Chapter Six
GRANT LOCATED THE person he wished to speak to who worked at the Chinese Emporium. He approached the huge man who rattled and banged chairs about, moving them as if they were made of feathers.
“Henry Scullen?”
He studied Grant from beneath heavy brows. “That depends.”
“The Scullen I seek, was a first-rate sniper for Wellington during the war.”
Scullen straightened and nodded, showing his stained teeth in a proud half-smile. “Then that’s me.”
“Do you still possess a Baker rifle?”
He frowned. “What’s it to ye?”
“I’m trying to discover who amongst those who used them during the war still owns one. Marvelous guns. Thinking of setting up a marksmanship contest.”
“I can still split a nail at fifty yards,” Scullen said with a nod. He held out his hands. “Steady as a rock.”
Despite copious amounts of ale, Grant thought, as a whiff of the man’s breath reached him. “Know anyone else who has one?”
“I do.”
“Care to tell me?”
“As long as you include me in that contest of yourn.”
“If it comes off you’ll be the first to hear of it,” Grant promised. He glanced around. “Quite a place this. Good to work here?”
Scullen shrugged. “It’s a job.”
“Work you long hours, do they?”
“Yer.” He glowered. “Every night, dusk ’til dawn. For a pittance. What’s the prize?”
“You’d be paid in coin.”
“Right. Yer on!”
“Just an idea at this stage. Depends on how many I can persuade to take part.” Grant took a pencil and a small book from his coat pocket. “Can you tell me who owns a Baker that you know of?”
“Lost touch since the war. A few might still have ’em.”
As Scullen rattled off a few names, Grant wrote them down. He would seek these men out at the first opportunity.
With a vague promise to contact Scullen again, Grant hurried back to the Grove. He intended to check the man’s account of his working hours with his employer. But for now, he must do his duty. Not such an unpleasant one to squire the ladies about. Perhaps a dance with Lady Mercy, he mused, as he walked along the avenue.
* * *
Mercy frowned at the impudent man. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced, Mr. Lamont.”
He grinned. “That can scarcely matter here.”
“It would to a gentleman.” Mercy walked away. The man’s brashness was insulting. She edged around the dance floor, relieved to find the music slowing.
A flood of couples left the area, and Mercy searched for Arabella amongst them. She caught a glimpse of a yellow dress disappearing around the side of a building. Surely Arabella wasn’t leaving the Grove with that man? Mercy hurried after her.
Beyond the Grove, she found herself on one of the three avenues bordered by dense wilderness. Here, the lamps were less in evidence and shadows reached across the path. Spying another flash of yellow amidst a crowd of revelers, Mercy hurried in their wake. What could Arabella be thinking?
