Not tall, he was nevertheless powerfully built, with burly shoulders and a barrel chest. Possessing the muscular forearms of an army infantryman, these were maintained in civilian life by the regular hauling of ale barrels and the occasional spat with an unruly customer. He kept a clean house, but located as it was, near the rookeries of Gravel Lane and Wentworth Street, it was inevitable that things sometimes became somewhat confrontational. Ex-Sergeant Benjamin Forbes’s vicious and efficient left hook ensured that any discord was quickly quelled. He was in the taproom when Rafe and Henrietta came in search of him, sleeves rolled up, a large leather apron wrapped round his person, watching with an eagle eye the rounding up of the pewter pots by the porter-house boy. ‘Lord Pentland,’ he exclaimed, ushering the boy out and closing the taproom door firmly behind him, ‘Meg said you was here. Sorry I wasn’t around last night. Little bit of business to take care of.’ ‘Benjamin,’ Rafe greeted the man with one of his rare, genuine smiles, shaking his hand warmly.
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