“Safe enough.” St. Clare led her across the yard to the tavern’s darkened entrance. There was no one about save for a portly man in an oilskin coat. His hat was pulled low over his face, obscuring his features as he mounted a rather depressed-looking chestnut horse.
Maggie suppressed another shiver. She clutched her reticule close to her, feeling the reassuring weight of the flintlock within it.
It was nearly as dark inside the tavern as it was without—and darker still as the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them on hinges that were desperately in need of oiling.
At the sound, every man in the room seemed to look up. And there were a great many men present. Three grizzled, white-haired fellows were hunched over a table in the corner, nursing tankards of ale. Two slightly younger men were near the fire, smoking pipes. And yet another group—younger still—huddled at the high wooden counter of the bar.
Their faces were uniformly sinister in the shadows cast from an overhead oil lantern that swayed on a chain. And most sinister of all, the barman—a hulking figure with a balding pate and a crooked nose that looked as if it had been broken at least half a dozen times.
She shot a worried glance at St. Clare, but he didn’t appear to be at all concerned. To be sure, his face was as cold and implacable as it had often seemed in London.
Maggie tightened her hand on his arm as the two of them approached the counter.
The barman looked between them, his flinty gaze at last settling on St. Clare’s face. “Can I help you, milord?” A heavy strain of sarcasm colored his words.
“My companion has one or two questions for you,” St. Clare said. “Try to keep a civil tongue in your head.”
Maggie’s heart clutched on an unexpected surge of gratitude. She’d thought that St. Clare would handle the questioning. That he’d prefer her to remain mute—a silent observer to their adventure rather than a participant in it.
But that wasn’t how he felt about her at all.
She was his companion, he’d said. Just as she’d always been. His equal, and second self. Not someone to be silenced. But someone he would help to be heard.
If she could have flung her arms around his neck and kissed him in that moment without causing a furor, she would have done so, and gladly.
The barman looked at her. “Questions about what?”
She moistened her lips, focusing her mind on the task at hand. “Are you the proprietor?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Well…I do, of course.” What a thing to ask! “I’m looking for someone.”
Some of the younger men at the bar hooted. “Will I do, missus?” one of them called out.
St. Clare gave them a cool glance. The men quieted.
Maggie ignored them. “I’m looking for a man who frequented the tavern many years ago.”
“How many years?” the barman asked.
“Thirty, approximately. A trifle less, perhaps. It was long before my time.”
“And mine,” he said. “Wasn’t but a babe thirty years ago, was I?”
Her spirits dimmed.
“Who can we speak to?” St. Clare asked. “There must be someone about.” He cast a pointed glance at the three old men in the corner. They were watching him—had been ever since Maggie and St. Clare had entered the tavern. “What about them?”
“Nah. It’s me father you want.” The barman spat on the ground. “But can’t think why it’d be worth it to trouble the old man at this time of night.”
“You’ll be compensated, of course,” Maggie said.
The barman’s gaze narrowed. “Secrets don’t come cheap around here, milady. And you won’t find none of us willing to sell out one of our own.”
“There’s no question of that.” St. Clare’s voice deepened—projecting through the tavern, though he didn’t raise it one jot. “This is a family matter.”
A swell of whispers rose in response to his words.
Maggie gave St. Clare a frowning glance. But there was no time to inquire what he was playing at.
He slid a gold sovereign across the bar. “There’s another for you once we’ve spoken to him.”
The barman picked up the sovereign and bit it. Seemingly satisfied, he dropped it into the pocket of his stained waistcoat. He walked out from behind the counter, jerking his head toward a dark, narrow staircase. “He’s upstairs in his room.”
St. Clare didn’t budge. “Summon him. We’ll speak to him here.”
“Can’t do,” the barman said. “He don’t come downstairs no more.”
Maggie felt St. Clare’s arm tense under her hand. She understood why. It could very well