Patrick turned a steady eye on the Welshman, who visibly flinched. Whatever Hankford is up to, Patrick thought, he is not dangerous.

He nodded brusquely. “Right. As long as you are not injuring anyone, you have my word that we will not inform the London authorities of your activities.”

Without a word, John Hankford turned about and started up the long, straggling stairs to the ancient monastery.

Sophie’s eyes gleamed. “What on earth do you suppose he’s doing up there?”

Patrick looked at the happy curiosity in her eyes and inwardly groaned. His wife was definitely addicted to French romances. Hell, she probably thought they were heading into a haunted monastery or some such nonsense.

“I expect he’s smuggling.” His tone was dismissive as he turned to Simone. The girl was shivering, clearly about to have hysterics and refuse to climb the cliffs. “It’s the monastery or the Lark,” he said to the girl, not unkindly.

Simone looked uncertainly at the dark greenish storm clouds above them.

“The gun he’s brandishing about is a little-used antique,” Patrick pointed out. “And Hankford does not look handy with firearms.”

Suddenly Simone realized that Sophie had started to climb the steps and was already a distance above them. “Don’t you let the mistress go into that den of thieves by herself, sir!”

Before Patrick could open his mouth, she brushed indignantly past him and started after Sophie.

Patrick sighed and took after her. When the little group reached the top of the stairs, a great oak door stood open before them. Patrick stepped in. The room didn’t seem to be the lair of a group of thieves. In fact, it was as empty as a tomb, and about as furnished. The pudgy Welshman had shucked off his monk’s robe and was standing by the great stone fire-place.

Patrick strode over to him, irritation riding in his tone. “Well? Aren’t you going to reveal your dark secret?”

John Hankford looked at him, a trifle uncertain. Foakes appeared to be a little black-hearted, he did. “There’s nothing bad about the place. Nothing a’tall. This is naught but a ‘ospital,” John said.

Patrick sneered. “Now why would we have to promise not to tell about a hospital!”

But in a flash of an eye, he knew. “God forbid, we’ve found our way into a nest of Bony sympathizers!”

John glared at him defensively. “We’re not for them French, we’re not. But we’re not for you English, neither. All we’ve been doing is mending a few of the boys who got torn up in their wars, and fled the place.”

“Deserters.” Patrick’s entire body was stiff and still. “How did they get here?”