In the very depths of the tavern was a narrow inglenook that other patrons avoided. A table had been placed in front of one of the benches surrounding the stone fireplace, and it was this table Eamon made for, halting at the foot of it.
The man seated on the bench observed him without a word. He was on the small side but solidly built, with dark hair and light brown eyes. He sported a cauliflower ear from his days as a prize fighter but was otherwise whole.
The man pinned Eamon with a shrewd gaze while the others in the tavern stilled to watch, holding their collective breaths. Well they might. Sam Noble was a dangerous man.
Sam continued to give Eamon his stare until he abruptly broke into a wide grin.
“Stone!” he bellowed. “Me old china. How are you?”
He pushed himself off the bench, wrung Eamon’s hand, and clapped him on the back with a force that could have pushed down a wall. Eamon manfully kept to his feet and tried to match Sam’s strong grip.
“I am doing well,” Eamon told him. “Can I stand you an ale?”
“Make it brandy. The ale here is horse piss.”
The landlord, who’d been heading over to ingratiate himself to a friend of Sam Noble, scowled.
“Brandy it is,” Eamon said congenially to the landlord. “And one for yourself, good sir.” He handed over several coins.
The landlord’s sour expression cleared, and he beetled off to fetch a small cask from behind his counter.
Eamon rubbed his hand once Sam released it. “Brandy is also more expensive, my friend. You could fleece the greatest miser.”
Sam stood a head shorter than Eamon, though his barrel chest was wider. Eamon remembered looking up at Sam as a boy, gaping in wonder at the seeming giant.
“’Tis a talent,” Sam said modestly. “Sit down and gab with me, lad. Never think of saying no.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Eamon waited for Sam to take his seat at the back of the inglenook, nearest the fire—not only the warmest place in the room, but from whose vantage point Sam could survey the entire tavern.
Eamon sat next to him and nodded at the landlord when the man brought them goblets of brandy. The landlord hovered, as though hoping Eamon would order some other item of expense, then drifted away when Eamon only smiled at him.
Eamon lifted his goblet. The brandy inside was potent, its odor alone making his eyes water. “Your health,” he said to Sam.
“Thank ye very much.” Sam raised his glass, and both men drank deeply.
Eamon bit back a cough at the strong liqueur. “An interesting vintage,” he wheezed.
“The best that can be smuggled to the Norfolk coast. But trust me, lad. ’Tis better than the ale.”
“I will take you at your word.”
They drank in companionable silence for a few moments, while the other patrons went back to their drinks, games, or low-voiced conversations. More than one man shot a glance at them, clearly wondering why the villainous Sam Noble had suddenly turned so friendly.
The answer was a long tale concerning Eamon’s father, Eamon’s quick thinking that had taken both Sam and Sir Benedict out of a situation where the Runners would have nabbed them both, and Sam’s fascinated interest in a boy who could out-cajole even his father.
After that adventure, Sam had declared himself Eamon’s lifelong mate. Sam hadn’t felt the same kindness toward Sir Benedict, who he’d labeled a right bastard and a terrible father.
“Where have ye been keeping yourself, lad?” Sam asked Eamon. “Haven’t seen ye since ye donned a red uniform and ran off to Spain.”
“Mucking about, here and there,” Eamon answered. “Trying to paint pretty pictures and failing at it. I’m no good unless I’m copying someone great.”
“Aye, you’d have made a grand forger, me lad. A grand one.” Sam took a long sip of brandy in regret.
“Sadly, I am too honest to deceive,” Eamon said good-humoredly.
And too proud, he added to himself. He’d prefer to be known for his own paintings. If Eamon sold his copies of Canalettos or Caravaggios as genuine, he could never have the recognition for what he’d done. The forgers he’d met did not care—they were happy to take the money and be pleased they’d fooled their marks. Eamon’s vanity would give him away.
He did not admit to Sam that he’d started making original sketches again. When he opened his notebook in the evenings, his pencil drew lines of a woman’s face, untamed locks of hair wisping across her cheeks. Diamonds glittered on her bosom, and her smile could melt the hardest heart.
