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“’E is indeed. Just like ’is father afore ’im.”

Instantly, Jonas’s mind jumped to a scene from his past: to the arrival of another man—older and grayer but with the same ruddy cheeks and watery eyes—who descended upon Langton Manor two weeks after Jonas’s father’s funeral, bearing the news that his investigation into the viscount’s death had uncovered no sign of foul play and would therefore be formally filed as a tragic accident. Jonas had forgotten the name of the man who’d so solemnly declared those findings to his family, but the vision of his mother in tears after the magistrate had left was indelibly imprinted in his mind, as were his own feelings of gut-wrenching loss.

“Did his father have dealin’s with the smugglers too?”

Black Pete snorted. “You can count them that live in Little Tilbury who aren’t in the smugglers’ pay on one ’and. And neither this magistrate nor his father is one of ’em.”

Jonas felt sick. Was it possible that the official inquest into his father’s death had been no inquest at all? Had his family been hoodwinked into believing the consoling words of a magistrate who had answered only to the leader of the Lamhurst Gang? The lingering doubts he’d harbored over what had actually happened on that fateful night so long ago seemed suddenly validated. He glanced around the room. The men’s attention had returned to the conversations at their tables.

Quietly sliding his chair back, Jonas got to his feet. “The privy?”

Alfie jerked his head toward the door Doyle and Cummings had just walked through. “That way.”

Jonas gave him a nod of acknowledgment. Then, moving into the shadows, he slipped out of the room. Pausing long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the passageway, he quickly took stock of his surroundings. By the light of the single lamp burning on a narrow table halfway down the hall, he could make out the door at the end of the passageway that led outside. To his left, a staircase led to the upper floor and, presumably, to the inn’s bedchambers. To his right, a couple more doors were recessed into the thick walls.

Putting his ear to the nearest door, he listened intently. Upon hearing nothing from within, he carefully turned the knob. A quick glance inside told him he’d discovered the kitchen. Closing the door, he moved on to the next one and repeated the procedure. This time, the handle did not turn. Jonas frowned at the locked door. It could be Doyle’s private office or perhaps the entrance to the cellar full of smuggled brandy.

A clatter of hooves filled the silence from outside. Jonas ran to the outside door and yanked it open in time to see a dark rider on a black horse exit the courtyard and set off down the road to London at a gallop.

“Blast it all!” Jonas thumped the doorframe with his fist. If his favorite mount were in the stable, he’d have given chase. His new stallion was capable of outrunning most horses in London. Unfortunately, he knew full well that the unremarkable older mare he’d chosen for this venture could not. He hesitated at the doorway, wondering if it was still worth making a run through the rain to the stable. Would the stablehand willingly share information about the mysterious Midnight Master, or would Jonas’s questions only raise unwanted suspicions?

A door clicked behind him, and Jonas swung around. The sudden burst of men’s voices and light that entered the passageway was quickly extinguished as the door closed again. On silent feet, Jonas moved away from the outer door and into the shadow of the staircase.

“There now, that’s much better.” The man’s oily tone held a hint of iron.

“I beg to differ, Mr. Cummings.”

Jonas froze. The second speaker was a woman. It had to be the barmaid. What was she doing alone in the passageway with the magistrate?

Cummings chuckled. “Come now, Miss Doyle. There’s no need to play coy with me.”

Miss Doyle. So the barmaid was the landlord’s daughter.

“I’m not playing coy, sir.” Miss Doyle’s voice was remarkably firm. “As far as I’m concerned, things will not be better till you unhand me and return to the other room.”

Had the man truly brought her into the passageway against her will? Jonas shifted slightly so he could see around the staircase. Cummings’s back was to him. There was no sign of Miss Doyle, but as the burly man took a step forward, Jonas heard her yelp. He had her trapped against the wall.

“And why would I do that when we are exactly where I want us to be?”

All trace of amiability was gone from the magistrate’s voice, and Jonas acted immediately. The outer door was still ajar. He reached it in three steps and shoved it hard enough that it slammed against the wall. Then he pivoted and ran back into the hall.

“Is there a Mr. Cummings ’ere?” he called in his best Kentish accent. “Some gent jus’ left the stable door open, and another ’orse went ‘n’ bolted. The stableboy says it’s Mr. Cummings’s mount that’s gone missing and asked that I come fetch ’im.”

The magistrate let out an expletive and pushed Miss Doyle to one side as he started for the open door. “How long ago?”

“Three minutes, sir. No longer.”

Cummings rushed past without giving him a second glance.

Jonas waited only until the man had disappeared into the rain before turning to the young woman. “Go,” he said. “Quickly. Before he returns.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide and fearful. Then without a word, she fled up the stairs.

Chapter 4

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Elizabeth stared across the room at the door. Her bedchamber was locked, and the key was in her pocket. She was safe. For the time being, at least. With trembling fingers, she lifted the corner of her apron and wiped away yet another stray tear, pushing back the memory of Mr. Cummings’ groping hands and brandy-laced breath. She shuddered and looked down. If it hadn’t been for the stranger’s sudden arrival in the passageway . . . No. She could not follow that train of thought. Taking a deep breath, she released the wadded apron in her fist and watched the wrinkles slowly drop.

Had her father known of Mr. Cummings’ intentions when he’d gone to speak with the blacksmith and left her alone with the loathsome man? At nineteen years of age, she was already older than most of the single young women in the village, and given the fact that she was healthy and hardworking, she likely would have been wed long ago were it not for her father’s miserly nature. She gave a shaky breath and smoothed her damp apron across her knee.