“Oh, they are, are they?” said Nye. “P’raps you’d like to go and tell Sir Hugh Thane yourself that you’re wishful to search his bedchamber? And him a Justice, like miss has told you! You get out of this before I lose my temper, that’s my advice to you!”
“You lay a hand on me and you’ll suffer for it, Mr Nye!” said the Exciseman, keeping a wary eye on the landlord’s massive form.
“Just a moment!” said Sir Tristram. “There is no need for all this to-do. If you suspect my cousin’s groom of being a smuggler—”
“Well, sir, we fired on one last night, and I’m ready to swear we hit him. And it can’t be denied that females is notably soft-hearted when it comes to a wounded man!”
“Possibly,” said Shield, “but I am not soft-hearted, nor am I in the habit of assisting smugglers, or any other kind of law-breaker.”
“No, sir,” said the Exciseman, abashed by Sir Tristram’s blighting tone. “I’m sure I didn’t mean—”
“If the wounded man is indeed a groom from the Court I shall recognize him,” continued Shield. “The affair can quite easily be settled by taking me to his room.”
There was one moment’s frozen silence. Sir Tristram was looking not at the Exciseman, but at Eustacie, who had turned as white as her fichu, and was staring at him in patent horror.
Nye’s voice broke the silence. “And that’s a mighty sound notion, sir!” he said deliberately. “I’ll lay your honour knows the lad as well as I do myself.”
Sir Tristram’s eyes narrowed. “Do I?” he said.