Twice Tempted by a Rogue (Stud Club #2)(23)

“And I’ve a pistol.” Myles’s hand went to his waistband.

Rhys waved his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. Saw it this morning. I wasn’t impressed then, either.” He eyed the man closely, taking his measure. Average height, lean, and probably about five years Rhys’s junior. His eyes held the hungry gleam of ambition, and pure arrogance fueled his swaggering step.

Rhys didn’t like him. At all.

“You’re very protective of those dry goods you carry, Mr. Myles.”

“My trade is none of your concern.”

“Oh, I think it is. As the lord of this place, unlawful activity is my concern. And my concern … well, that’s your problem, isn’t it? You’re transporting smuggled goods through this village, and you’re worried I’ll put a stop to it.”

To his credit, Myles didn’t even try to deny the charge. He coolly raised his eyebrows. “And …?”

“And you’re right. I will put a stop to it.”

His jaw clenched. “Like hell you will. Stay out of my way, Ashworth, and I’ll make no trouble for you. This is business, not personal.”

“Oh, it’s personal to me.” Rhys took a small step toward him, forcing Myles to take a small step in retreat. “If you trafficked in French goods during the war, in even the smallest amount—it’s personal, indeed. Your ‘trade’ could have purchased the lead that ripped through this shoulder.” He thumped his hand over the old wound. “Missed my heart by inches.”

The younger man set his jaw. “Can’t blame that one on me. If I’d paid for that ball, it would have found its mark.”

“Fair enough. Forget me. Let’s speak of others, then. How many casks of brandy do you think it took to fund each bayonet or saber that skewered one of my men in battle?”

“I don’t know.” Gideon’s eyes flashed. “About as many as it took to keep these villagers from starving to death after you left Devonshire.”

Touché.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Guess you were right,” Myles finally said. “It is personal.”

Rhys nodded in agreement.

“Very well, then. You have a week to get out of my village. Or I will personally make certain you leave.”

Rhys just laughed and shook his head. “You and what army? Oh, wait—I forgot. Armies can’t kill me, either.”

“A week.” Myles backed his way to the door, pausing just before he left to add, “I’ll be back in a week. Don’t let me catch you here.”

The moment Gideon Myles left, Rhys ceased caring about him. As if he’d allow some petty smuggler to dictate where and when he could be on his own land. What a joke.

He strolled over to the bar and sat down on one of the stools. He watched as Meredith tapped a fresh cask of wine. The defined muscles in her arms made a stark contrast with her delicate features and small frame.

“Don’t you have a girl to help you in the evenings?” he asked, looking about the room. “A barmaid?”

She shook her head as she poured. “Not at the moment. My regular girl gave birth not a few weeks ago. Don’t know yet whether she’ll come back.”

“When does the post come through next?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Might I beg a few sheets of paper and some ink?”

She didn’t answer him, just shrugged as she left to deliver the glasses of wine. But a few minutes later, two leaves of heavy, cream-colored paper materialized on the bar before him, along with a quill and a small pot of ink.

“Who are you writing?” she asked, leaning both elbows on the bar. “A friend?”

“Not exactly.” In fact, Julian Bellamy might very well be an enemy.

Along with Rhys and the Duke of Morland, Bellamy was one of the three surviving members of the Stud Club. He’d been the closest to Leo, and, by all appearances, had been devastated by his friend’s tragic death. Since the murder, Bellamy had seemed a man possessed, determined to hunt down Leo’s killers and bring them to justice.

In recent weeks, however, a new witness had surfaced. If the whore who witnessed Leo’s killing could be believed, Bellamy might have had something to do with the death.

Rhys would have preferred to ask Morland to send his belongings out to Devonshire. He and Rhys had exchanged more punches than words as schoolboys, but he now counted the man as a friend, of sorts. But the duke was currently honeymooning at his Cambridgeshire estate, leaving Rhys no choice but to write Bellamy. Murderer or not, there was no one else in London he could ask.

He worked slowly; with his stiff fingers, he had to take care if he wanted his penmanship to be legible at all. After half a page, he dropped the quill and paused to shake out his hand.

“Why don’t you switch to your left?”

He looked up to see Meredith back at the bar.

She nodded at his gnarled right hand. “Why do you still try to write with it? You favor your left, anyhow.”

How did she know that? It was true, Rhys had favored his left hand from his youth. But he’d been beaten for attempting to write with it. So he’d switched to his right, and then he’d been beaten for his poor penmanship. So he’d practiced in secret, spent painstaking hours laboring over a paper and quill, until his awkward scratchings became effortless, flowing script.