“I was, but I decided to remain in the area and took a room at Mrs. Wyndly’s boarding house.”
“Why?” Liam and Emory asked at the same time.
“I’m waiting on a delivery. It was to have been sent here, therefore, I cannot leave until it arrives.”
Why would anyone have something delivered while attending a house party? Though, Emory didn’t ask the question, as it wasn’t his concern.
“I hope it arrives before the end of tomorrow as the house party is set to end,” Liam offered.
“I’ve received word that it is supposed to arrive tonight.” Kilmuir glanced about the crowded room and frowned.
“What kind of delivery comes by night?” Emory asked. Unless that was when the mail coach usually arrived in the village.
Liam turned to Kilmuir and lifted a brow. “By sea, perhaps.”
“You know?”
“They think me ignorant of their activities,” Liam stated quietly then chuckled. “The day after such deliveries, most of the shops are closed, few people are out, and there is usually an injury or two that I’m called on to treat.”
Kilmuir leaned in. “I’m told that if the lot of them leave at once, the time is near.”
“It won’t be before midnight.”
Emory took his watch from his waistcoat. That was nearly an hour away. “What happens at midnight?” he finally asked, not certain he was making sense of the conversation.
“A round of ale for the good doctor and his two friends,” a patron called.
“Whiskey,” someone else suggested.
“Thank you,” Liam called back, then turned to Emory and Kilmuir, leaning in once again. “It arrives tonight, or they’d not want to get us drunk.”
“What happens tonight?” Emory hissed.
“I’ll explain later. For now, we enjoy the ale as they’ve sorely underestimated how much drink it takes for you and I to be in our cups.”
“Me as well,” Kilmuir laughed.
The curiosity was eating at Emory, but Liam turned the conversation to other topics, mostly of school antics, as he and Kilmuir had lived in the same house at Eton. And, even though both carried on as if they’d drank enough to need to be carried from here, Emory knew they weren’t nearly as drunk as they’d like others to believe.
Why the subterfuge?
Then, as the clock struck midnight, the patrons quit the tavern leaving just the three of them.
“Must be closing time,” Kilmuir slurred, then stood, knocking over his chair, and grasping the table as if he needed balance.
Liam followed, laughing as he swayed.
“Bloody hell.” Emory tossed coins onto the table and reevaluated the soberness of his companions, convinced that they were drunk. “Let me get the two of you home before you injure yourselves.”
Both men pushed him away, insisting they were fine, further convincing Emory that they weren’t, but he offered no further assistance and saw them out.
As if the fresh sea air had cleared their brains upon impact, both sobered when they were nearly a block away and in darkness.
“What the blazes is going on?” Emory demanded.
“Smuggling,” Liam answered.
“What delivery do you have coming in?” Emory asked.
