For Ada’s sake, I am allowing my brother to enjoy his triumph. Before his fall. His opera dancer is called Bella, you know.”
He was not about to admit that he did. He looked to see if anyone else had heard. Miss Grandison had a penetrating voice. But no one was paying them any mind.
“It is not too late to do your part,” she went on.
“My part?”
“To repay me for the service I rendered your young friend.”
Arthur had no idea what she meant.
“Putting him and Ada together,” Miss Grandison added impatiently. “Really, everyone seems to forget my efforts in making this match.”
Because they were entirely imaginary, Arthur thought. “Excuse me, I need to speak to someone.” He moved on before she could reply.
He found Señora Alvarez in earnest conversation with Miss Deeping and Miss Finch. They broke off so abruptly when he approached that he wondered what they had been saying.
The two young ladies excused themselves as he came up. “What were you plotting?” he asked Señora Alvarez.
She shook her head. “They so long to join in a plot,” she said. “But I see no place for them. This matter of the opera dancers is rather more serious than a thieving crow or even a hidden treasure.”
“They told you about unmasking the crow.”
“Each of them, in slightly different versions.”
“They are proud of that.”
“I admire their…ingenio. But the disappearances are not part of the world they know. I think they must be left out of this.”
“You will not exclude me, I hope.” He hadn’t meant to allow so much emotion in his voice, but in the end he wasn’t sorry. It seemed that he had been trying for eons to let her know how he felt.
Señora Alvarez gazed up at him. A man might fall into those dark eyes and lose himself, Arthur thought. Unless he already had. “Can we never be alone,” he complained. They were constantly surrounded by people. He could not take her hand or pull her close in this chattering crowd. He couldn’t sue for the right to do so.
“To speak about the dancers,” she replied.
“No!” The exclamation drew a few glances. He turned his back on them. “Of course we will plan what to do about that. But there are other things I wish to say to you.”
“Other?”
“You must have some hint of my feelings. I would have spoken before this, but I think you have been avoiding me.” He hadn’t meant to sound accusing.
There was a pause that went on far too long for Arthur’s comfort. Señora Alvarez looked as if she was considering a knotty problem. Conversations washed around them while they stood like rocks in a sea of words. This was not the response he’d hoped for. But then she said, “I suppose your carriage is here.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you would drive me home.”
“With the greatest pleasure.” He thought he managed to hide his flare of triumph. Or perhaps he didn’t. He didn’t care.
“Very well.”
She didn’t take his offered arm but simply walked out beside him. Arthur saw people noticing. He was happy to let them.
His town carriage was brought around promptly, and he handed her in. As they started off, she gazed out the window, not at him. “People here drive their carriages through the park, do they not?” she said. “Perhaps we could do that.”
Surprised and pleased, Arthur gave the order to his coachman. Now he just had to find the right words to woo her. “Your company is a rare treat,” he said.
Teresa glanced at him and away. Lord Macklin had a touch of arrogance, as was only to be expected from an English lord. But other emotions moved in his blue-gray eyes. He was going to say things that should not be. She didn’t know exactly what things, but she knew that she had to speak before he made some impossible declaration. He was a man of honor. He would feel bound by his words, and she would not have him so.
She had thought of her earl for many hours since the arrival of the false Conde de la Cerda, while waiting for the Spaniard’s malicious tongue to begin to wag. She had pondered love and pain and dreams and fate. She had remembered, so vividly, the feel of disaster, of a whole life sliding away—slowly at first like the tipping snows of an avalanche, building to a roar of devastation.
It was time to end this…friendship that should never have begun. She could feel the sadness already welling up in her chest. The avalanche would bury her. But she owed him this much.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
He was a man who noticed, and cared. A rare man. Unique. She would not see his like again. The ache inside grew sharper. But there was no help for it. She would find no better opportunity, if that was the word. Here, they would not be overheard. There was no Eliza hovering nearby, no workmen, no Tom to interrupt. “I am going to tell you the truth now,” she said.
“About what?” he asked.
“About me.” And when she had finished, she could leave the carriage and make her way back to her small home, take up the life she had carved out for herself. The bitterness would fade in time, as all things did. She would recover, as she always did. Unless the wound was too deep this time. “I will not give you my real name,” she continued. “That is dead forever. But as for the rest.” She made a throwaway gesture; one could only begin. “I am not a widow. That was a lie.”
“Your husband is alive?” He straightened, as if ready to square up against a rival.
She would have laughed if the pain in her heart had been less. “I never had a husband,” she replied. “He was always a fiction.”
“But—”
“It is best to let me speak,” she interrupted. If he didn’t, she would falter and perhaps fail.
Lord Macklin nodded. She could see no censure in his face. She was going to tell him everything. She’d never told anyone. But then, she’d never known anyone—else—who so deserved her confidences.
Having decided this, she found her voice frozen in her throat. Step by step, she thought. Go back to the beginning.
“I was twenty when war came to northern Spain,” she said. “I was to have been married before that, but the man my father chose had died of a fever and another match was still being arranged. Rather slowly.” She didn’t even know what had caused the delay. Money, no doubt. Or perhaps the rising conflict had affected those negotiations as well.
“Arranged,” said Lord Macklin.
“It was the way of my family.” She waved this away as irrelevant. She mustn’t let the look on his face shake her resolve. Sympathy was not the point. “This was before the great battles of your Wellington. Perhaps you know that the end began in 1807 when Napoleon pushed French troops through Spain to invade Portugal. More than one hundred thousand men, I have heard, only to pass through. Of course he lied. Once they were there, his troops threw out King Carlos and put in his brother Joseph Bonaparte on the throne. We have spoken of that cabrón before. The royal family was not so much beloved. Prince Ferdinand had tried to overthrow his father the year before. But they were better than being ruled by the French. Spain rose up. Things fell into chaos.” She pressed her hands together in her lap at the memory of fear. “There was no organized conflict at first. It was worse. Roving bands of men, some desperate and hungry and more like bandits. One didn’t know where their loyalties lay.”
“It must have been dreadful,” said the earl.
Teresa bowed her head in acknowledgment. It had been, but she was also aware that she had been avoiding the personal by reciting history. She took a breath and went on. “One of these groups came across my family’s land. They claimed to be French troops, but I think now they might have been deserters. They seized livestock and food, terrorized the people. My father went to order them off. He thought himself the monarch of his acres, you see. He was so used to being obeyed that he did not know how to expect anything else. But these men cared nothing for his authority. They jeered and spit at him. Papa turned his whip on one of the officers, and a soldier shot him.”
“You were not present surely?” Lord Macklin looked deeply shocked at the idea.
“No, we heard the story from his servant, who fled.”
“I am so very sorry…”
Teresa held up a hand to stop him. Compassion now would undo her. “Once they had done this, the men went wild. Some dark impulse was set loose perhaps. Or they thought they must cover up the crime, or send a warning to other landowners who might object to their thievery. I do not know why they chose to ride after my father’s man and attack our house.”
“My God!”
Teresa appreciated his anger even after all these years. “War is not just ranks of soldiers facing each other. As I soon discovered.”
“You… Did they—” His hand rose as if to take hers, then drew back.
“My brothers rallied every available man, and some of the women, to meet the attack, but there were far more of the Frenchmen. Diego and Roland—all the men of our household, I think—were killed giving me and a few others time to run away. Not my mother. She was already dead by then, gracias a Dios. The canallas set fire to our house when they were done. We could see the smoke as we ran.”
He seemed about to speak, but then said nothing.
“We went to our nearest neighbors first, but they were afraid to take us in. They thought they might be targeted next if they helped. So we walked on. I had never been so tired in my life, up to then.” Since, well, there had been other trials. The hardest part was coming up. Teresa didn’t know if she had the courage to continue. She didn’t want to see the earl’s face change, his inevitable judgment descend. “Some of my companions found refuge in cottages or gave up. They were not…of my rank. The country people were more reluctant to hide me. I could see that. So I pushed on to the house of a good friend of my father, though it was far.” Teresa had to swallow before she could go on.
“They had known each other all their lives, and…this man had always seemed fond of me. And indeed he welcomed me with cries of horror and ordered up food and fresh clothes and a chamber for me. He was my savior.”
Lord Macklin watched her with grave, sympathetic eyes. She looked away before adding, “After three days he came to offer me even more. His protection, as his mistress. He explained that my reputation was ruined because I had been staying with him. He had let word of this spread to people who knew me. And…encouraged them to draw certain conclusions, even though he had not touched me. But he assured me that he would be kind to me and give me every luxury.”
The earl cursed softly.
“I refused him, of course,” said Teresa. “I could not believe the insult. I called him the worst names I knew and flounced out as if I had somewhere to go.”
Teresa paused to breathe.
“But I found I did not,” she continued after a moment. “When I appealed to another friend of my family, I found that this man had made a great point of saying that nothing improper had happened between us. As your Shakespeare says, protesting too much. And so they all thought that I had given myself to him in exchange for my refuge. The women looked at me with contempt. The men with…a new interest.”
Lord Macklin swore again.
“They did have their own problems,” Teresa conceded. “The countryside had become perilous. Death stalked what had been a peaceful land. No one knew what would happen next. My fate was small in comparison.”
“It should not have been!”
She was too intent on finishing this to react. The memories were rising up and threatening to overwhelm her. “You will say I should have found a way to escape.”
“I say he should have been shot for what he did to you!”
“But I was…not quite myself.”
“You had seen your family killed and your home destroyed!”
“Yes.” She’d been exhausted and terrified and ignorant, all too conscious of having nothing when she was accustomed to plenty. She’d gone to some of her family’s old servants, but they were poor and even more frightened of the future, and of the man who was holding out all the comforts she’d grown up with. He was a power in the area. “I gave in,” she said. She felt the shame of it even now.
“I returned to him and hid behind his power. He knew how to deal with the troops. He placated whichever bands of soldiers swept through the region, French or Spanish or later the English.” Watching that, she’d realized how much he enjoyed manipulation. More than any physical intimacies that occurred between them, in the end.
“Where is he?” said Lord Macklin. The growl in his tone made her shiver.
“He died. Just before your Waterloo. He always thought Napoleon would be coming back.” He’d relished the prospect, having found many benefits in turmoil. “He had no children. There was much confusion when he was gone. And in those years with him, I had learned how to plan and persuade.” As well as the hiding places of the grandee’s ill-gotten valuables through the war. She’d taken her chance, purchased aid, and set off on a long, hard trek to safety. Which she had achieved, Teresa reminded herself. “There. That is all. Now you know. And you see, I am not what you thought I was.”
She waited a moment, but he didn’t reply. Certainly he was shocked, appalled. How could he not be? He was a most respectable man, and respectable people despised her. But there was one more thing. “The ‘Conde de la Cerda’ could tell much of this story,” Teresa added. The man knew the general outline, if not all the details. “He will probably spread it about, since I’ve refused to help him worm his way into society. As if I could.” And now Lord Macklin would think she had only told her story because she was about to be exposed. Perhaps that was true. Would she have made these painful admissions otherwise? It hardly mattered. Either way, his opinion of her was destroyed. And she cared nothing about the rest of society.
Still, he said nothing. The silence was unbearable.
The carriage stopped to wait for another to cross ahead. Teresa pushed open the door and jumped out, rushing across the park to a gate nearby where she could flag down a hack. The earl would not come after her. Why should he? His pride must be bruised. He was probably angry. He would never want to see her again. Teresa saw a cab and raised her hand to signal.
Arthur moved just a moment too late. His carriage pulled forward, and by the time he’d halted it again, Señora Alvarez was gone. She was not Señora Alvarez, he thought. But he had no other name to call her.
He should have spoken. He should have comforted her. He’d wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her close, shelter her from all harm. But that would have been utterly inappropriate after the story she’d told, what had been done to her. And sympathetic phrases couldn’t make up for the insults she’d suffered.
Mostly, though, he’d done nothing because he was grappling with murderous rage. A protective anger that he’d felt only a few times before in his life, when those he loved were threatened, was choking him. He couldn’t think, still less speak.
Arthur noticed that he was shaking with fury. He longed for action, for something to hit. If he could get his hands on the man who’d used her… His fingers curled into claws. But that villain was beyond reach. Still, there must be something he could do, some recompense he could offer her.
A thought occurred, and blossomed, more and more gratifying. That might well do. He leaned out to give his coachman new orders.
Returning to the wedding breakfast, he was pleased to find Tom still there. The press of people was thinning, however, and the lad was happy to leave with him. Back in the carriage, Arthur made automatic replies to Tom’s remarks about the event. These gradually diminished, and by the time they’d reached Arthur’s house, Tom said, “What’s wrong, my lord?”
“Come into the library,” Arthur replied. They walked through and settled in the book-lined room. “I want to talk to you about a Spaniard who appeared in town recently.”
“That fella who’s been lurking about the workshop asking questions about Señora Alvarez?”
Tom was always quick, Arthur thought. A hint was enough for him. “You’ve seen him then?”
“He tried prying information out of me, but he didn’t get no…anywhere.”
Arthur wondered how much of the señora’s true story Tom knew. Had she other confidants? He both hoped so and wished to be the only one. “He means her ill,” he added.
“I know. The currish, half-faced scut!”
“Ah, yes.” It seemed a fair description. “I intend to get rid of him.”
Tom’s frown deepened. “I wanted to do that, but the señora said no. She said she’d handle him herself.”
“She should not have to. She deserves help.” All the aid she had not been given in her youth, and more.
“She did fine with Dilch.”
“This is no neighborhood dilemma.”
“Well, but…”
“I know more of the true story than you do.” Arthur was sure of it now.
After a moment’s consideration, the lad accepted this. “So you’re looking for another pair of hands for the job? I’m your man!” Tom paused and made a wry face. “But I have to say, my lord, I don’t seem to have the stomach for killin’.”
“Good God, I’m not planning murder!”
“Ah, that’s all right then.” Tom shifted in his chair. “I tried one time. With a scurvy wretch who hunted the little ones on the streets in Bristol. Set an ambush and had my chance. But I couldn’t cut him down. Even low as he was. Reckon I’m hen-hearted.”
“What did you do?” Arthur asked, momentarily diverted by curiosity.
“Turned him over to a magistrate. One as would listen to the truth.”
“And was the creature punished?”
“Transported. Hard labor.”
“So you are wise and just rather than hen-hearted, Tom.”
The lad took the compliment with a duck of his head.
“I intend to send this Spaniard out of England in a way that he can’t easily return.”
“Transport him ourselves, you mean?”
Arthur nodded, appreciating the comparison. “I thought the Indies, one of the Spanish colonies. Puerto Rico, perhaps. He should feel at home there.”
Their subject’s comfort didn’t appear to interest Tom. “Won’t he just come right back though?”
“We’ll send him off with no money. He doesn’t seem to have a fortune of his own. He seems a cunning rogue and will likely accumulate funds. But it will take him some time. And by then everything will be different.” Arthur didn’t know how, yet he was certain it would be.
“How will we manage it?” Tom asked.
“That is the question. I considered offering a bribe, but…”
“You can’t let him get a whiff of your fortune,” Tom interrupted. “He’s a blackmailer, and they just keep wanting more. You’d never be rid of him.”
“I agree.”
Tom frowned over the problem. “We’ll just have to bung him onto a ship our own selves, willy-nilly. Like a press-gang.”
It was a role Arthur had never expected to fill. “I expect he would object to that. Rather loudly.”
“We’d have to make certain he couldn’t then.”
The thought of rendering the Spaniard unable to protest had its attractions. “The fellow is a toadeater. I could invite him here and then…”
“Have him walk into your house and never come out again?” objected Tom. “That’s no good. What, order your butler to cosh him and the footmen to truss him up with curtain cords?”
Arthur thought of the august individual who managed his household. Chirt would be appalled at the idea. Then he recalled how ruthlessly the butler depressed the pretensions of encroaching callers. “Chirt might be up to it.”
Tom, who was well acquainted with this servitor, laughed. “Mebbe so, but you don’t want the man vanishin’ from here. Better to invite him to go riding. I kin wait for you someplace out of the way, and we’ll jump him.”
“And what then? Tie him up with our neckcloths? Choose a ship at random on the docks and hand over a rebellious captive? Most captains would call in the law. And those who wouldn’t…”
“Probably ain’t men we want to trust. It is a puzzle.” Tom shook his head. “Be easier if we was going to kill him.”
“Tom!”
“Beg your pardon, my lord. I ain’t been called on to dispose of many people before this.” He cocked his head. “Not any, actually.”
“It was not included in my training either,” replied Arthur ruefully. “Eton didn’t go much beyond the cut direct.”
“Is that sword fighting? Like a duel?”
“No, it is a public refusal to acknowledge someone. You turn your back where all of society can see.”
“Oh.” Tom clearly didn’t think much of this. “Could you challenge him to a duel?”
“A cumbersome process, with inconvenient rules which would reveal matters we hope to keep private. Also, it would not dispose of the man unless I killed him. Which we have ruled out.”
“He might be a good fighter, too.”
“And kill me. Very true.” Arthur began to wonder how things had come to this in his ordered, settled life. A harsh inner voice noted that Señora Alvarez had no doubt felt the same—no, far worse—when hers had fallen into ruins.
“Well, I don’t think he would kill you, ’cause then he’d have to scarper, and he don’t want to do that. But I can see it ain’t the best plan.” Tom gazed at the Turkey carpet, rubbing his hands together as if the motion promoted thought. “Ah.”
“You’ve thought of something?”
“Somebody. Who might be able to help.”
“We don’t want word of this to spread.”
“He knows how to keep mum.”
“He being?”
“Mr. Rigby. Runs a pub down near my lodgings.”
“I’m not sure a barkeep…”
“Used to be a bare-knuckle fighter,” Tom interrupted. “And more besides, I reckon.”
“More in what sense?”
“Late at night, when the street’s gone to bed, there’s some hard men visits that pub. I’ve seen some of ’em, when I was coming home late from the theater.”
Arthur frowned at him.
Tom waved off his concern. “I steered clear. And Mr. Rigby is all right. We’ve had some chats. He helped the señora get rid of Dilch.”
“She trusted him?”
“Aye.”
“I suppose we could speak to him,” Arthur said.
“Be best if I go alone, my lord.”
“Easier, perhaps. But I insist on coming along.” Responding to Tom’s expression, Arthur added, “There may be points only I can, er, reassure him on.” Mainly involving available funds. He also wanted to make his own assessment before bringing in the man.
Tom thought this over, then shrugged. “I reckon. When would you wish to go, my lord?”
“What about now? Presumably a pub keeper is generally available.” And Arthur didn’t feel able to sit still. He craved action.
“That’s true.”
They walked, as this was less likely to draw attention than a fine carriage in Tom’s neighborhood. “And we should take care when we come closer,” Arthur said. “I would not wish to meet Señora Alvarez.”
His young companion looked dubious. “She’s not to know?”
“Once all is over. Perhaps.” He was not sure how to face her right now, with their ravaging conversation still fresh. And his mind had focused on one goal.
Tom considered this. “I don’t think the señora is overfond of surprises.”
“This is a gift,” replied Arthur. Nothing could make up for what she’d suffered, but he could provide a weight on the other side of the scales.
“But she…”
“I know her better than you.” As soon as he spoke, Arthur saw this for what it was—wishful thinking. But he would not be deterred.
Tom appeared to accept it, however, and they walked on.
Reaching the lad’s home neighborhood, they slipped along the street and into the pub. It was low and small but clean. There were only a few patrons.
“Afternoon, Mr. Rigby,” said Tom to the man behind the bar. “This here is Lord Macklin. Might we have a word?”
Rigby was probably past fifty, Arthur thought. Still well muscled, his receding red hair was cut close to his head. His face and knuckles showed the scars of his former profession. One ear had clearly been smashed by more than one fist. “What about?” Rigby asked. His voice was even. Not hostile, but not particularly welcoming either.
“Private matter,” said Tom. He leaned forward and spoke more quietly. “You remember that fella came in asking about Señora Alvarez?”
“The foreigner?”
“Aye, that one. It’s about him. He’s been bothering the señora.”
Rigby frowned. “Come along in here,” he said and led them into a small cluttered chamber behind the bar. Bottles and crates crowded shelves on three sides. There was one straight chair behind a chipped table and barely room for the three of them in the windowless space. No one sat down. Rigby faced them. “Did he lay his hands on her?” he asked with a scowl.
“No,” answered Arthur. Judging from the expression on their host’s face, the newcomer was fortunate that he had not. “He’s threatened her, however.” Arthur saw no need to explain what kind of threat. That was none of this man’s business.
“We want to do something about him,” Tom continued.
“Something?”
Rigby was clearly wary. Arthur wondered if he had been in trouble with the law. “I want to send him out of the country,” he said. “Far enough that he cannot easily return.”
The pub keeper surveyed Tom. “You’re a good friend of the lady.”
The lad nodded.
“And you as well?”
Under other circumstances Arthur might have been offended by a glowering inquiry from such a man. Now he simply said, “I am, and I wish to help her by removing this fellow.”
Rigby considered this for so long that Arthur grew impatient. “Tom thought that perhaps you could put us onto the right sort of ship,” he began.
“She asked me to find her a pistol,” Rigby interrupted.
“What?” exclaimed Arthur and Tom at the same moment.
“Just a precaution, she called it. Now, I’m wondering what she means to do with it.”
“So you procured a gun for her?” asked Arthur.
The scarred man nodded.
“You think she means to put a bullet into this conday?” asked Tom.
“That’d bring her a world of trouble,” replied Rigby. He looked as if he knew about such difficulties.
On the one hand Arthur could understand the satisfaction of eliminating an enemy. On the other, the pub owner was correct. “I shall see that she does not require a pistol,” he answered.
Someone in the taproom called for ale. Rigby went out to serve him.
“Would she really shoot him, do you think?” Tom asked.
“Only to defend herself, I imagine.” The sooner they could be rid of this Spaniard, the better.
Rigby returned. “So what is it you’re asking of me?”
“We would like to find a ship, ideally heading to the West Indies, that would take an…unauthorized passenger,” Arthur replied.
This elicited a bark of laughter. “Unauthorized,” repeated Rigby. “You toffs have some fine words for dark doings.”
“It separates the really significant lawbreakers from the common criminals,” said Arthur.
This earned him a surprised and approving glance. “I know a few people on the docks,” said Rigby then. “Some as can slip an ‘extra’ passenger onto a ship at the right moment. Certain ships, that is.”
“Like being pressed,” said Tom.
Rigby grinned. He was missing a molar. “Bit more gentle than the navy perhaps. They’ll want paying though.”
Arthur nodded.
“And this individual would have to be kept quiet for a goodish time once he’s onboard.”
“Quiet,” said Arthur.
“As the grave.” Rigby’s gaze was challenging. “Trussed up till they’re well out to sea and no way back. He’ll be dumped on the docks at the first port of call across the sea.”
“But not harmed?” asked Arthur.
The pub owner shrugged. “Not so’s you’d notice. Or so’s I would, at any rate. I reckon he’ll suffer a few clouts if he makes any trouble.”
“I’d like to clout him,” said Tom.
“If he starts a real fight, he’ll be thrashed,” Rigby added.
Arthur found he didn’t care.
“And he’ll be made to work for his keep, belike.”
“I wish I could be there to see it,” said Tom.
“You want to be tossed onboard as well?” joked Rigby.
Tom grinned and shook his head.
“One thing.” Rigby held up a cautionary finger. “You’ve got to lay hold of this fella yourselves. I ain’t getting involved with that.”
Even more certain that the man had had brushes with the law, Arthur nodded. Rigby’s reluctance was understandable. Arthur wasn’t keen on that part of it himself. “We are not going to tell Señora Alvarez until this is over.”
Rigby appeared to find this only natural. “I’ll see what ships is in port and send word with Tom about the possibles.”
He looked startled when Arthur held out his hand, but he took it in a firm grasp, and they shook on the bargain.