Dawn's Early Light by Pip Ballantine Page B

him, sending the sailor to the ground. “Okay, I’m done.”
    She jerked her head towards the exit. By the time they were back out in the night, music had resumed, conversation was returning, and Bill’s demeanour had gone from aggravated to extremely satisfied. Outside a blast of ice-cold wind hit them in the face, but after the humid dark of the public house, this was quite refreshing. Eliza led the way back up the sandbank, and towards the road they had walked down earlier in the evening.
    â€œYou Americans are making me homesick, you know that?” With a look back at Quagmire’s, she turned back to where Bill’s horse waited patiently. “Well, come on, Bill, we’ve got a morning ahead of us tomorrow.”
    â€œHold on,” Bill said, trailing behind her. “The old man was really on to something?”
    â€œI know that look. Merle may sound crazy, but he saw something. Tomorrow morning, we do what we do best.”
    He motioned with his thumb back to the pub. “I thought
that
was what we do best.”
    The clouds slipped away from the moon with timing that Bill could not have worked better if he had placed an order for it. The smile she caught from him, even with the swollen jaw, was both charming and wicked. She stretched. “That, my heavily bruised counterpart, was merely a prelude.”
    â€œI look forward to the opening act,” Bill said, his voice low and husky.
    Eliza could not help herself as she laughed into the night. “You know, Bill, I am starting to like you . . .”
    He tilted his head up and laughed, matching her stride for stride. “All part of my wicked plan.”

S IX

Wherein the Atlantic Surrenders a Secret
    â€œA nd exactly how much alcohol had this supposed lead of yours enjoyed last evening?” Wellington asked, engaging the motorcar’s hand brake.
    Eliza tilted her head, considering. “He was on his third, maybe fourth, shot . . . from my bottle . . .”
    â€œHardly seems reliable,” Felicity offered from the tumble seat.
    Wellington watched carefully as Eliza shut her eyes and took a long quiet breath. Meticulously, she placed the goggles around her neck, which he knew did not bode well. They both turned to Felicity, who was wearing the pink driving cap Wellington had donated to keep her curls in check. She looked silly, but quite endearing.
    â€œWere you there last night, Miss Lovelace?” Eliza asked, her voice steady.
    â€œNo,” the librarian replied.
    â€œThen I suggest you refrain from the assessment of the investigation before you hear all the facts.” Eliza turned back, with her eyes narrowed in a dangerous fashion. “Both of you.”
    â€œFelicity has a point,” he dared. Even as her ice blue eyes bore into him, Wellington continued. “The man is a war veteran, and I have no doubt he suffers a great deal with what he’s seen in the battlefield.”
    â€œYou weren’t there, Welly,” Eliza stated.
    â€œNo, Eliza, I wasn’t,” and then he paused, wringing a hand lightly on his steering wheel, “on that particular battlefield.” He was pleased to see her gaze soften slightly. “What I’m saying is that battlefield trauma can affect one’s perception of the world. Introduce a liberal amount of alcohol into said perception—”
    The rhythmic hoofbeats of Wheatley’s horse interrupted his thoughts, and soon enough the chestnut mare appeared alongside the motorcar.
    Wellington shook his head at the state of the American. While Bill was slightly better presented than he had been the previous night, he still looked as if he had been on the wrong side of an argument with a cricket bat.
    Deciding not to comment, Wellington reached out, opened his door, and offered a hand to Felicity. As he assisted her down, he looked back to Eliza.
    â€œAs I was saying, add libation to someone as unstable as