Page 97 of Gentleman Jim

“Where was Jim?” St. Clare asked.

“Gone, some weeks before. We gave him a right send-off.” Mullens breath rattled on a sigh. “The best days of me life, those were. Downstairs, with Jim and the lads. Every night were a feast when he dropped in. Oh, but the lasses were in a fair swoon over him, with his golden hair and fine gentlemanlike ways. Women came for miles to sit on his knee.”

St. Clare wasn’t surprised. An earl’s son at a hedge tavern? With his commanding figure and his aristocratic ways? He’d been handsome, of course. St. Clare knew that much. Handsome and reckless and dangerous.

Maggie leaned forward in her chair. “Did Gentleman Jim know Father Tuck?”

Mullens shrugged. “Might have done. Old Jim knew all sorts. Had friends high and low. Recall one time, he came into the tavern, and…”

The old man ran on with his stories. Tales of the distant past—a happier time for him, clearly.

Maggie let him talk, occasionally prodding him with a question about Jim, Jenny, or Father Tuck, but no relevant information materialized from Mullen’s lips. Merely more reminiscences.

St. Clare went back to the window and peered down into the yard. A man was loitering near the door, staggering about as if he were drunk.

“And you’re certain Father Tuck’s church was in Devonshire?” Maggie asked.

“I told you,” Mullens replied, “nothing wrong with my memory.”

St. Clare looked at Maggie. It was past time that they left. They’d already stayed far longer than he’d planned. The more they delayed their departure, the greater chance that something would go wrong. He opened his mouth to tell her so when a sudden movement in the yard caught his attention.

It was a carriage arriving. A fine carriage, with a team of four prime horses in the traces. Two men sat upon the box, the coachman and a second fellow wrapped in an oilskin coat. He pointed at Enzo and the hired carriage.

Bloody hell.

“Time to go,” St. Clare said. He strode to Maggie and hoisted her from her chair.

She scrambled to her feet. “But I still have questions for Mr. Mullens!”

“There’s no time.” St. Clare urged her to the door, his hand on her arm. “We need to get out of here.” He asked Mullens, “Is there another exit?”

“Through the kitchens,” Mullens said.

St. Clare muttered an oath. They’d still have to descend the staircase. He opened the door and looked out into the hall. No one was about. Not yet. “Out,” he said to Maggie. “Quick as you can.”

Blessedly, she seemed to understand the urgency. “Goodbye, sir,” she said to Mr. Mullens as she exited the room. “I’m obliged to you for the information.”

“Wait!” Mullens called after them. “I didn’t catch your name!”

St. Clare shut the door behind him, silencing the old man’s cries. The hall dissolved into darkness again. There was only a faint glow at the end of it—the light from the taproom drifting up the stairs.

“What is it?” Maggie asked as she hurried along at his side. “Some sort of villainy?”

“The worst kind,” St. Clare said. “Someone’s followed us here.”

“What!” She would have stopped in her tracks if he hadn’t jockeyed her along to the landing.

“Put up your hood. We’ll duck out through the kitchens. There’s a chance we might be able to get to the carriage without anyone seeing you.” He sensed the futility of the plan as soon as he’d given voice to it. Enzo and their hired carriage had already been spotted. Recognized, even.

Maggie drew her hood over her head, and then took his hand, clutching it tightly as she followed him down the stairs. “Who is it?” she asked. “Not your cousin?”

He didn’t have to supply an answer. They’d no sooner descended halfway down the steps than an all-too-familiar voice echoed up the staircase.

“I know she’s here somewhere,” Fred bellowed. “Don’t make me fetch the magistrate.”

St. Clare’s shoulders bunched with tension. The dratted fool. Threatening the inhabitants of a hedge tavern with the magistrate? As if every villain below wasn’t armed to the teeth and ready to fight.

“Oh no,” Maggie groaned. “What is he doing here?”