Surrender. Brenda Joyce
She had taken the single horse curricle by herself, ignoring Laurent’s protestations. If she was going to locate Jack Greystone, she would have to begin making inquiries somewhere, and the inn seemed like the most logical starting point. Surely John Trim knew Greystone—or knew of him. Surely Greystone had, at some time or another, used the coves in and around Fowey to land his cargoes. If he had, they would have had to traverse this road in order to reach London’s black markets.
There was no other dwelling in sight. The inn sat upon the Bodmin Moor and the road to London in absolute isolation—a two-storied whitewashed building, with a slate-gray roof, a white brick stable adjacent. Two saddled horses and three wagons were parked in the stone courtyard. Trim had customers.
Evelyn braked her gig and slowly got out, tying her mare to the railing in front of the inn. As she patted the mare, a young boy of eleven or twelve came running out of the adjacent stables. Evelyn told him she wouldn’t be long, and asked him to water the mare for her.
Evelyn pulled her black wool cloak closed, while removing her hood. As she crossed the front steps of the inn, she pulled off her gloves. She could hear men speaking in casual conversation as she pushed open the front door.
There was some tension as she stepped directly inside the inn’s taproom. She realized she hadn’t been inside an inn’s public rooms in years—not since she had briefly paused with her family in Brest, before fleeing France.
Eight men were seated at one of the long trestle tables in the room, and all conversation ceased the moment she shut the front door behind her. One of the men was John Trim, the proprietor, and he leaped to his feet instantly.
Her heart raced. She felt terribly out of place in the common room. “Mr. Trim?”
“Lady D’Orsay?” His shock vanished as he came forward, beaming. “This is a surprise! Come, do sit down, and let me get the missus.” He guided her toward a small table with four chairs.
“Thank you. Mr. Trim, I was hoping for a private word, if possible.” She was aware now of the silence in the room, that all eyes were trained upon them, and that every word she uttered was being heeded.
Trim’s dark brows rose, and he nodded. He led her into a small private dining room. “Please, have a seat, and I will be back in one minute,” he said, and rushed out.
Evelyn sat down, rather ruefully, certain he was racing to his wife to tell her that she had called. She laid her gloves down on the dining table, glancing around the simple room. A brick fireplace was on one wall, several paintings of the sea on the others. He had left the door open, and she could see into the common room if she wished to do so.
She had no intention of explaining to Trim why she wished to engage a smuggler, and a specific smuggler at that. But she did not expect him to press her.
Trim returned, smiling. “The missus is bringing tea.”
“That is so kind of you.” Evelyn smiled as he took a seat, now clutching her reticule tightly. “Mr. Trim, I was wondering if you are acquainted with Jack Greystone.”
Trim was so taken aback that his eyes widened and his brows shot up, and Evelyn knew his answer was yes. “Everyone knows of Greystone, Lady D’Orsay. He is the greatest smuggler Cornwall has ever seen.”
She was aware of her heart racing. “Do you know him personally, sir? Has he passed through this inn?”
His expression of surprise was as comical as before. “My lady, I mean no disrespect, by why do you ask?”
He was wary, but of course he was—smugglers were hardly free men. “I must locate him. I cannot explain why, exactly, but I am in need of his services.”
Trim blinked.
She smiled grimly. “Greystone got my family out of France, almost four years ago. I prefer not to say why I must speak with him now, but it is an urgent matter.”
“And it isn’t my concern, of course,” Trim said. “Yes, Lady D’Orsay, he has passed through my inn, once or twice. But I will be honest with you—I haven’t seen him in several years.”
Her disappointment was immediate. “Do you know how I can find him?”
“No, I do not. The rumor is that Greystone lives in an abandoned castle on a deserted island, in the utmost secrecy.”
“That is hardly helpful,” Evelyn mused. “I must find him, sir.”
“I don’t know if you can. There’s been a bounty on his head, which would explain why he lives on that island. He is wanted by the British authorities, Lady D’Orsay.”
Evelyn was slightly amused. “Aren’t all free traders wanted by the preventive men?” Smuggling had been a capital offense for as long as Evelyn could recall. Bounties were hardly uncommon. However, a great many smugglers got off scot-free, once they agreed to serve in His Majesty’s navy, or find a few friends to do so in their stead. A smuggler might be able to plead down his case, as well, if he had the right solicitor. Many smugglers were deported, but they often returned, illicitly, of course. No smuggler took a bounty very seriously.
Trim shook his head grimly. “You don’t understand. He has been running the British blockade. If His Majesty’s men catch him, he will hang—not for smuggling, but for treason.”
Evelyn froze. He was running King George’s blockade of France? He was supplying the French in a time of war? Suddenly she was cold. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, he’s running the blockade, Lady D’Orsay—they say he brags often and openly about it. And that is treason.”
Evelyn was shaken. “Is he a spy, then, too?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She stared, but rather than seeing Trim before her, she saw Jack Greystone at the helm of his ship. So many Cornish smugglers were spies for the French. But he had helped them escape France. Surely a French spy would not have done that.
She did not know why she was so dismayed. “I must speak with him, Mr. Trim, and if you can help me, I will forever appreciate it.”
“I will do my best. I will make some inquiries on your behalf. But my understanding is that he lies very low, to avoid His Majesty’s Men. If he is not at sea, he is on his island. I do know that, once in a while, he has been seen in Fowey. You might try the White Hart Inn.”
Faraday Hall was just outside Fowey. Was it possible that her uncle might know, or know of, Greystone?
“You might also go to London,” Trim said as his wife entered the room with a tray filled with tea and refreshments. “His two sisters live there, and so does his brother, or so I have heard.”
* * *
EVELYN STARED AT the letter she was trying to write.
Dear Lady Paget,
I hope I am not offending you by writing to you now. We have never met, and you may find my request presumptuous, but it has come to my attention that you are Jack Greystone’s sister. I was briefly acquainted with him several years ago, and am currently trying to contact him. If you could help me do so, I would be greatly in your debt.
Sincerely,
Lady Evelyn D’Orsay
It did not seem right—it seemed terribly forward and bold. Evelyn laid her quill down and tore the parchment into shreds.
Any woman receiving such a missive would instantly dismiss it. If she received such a letter, she would assume that some lovesick woman was pursuing her brother! Yet Evelyn could