“And I dressed like a damned Sassenach for the occasion,” Coll added.
“Why are ye here at all?” Aden asked, discarding the two of clubs and giving a point back to Vale.
“To make certain everything here stays honest,” Coll answered, dragging up a chair and dropping into it. He swiped a chicken leg off Aden’s plate and bit off a generous chunk of it. “I nae made it to Cornwall,” he went on conversationally, chewing. “Found a wee place in Taunton that might suit, and got distracted. Just got myself back to Oswell House thirty minutes ago.”
Everyone else except perhaps for Niall would likely believe Coll. He was big and tended to be blunt, and people translated that into stupidity. But Coll was far from stupid; he’d simply never bothered to correct anyone else’s perception because he didn’t give a damn what any Sassenach thought of him.
Aden saw it quite plainly, though—his older brother was lying. More than that, Coll should have been in Cornwall for at least another day or two. It all led him down one path: Coll had found something significant.
“Aye?” he said aloud. “Let me finish this deal, and ye can tell me about it while I get myself some more food.” He played his last card, taking one more point. “Ye can add it all up, but ye seem to be behind in this round by two thousand fifty pounds, Vulture Vale.”
Some of the men around them, their numbers having increased as the afternoon wore on, took up the epithet in a growing wave of amused murmurs. Vale’s face lost a bit of its wan color. “I concur. Are you surrendering, then? Halfway through a round? Very gauche.”
“Nae, but I am going to stretch my legs. Niall, keep yer eye on the table. And the cards. And the captain.”
“I am not going to sit here and wait for you, MacTaggert.”
“Four damned minutes, Sassenach.”
Vale pulled out a fine-quality pocket watch and clicked it open. At the sight of it, Lord George frowned and sank lower in his chair. “I’m counting. You’ll owe me a thousand pounds for every minute you’re late.”
Rather than arguing with that, Aden pushed away from the table and stood. With Coll on his heels asking about where to get more of the roast chicken, he left the gaming room for the much more sparsely populated library. “What did ye find?”
“I cannae be entirely certain it’s the same man, but the time and description fits.”
“What, then? I’ve only three thousand quid in my pocket.”
Coll scowled. “If ye’d put that brain of yers to serious wagering, we’d nae need Francesca and her blunt at all. We could go home still bachelors.”
“Coll. Tell me yer tale.”
“Fine.” The big Highlander shifted a step closer. “I started down the southern coast, figuring to work my way around and then through the middle. The fifth or sixth village—I lost count because they all look so bloody similar—was called Polperro. I asked for any interesting tales about a man with a face like a hawk’s, and at a tavern called Naughts and Crosses a man said that sounded like old Tom Potter’s boy, young Tom.”
“Tom Potter,” Aden repeated. “And who is he?”
“Glad ye asked. It’s nae often, ye ken, that I know more of someaught than ye, Aden.”
“Gloat later. If I’m three minutes late getting back to the table I’ve nae blunt to wager with.”
“Oh, aye. Tom Potter, the elder one, was a smuggler. On board a ship called theLotteryloaded with smuggled lace and brandy, he murdered a customs officer who was rowing out to confiscate the cargo. Another smuggler, one Roger Tom, informed on him, and they dragged him off to the Old Bailey and tried and hanged him.”
Aden absorbed that bit of information. “That’s the da, then. What of the boy, young Tom?”
“Vanished when the redcoats came after his da. Some say he took money to hang a lantern outside when his da had drunk enough brandy and fallen asleep, but nae a thing for certain. Rumors that he went on to rob a coach or two, took to cheating at cards for money, may even have killed a man and used the navy commission in the lad’s pockets for himself.”
“That would explain the name change,” Aden mused.
“Aye, but it’s still naught but stories told in exchange for a shilling or a beer. I tried nae to lead a tale in the direction I wanted, but I’m nae certain it didnae happen.”
The odds said that they might have eventually found some information about the hawk-faced man in Cornwall. The stories in Polperro could therefore be true, and Coll had just lucked into finding Vale’s—Potter’s—birthplace sooner rather than later. It seemed Aden would have to trust in luck a little, after all. “I’ll risk it.”
“So ye mean to sit there and play for yer lass? That’s yer grand plan? To win her back?”
Aden scowled. “Nae. But I need to make a good fight of it.”
“Ye’ve lost me.”
“I need to be angry enough that he doesnae feel safe.”
