The Defiant Lady Pencavel by Diane Scott Lewis

connections.” Mr. Shadedeal stood. “But we’ll go in the back where we can talk private-like, an’ I’ll show you.”
    “What do you know of my connections?” Griffin rose, wariness prickling on the back of his neck. He followed the man down a short hallway, pondering why a viscount was skulking about seedy taverns, with murky characters, where he could be murdered at any moment. The adrenaline rush, no doubt!
    In a fetid back room, Shadedeal pointed to several crates. He pried one open and pulled out a long gun. “I has fifty of the sleekest flint-lock, muzzle-loaded, Charleville muskets.”
    “Guns? I don’t deal in weapons of any type. You have been grossly misinformed.” Griffin’s face heated in anger. “And you show me vile French muskets, named after the armory in Charleville-Mézières, Ardennes, France? These guns are known to be inaccurate in their firing as they are smooth bore barreled.”
    The man scowled and fingered the walnut stock. “These are standard French infantry muskets, good for firing from mass formations. What matters what you smuggle?”
    “It matters. I will never dirty my hands with goods such as these—if I happened to smuggle at all, which I don’t admit. And I’ll never have anything to do with France. Besides, these weapons are slightly smaller than the British made Brown Bess.” Griffin turned to leave, his frustration rife.
    “Will you report me to the constables?” Shadedeal asked in an accusing voice.
    Griffin paused, wishing he could do just that. But any such ministrations would put the spotlight on him and his own fraudulent pursuits. “No. I will leave you to your evil gunrunning.”
    “I don’t believe you. You quality lie an’ cheat us poorer folk.” The man tenderly placed the musket back in the crate, then lunged at Griffin with a suddenly whipped out knife.
    Griffin grabbed the man’s arm before the blade nicked his chest. They struggled, wrestling to gain the superior advantage. “Dammit, man, I won’t let you kill me. I have a betrothal to overturn, and a damsel to harass. And my tenants count on me to take care of them.”
    Shadedeal grunted, shoving the knife near Griffin’s nose. Griffin saw his life pass before his eyes, and thought, I still have much more living to accomplish. He shoved the man away, then punched him in the jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. The knife skittered away against the skirting board.
    Griffin snatched out his pistol. Swiping his arm across his now sweaty brow, he said, “I’d shoot you, you worthless brigand, but I don’t wish to waste a bullet. And I’m a gentleman, and would never shoot an unarmed man. Stay in that corner and don’t follow me.” Griffin backed out of the room, pistol pointed. He stalked from the tavern, chiding himself for being a fool to have come here.
     
    Chapter Eight
     
     
    The Pencavel coach barreled down the London road toward the West Country. Melwyn felt her teeth judder as the wheels hit each bump and rut. She mused again on Miss Bookbinder from the day before. “I see how some women can think they’re superior to other women, and nationalities. If I’ve behaved that way to you, I apologize.”
    “Did a statue fall on your head in that museum, m’lady?” Clowenna asked in all seriousness from the seat across.
    “You’re right, why change our relationship now.” Melwyn glared out the window, slumped against the squabs. Rolling green hills, heath and heather and quant villages passed her vision. The air smelled light of foliage and farmland. “At least it’s Sunday, and public coaches are forbidden to operate, so we have the road mostly to ourselves.”
    “You’re in a hurry to reach home, an’ be rid o’ Lord Lambrick for good?” Clowenna picked up the book that her lady had purchased in London.
    Melwyn traced a finger down the coach window. “I’m preparing myself for monumental changes. I was rash to leave home. I should have considered my father’s