Page 64 of I Thee Wed
Richard raised his brows but said nothing.
The man gave a short, scornful laugh. “Wilson thought himself clever. The blackguard claimed to offer protection from the smugglers, but he was a rogue and a bully, with half his family in his train. He gouged us all until the town had had enough.”
Richard’s tone sharpened. “How was he got rid of?”
The man’s eyes gleamed with memory. “It was July 1810. He sent one of his nephews into the bakery to threaten the owner. But we tradesmen were waiting. Armed, the lot of us. Three shots to his legs put him down. We carried him screaming to thegrocers, where another of Wilson’s brood was making demands. That one fled when he saw his cousin crippled. We pursued him straight to Wilson’s yard. There were twenty of us by then. We held Wilson and his crew at gunpoint and gave them three days to quit the town. We told him plain, any one of them seen after that would be shot on sight. They left that same night.”
Richard set down his fork. “And since then?”
The man shrugged. “Since then, it has been quiet enough. The smugglers pass, yes, but they use back tracks and keep to themselves. They do not trouble the town. They are bold enough now to move in daylight, but they stay clear of the streets. We go about our business and leave them to theirs. For myself, I want no part of contraband spirits. It’s not worth the risk. My family is safe, and my trade is honest. The rest of the town feels the same. We had enough of criminal gangs when we ran Wilson out.”
Richard rose and laid coin on the table. “You serve good food and better ale. I shall return. Thank you for your tale.”
The tavern owner inclined his head. “Much obliged.”
Richard stepped into the street, his mind already turning. Wilson had been cast out, but smuggling thrived still, bolder than ever. It was time to see how deep the roots ran in the fields about Rosings.
Richard rose early the following day, saddled his bay, and set off from Rosings with the sun still low. He kept to the lesser roads, turning his eyes toward the hedgerows and the beaten paths that threaded between fields. The tavern keeper’s words echoed in his mind:They move in daylight now, bold as you please, yet they keep to the back tracks.
He slowed his horse and dismounted when the path narrowed into a cart rut. Stooping, he looked closely at the moist soil. Fresh marks scored the ground.
“Hoofprints,” he murmured. “And not the gait of a single horse. Many passed this way, and they were heavily laden.”
He straightened as a farmer approached with a hoe over his shoulder. Richard tipped his hat. “Good morning, sir. Do you know who uses this track?”
The man eyed him warily. “No one lawful. Best you turn your horse and ride the other way.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed. “I ask for no trouble. My aunt is Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I am her nephew. These tracks run through her land.”
The farmer spat into the grass. “Then she knows as well as I. Those who travel here are not parish folk. They pass quick, mules loaded, eyes sharp. They pay no calls and they take no questions.”
“And the excise men?” Richard asked.
The farmer laughed without mirth. “Blind and deaf. You bet they’ve been paid for.” He shifted his hoe. “Take advice, sir. Do not follow too far. Some paths are best left unwalked.”
He trudged away, leaving Richard with more certainty than before.
Richard mounted again and pressed on, following the track until it vanished into a copse. There he dismounted once more and studied the ground. Wheel ruts cut deep, and in the underbrush, he spied a broken keg, its hoop bent. He righted it and pried off the lid.
“Brandy,” he muttered.
The snap of a twig carried on the air. Richard stilled, his hand at the pistol in his coat. Yet only a boy emerged, barefoot, carrying a rabbit by the ears. The lad froze when he saw him.
Richard spoke gently. “Peace, my boy. I will not harm you. Tell me, who uses this wood?”
The child shook his head. “Men from the coast. Big ones. They toll me not to watch ’em. Not to tell.” His voice dropped low. “They got guns.”
Richard crouched, meeting the boy’s eyes. “And do you obey?”
The boy nodded fiercely. “I want no plug in me.”
“Good sense,” Richard said softly. He placed a coin in the boy’s hand. “You saw nothing of me either. Go home. Stay out of these woods.”
The boy snorted. “They ain’t comin’ back fer two more days. Always the same, like a old clock,” he said, then bolted off.
Richard stood alone, turning the keg fragment in his hand. The smuggler trade was running bold and unchallenged, with the parish bound to silence by fear or bribes.
He mounted once more and cast a long look over the fields. “Six men,” he murmured. “Six will suffice. I’ll have scouts in the woods, with muskets at the ready. When the dragoons have finished their work, my men shall see that the gangs do not return to these lands. But first I shall follow these tracks to Romney Marsh and see what I may learn.”
