Page 75 of The Noble Smuggler

“You old fool.” His face purple with pent-up fury, Doyle lunged for Alfie, grabbing him by his neck.

Startled out of his maudlin memories, Alfie jerked like a marionette. He knocked his mug to the floor, the sound of the crash mixing with the crack of Lord Bloxley’s pistol. Doyle screamed and doubled over, clutching his left leg.

“You were warned.” The earl spoke through gritted teeth. “And a flesh wound in your sorry leg is nothing to what you did to Lord Langton’s father and to my family.”

Alfie was cowering in the corner, his hand rubbing the reddened skin above his collar. “You shot ’im,” he gasped. “You shot Mr. Doyle.”

“I did indeed,” Alexander said. “But he’ll live to see another day—hopefully in Newgate—and you won’t need to worry about any ugly memories because chances are, you’ll remember nothing come tomorrow.”

Alexander turned his attention to the wounded man, and Jonas took Alfie by the arm and hauled him to his feet.

“Best head home, Alfie,” he said.

The old man scrunched his face in concentration. “It’s dusk already, and I reckon there’s a boat comin’ in tonight.”

“Go home and stay there,” Jonas repeated firmly.

“Yes, me lord,” the old man mumbled.

He swayed his way between the tables and toward the door, passing Miss Allerton without even seeing her. She was standing as though nailed to the spot, her eyes wide and her lip caught between her teeth.

“Miss Allerton,” Jonas said. She dragged her gaze away from the scene at the bar, where Alexander was hauling a bloodied Doyle onto his feet. “I must assist the earl in removing Mr. Doyle to the hidden room upstairs. He will be safe there until the runners arrive. Would you like to take a seat until I return?”

She shook her head numbly. “I . . . I shall fetch a rag and a bucket of water.” She swallowed hard. “The blood. I should clean it up.”

Shock was obviously taking its toll. He took a step toward her. “That can wait,” he said.

She shook her head again. “It’s best that I do it now; otherwise, it will stain.”

“Langton.” Alexander grunted. He was lugging Doyle toward the back passage. “Show me where to find that blasted room before anyone else arrives.”

“Go, my lord,” she said. “Night is coming on, and we do not have much time.” She tore off her gloves and bonnet and dropped them on the table beside her before hurrying across the room to claim the rag Doyle had set on the counter. Where she found her resilience, Jonas could not fathom. But she was drawing on it now, and no matter Alfie’s staggering revelations, he needed to do the same.

***

Elizabeth wrung the cloth out above the pail of water and dropped to her knees again. The trail of blood leading to the stairs was gone, and the worst of the stains in the front room were now simply wet marks. Only the splatters behind the counter remained. She’d worked fast, anxious to do something—anything—rather than sit and think on what had just occurred in this room.

The gentlemen would be returning momentarily, and she was not yet prepared to face them. How could she? Lord Langton’s father had been killed because of her, and the woman she had called mother had purposely hidden her survival from everyone—including her husband and Lord Bloxley’s grieving family. This must have been what had been weighing on Mary Doyle’s conscience when she’d asked for Elizabeth’s forgiveness on her deathbed. Elizabeth scrubbed harder. Merciful heavens, how was she ever to sort through her tumultuous emotions?

The front door opened, banging against the wall, and heavy feet hurried across the floor. Unable to see the visitor, she crawled farther under the counter, bumping one stool against another in her haste. The second stool teetered, and before she could reach for it, it crashed against the wall.

“Doyle?”

Elizabeth froze. She knew that voice, and it sent icy dread through her veins.

“Get out of there. Preventative Men have been spotted just outside the village, and they have soldiers with them.”

His footsteps stopped immediately behind her. Slowly, she turned her head. Mr. Cummings was standing two feet from her, his hands on his hips, his narrowed eyes glaring at her.

“Miss Doyle.” His voice had lost its oily quality and had become far more menacing. “I had not supposed to find you at the inn.”

Elizabeth did not move. A second door opened. This time, it was the one into the passageway. Mr. Cummings swung around.

“Well met, Cummings,” Lord Langton said, moving to stand inches from the magistrate.

“Where’s Doyle?” the magistrate asked, his gaze darting nervously from one gentleman to the other.

“Funny you should ask that,” Lord Bloxley said. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Lord Langton, his pistol in hand again. “We were just coming to take you to him.”