Free The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel by Stefanie Sloane

goes!”
the men sang in unison, Scar Face taking a heavy drink from his pewter cup.
    “You’ve a fine voice, lad,” the man growled to Marcus before staggering off to join his friends.
    Marcus continued on to the back of the room, where an ancient oaken bar took up the length of the cramped tavern. A tavernkeeper stood behind the counter, wiping down tankards with a rough cloth.
    “The high and mighty Lord Weston, in the Boot, then?” the man said by way of introduction, twirling his drying rag over his head and sketching a sardonic bow.
    Marcus remained silent, quirking his eyebrow as if to suggest the man had misspoke.
    The tavernkeeper dropped the rag on his shoulder and placed his large, rough hands on the ale-stained bar.“Don’t bother, your lordship. I never forget a face—specially one that belongs to a swell that stole from me.”
    Marcus’s eyes narrowed as he looked more closely at the man. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “Fish, three of ’em, and caught by my own hand.”
    The summer of Marcus’s twelfth year came into his mind’s eye. He’d gone to swim at the lake and found a boy fishing. The youth had uttered filthy insults until Marcus could take no more. Two solid punches to the boy’s face had knocked him flat. Then Marcus had gathered up the fish and thrown them back into the lake.
    The man grunted. “Has it come back now?” he asked, his crooked nose making Marcus smirk.
    He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, dropping a guinea on the bar. “For the fish and something to quench my thirst,” he replied, knowing full well the man would hardly say no to such a sum.
    He hesitated, one beefy hand finally reaching out to claim the coin. “What’ll you have?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone. “Ale?”
    “No brandy, then?” Marcus asked.
    “We’ve no brandy here, as well the two customs officials over there in the corner can tell ya,” he replied, jerking his chin in the men’s direction.
    Marcus did not bother to look. “And what makes you think I’m not one of them?”
    “I hear tell you’ve a taste for brandy, Lord Weston. And any man with a taste for brandy in Lulworth is not bloody likely to be a customs official. Besides, quality like you have no need for the work.”
    Marcus couldn’t argue with the man’s logic. Nor was he surprised that news of his visit to Tisdale Manor for a tasting of the fine drink had traveled so quickly. There was, after all, very little to do in towns the size of Lulworth, and gossip spread fast.
    He reached into his pocket again and threw down severalmore coins. “And what would a man have to do to get a decent drink?”
    The tavernkeeper was smart enough to know that a thirsty man, with the ready in his pocket—even one with Scottish blood—was, at the end of the day, a thirsty man. He pocketed the coin. “Did you see the ship lamp when you came in?” the man asked, filling the newly dried tankard with ale and setting it in front of Marcus.
    Marcus wondered at the man’s line of inquiry but nodded his head.
    “When it shines you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
    Marcus thought back to his view of the Boot just before entering. The ship’s lamp was dark—a ship lamp that could easily be seen by smugglers waiting for a sign of safety in order to deliver their goods. “The customs officials don’t much like the lamplight, then?”
    “You’re a smart man, Lord Weston—smarter than they say,” he replied. “Enjoy your ale.”
    Come list on ye, landsmen, all to me
,
    To tell the truth I’m bound …
    Marcus managed to avoid being pulled into service for the second song as he carried his ale to a small table near the front.
    So the Boot was intimately involved in Lulworth’s smuggling? Hardly surprising, Marcus thought to himself, sipping the thick mixture from his tankard. A tavern would have good reason to serve more than ale.
    Oh, I had not long scurried out
,
    When close alongside