Page 74 of The Noble Smuggler

“Thank you, my lord.” She placed her hand on Alexander’s arm, and when they started for the door, Jonas fell into step behind them.

Alexander opened the front door, and they walked in, pausing as their eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. There was no fire in the hearth, and all the chairs were empty. A few dirty mugs sat on the nearest table, and up at the bar, a single old man sat hunched over his drink. Doyle stood behind the counter, wiping out a mug with a filthy rag.

“Bit late for you to show up, chit,” the innkeeper said, setting the mug down and scowling angrily at Miss Allerton before eyeing her companions with an odd combination of contempt and distrust.

Miss Allerton lowered her hand from the earl’s arm, took a step forward, and faced the cruel man. “I came to ask why you never told me that Mary Doyle was not my birth mother.”

The shock that flickered through his dark eyes was quickly replaced by scorn. “Finally worked that out, did ya? Took you long enough.” He moved three more mugs onto the counter and picked up his rag again. “Never could understand why she didn’t want you to know. You belonged to some no-account cousin of hers who begged Mary to take you off ’er ’ands afore she sailed fer America. The fool woman agreed without givin’ me any say in the matter.” He leaned over the counter and glared at her. “I’d’ve sent you back if I’d ’ad the chance.”

An unnatural hush fell over the room, and Jonas glanced at Miss Allerton. Her face was pale, but she kept her head high, and despite her worn gown, she looked every inch a noblewoman. She was a noblewoman. The conviction hit Jonas even as Doyle’s pronouncement should have spread seeds of doubt. The young woman Mary Doyle had raised was the granddaughter of the Earl of Bloxley. The innkeeper’s wife may have guessed the child’s noble heritage when she hid the necklace that had come with her, but she’d been wise enough not to share her suspicions with her husband.

“Your tongue is as vicious as your heart is black, Doyle,” Jonas said, stepping toward the bar.

“L . . . Lord L . . . Langton.” The old man in the corner roused himself from his drunken stupor and stared at him wide eyed. “Saints preserve us. I knew ya’d come. I knew it.”

“Alfie?” Jonas barely recognized the grumpy old smuggler without his dark hat and coat.

“Yes, me lord.” His lip quivered. “I’m still ’ere all these years later. Still tryin’ to figure out how to make amends fer leavin’ ya that night.” He wrung his gnarled hands anxiously. “I gotta do it soon though, don’ I? I mean, how much longer is an old codger like me gonna be around?”

What was the man talking about? He was obviously too far into his cups to have any concept of time. Yet somehow, he’d recognized him.

“Yer talkin’ rubbish, old man,” Doyle said.

“Not rubbish,” Alfie said indignantly. “I wuz there. I saw everythin’. The storm, the shipwreck, the baby, and what you all did to Lord Langton.”

“Shut yer trap, Alfie.” Doyle started toward Alfie, but Alexander blocked his way.

“Go ahead and tell Lord Langton what’s on your mind, Alfie,” Alexander said. “Get it off your chest. Tell him everything that happened that night all those years ago.”

Jonas’s heart began to pound. He and Alexander had simultaneously come to the same realization. Miss Allerton was not the only one in the room who strongly resembled a parent. In his drunken state, Alfie had mistaken Jonas for his father.

“Alfie, if you don’t keep yer mouth shut, there’ll be hell to pay.” Doyle was attempting to push past Alexander, but the earl wasn’t having it. Shoving the innkeeper back against the bar, Alexander withdrew a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at him.

“I believe it’s your turn to remain silent, Mr. Doyle,” he said. “You move, I shoot.”

Doyle froze, his dark eyes flashing.

“Step back, Miss Allerton,” Jonas said, keeping his voice even. He heard her footsteps moving away, but he didn’t dare look at her. He could have no distractions now.

At the bar, Alfie moaned. “I reckon I’m goin’ to that fiery place no matter what ’appens. Is that what you came ’ere to tell me, Lord Langton?”

“No, Alfie,” Jonas said. “I came to hear what happened to you that night.”

Alfie took another gulp of ale and set the mug down with a shaking hand. “It’s ’bout time, I reckon.” He gave Jonas a confused look. “Seems like ghosts usually start botherin’ people sooner ’un this. Took yer time, me lord, I must say.”

Doing his best to curb his impatience, Jonas nodded. “I believe now will work well.”

“If you say so.” The old man frowned, and for one horrible moment, Jonas wondered if he’d forgotten what he was going to say, but then he began to speak. His voice was distant, as though his thoughts were very far away. “’Twas a wicked storm that night, weren’t it, me lord? With the wind howlin’ and the rain hissin’ so hard, ’tis no surprise no one else heard the baby cryin’ in that hatbox. Bobbin’ up and down on the water like that, it’s a wonder the child didn’t fall out. I daresay she would’ve if you ’adn’t waded out an’ grabbed it.” He ran his worn hand over his face. “Either that, or she’d ’ve come to a watery end at the ’ands of others.”

He looked up at Jonas, his expression haggard. “The sound of that cryin’ baby’s kept me up too many nights to count, me lord. When you saw Doyle and Cummings and them comin’ after you, you just pushed that wet box into me hands and told me to find a woman to care fer ’er. What was I supposed to do? We both knew the men ’ad spotted ya, and I knew full well what they’d do to ya, but you’d given me an order. It was the baby or you. You made yer choice . . .” He took a ragged breath. “And you made it fer me too.”

“So you left?” Jonas said, barely trusting his voice.

“The men comin’ after you, they were running from the north so I went south. Heaven help me, me lord, I never looked back.” Tears were falling down his cheeks now. “I knew what I’d see if I did, and I couldn’t have that haunting me fer the rest of me life. The cryin’ child was enough.”

“Where . . . ?” Jonas attempted to clear his strangled throat. “Where did you take the child?”

“Why, here, me lord. Mary Doyle was the only woman in the village who weren’t out helpin’ the smugglers.”