The Beau raised his brows rather quizzically. “My dear Tristram, how unexpected!”
“Yes,” said Shield, “I’ve no doubt it is. I feel you should be told of an excessively odd circumstance. Are you aware that there have been a couple of Bow Street Runners in the neighbourhood, searching for Ludovic?”
For a moment the Beau made no reply. The smile still lingered on his lips, but an arrested expression stole into his eyes, as though he found such direct methods of warfare disconcerting. He drew up a chair to the fire and sat down in it, and said: “For Ludovic? Surely you must be mistaken? Ludovic is not in Sussex, is he?”
“Not that I am aware of,” replied Sir Tristram coolly, “but from what I could make out from the Runners someone has started a rumour that Eustacie’s smuggler was he.”
The Beau opened his snuffbox. “Absurd!” he murmured. “If Ludovic were in Sussex, he must have sent me word.”
“That is what I thought,” agreed Shield. “You are quite sure he has not sent you word?”
The Beau was in the act of raising a pinch of snuff to his nostrils, but he paused and looked across at his cousin with a slight frown. “Certainly not,” he answered.
“Oh, you need not be afraid to tell me if you have heard from him,” said Sir Tristram. “I wish the boy no harm. But if the rumour should be true, after all, you would be wise to get him out of the country again.”
The Beau did not say anything for several moments, nor did he inhale his snuff. His eyes remained fixed on Shield’s face. He shut his snuffbox again, and at last replied: “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. But I do not anticipate that I shall hear from him.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I am amazed that such a rumour should have arisen—quite amazed. It had not reached my ears. In fact, my errand to you had nothing to do with poor Ludovic, wherever he may be.”
“I am happy to hear you say so. What is your errand to me?”