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“What drives the men and women of Little Tilbury to participate in smuggling?” Alexander asked, seemingly unperturbed by Jonas’s observation.

Jonas thought back on his conversation with Black Pete. “Fear of reprisal from the gang’s leaders certainly plays a part,” he said. “But the underlying reason is undoubtedly the local people’s want of basic necessities. They could not afford to purchase those commodities otherwise.”

“Precisely. And so, what do you suppose would happen to the numbers participating on the beach if the cost of tea in the local shop plummeted below the price the smugglers ask?”

Jonas pondered that unlikely possibility. “If the allure of easy money and cheap goods diminished, the chance of being apprehended and punished by the Preventative Men might suddenly appear too great a risk. The threat of vicious reprisals would remain, of course, but if the local people abandoned smuggling en masse, the leaders would be hard-pressed to continue their current and vindictive mode of operation.”

“There you have it,” Alexander said, looking extremely pleased. “Your reasoning skills remain as sharp now as they were when we were taking classes in logic together, and you may be interested to know that you, Billy, and Mr. Richard Twining all reached the same conclusion.”

“Richard Twining, the director of the East India Company?” Jonas said, his confusion mounting with every passing moment.

“And the head of Twinings, the tea merchants on the Strand.” Alexander smiled. “It seems that Mr. Twining is tired of losing money to the smugglers, so he has approached the prime minister with a rather preposterous suggestion.”

“Which is?”

“To lower the tax rate on tea.”

Jonas stared at his friend. “And you’re telling me that Billy was willing to entertain this idea? Even as King George is demanding more revenue?”

Alexander grinned. “Think it through, Jonas. According to government records, of the thirteen million pounds of tea consumed in this country last year, only five and a half million pounds were purchased legally. That’s seven and a half million pounds of tea going untaxed. If the government dropped their absurdly high tariffs, more people would buy tea from legitimate distributors. With millions of pounds of tea suddenly in the system, the government’s income would rise regardless of—or rather, because of—the lower taxes.”

Jonas ran his fingers through his hair, his heart racing as he considered the far-reaching consequences should such a proposal be made law. That Twining’s company would benefit was obvious, as was the fact that the smugglers’ income would suffer. But was it possible that the government would also see an increase in revenue? The last time he checked, the tariffs placed on tea had reached a staggering 119 percent. Could that amount truly be recouped by volume alone?

“I assume Billy is sure of his numbers?”

“If the weariness in his comportment the last time we spoke is anything to go by, he’s been studying the ledgers late into the night,” Alexander said. “His role as chancellor of the exchequer has prepared him well for the job, and Twining has been advising him regularly.”

“How many members of the House of Lords know that he’s considering this path?”

“At this point, not many. He wishes to have the details firmly set in his mind before making an official announcement to Parliament.” Alexander grimaced. “He’s already anticipating the furor of the naysayers.”

“I can only imagine,” Jonas said. “And if the Midnight Master is wily enough to have escaped detection this many years, he’s undoubtedly clever enough to see what legislation like this will do to his smuggling empire.”

“I would anticipate that his dissenting voice will be one of the loudest,” Alexander said.

“And thereby guide us to him,” Jonas added, and at last, he grinned.

Chapter 5

After almost a week of rain, the sun was finally breaking through the last of the clouds, dispelling the gloom, and warming the air. Elizabeth walked the muddy road toward the village, a wicker basket in one hand and a small reticule in the other. Her focus flitted between avoiding the puddles beneath her feet and watching the birds cavort in the sky above her head. Where the road bent, a chorus of enthusiastic tweeting filled the old sycamore tree, and as she approached, she looked up through the lush foliage and smiled.

“Good day, Mr. Sparrow.” She stepped a little closer. “How is your family?” The nest that she’d spotted three weeks before was still there, but the gaping beaks and high-pitched chirps were gone. “Have your babies left the nest already?”

In a flurry of feathers, a sparrow took flight. Seconds later, two smaller sparrows followed. Elizabeth’s smile grew as the larger bird tweeted its familiar call and the younger ones echoed it. She watched as the three birds circled the tree, then set off across the pasture toward the marsh. For a few short moments, her heart soared with them, but then, from somewhere in the village, a dog barked, and with a sigh, Elizabeth turned away and continued her walk to the green grocer’s shop.

Grateful that there were only two other customers ahead of her at the counter, Elizabeth made her purchases quickly. Her basket was barely half full, and she knew she’d need to ration every carrot and potato to have sufficient to feed any guests who may arrive at the inn. Watered-down soup was a staple at The Fox and Hare, but most of their customers did not complain as long as the ale and brandy were plentiful.

Offering the shopkeeper a brief word of thanks, Elizabeth stepped outside. The wives of a couple of local fishermen were gossiping quietly near the front window. They looked up as Elizabeth passed by. She offered them a polite smile. They nodded their acknowledgment but continued their conversation without pause. Not looking back, Elizabeth continued down the street toward the butcher’s shop.

Sparing a brief, wishful glance at the rasher of bacon hanging in the window, she went inside and bought a small joint of mutton. After the butcher had wrapped it in paper, she added it to her basket and glanced at the few remaining coins in her reticule. There were just enough to purchase a loaf of bread. She exited the butcher shop and turned toward the bakery just as a tall shadow crossed her path.

“Well met, Miss Doyle.”

“Mr. Cummings.” Elizabeth took an instinctive step back.

“I have been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to continue our discussion of a few nights ago.” He reached out a hand, his fingers as fat and pink as the sausages piled up in the butcher’s window behind her. “Come. I shall carry your basket as we walk.”

Elizabeth’s grip on the handle of her basket tightened. “I thank you for your offer, sir, but I am quite capable of carrying it myself.”