He laid a hand on my arm and drew me back. “You have every right. I promise. No secrets.” He drew me to him and kissed me, softly, the sealing of our bargain, and we walked on together to Mrs. Hoarty’s door.

We found both Mrs. Hoarty and her only son at home.

Mr. Hoarty spent most of the week in Exeter, where he was a well-to-do lawyer. He probably knew all the skeletons in the closets of the more prominent families in the district. He was five and forty, and had the confident demeanour of a man who knew his world and was content in it. Now he was past the first flush of youth, his figure had filled out and he had taken to wearing bob-wigs, as a reflection of his trade and station in life, instead of the elegant queued wigs Richard and his friends preferred.

A maid brought tea and small cakes in to us, and we sat in Mrs. Hoarty’s comfortably upholstered chairs. Mrs. Hoarty’s parlour wasn’t the most fashionable I had ever been in, but it was one of the more pleasant ones. The furniture was unassuming, the fire blazing generously.

I hadn’t seen Mr. Hoarty for a while, and his presence today unwittingly reminded me of something. I caught myself up on a laugh and blushed when they all looked at me. “Oh, I beg your pardon, but when I saw you again, sir, it reminded me of the time you caught us in your orchard. Tom Skerrit and me, do you remember?”

“I remember only too well,” the gentleman replied gravely, but with a gleam in his eye. “I dragged you both indoors, and I found your pockets full of our apples.”

I laughed when I remembered. “We were always hungry in those days. And your orchard was easier to scrump in than others, because it wasn’t overlooked.” It seemed so long ago now.

“Always hungry?” repeated Richard. “I wasn’t aware your family kept you hungry.”

I laughed. “Martha would be appalled if she thought that. It was only the natural hunger of childhood. And stolen apples always tasted so much better.”

Mr. Hoarty chuckled. “Especially ours. But that was the last time you tried it, I believe.”

“We were getting too old for such things.” I met Richard’s astonished blue gaze and burst into laughter. “I’m sorry, but you look so shocked. Did you never steal apples when you were young?”

“I can’t say I did. Did I miss something?”

Mr. Hoarty smiled, his stern face relaxing. “I should think so. But those two were the best. They were the scourge of all orchards hereabouts until that day.”

“Mr. Hoarty took us home,” I told my astonished love. “And my father beat me and locked me in my room for a few days. Tom got the same treatment from his father. After that, we reasoned the punishment wasn’t worth it, and we asked for our apples afterwards.”

Richard laughed, too. “I said I was marrying a hoyden. Madam, will you never cease to surprise me?”

I was pleased to see Mrs. Hoarty had cheered up, as she thought of past times. She was in almost constant pain these days, and I was happy to bring her pleasure.

Richard sat facing the large sash windows at the front of the house. “You must see everything from here, ma’am.”

“It helps on the days when I can’t go out,” she said. “To see other people as they go about their business. Sometimes, though I see too much.”

“Oh?” Richard’s ready curiosity was aroused by her words. He sat back at his ease, and watched the lady closely. “Does this have anything to do with free traders? I was at a dinner last week where someone mentioned there had been a run recently. Do you find a barrel of brandy by your back door occasionally?”

Mr. Hoarty gave a snort. “It sounds romantic, doesn’t it, my lord? No, we don’t find brandy by our door, because the community knows I don’t approve.”

“You’re a rare lawyer indeed, sir, if you seek to uphold the law.”

Mr. Hoarty shot Richard a sharp look, but it was apparent from his serious expression that he wasn’t joking. “That’s as may be, my lord. And I can’t say everyone in my profession is a model of propriety, but that isn’t the reason I oppose them. Smugglers are not groups of freethinking individuals as they would have people believe. They are oppressive, violent gangs who wield far too much influence in districts such as ours. They weaken the government and make a travesty of the law. They don’t merrily import a few barrels of French brandy; smuggling is big business. There’s a great deal of profit to be made, and when that is the case, inevitably the most ruthless rise to the top. They terrify many people hereabouts. It has undoubtedly worsened recently.”

I remained quiet. I knew something about the trade, but like most of the families here, I’d chosen to stop my eyes and ears to it where Mr. Hoarty, to his credit, obviously had not.

He stood, and went over to the window. “Most people don’t live as close as this to Darkwater, they don’t see some of the things we’ve seen. They hold this village in thrall.” He gazed out the large window at the front of the pleasant room. “Nothing goes on here without their permission.”

“Who are ‘they’?” Richard asked. Mr. Hoarty had gained his interest where many could not.

“There are groups of people up and down the coast who run the gangs,” Mr. Hoarty said, his attention on something outside. “Here, it’s a family called Cawnton. They organise all the runs in these parts, and recruit from the villages from