stickler for protocol, but reasonable beneath the fussiness. Stepan knew how to deal with him. As long as things were shipshape on the surface, Turner didn’t bother to probe deeper. But the man had been around a while; he knew the limitations of his authority. Captain Denning didn’t give the first impression of sharing that understanding.
‘I find business goes well with venison pie and ale this time of day,’ Stepan offered with a gesture towards the door. ‘May I invite you both to dine with me? It’s just past noon and I’m famished. The tavern up the street isn’t fancy, but the owner’s wife is a good cook.’ If circumstances were throwing him together with this Captain Denning, he needed to know more about this newcomer and decide if the captain posed a threat.
Food meant small talk and a chance to size one another up. Stepan kept the captain talking through the flaky venison pie. The man was from Derbyshire in the East Midlands, the younger son of a baron. He’d served against Napoleon in his late teens. But those were just facts. Context was everything and Turner was providing it.
Turner joined the conversation, clapping Denning on the shoulder. ‘He was relentless, keeping his troops on the field and holding ground against all odds in Spain.’ Turner’s tone suggested the comment was meant as an accolade, but the sharp glint in his eye when he met Stepan’s gaze suggested the remark was meant as more. A caution, perhaps? Until he knew otherwise, Stepan would take it as one. This was a man to whom the goal was all, the price of attaining the goal negligible.
Denning was ambitious and desperately so. Military work was slow these days with no war to fight. Consequently, advancement was, too. There was little opportunity to prove oneself, yet Denning held on to his commission when others had given up and sold out. Here was a tenacious, canny man who would stop at nothing to achieve his goal.
Stepan could have dealt with that. He understood officers, his friend Nikolay having been one in Kuban. But that was not the sum of Denning. The captain was more than determined. He was also cold. His determination sprang from ruthlessness, not relentlessness as Turner had couched it. The difference was there at the corners of his eyes where faint, early lines fanned out; there were lines, too, at the grooves at the sides of his mouth. This was an exacting man who drove those around him as hard as he drove himself. Perhaps an admirable quality in an officer on the battlefield, but a dangerous quality, as well.
Another round of ale came and the plates were cleared. ‘Tell me how I can be of service to you, Captain.’ Stepan gave permission for the conversation to move towards business now that they’d eaten.
‘A complement of my men and I will be staying at the barracks on New Barn Lane in order to investigate reports of smuggling and act accordingly should anything be found.’ Denning sat back on the bench, leaning against the wall with satisfaction. ‘I hope you and the other upstanding importers in the area will join with us.’ He gave a cold smile. ‘It’s hardly fair that you pay a legitimate tax on your goods when others do not. Everyone should be accountable to the same rules and I am here to enforce that accountability.’
Except when those taxes are unnecessarily high, Stepan thought.
What wasn’t fair was the government placing high taxes on goods and making trade in them prohibitive to all but a small wealthy class who could afford the fees. That wasn’t free trade in his mind. Trade, the right to do business and make a livelihood should be open to all, not just the prosperous. Outwardly, Stepan gave a cordial smile. There would be time enough to alienate the captain, he thought wryly. ‘Enforce? That sounds like a very menacing word.’ He’d lived under a Tsar who’d also used that word, to his detriment. That Tsar was now dead, shot on the front lawn of his palace by his constituents.
‘Of course, compliance would be preferred,’ Turner broke in. ‘If you were to hear of anything, we’d want to know.’
Stepan gave a neutral smile, aware the captain was watching him. ‘I’ll help in any way I am able.’ It was not entirely untrue. He would just not be very able.
Then the captain fired his real salvo. ‘Good. If you see or hear of anything I should be aware of, send word to the barracks. I understand Shoreham is a popular landing point because of its access to the London roads. We will be redoubling land patrols, which I think is the best way to catch any activity, and we’ll continue to co-ordinate with the navy to patrol the coastline from the water. With luck, we’ll have the rotters cleared out by May.’ Enforce indeed. The captain was only a step away from martial law.
‘Best of luck with that, Captain,’ Stepan replied in all honesty. ‘Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have ledgers calling my name.’ He made the polite noises of leaving and maintained a sense of affability until he was back in his office. Only then did he let his thoughts run over all he’d learned. The captain had an unenviable task, not only for himself, but for the town, as well. Shoreham would not respond positively to the captain’s methods.
Smuggling in Shoreham had existed for centuries. It was unlikely the captain was going to curb it in a couple months. But Derbyshire, further inland, wasn’t known for its smuggling routes. What did a land man like Denning know about the culture of smuggling? To root out the ‘rotters’, as Denning put it, would require rooting out whole villages. But that didn’t mean Denning’s efforts could be disregarded. When Stepan met with Joseph Raleigh tonight at the caves, they had some planning to do along with their distilling. If Denning was going to impart information about his troop’s movements, Stepan was certainly going to make good use of it. It was going to be a late night.
* * *
What in the world kept a man out this late when he’d already spent the entire day at the docks? The question haunted Anna-Maria with increasing intensity as the hours after supper dragged by. She’d tried to prompt some insight out of her brother as the family had relaxed by the fire, but if Dimitri knew anything, he was close-mouthed about it. Her father had merely glanced up from the newspapers after her third attempt and fixed her with a censorious stare. ‘A man’s business is his own. A woman respects his privacy,’ he said in that scolding tone Anna-Maria knew too well. The man had spent his life reprimanding her when he bothered to notice her at all.
Evie had softened the harsh words with a smile. ‘Don’t worry about Stepan, my dear. He knows his way home and so does his horse.’
Anna didn’t bother to correct Evie’s assumption, although it did make her feel a bit guilty. Truth be told, she was not as worried over Stepan’s lateness as she was curious about the reason for it. If the others shared concern or curiosity about Stepan’s prolonged absence tonight, they didn’t show it. They gave up the vigil at half past nine, leaving Anna-Maria with her book.
* * *
It was well after eleven when Anna heard Stepan’s horse in the drive. Hurriedly, she sat and picked up the book she’d laid aside an hour ago in favour of pacing the front parlour. Pacing kept her awake. If she read, she might fall asleep and miss his return, miss her chance to badger him about his whereabouts. And he would win. She would not give him the satisfaction of outlasting her.
Anna selected a random page in the middle of the text and pretended to read. This had become a competition when he hadn’t come home for supper and Evie had held the meal for him, proof that she and Dimitri had not known he’d be so late despite their lack of concern over it. Anna gave her skirts a final fluff as footfalls sounded in the hall. She counted in her head: one, two, three steps until he’d pass the doorway to the sitting room. On cue, Anna lifted her head with slow surprise as if she was only just now aware of his presence. She managed a polite smile. ‘Oh, you’re home.’
Stepan leaned against the door frame, looking somewhat less stoic than usual. His hair was damp and tousled
