“You know,” the blond man said, “I think we ought to return to London.”
“Why’s that?” Kincade asked.
“It’s that business with the chit, the one whose father came to see you today. Damn if it doesn’t strike me as odd.” The Englishman played with his glass, contemplating.
Kincade leaned on the back two legs of his chair. “Odd? In what way?”
“If a man is bold enough to ask you to propose to his daughter . . . well, it’s highly improper. And if a man has resigned himself to such conduct on behalf of his child, it makes one wonder what else he would resort to, with the proper motivation.”
“Ah, I ken what you mean. You think he might try something else?”
“I do. I fear he might do something reckless. Not that I can say for sure, ’tis simply a feeling in my gut.” The blond Englishman lowered his voice. “Or perhaps it is simply this ale. Still, I think we should go back to London.”
Kincade reached for the empty pint glass the blond man held. “We can leave tomorrow, then. Bur first, another round?”
“Yes, yes.” The Englishman passed his glass to Kincade, who stood.
Jem was struck with sudden inspiration.
“Harvey, pass me the bottle of laudanum,” he whispered. Harvey discreetly passed Jem the dark-blue bottle from his coat pocket. Jem stood and walked toward the bar, standing close to Kincade while the man waited for his glasses to be filled. The man nodded when he received them, then returned to his table.
Jem bumped into him with the practiced ease of his cutpurse youth, draining half the bottle into the man’s glass before muttering an apology and moving away. He returned to his table and signaled to his men to drink their ale, but they did not empty their glasses. After watching the Scotsman, they all knew he was still likely to put up a hell of a fight. Jem settled in to wait for his prey to weaken.
Brodie was secretly rather glad to be returning to London. He did not, however, like to feel as though he was running away from Jackson Hunt and his troublesome daughter. A Kincade never backed down from a fight. He might choose not to fight, he might merely hold his ground, but to run with his tail between his legs? Over a girl with stars in her eyes? It was a bit much for a man to stomach. Nevertheless, Bath had proved to be far less entertaining than London. It was too . . . safe.
Taking a deep drink of his fresh ale, he listened to Rafe talk about his exploits from his time as a highwayman. His elder brother, Ashton, had been holding tight to the family’s purse strings, and so Rafe had been robbing rich travelers in the fifty-mile radius around the Lennox family estate for the last two years. He was always careful to choose those who could afford such involuntary donations to his cause, or those who Rafe knew to be worthy of being brought down a bit. He also did it as much for the thrills as he did for the coin.
“So there I was, pistol aimed at this grumpy old chap, and he has the bloody nerve to tell me off when I’d only asked him for his gold pocket watch.”
“What did you do?”
Rafe snickered. “Let him keep the watch, but I might have left him in his underthings and made off with his clothes.”
“And what did you do with those?” Brodie asked.
“There was an old beggar who sits outside a traveling coach inn a few miles away. I gave him the lot.”
“That’s rather kind of you, for a highwayman.” Brodie chuckled.
Rafe shrugged. “Yes, well, it’s not always about the money.” Rafe finished his ale and sighed. “Well, shall we head home? It’s better to get an early start. I would like to give my valet a decent amount of time to pack. Otherwise, Timmons complains like a mother hen.”
“Aye. I imagine Alan would like the same.” Brodie found it was a new experience to have his whereabouts and his plans affect the life of a servant.
Brodie and Rafe stood. “I’ll be a moment, Brodie.” Rafe nodded toward the door where he could go through and relieve himself.
Brodie leaned heavily against the chair back, his hands braced on the thick wood as he drew in a slow breath and wiped his mouth. Why had this last pint tasted a little bitter? Everything