She watched him read for a minute, then returned to her ode; this time, it drew her in.
He didn’t stir when the clock struck nine, but when it started to chime the hour again, he shut his book, looked up, and caught her eye. “Time to go.”
They went upstairs to change; she hurried, not wanting to risk his losing patience and riding off without her, but he was waiting at the head of the stairs when she rushed into the gallery. She slowed. His gaze raked her from her crown, over her jacket and breeches, to her boots; his lips tightened as she joined him, but he said nothing, merely waved her down the stairs.
Ten minutes later, they were mounted and cantering along the road to Fowey. The Fowey Gallants were the oldest, largest, and best-organized smuggling gang in the area, not least because the group included all those who sailed as privateers whenever matters of state permitted it. In many ways they were a more professional crew, yet equally only one remove from pirates.
Charles fitted right in. Penny saw that the instant they set foot in the Cock and Bull, the dimly lit tavern on Fowey’s dockside that the senior members of the Gallants frequented when not on the waves. Three of Mother Gibbs’s sons were there, in company with five others. None were gentle simple souls like Shep and Seth; these were seafarers of a quite different ilk.
They’d all turned, suspicious and wary, to eye the new arrivals; at sight of Charles, their closed faces split into wide grins. They stood to welcome him, clapping him on the shoulder, asking all manner of questions. She hung back in Charles’s shadow, wary of being clapped on the shoulder, too. Such a blow from one of these ham-fisted men would probably floor her.
It was Dennis Gibbs who, looking past Charles, notic
ed her. Nearly as tall as Charles and broader, his hard eyes narrowed. “What’ve we here, then?”
The other men shifted to look at her, eyes widening as they took in her garb. Before she could step back, as she was tempted to, Charles reached behind him and manacled her wrist. “Lady Penelope,” he said, “who you haven’t seen.”
All eight Gallants looked at him, then Dennis asked, “Why’s that?”
Charles gestured to their table and the deserted benches. “Let’s order another round, and I’ll tell you.”
She was again squashed into a corner; this time she could barely expand her lungs enough to breathe. But the Gallants weren’t anywhere near as friendly as Shep and Seth, nor even the Bodinnick crew, even though they knew her rather better. She recognized the son of the head gardener at Wallingham; he worked on the estate, yet there he sat, scowling blackly whenever he glanced her way.
This time it was Charles who carried the day. The Gallants listened to his explanation of his mission, then answered the questions he put to them freely; they knew and, it was patently obvious, respected him. She was relegated to a mere cipher; Charles explained her presence in terms of reassuring them over any reticence they might feel over speaking ill of her dead brother. They looked at her; all she was required to do was nod.
Their attention deflected immediately to Charles.
The tale the Gallants told was similar to what they’d heard at Polruan and Bodinnick, except that the Gallants were more specific about the lugger—a French vessel running no colors and always holding well back from their faster, lighter ships, ready to turn tail if they’d made any move to draw near.
“Always hovered nervous, and hoisted sail the instant their man was back aboard.”
“Did you ever get any indication of what Granville was doing?”
Dennis looked around the group, then shook his head. “Truth be told, I always assumed they—the Selbornes—were taking in information. I never imagined it was going the other way.”
Jammed against Charles, she felt him still. Then he murmured, “Actually, we don’t know which way it was going, not for certain. That’s why I’m here, trying to work out what was going on.”
“What about this new bugger, Arbry, then?” Dennis described the overtures Nicholas had made to the group, somewhat more definite than with the other crews, not least because, as Dennis put it, the Gallants had strung him along. “A good source of ale, he is, when he comes in.”
Charles made a less-than-civilized comment, then, laughing, called for another round. As earlier, he didn’t order anything for her. Although she was thirsty, she wasn’t game to mention it.
“You can rest assured, though”—for the first time, Dennis met her eyes—“we ain’t told Arbry anything. Nor likely to.”
Penny nodded, not even sure she was supposed to do that.
Charles asked, “Have any of you ever been involved in, or ever heard tell, of how Granville set up these meets? We’ve learned he went out with one or other of the Fowey gangs, and therefore at different points along the coast, twice or three times a year, yet each time the lugger was there, waiting.”
The eight Gallants exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
Charles persisted. “Could the lugger have been on more or less permanent station?”
“Nah.” Dennis lifted his head. “If that had been the way of it, we’d’ve come across it often enough, and we never did—not once except it was a run for Master Granville or the old earl.”
“It was the same arrangement even back then?”
“As long as I’ve been leading the Gallants, and even in my da’s day, back before then.”
Charles nodded. “So there had to be some way Granville sent word to the lugger to meet him.”