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imagine.’ Without hesitation, the fisherman thrust an arm around Lucius’s shoulders and heaved. ‘You’ve a tighter hold on life this morning, y’r honour, I’ll say that. Thought you was a gonner—all the blood an’ all. George Gadie, y’r honour. Fisherman.’
    ‘And smuggler?’ Lucius’s memory was vague at best, but some aspects of his rescue were clear enough.
    ‘Aye, sir…’ Wariness flitted across the man’s face but there was a glint in his eye. ‘And you, y’r honour?’
    ‘Lucius Hallaston.’
    ‘Well, Mr Hallaston, the Cap’n says you’re to drink this.’ A mug of ale changed hands.
    The woman who had been bustling round the room nudged George aside with bowl, spoon and napkin. ‘I’ll say one thing, though some would say it’s none of my business. The sooner you leave here, the better for all our sakes, sir. Especially for—’
    ‘Take yourself off, Meggie,’ George broke in. ‘Let the man drink and get his breath.’
    ‘All I was saying was…’
    ‘Least said, soonest mended,’ George growled.
    With a smile of thanks to Meggie that was ignored as she stomped to the door, Lucius gripped the bowl as best he could with his injured left arm, dipped the spoon and drank. It was good, deliciously aromatic to enhance the flavour of chicken. He realised how long it was since he had had anything to eat.
    Meanwhile George sat down beside the bed, leaning forwards with arms on stalwart thighs as if anticipating a conversation. Much as Harry Lydyard had done. Lucius cocked his head, continued to spoon up the broth and waited.
    ‘Are you a spy, then, y’r honour?’
    Lucius abandoned the spoon and wiped his mouth with the napkin as he struggled against impatience. ‘Why does everyone presume that I am? No, I am not a spy.’ He read the patent disbelief in the smuggler’s seamed face, but said no more. What proof had he but mere denial—but nopoint in dwelling on what could not be changed. ‘Can I get to Brighton?’ he asked, the uppermost thought in his mind.
    ‘Expect so. When you can get to your feet.’
    ‘I can do that. I don’t want to impose on you more than I have already. The maid—Jenny, was it?—I must thank her. I think she sat with me during the night, when I was restless.’
    ‘No. Not Jenny. It would be the Cap’n.’
    Was there the slightest hesitation. Did he detect some disfavour in the gruff announcement? Impossible to tell. And why would the fisherman have any opinion on it? The beat of pain in his head made it not worth considering. ‘Then I must thank the Captain. Lydyard, I think he said. A local family?’
    ‘Aye, sir. The Capn’s brother—he’s the local landowner. Sir Wallace.’
    ‘Then I must thank Captain Harry for his hospitality before I go.’ Lucius carefully placed the bowl on the nightstand.
    ‘Don’t think he’s around.’ There was that scowl again, the brusque reply. ‘Shall I shave you, y’r honour?’
    ‘No need. You hold the bowl and towel, but hand me the razor. I can use my right arm well enough, although the left’s pretty useless. Have you a mirror?’
    ‘Aye, sir.’ George wiped the square on his thigh and held the smeared glass. He chuckled. ‘You mightn’t like what you see, though.’
    It was a shock.
    ‘By God! That’s a mess.’ Lucius looked at the reflection in the mirror. Ran his fingers over the growth of beard and then, gently, down the livid scar on his cheek, flinching at the soreness. If vanity was an issue, if his looks mattered as much to him as it did to his younger brother who was in the throes of incipient dandyism, he would be cast intodespair. Together with the purple bruising on his temple and jaw, and the matted hair stuck to his head with God knew what, he looked a criminal fit for Newgate. ‘It’ll heal, I expect.’ He winced as he once again pressed his fingers against the knife wound.
    ‘So Capn Harry said. He cleaned it up as well as he could.’
    ‘Hmm. Then let’s see if we can