“Where are you going?” Fi asked immediately.
“To Hastings. I have an old acquaintance to catch up with.”
It wasn’t a lie. Charlie knew that she would not be the only one tracking Quinton and Miss Loveday to the coastal village. In fact, she was counting upon it.
Eighteen
Despite its fame as the site of the eponymous battle of 1066, Hastings had a sleepy ambience that Jack associated with seaside towns. The sky was gently bruised by dusk, and the lulling crash of waves, salt-laced air, and higgledy-piggledy buildings had a lethargic charm that he would have found relaxing in other circumstances. As he headed down the narrow cobbled All Saints’ Street, a thoroughfare that ran from the ancient parish church to the town gate, he kept an eye on his quarry.
Xenia Loveday and Gilbert Quinton were several yards ahead, making their way through the throng of townsfolk out to spend their hard-earned wages. The pubs lining both sides of the street were packed, spewing light and laughter. Loveday and Quinton paused in front of several establishments, peering at the signs before moving on.
Their fifth stop was a half-timbered building with diamond-paned windows. A squeaky wooden sign above the doorway pronounced the premises as the “Legg & Arms.” The pair entered; Jack counted to ten before following. Ducking to fit under a low beam, he was greeted by a blast of raucous voices and steamy air scented with smoke and hops.
The crowd inside was a rowdy mix of local working class, tradesmen passing through the port, and a few adventurous tourists. Tables were packed, barmaids weaving through the crowd to deliver foaming tankards and plates of fried fish, pickled trotters, and pies. Spotting Loveday and Quinton waiting by the long wooden bar, Jack casually went over to join the queue. He’d styled himself as a merchant vacationing by the seaside. He’d padded his striped waistcoat to give himself extra girth and added silver to his temples and a thick mustache. A pair of wire-framed spectacles sat upon his nose.
Three patrons ahead of him, Loveday was whispering to Quinton.
Jack read her lips.
“I think that’s him,” she said. “Tony’s crony.”
Loveday pointed at the lanky ginger-haired fellow behind the bar—the publican, Jack would guess, by the familiar way he greeted the patrons. The proprietor was popular, the queue to see him winding the length of the bar even though another barman was also taking orders.
His profile grim, Quinton muttered, “Let’s hope he knows where the wastrel is.”
Anticipation simmered in Jack.I bloody hope so too.
Time dragged, the publican palavering with the folk ahead of Loveday and Quinton as if they were long-lost relatives. Finally, it was the pair’s turn. Jack edged as close as he could, receiving grumbles from the patrons ahead of him.
“New to the establishment?” Below a shock of ginger curls, the publican’s thin face creased with a friendly smile. “I’m Simon Legg, the proprietor. I’d be happy to recommend a fine ale?—”
“Actually, we would like a word.” Quinton cast a nervous glance around. “In private.”
Although Legg’s smile didn’t falter, his eyes narrowed. “Afraid I ain’t got time.”
“It is about our mutual friend To—” Loveday began.
“Busy night, as you can see.” Legg cut her off. “Now I’d be obliged if you’d state your order or let the good folk behind you do so.”
The waiting patrons muttered in agreement. Jack’s attention was snagged by the brunette serving maid who’d joined Legg behind the bar. On her right cheek, she had a large purplish birthmark that made people avert their gaze—typically to her bosom, which was distractingly ample in the low square of her neckline. Jack, however, studied her face more closely, peeling away the heavy eyebrows, deceiving contours cleverly created by paint, and thickened lashes.
When he found her glinting gaze, disbelief and awe struck him at once. He’d known she would show up—had dreaded and anticipated her appearance in equal measure. He couldn’t deny that her disguise was top-notch, and the fact that she’d managed to stay one step ahead of him, securing employment here… Torn between irritation at her reckless risking of her own neck and admiration for her ingenuity, he could only shake his head.
The tiniest of smirks touched her painted lips. Then she bent her head, appearing to be fully occupied by the task of loading drinks onto her tray while she eavesdropped on the increasingly heated conversation.
“We must speak to you about my brother,” Quinton insisted. “We came all the way from London?—”
“Don’t give a rat’s arse if you came from Timbuktu.”
“It’s a matter of life and death, Mr. Legg.” Loveday’s phrasing was rather dramatic, but given her literary performance, this was no surprise. “We need to find Tony, and I believe you know where he?—”
“Get a drink or get out.” Legg sheathed his amicability in unexpected steel. “If it’s the former you’re wanting, Betty ’ere—” he gestured to Lottie—“will take care o’ you. I’ve other patrons waiting.”
When he turned to the next customer, Loveday and Quinton exchanged frustrated looks. Clearly—and wisely—they didn’t want to reveal more of their business publicly. They mumbled their orders to Betty/Lottie, who informed them in brassy tones that she would bring their drinks over.
Unable to help himself, Jack stepped up to the bar.
“Pour me a drink, love?” he asked.
