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Jonas stared at her. “I don’t know. Would it?”

She shrugged uncomfortably. “My mother was confined to her bed for several days before the consumption finally took her.” She bit her lip. “By the end, she was very weak and in a great deal of pain. Whenever it got to be too much for her, she asked me to sing. It seemed to calm her.”

“Then we should try it,” Jonas said. If she had not put the spoon in her basket, she had undoubtedly neglected to include brandy as well. As far as he could tell, there were no other options. “I apologize ahead of time, however, should I interrupt with my own off-key moans and groans.”

Chapter 7

Elizabeth tipped the washtub over and watched the water run across the cobblestones to the distant grass verge. Placing a reddened hand on her lower back, she slowly straightened. She tucked the errant hairs that had escaped her plait behind her ear and surveyed her work. On the clothesline, the newly washed bed linen flapped in the breeze, and half a dozen clean rags lay draped beside her dress across the top of the nearby hedge. She eyed them uneasily. It had taken a great deal of scrubbing to remove all the bloodstains from the fabric, and should the wind pick up, she would likely return to find them lying in one of the many puddles in the yard.

She glanced at the sky in indecision. The scudding clouds were not moving quite as quickly as they had before, and there appeared to be no immediate threat of rain. Deciding to take her chance on Kent’s fickle weather, she lifted the washtub and started back toward the inn. As she walked, her eyes found the window to her bedchamber, and her mind turned to the smuggler in the hidden room beyond. Like an unwelcome stain that continually drew her attention, her thoughts kept going back to him.

He was an enigma. He’d obviously been on the beach unloading illegal goods the night before. He had the bullet holes in his arm to prove it. But he did not exhibit the boastful or brash nature so common amongst the smugglers she served at the inn following a successful haul. He was not happy with his situation, certainly, and perhaps that was because the Preventative Men had thwarted their plans this time, but despite the fact that he had not obtained what he’d set out for and was obviously in considerable pain, he treated her with polite consideration.

She frowned and faced the back door. His was a new and handsome face in Little Tilbury, but he was still a lawless smuggler. When she checked on him next, she would ask about his background. Once the mystery surrounding him was resolved, she could stop her wondering and reclaim her focus.

Ahead of her, the door to the inn swung open. Her father walked out, closely followed by Mr. Cummings. Elizabeth tensed. This time, there was nowhere to hide.

Raising her chin slightly, she forced her feet forward. “Father,” she said, acknowledging him with a slight nod. “Mr. Cummings.”

Her father barely noticed.

Mr. Cummings, however, touched his hand to his hat. “Miss Doyle.” The magistrate’s beady eyes raked her over from head to toe.

“Not now, Cummings.” Her father’s impatience simmered dangerously close to the surface.

Mr. Cummings scowled. “Your father and I have urgent business to attend to, Miss Doyle,” he said. “But I shall speak with you very soon.” He watched the innkeeper continue toward the stable, and his eyes narrowed. “Very soon indeed.”

Elizabeth managed to control her shudder until he turned away. Her father was wont to disappear at odd times of the day and night without explanation. She was accustomed to it. And since it was most often his smuggling work that took him away, she was glad to be kept in ignorance of his activities. Today was no exception. But this time, she was most grateful that whatever he was about, he was taking Mr. Cummings with him.

***

When her father arrived back at the inn a couple hours later, he was alone. Elizabeth was taking out a pail of cold ashes from the fireplace in the largest guest bedchamber when she met him on the stairs. One glance at his face told her that his time away had done nothing to improve his temperament.

“Is that fool who got himself shot last night still cowerin’ in the room upstairs?”

“He’s still there,” Elizabeth said.

Her father looked toward her bedchamber and cursed. “I want ’im gone.”

“He’s hardly well enough to go anywhere.”

“It don’t matter to me if he’s dead or alive,” her father growled. “The authorities are still hangin’ around the village. Word is they weren’t completely convinced that the inn’s all that it seems to be. If they come back fer another look, your job’s to put their suspicions to rest.” He gave her a steely look. “He’s to be out tonight.”

Elizabeth bit back her argument. It was pointless. Her opinion held no sway with her father, and he’d already admitted that he cared nothing for the man’s life. His only concern was removing the inn from the Preventative Men’s scrutiny. Truth be told, the only reason he’d been willing to hide Reynard in the first place was because the wounded smuggler was a greater threat to her father if he remained at large. “I’ll tell him,” she said.

“See that you do.” Her father started up the stairs, then paused and turned back to face her. “I’ll be gone again this evenin’. Tell ’im that if that room’s not empty when I get back, I’ll turn ’im in myself fer bein’ a coward.”

If there was one thing Reynard was not, it was a coward. She’d watched the sweat bead up on his forehead when she’d checked his wounds that morning, but other than a few moans, he’d kept his silence throughout her examination. Admittedly, he’d not opened his eyes until she’d stopped singing, but by then, she’d been almost as ready as he had to have the bandage back in place. Her stitches were not a pleasant sight.

She continued down the stairs with her heavy pail, her thoughts on Reynard’s wounds. His arm had been swollen and red this morning, but it was too early to know if infection had set in. Thankfully, he’d shown no sign of fever yet. She chewed her lower lip. He’d pushed through the pain before. As long as he was not also battling delirium, perhaps he could do it again if it meant reaching the safety of his home.

***

Jonas crossed the small room for perhaps the hundredth time. It would have been a grander accomplishment had he not been able to walk the distance in three steps. Three steps from the edge of the cot to the wall, then three steps back. He felt like the pendulum that marked time in the longcase clock at Langton, but anything was better than simply lying on his back, staring at the dark lines that delineated where the beams ran across the ceiling.

Enough light was coming in through the small holes in the walls to mark the passage of day to night. He did not know exactly how long it had been since Miss Doyle had brought him tea and bread, but the deepening of the shadows around the furniture suggested that evening was not far off.

Despite having had so much time to think, he was frustratingly short on exit strategies. He was not well enough to make the long journey to London, so he would have to go to Langton instead. Arriving there in this state of dress and injury would undoubtedly cause unwanted attention, but it was truly his only option. At this point, traveling only five miles would test him, and as far as he could tell, his only means of escaping this room and reclaiming his horse was by enlisting Miss Doyle’s help.