Page 55 of The Seaside Homecoming
“Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”
Another frown. “I had better go as I am.”
“Good heavens. You are making me nervous.”
“Probably worrying for nothing. Still, if he’s there to meet me, I feel responsible.”
No, I feel responsible, Claire thought, stomach twisting.
Setting aside his gear and replacing his hat, he added, “If he does encounter incivility, perhaps I can help defuse the situation. I have some experience in peace negotiations, after all. I trust it will serve me well now.”
He turned and stalked out the door. For a few moments, Claire remained where she was, thoughts and fears whirling. Then she realized she would get nothing done standing there wringing her hands.
Grabbing her bonnet off the peg, Claire hurried out, tying the ribbons haphazardly under her chin as she jogged down the steps and strode up Back Street. She consoled herself with the thought that it was early in the day so the patrons would not yet be inebriated. She hoped.
Nearing the Old Ship Inn, she heard raised voices before she’d even reached the door.
Rude, jeering voices.
Oh no.
“Are ’ee lost, laddie? No lascars here.”
“Look at ’is fine clothes. You in a play? Convincin’ costume fer the role of gentleman, but yer the dashed wrong color.”
Laughter. And not the friendly sort.
Mr. Hammond’s voice. “Come now, gents. This man has lived here—what, more than a twelvemonth? Practically a local.”
“An incomer like ’at will n’er be one of us.”
Mr. Hammond persisted, “Mr. Sagar served His Royal Majesty in India, alongside many other brave soldiers. He deserves your respect. Come, let us have peace.”
“I’ll give you peace. A piece of my mind. And my fist.”
Another voice entered the fray. “Now, you lot. No fighting in here.”
Voices rose to an angry pitch, followed by a loud crash. A table being pushed over? Then came the sound of shattering glass.
Lord, please.Claire stood there, rooted to the spot. This was all her fault. She’d only meant to help. She could not go in, could she? Should she?
She was about to when she noticed a man and woman strolling up the street arm in arm. A woman she recognized—Viola, and without a veil! And with her was a tall, broad-shouldered man with burn scars on half his face. This must be her husband, Major Hutton.
Surprise and relief flooded Claire. “Viola! Oh, thank God. Come quick.”
They hurried forward, Viola looking eager, hand outstretched.
“Claire! We were so worried when we didn’t find you in Edinburgh. We returned last night and were just on our way to see you.” Searching her face, Viola frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“They are fighting inside.”
“Nothing new there,” Viola’s husband grumbled.
“But Mr. Hammond is in there, and Mr. Sagar.”
At that, he jerked his head around, a fierce scowl on his scarred face.
“Armaan is in there?”
