He gave a short, cautious nod. It occurred to him then that her diction had more in common with a duchess than with a maid, and that she was, in fact, almost alarmingly pretty.
He decided it was best not to ask her about Lady Derring directly. If indeed the building was the seat of a smuggling ring, subtlety would be key to learning what he needed to know. And if the drunk fellow outside was correct, no one had come in or gone out of this place. A sudden, blunt inquiry might sound alarms and send her fleeing.
“How lovely to know The Grand Palace on the Thames’s excellence is apparent from the street.” She pronounced the name of the place like a governess correcting the French pronunciation of a young charge. “The little pub adjacent will give you a decent hot meal and treat you kindly.”
“I suppose I’ll go then.”
And for the instant between the time he said that and the moment she answered, he wanted her to say, “Not just yet,” and go on saying surprising things.
“I hope you have a lovely day, sir, and thank you for visiting The Grand Palace on the Thames.”
Well, then. He’d been briskly dismissed.
Was there a reason this maid wanted him to leave so quickly?
But because it amused him to do so, he turned to obey her.
He paused in the doorway. “Perhaps a rag affixed to a pole or a mop would help with the top of the window. And perhaps it would be wise to lock the door behind me.”
She cast a glance over her shoulder again. “Thank you, sir. I should never have worked any of that out on my own. Thank goodness a man came along.”
He closed the door gently behind him.
If he was not mistaken, she’d just taken the piss out of him.
He stood motionless a moment, staring down the street. He realized he was smiling. Albeit faintly.
“They sent you on your way, did they not?” said the man near his feet. “What did I tell you, guv? Cruel.”
“Aye. Cruel, indeed.”
As Tristan jammed his hat back on, he heard the door lock behind him.
Chapter Seven
The pub adjacent—which seemed to be called The Wolf And, Tristan noted—was composed of four tables and eight chairs, all crammed chummily together in a place as snug as any animal den. The fire burned hot but not too smokily. Likely the place had been squatting on that corner of Lovell Street for at least a century.
Two men were having what appeared to be a profound, conspiratorial conversation over tankards of ale. Although he was aware that nearly anything seemed profound when one was drunk enough.
Behind the plain oak bar, the barmaid was, of all things, reading a book.
She looked up and smiled warmly.
“Well, good morning, sir.”
“Good morning. A half pint, if you would. How’s the light?”
“It’s piss, I fear. We’ll do better with the next batch. You’d be better off with the dark.”
“Thank you for your honesty.”
He took a seat in a battered chair that wobbled a bit.
The table before him looked pocked with knife stabs.
“Do you get much of a crowd in here?” he asked when she brought the ale over.
“I’m Frances, sir, but you can call me Fran. And oh, nay. I own the place outright—once belonged to me da, and his da before him—so I don’t need much of a crowd to keep it going and it suits me. Perhaps because there’s not much room to fight in here, sir. They wind up in the street straight away. More satisfying to crash about when you can knock things over and get other blokes involved, I expect.”