Page 82 of Bargaining with the Devil

The man nodded and Blackmore leveled his gaze at the other two. They murmured their agreement.

“Will there be trouble with Lees’s family over what’s happened here?” Blackmore asked. “We’re not after Lees ourselves. Our interest is purely in Lymington. Customs is closing in on Lees, though, and two dead bodies here could put you in a predicament with him before they manage to grab him up.”

The leader shook his head. “Nay, I’ll make sure it’s square wi’ John, but there wisnae love lost there tae start. Lees has somethin’ ower John’s head. If Lees gets scrabbled up by Customs as ye say, leavin’ us out o’ it, it will be a relief. Sae long as we don’t get dragged down wi’ him,” the man added pointedly. “On account o’ this business.”

“You have my word—so long as I have yours. Quinn?”

He’d back Blackmore. “Aye.” Time to let them be on their way, then; day would quickly be erasing dawn. “’Tis nothing wrong with a bit of free trading,” he offered. “Folks have to do what feeds their families, aye? And keeps them warm for the winter with a bit left over?”

“We’ll handle these two”—Blackmore gestured towards the bodies—“and clear things up with the magistrate. You were never here,” he added.

“We’ll leave ye a crate for yer trouble.” The man nodded back towards the boat.

“Probably best not, so as not to raise questions if the magistrate catches wind. But I thank you all the same,” Blackmore said.

“It’s us as are thankin’ ye, gettin’ us out from under this mess.” The men turned back towards the boat to begin the work of unloading their crates into a small cave in the cliffs that looked to be inaccessible at high tide.

“We’ll keep out of your way. Keep an eye out for trouble while you unload,” he said. Excisemen, he meant, though ’twould put them in a pickle if honest Customs men showed up just now.

The men were efficient; the unloading was accomplished quickly, in silence. ’Twas in their ease that they’d been doing this for years. Probably their fathers and grandfathers before them too.

Before long they were back in the boat. The leader tipped his hat to them, and they started in the direction of Balcary Point, working in tandem despite there only being three men at the oars now.

He came over to the dead men for a closer look at their faces. Aye, both there that day on Heston Isle, rowing the injured Lymington out to the waiting lugger. Now to determine where Lymington had gone . . .

He smelled smoke, and it raised an instant chill on his spine, set his teeth on edge. ’Twasn’t the smell of a peat fire, warming a home nearby.

Casting his eyes up towards the top of the heugh, he searched the sky for the direction. “’Tis a fire somewhere there shouldn’t be.”

“Aye, I smell it.” Blackmore was frowning, scanning their surroundings, same as he was doing.

“I don’t like this.” His palms tingled.

“Nor do I.”

“Go.” Pereira knelt by one of the bodies. “I’ll search the bodies for anything important. I’ll come along once I have. The two of you go.”

He jerked a nod of acknowledgment and started at a rapid pace towards the path up the heugh towards the cottages, Blackmore close behind him.

Isobel had wanted her to stay in the main cottage, but she refused. They were already at risk, Issy and Rachel, because of her presence, and now Eva and Edmund too. If something should happen, if Lymington should single her out . . . Well, it was best if they weren’t together.

She’d seen Nathaniel and Pereira and Quinn at work together once before, the day they helped her to get away from the Théâtre de la Gaîté in Paris. They would do everything in their power using their formidable skill sets to apprehend and deal with Lymington and the others once and for all. But she also didn’t blindly trust that it would work out, because life had taught her that the future was unpredictable and often darker than one’s dreams and hopes allowed.

In a book of Da’s, a volume of poetry by Robert Burns, was a poem entitled “To a Mouse.” She’d mostly glossed over the meaning of one of the stanzas when she was younger, rediscovering it on a more recent reread. Or not rediscovered, but life lived between had rendered it sadder and more profound.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain;

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!

Looking ahead did no good. Sorrowful outcomes were as likely as happy ones. More so, in her experience. For herself anyway. She would forever be glad that life led Isobel to Nathaniel. Or vice versa? Whatever the case, they’d found one another in the midst of fearful circumstances.