Trev bowed gravely. "Everything I know of vice, I learned from your parrot, Mrs. Farr."

"Pshaw, you never did!" the widow said, sweeping ahead of them into the door of the inn.

Six

Six

THE ANTLERS BOASTED ONLY ONE SMALL PARLOR beyond the taproom, with just space enough for two tea tables and a small sofa set before the fire. The whiff of baking gingerbread gave the atmosphere a pleasant aroma. Mr. Rankin stood with his hands behind his back, leaning a little toward Mrs. Farr with a good innkeeper's solicitous attention while that lady wavered between the choice of the bohea or the souchong.

Trev excused himself to negotiate the cost of sending his letter postpaid. He had just come to an amicable agreement on mileage and postal notations with Mrs. Rankin when the blare of a tin horn made her hurry back into her kitchen. An open landau came rolling to a smart halt in the street outside. Trev glanced toward the door, his eye drawn by the sweep of a large cocked hat and a glimpse of uniform. He paused, watching the officer descend.

A dragoon guardsman, though he couldn't make out the badge. Since the war had ended, British uniforms had changed, aspiring to such stylish splendor now, that this fellow fairly glowed with heavy gold and scarlet, draped in braids and plastered with massive gilt facings across his chest. A tempting target for a marksman, Trev thought. He turned back to pick up his coins from the bar and toss his letter into the postbox.

The innkeeper did not quite abandon his other guests, but he came out of the parlor with a rapid step. Trev looked round again as the officer entered the door. The newcomer had a distinct familiarity about him. Trev caught the man's moment of hesita tion as they glanced at one another brief ly, and saw that he also was recognized. But he couldn't place the face. A square-jawed, handsome English face; light blue eyes and a high forehead… it could be from any of a thousand past encounters. Trev had dealt with innumerable English gentlemen and officers, named and nameless, in smoky, dim-lit quarters and thronging crowds.

He gave a faint nod, received the barest acknowl edgment, and they went their own ways, having agreed to ignore whatever passing acquaintance they might have had. Trev doubted it was the sort of thing a regimental officer would care to recognize in public. He was not eager to be forthcoming himself. It was bound to happen, of course—he would encounter gentlemen who had known him under other names and circumstances, but he hoped that they would match his discretion with their own. It was to no one's advantage to make a case of it.