Free Anita Mills by The Rogue's Return Page A

seen much else, have we?” Dominick Deveraux reached beneath his cloak to draw out a decidedly flat leather folder. Opening it, he retrieved a banknote. “Send Cribbs in with this,” he said, passing it across.
    “I thought the Deveraux were all plump in the pocket,” Bertie muttered. “Ain’t much to feed five.”
    “Plump enough—until one has to bribe one’s way into the country. And,” he added dryly, “this is scarce the Pulteney.”
    “What do yer want me ter buy?” the coachy asked.
    “Whatever you can get—feed yourself and Davies also.” Turning to Anne, Dominick inquired, “What would you have, my dear? Your pardon …” He inclined his head slightly. “I forgot—you are not anyone’s dear, are you?”
    “I will eat whatever you buy, sir.”
    As they waited, Anne gazed down the narrow street. The rain had stopped, but a fog Was settling, giving an air of unreality to everything outside. The lights from a dozen small buildings appeared as hazy yellow circles about to be swallowed into an eerie nothingness. It was as though the world had shrunk to little more than the carriage, as though the only people left in it were Bascombe, Deveraux, and herself. For the moment there was no Mrs. Philbrook, no body on the floor at the Blue Bull. But tomorrow … She did not want to think of tomorrow.
    It did not take Cribbs long to return, bringing two paper-wrapped bundles and an armful of bottles. Shifting the latter, he gave the larger package to his master. The savory smell of meat, onions, and pastry filled the passenger compartment as Bascombe unwrapped it to reveal an assortment of folded pies.
    “Egad! All of this?”
    “Ain’t fancy, I’ll be bound,” the coachy replied, “but me and Davies like ’em.” He passed three bottles in, adding, “Wasn’t enough fer the hock, so I brung port ter yer. The pies is marked—pigeon, pork, and kidney.” Drawing his head back, he closed the door, and climbed up to share the rest with the driver.
    “Well, daresay it ain’t what you are used to, Miss Morland, but the pick is yours,” Bertie said. “Don’t know whether ’tis the big P or the little one on top as means pigeon or pork, but it don’t matter.”
    “I should prefer pork, I think.”
    “Bite into it—if ’tis pigeon, I’ll eat it,” he offered. When she hesitated, he chose one with a K and stuffed a large portion of it into his mouth. “Ain’t bad,” he assured her. “Ain’t half-bad.”
    She’d thought she was too tired to eat, but as she watched him devour the pasty with relish, she realized she was truly famished. Taking one from the papers, she nibbled a corner, fearing the worst. She’d never liked eating pigeon, always seeing the plump birds that begged in the parks, but this night she told herself she was beyond caring. Thankfully, she realized she’d chosen pork.
    “Which P is which?” Bascombe asked, his mouth so full that crumbs spilled out.
    “The larger letter must mean pigeon.”
    Dominick reached for a bottle of wine, and using his thumbnail to break the thin coat of wax over the neck, he observed, “Rebottled and cheap.” Turning away from them, he took the cork in his teeth and pulled. It squeaked; then there was a dull pop. He held the bottle out to Anne. “Miss Morland?”
    “I don’t have a glass.”
    “Neither do we. Have a pull and pass it,” Bertie said. When he saw she did not take the wine, he encouraged her.
    “Go on—ain’t any of us got rotten teeth.” Taking the bottle, he lifted it and swigged hugely. When he lowered it, there were crumbs floating in the dark red liquid. He started to hand it back.
    “Keep it. Miss Morland and I will share our own, I think,” Dominick murmured.
    “Really, I am not thirsty.”
    “As you wish.” He opened another bottle, then leaned back to drink.
    When she looked across again, he was watching her, his faint smile seeming to mock her. She wondered irritably if everything about her was a jest to