“Who?”
The smith shook his head. “Light-haired gent. Dresses like a swell, but gots callouses on his hands. Nasty lookin’ cut on his cheek, too.”
“I gave instructions that I was to be notified of any strangers in the area!” Deveraux paced the small open space in front of Rawson’s work area. “Damn it! Why wasn’t I told?!”
“Claims he’s a robin redbreast.”
Deveraux swung around.A Bow Street Runner?Yes, a runner could convince the people of almost anything. They’d be afraid not to believe. Too, they’d cooperate—maybe beyond the truth—to aid one of those representatives of the law.
“Do you believe him, Rawson?” Behind him, he heard Fitzhugh and the groom ride up with the horses to be shod.
Rawson rubbed the side of his nose. “Cain’t say as I do or don’t. But ain’t got no occurrence book that I’s seen. Thought ye ought ta know.”
“Thank you. I’ll look into it. . . By the way, don’t believe it.”
The smith nodded. He rubbed the palms of his hands on the seat of his pants, then went to meet the groom and have him bring one of the horses in.
“What was that all about?” Fitzhugh asked as he dismounted. He saw Deveraux’s hand. “What happened?”
Deveraux glanced down at his hand and frowned. “Nothing,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to bind around the hand.
“That was an awfully bloody nothing,” Fitzhugh said caustically.
“I slammed my fist into a post, that’s all,” Deveraux admitted, goaded. “It’s nothing. Come on.” He strode angrily past Fitzhugh and out of the blacksmith’s shop.
“Slammed your hand into a post?! Dev! What’s going on? Where are we going?”
“To the tavern, to see if we can find a man who claims to be a Bow Street Runner.”
“A Runner!"
“Yes. A man with fair hair and a scar on his cheek, who’s been busy convincing everyone that Miss Leonard is in league with Chrissy’s kidnappers.”
“What! Impossible.”
"My sentiments exactly,” Deveraux grimly said as they strode quickly across the village to the tavern standing at the crossroads.
“Are you saying he’s believed?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’d hazard to guess he is. No word has come to me regarding strangers in the village, and I left strict instructions.”
“Egad! And a scar on his cheek? You think where Miss Leonard said she drew blood?”
“Yes.” He pushed open the door to the tavern, and they went inside. The interior was dark, especially after coming in out of the brilliant sunlight. They stood still for a moment to allow their eyes to adjust, then walked in and sat at a round table near the hearth. A pretty barmaid patted her red hair into place and bit her lips to redden them before coming over to serve them.
“Good day, Mr. Deveraux. It’s been a while. And what can ol’ Madge git ye today?”
“Porter for both of us, and a moment of your time, for me."
Her eyes widened. “Coo . . . I should be that delighted,” she said, scurrying off to fetch two tankards.
“Dev! What are you about, man? I suppose she’s comely enough, but in your own neighborhood? Not wise, ol’ boy.”
Deveraux scowled. “I’m not interested in bedding the wench?—”
Fitzhugh gave a shout of laughter. “That’s not what she thinks!”
“Blast it, you’re right. My mind’s not thinking clearly. This has affected me more than I’d realized. . .. Ah, thank you, ah—Madge, is it?” He took a long draw on his drink. He drew a gold coin out of his pocket and laid it casually on the table. “I understand there’s been a gentleman here of late who claims to be a Bow Street Runner.”
