It was late afternoon, the day after Mr Gainsborough and his nephew had finally departed. Only two customers sat nursing a tankard each by the fire, but they both looked up at the same time as Jago. Their mouths gaped when they saw who came striding in. Sir John Marcombe. Jago drew in a steadying breath and pretended he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. With slow and deliberate movements, he placed the keg behind the counter and tried not to show how hard his heart was thumping. Had John found out, he wondered. Was that why he had a face on him like a stormy thundercloud? Well, he couldn’t prove anything, or could he? Had Gainsborough talked after all? Jago swallowed hard. ‘You there.’ John slapped his riding gloves down onto the counter next to Jago. ‘I hear you’re the man in charge.’ ‘I own this inn, yes,’ Jago replied warily and decided not to add, ‘as you well know’. ‘No, I don’t mean this miserable hovel.’ John lowered his voice, although only slightly.
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