Page 28 of Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

Surprise turned to unease as she surveyed the men facing her. Their leader—tall, black-haired with flashing dark eyes, and dressed in sailor’s attire—had two pistols tucked into his belt. Her alarm grew when she realised she recognised neither that man nor his handful of similarly garbed and armed compatriots—several of whom had neckerchiefs pulled up to conceal their faces.

They must be smugglers—few farmers could afford such expensive matched weapons and none would need to hide their identity. But what were they doing here, far above the beach where goods were normally landed, in full daylight?

‘Well, what have we found?’ the leader said, interrupting her racing thoughts. ‘What a winsome prize to collect on a chill winter day!’

Wondering uneasily how far behind her Jenkins was, Amanda tried to instil her voice with a calm she didn’t feel. ‘Please let me pass, sir. My man and I have important business in town.’

The black-haired bandit made a show of looking from side to side. ‘Man? Don’t see no man. But I reckon a pretty lady like you be needing one, eh, boys?’ he said, earning a laugh from his followers.

Trying to quell the fear rising queasily in her belly, she replied, ‘My groom is riding just behind; he’ll arrive at any minute.’

Grinning, the black-haired man leapt from the saddle and came over to seize Vixen’s bridle. ‘I can help you out right now. I’ve an itch I wouldn’t mind scratching.’

One of his men gestured impatiently. ‘Now, Black John? We got business to accomplish.’

‘When I need advice, I’ll ask, Kip,’ the leader threw over his shoulder. Turning to her, a smile on his crudely handsome face, he said, ‘This lady and I will do some business first.’

At that moment, the leader’s name penetrated her fog of alarm and she had to swallow a gasp of horror. This must be the man her maid had spoken of, the one who’d been terrorising the local citizens and had beaten Betsy’s brother senseless.

Her pulse hammering with fear, she was frantically considered what to do when a man in farmer’s dress, his face also masked, walked over to the smuggling chief. ‘There’ll be willing dames at the inn later. Kip’s right, we ought to check the goods and be gone.’ Leaning closer, he said in an urgent undertone, ‘She’s Lord Bronning’s daughter.

Her momentary flare of hope was dashed as the smuggler replied, ‘Is she? Even better. I imagine old Lord B. would pay a few golden guineas to get his daughter back…only a little used.’

At that moment, Amanda finally heard the longed-for sound of hooves approaching. It must be Jenkins!

The leader heard it, too, angling his head to look behind her. Taking advantage of his momentary inattention, Amanda slashed her riding crop down on the hand holding her bridle and urged Vixen into motion.

Black John cursed, but rather than releasing his grip, in an unnerving display of strength, he held on. He yanked down sharply to halt the mare before she could move.

After inspecting the blood welling up in the welt on his hand, he looked back up at Amanda, something ugly glittering in his eyes. With a chilling smile, he said, ‘Might have to give you more than a bit of use for that.’ Then, as Jenkins appeared over the rise and trotted towards them, he said, ‘Pull him down, men.’

Jenkins put up a strong resistance, but against so many, the result was a foregone conclusion. Pulled, struggling and fighting from the saddle, he ended up with his arms bound behind him, his cries of outrage silenced by a kerchief gag. With her last hope of help subdued, Amanda could only stare back in silence at the ruthless commander.

He gave her another of those emotionless smiles. ‘Come along, little lady. Time to taste your sweetness and determine your worth.’

Meanwhile, down in the village of Salters Bay, Greville was hoisting a mug at the Knight and Dragon with gunner’s mate Porter. He’d found the old sailor manning the Coastal Brigade office alone, the lieutenant having departed aboard one of the cutters the previous night.

There’d been a rumour of troubles ahead this day, Porter told him. Revenue officers had seen lights flashed from the cliffs across the Exe to Dawlish Warren, where the ferry boatman confirmed more than the usual number of patrons had gathered at the Mount Pleasant Inn, one of the most notorious of smugglers’ taverns. Belcher had ordered all available cutters to sea to patrol the coast in anticipation of an attempt to land illicit cargo.

After inviting the old seaman to meet him at the inn, Greville paid a visit to the Sloop and Gull, looking for George Neville. He found that establishment mostly deserted; to his enquiries about any topic remotely related to smuggling, the taciturn proprietor returned replies either guarded or evasive.

On the one hand, he had to smile at the notion that the innkeeper clearly thought he was some sort of covert agent for the crown, intent on sniffing out free-traders. But on the other, the man’s suspicious demeanour and reluctance to speak aroused every instinct warning of imminent danger—instincts well honed after months aboard a man-of-war.

After his unproductive meeting with the innkeeper, he’d made for the Knight and Dragon to join Porter for a brew and one of the cook’s justly famed meat pasties.

‘Aye, something’s amiss,’ the gunner confirmed, pulling him out of his thoughts. ‘Hardly any patrons here, at a time when most labourers should be coming in from the fields. And where’s the barmaid? Come to think on it, I’ve not seen the baker’s wife, nor butcher’s neither, when I bought my meat pie for supper. Seems strange, but not being from these parts, the shopkeepers don’t tell me nothing.’

Greville smiled ruefully. ‘I spoke with the innkeeper of the Sloop and Gull, but couldn’t get any useful information either.’

Porter nodded. ‘Some of the seamen tell me after the last landing, ’twas a dust-up between the men working for Rob Roy and Black John’s crew. Old Jeb, master of the Lively Lass, says both villagers and farmers have had their fill of Black John, and that there’ll be a full-out battle with him soon.’

Hardly had Porter spoken the words when they heard the noise of a musket discharging. As they jumped up, the innkeeper ran out of the kitchen, tossing down his apron. ‘Must leave you fellows!’ he cried as he passed them. ‘It’s begun!’

‘What’s begun?’ Greville asked, the two men following as the proprietor raced to the bar and rummaged between the kegs.

‘Black John said before the landing tonight, he’d be sending his men to town for horses and wagons to transport it,’ the innkeeper told him, drawing an old pistol from its hiding place. ‘Said them with hollow walls and storage buildings better be ready to receive his goods, or get a belly full of lead. After Farmer Johnson was shot for refusing to co-operate and Wilson’s boy Billy was roughed up, the men hereabouts decided to send all the womenfolk away and fight Black John’s men when they came before the raid.’ Catching up a powder horn, flint and a leather pouch of balls, the innkeeper hurried out.

Porter looked at Greville. ‘Won’t be like boarding a ship at sea, but it there’s a fight brewing, we’d best assist. Have ye any weapons?’

Greville thought of the fine matched pistols and Baker rifle he’d brought home after Waterloo, left at his London lodgings. ‘Not with me.’

‘Come along, then,’ Porter urged. ‘Got some stored at the station. Sounds like firing’s coming from the churchyard. We’ll pick them up the way.’

Porter loped ahead of him, surprisingly quick on his peg leg. Scrambling through a cabinet inside the door as they arrived, he tossed two pistols at Greville and helped himself to two others before leading him towards the churchyard, from which sounds of firing had intensified.

They found the farmers and townsmen sheltered behind the stone wall that encircled the graveyard, armed with an assortment of weapons ranging from muskets and pistols to shovels and scythes. The group of smugglers, approaching from the north, had taken cover behind the few trees that bordered the lane.

‘Got them on the run,’ the Sloop and Gull’s owner shouted as they joined his position. ‘If ye’ve weapons to fire, take aim. Some here are already out of balls and powder.’

‘Best get some shots in before the fun’s over,’ Porter told him.

Fun? With a shudder at his memories of the boarding of the pirate vessel, Greville knelt to level his pistol on the rock edge and fired towards a smuggler in red headscarf. His opponent was forced to pull back his own weapon and duck out of range as Greville’s shot went home. Quickly changing pistols, he followed up with a second shot, equally accurate.

As he turned to pick up the first pistol, it was thrust back at him, already loaded and primed. ‘Got better aim than me, mate,’ a man said. ‘I’ll keep the sparkers loaded if you’ll keep ’em firing.’

So Greville fired on, picking a new target when the first man bolted behind the line of trees. His second quarry soon abandoned the contest as well, taking to his heels down the lane. He was looking for a third when a cheer went up from the churchyard defenders.

‘They be on the run, the cowards,’ one man shouted.

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