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Somehow, he would need to persuade her that he should be allowed to leave without the approval of her father. The longer he stayed, the greater the chance that his true identity would be discovered. Quite apart from the fact that in his current, weakened state, a slip of the tongue was likely, he was also well aware that infection—with its accompanying fever—was still an all-too-real possibility. There could be no accounting for what secrets he may spill should delirium set in; it was imperative that no hint of his subterfuge reach Cyrus Doyle.

Jonas ran his fingers through his hair. It was quite remarkable that a man of such base cruelty could have a daughter who exhibited such solicitude—and such inspiring musical talent. If he hadn’t heard her sing with his own ears, he never would have believed it. He’d been to his fair share of musical evenings, some of them graced by London’s most noted soloists, but he’d never before heard a voice so pure and a range so limitless. No wonder her ailing mother had asked her to sing often. Her voice had the power to transport a patient to a far better place, and for the first time since reading the Greek classics at Cambridge, Jonas understood the power of the sirens. With a groan, he made another circuit to the wall and back. He would do well to remember that those mythical creatures had lured men to act against their better judgments.

This time, he heard the click before the crack of light appeared. Stepping over to his cot, he gently lowered himself onto the thin mattress and watched as the opening widened.

“Reynard? Are you awake?”

Jonas found himself smiling. Already, her greeting was becoming a familiar refrain.

“I am.”

She entered the room, carrying a slightly larger bowl than before.

“At this time of day, I cannot leave the front room unattended for long. Do you think you can manage this soup on your own?”

At the mere mention of food, Jonas’s stomach growled. “I will do my best.”

She nodded and handed him the bowl, seemingly reassured to see that the hand that received it was shaking less than it had when she’d offered him the tea. “It’s good that you are feeling stronger,” she said. She shifted slightly. “My father wishes you gone this evening.”

Jonas lowered the bowl from his lips and stared at her. Was she actually offering him the escape he desired? He sensed her hesitation. Was this a trap? “Why tonight?”

She glanced at the open doorway. “The Preventative Men are still about. My father fears they will search the inn again. This room has not yet been discovered, but it is best for everyone if you leave as soon as it is dark.”

Jonas knew enough of Cyrus Doyle’s character to recognize the move for what it was—an act of self-preservation. He cared nothing for Jonas’s life. The fact that he was sending a man nursing a recent bullet wound into the waiting arms of the lawmen proved it. What was important to Doyle was that his inn remained the hub of the Lamhurst Gang’s smuggling network. It was of little consequence if there were a few casualties along the way as long as they did not occur on his property.

“So you would send me out to meet my fate.”

To his surprise, she did not shrink from his criticism nor offer excuses.

“You are a smuggler,” she said. “You are well aware of the risks you take by breaking the law.”

Jonas frowned. This was not the response he had expected from Cyrus Doyle’s daughter. He pressed her further, allowing some bitterness to enter his voice. “I daresay my weakened state will make it easy enough for the Preventative Men to have their way with me.” It was common knowledge that convicted smugglers went straight to the gallows.

Miss Doyle placed an uneasy hand on her neck. “I would not willingly have you or anyone else die an untimely or cruel death.”

Anger at her blatant hypocrisy bubbled within him, but he damped it down. Now was not the time to expose his true feelings or identity. “Is that not what smugglers do?” he said with a calm he did not feel. “Kill those who get in the way of their objectives?”

She did not immediately reply, but when she did, her voice shook. “I have heard rumors of such atrocities.” She looked away. “I pray they are exaggerated.”

“Your father is one of the Lamhurst Gang’s ringleaders, and yet you tell me that you do not know of these things?” Jonas could hear the skepticism in his own voice.

Elizabeth stiffened. “What my father does is his choice; it does not signify that it is mine.”

“Even if that were true, your complicity in the work he does makes you culpable.”

She turned to him then, and in the half light, the look in her eyes shocked him. He had wounded her. Deeply. But to his astonishment, she did not lash out, accuse him of committing the very same sin, or worse. She simply took an uneven breath and turned away.

“I will come for you at midnight.” Her voice was hollow. “Georgie will have your horse ready.” Then she left, closing the panel behind her.

Jonas sat staring at the dark wall. The light was gone, and it felt as though he were responsible for dousing it. He looked down. The soup bowl was still in his hand. Putting it to his lips again, he drank. A few finely chopped vegetables floated in a weak broth. It was a poor substitute for his usual suppers, but it somehow seemed like more. Miss Doyle had not needed to bring him anything. In fact, he would hazard a guess that her father would have prevented her from doing so had he known her intention. And yet she had done it. Regret at his hastily spoken accusations ate at him. Miss Doyle may live and associate with amoral smugglers, but she had shown him nothing but kindness.

***

Elizabeth went through the motions of taking care of the inn’s guests while keeping her ear attuned to any sound that would herald the arrival of the lawmen’s horses in the yard. The vague threat was unnerving, but it served to distract her from the heavy weight in her chest. Reynard’s accusation had hit its mark. She wanted to feel indignant, rankled by his unfair assessment of her character, but instead, she felt hurt and shame. He had voiced what she’d known for years and what she’d agonized over while the Preventative Men searched the inn the night before: her silence regarding the smuggling activity at The Fox and Hare condemned her.

Over and over again, she considered her options. There were discouragingly few. She would have to relocate far from Little Tilbury to truly escape the smuggling world. However, even if she miraculously found employment elsewhere, it was extremely unlikely that her father and his associates would let her go. The truth was, she knew too much. Without ever having been brought into their confidence, she knew names and faces, signals and routes. Away from the inn, she was a threat, and the Lamhurst Gang leadership would not tolerate it.

Elizabeth served soup, refilled glasses, cleared tables, replenished the wood on the fire, and directed guests to their rooms. And all the while, she watched the clock. When at last the hands pointed to midnight and the inn’s guests were all abed, she made sure Georgie had Reynard’s horse saddled and ready, then she made her way up to her bedchamber and released the secret wall panel.