here to the coast. If they’re refused, they exert pressure. I’ve seen women and children with missing fingers, or with an eye put out by these villains in an attempt to pressure the men of the family to help in the runs. And the level of violence has worsened in the last few years. The Cawntons always used to run their activities like a business. Their threats and violence were restricted. I assumed it was because of the example of other gangs. If their violence becomes impossible for the authorities to ignore, then they finally do something about it. The Cawntons didn’t want to damage their lucrative business by drawing attention to it.” His voice was bitter.

Richard was interested now; his relaxed pose was no indication of the tension I sensed beneath. I felt it like an added presence. “I had no idea. I was brought up in Derbyshire, not a county renowned for its smuggling activities. I should have realised, after some of the other things I’ve seen, but I’m afraid I looked on it as a kind of pastime, except in London. Aware of the damage smuggling does to the economy, but not really aware of what it does to everyday life. Can the authorities do nothing?”

“They haven’t enough money, nor enough men.” Mr. Hoarty turned to one side, so he could still keep an eye on whatever was happening outside, but politely face his mother’s guests. “We thought, with the cessation of the war, they might send troops to help, but we’ve seen nothing.”

“The war hasn’t ceased,” Richard said. “It has merely paused while the sides regroup.”

Mr. Hoarty nodded, and glanced out of the window again. The war in Europe was much further away than this, the war on our doorstep. His voice sharpened. “Lord Strang, look at this.”

Swiftly, Richard went over to the window, and stared out of it. “My God!”

“Two of Cawnton’s people,” said Mr. Hoarty.

I stood and would have gone to the window, but Richard spun around, his expression grim. “I will not stand by and witness this.” He wrenched open the door and went out.

Mr. Hoarty ran after him. “My lord, don’t do this, they’ll likely kill you! They’re no respecters of rank or privilege.” The front door slammed and I ran to the window in time to see Richard stride up the village street towards the trouble.

Mrs. Hoarty joined me and not thinking what I was doing, I took her hand for comfort. I held my breath in fear.

Two men stood in the street, and with no attempt at subterfuge, viciously kicked a bundle on the floor, a bundle that writhed and tried to get out of the way of the booted feet. The attackers were tall and strong and they would hurt anyone who interfered with their business. Mr. Hoarty hurried after my lord, but he couldn’t catch up with him.

Richard ripped off his coat as he went, and threw it carelessly over one arm. The street appeared to be deserted, but shadowy faces lurked at all the windows, if you looked closely at all the cottages fronting it.

From hearing about previous encounters, I knew no one would interfere, and if they were asked, no one would have seen anything.

Fear clutched at me. Richard, like most of his sort could probably use a sword, but only in the courtly, skillful way prescribed by his world. As usual, he wore his dress sword, which he’d left at the church door and retrieved after the service. He put his hand on the hilt as he strode up the street towards the bullies.

The men turned to stare at him, no alarm at all in their reactions, but perhaps a little surprise. One of them looked him up and down and laughed in derision. At least they stopped kicking the poor man on the ground.

Richard snapped something, curtly. We couldn’t hear any sound through the window, but it was obvious he demanded they leave their victim alone. The second man stared at him, shrugged, and, without taking his eyes off Richard’s face, kicked his prey once more, casually, as if his victim was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. The man crumpled in pain.

I couldn’t see any expression on Richard’s face, but in one sweeping movement, he drew his sword. I clutched Mrs. Hoarty’s crippled hand and she gasped, but I didn’t let go, forgetting the poor lady’s pain in my fear. I was so agitated about the scene outside I didn’t even notice, though I remembered the gasp later and was deeply ashamed I had caused it.

I thought Richard might assume the pose I’d seen fencers use—slightly crouched, one foot in front of the other, but he didn’t bother. He stood still, holding his sword pointed at the ground in front of him, and said something. The man spat at his feet.

Without a pause Richard lifted his sword and drew it down the smuggler’s arm. He didn’t appear to use any force.

The weapon must have been sharp, for it went through the heavy coat and the shirt of his victim, and drew blood with little effort. It couldn’t be a serious wound, but the man clapped a hand to the wound and let forth what I confidently assumed to be a stream of invective. Blood trickled down his arm. Now the other man made his move.

From Richard’s other side, the bully lunged to Richard’s left, away from the sharp sword. In a blink Richard threw his coat at him. The blanket of scarlet temporarily blinded and confused the man. I gasped again when Richard seemed to lose his balance, falling down on one knee and dropping his sword in the dust.

The first man came forward, on the attack again. Terrified, I