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“’Bout time them lookouts sent the signal.” An older man, his shoulders stooped, shifted his feet impatiently.

“Stop yer complainin’, Alfie.” The dark-haired fellow standing beside Jonas glared at his companion. He smelled like wet sheep and appeared completely oblivious to the inclement weather. “We’ll be up to our knees in seawater soon enough.”

Alfie shuffled closer to the trunk of the tree but kept his eyes directed toward the dark void before them. Jonas glanced over his shoulder. He could feel the presence of the men and women gathered around him, but the night sky made it impossible to identify features. The rural inflection in the muted voices told him they were locals. Their ease with one another and with the job at hand suggested a familiarity that came from years of association. He was a stranger amongst them, and if their averted faces were anything to go by, their wariness of his presence ran deep.

“There she is,” someone said.

Like a star appearing just above the horizon, a single light shone out of the darkness. It flickered and swayed slightly. Then it was gone. Needing no further instruction, the men and women beside him surged forward. Pebbles crackled as they shifted under the weight of their hurried footsteps, and in the distance Jonas heard muffled splashes. Others were ahead of them, already moving into the water.

Sticking close to the man he assumed was a shepherd by trade, Jonas made his way toward the waterline. Clouds covered the moon, but by the light of a single hooded lantern, he could see the outlines of half a dozen fishing boats moving quickly out to sea.

“What’s yer name?” The unexpected voice drew Jonas’s attention back to the dark-haired man at his side.

“Reynard. What’s yours?”

“Black Pete.” He paused. “That’s ’cos of me ’air, not me ’eart.”

“I’m glad of the clarification.”

Black Pete grunted. “Thought y’ought to know, seein’ as you’re not from ’round ’ere.” He kept his voice low but eyed him suspiciously. “Where are ya from anyway?”

“London, most recently.”

Black Pete nodded. “Makes sense. You must’ve been spendin’ too much time hobnobbin’ with the toffs in the city. Yer startin’ to sound like one.”

Jonas kept his expression placid even as his heart stuttered. He was an idiot. His upper-class accent had been unimportant when he’d worked for the smugglers in London. He’d rarely seen his accessories at the pick-up and drop-off locations and had spoken to even fewer of them. But that was obviously not going to be the case on the beaches of Little Tilbury. Could he assume the local speech pattern—at least to a moderate degree? After all, it wasn’t so very different from his own. Most of the employees and tenants at Langton dropped a few letters occasionally; he’d been surrounded by it most of his life. “I’ve ’ad others tell me the same.”

“I dare say.” Black Pete looked thoughtful. “Smugglers are an odd breed, see. It can be right hard to know what they’re about. There’s them who like their tea and liquor and them that just want to put food on the table. There’s others who know too much and are ’ere to keep their families safe. Then there’s them who don’ care fer nothin’ but linin’ their pockets with more money than you or me could imagine in a month of Sundays. And they don’t mind killin’ fer it. If they’ve got ’earts at all, they’re blacker ’n coal.”

Jonas stared at the faint silhouette of the man beside him. He could just make out the whites of his eyes and knew he was watching him.

“Which one are you Black Pete?”

“I reckon the smugglin’s goin’ to ’appen with or without me. One night on the beach earns me more than I take ’ome after two months in the fields.” He shrugged. “Puts some extra food on the table, don’t it.”

Guilt gnawed at Jonas’s gut. This deception had been easier before real people with real struggles had become involved. It was quite possible that he’d been offered more for breakfast than the shepherd had eaten all week.

“What makes you think I’m not simply ’ere to line me own pockets, then?” Jonas said.

Before the man could respond, someone elbowed him aside and pressed a bludgeon to Jonas’s chest. “No more talkin’,” he hissed.

Jonas stood completely still. Every instinct screamed at him to respond to the ignorant bully, but he was not here as the Viscount Langton; he was here as Reynard. And this was his best opportunity to break the iron grip the gang leaders had on this community. In that moment of renewed awareness, he heard the rhythmic splash of oars. The boats were returning.

“Get movin’,” the man said, pushing the bludgeon against Jonas a little more forcefully. “You’ve got work t’do.”

The boats’ hulls grazed the sand as they reached them. Black Pete stepped away, into the water, and without a word, Jonas followed. Wading up to his knees, he took his place beside him in the line forming alongside the nearest fishing boat.

“Who was that?”

“Cyrus Doyle.” Black Pete ground out the name with distaste.

“Is ’e one of the gang’s leaders?”

The shepherd grunted. “’E lords over everyone like ’e is.” He passed Jonas a parcel of tea and lowered his voice still more. “Thinks ’e’s important ’cos ’e owns The Fox and Hare. But ’e’s more mean than important. And ’e’s not in charge, no matter what ’e wants people to think.”

Jonas knew of The Fox and Hare. The inn was located on the outskirts of the village. Far enough from the center of the village to be removed from prying eyes yet perfectly situated on the direct road to London. Travelers undoubtedly came and went with regularity and with no questions asked. In fact, he had a vague memory of having stopped at The Fox and Hare on his way back from boarding school many years before. But he had no recollection of meeting the proprietor. The chances were high that the man would have made little or no impression on him at that young age, no matter how unpleasant he might be.

Jonas wanted to press Black Pete for more, but as difficult as it was for him to practice patience, he recognized its value. Now was not the time. Already, he’d learned a name and a location. It was a good start.