“Just on the way to the post office. The man carrying the black umbrella.”

She poked her head out, scanning. “Yes,” she said after a moment.

“There’s a man with a black umbrella.”

“Doesn’t look familiar? Think back a couple of months. You served us salmon as I recall, and trifle.”

“I don’t know how it is you can remember meals so.” She leaned out further, strained her eyes. “He looks ordinary enough to me. Like a lawyer, or a banker.”

“Bingo. Or so he told us. Our retired banker from London.”

“Mr. Smythe-White.” It came to her in a flash, made her laugh. “Well, that’s odd, isn’t it? Why are we hiding from him?”

“Because it’s odd, Brie. Because it’s very, very odd that your overnight guest, the one who happened to be out sightseeing when your house was searched, is strolling down the street in Wales, just about to go into the post office.

What do you want to bet he rents a box there?”

“Oh.” She sagged back against the door. “Sweet Jesus. What are we going to do?”

“Wait. Then follow him.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

They didn’t have long to wait. Barely five minutes after Smythe-White walked into the post office, he walked out again. After taking one quick look right, then left, he hurried up the street, his umbrella swinging like a pendulum at his side.

“Damn it, she blew it.”

“What?”

“Come on, quick.” Gray grabbed Brianna’s hand and darted after Smythe-White. “The postmistress, or whatever she is. She told him we were asking questions.”

“How do you know?”

“Suddenly he’s in a hurry.” Gray checked traffic, cursed, and pulled Brianna in a zigzagging pattern between a truck and a sedan. Her heart pounded in her throat as both drivers retaliated with rude blasts of their horns.

Already primed, Smythe-White glanced back, spotted them, and began to run.

“Stay here,” Gray ordered.

“I’ll not.” She sprinted after him, her long legs keeping her no more than three paces behind. Their quarry might have dodged and swerved, elbowing pedestrians aside, but it was hardly a contest with two younger, healthy pursuers on his heels.

As if he’d come to the same conclusion, he came to a stop just outside a chemist’s, panting. He dragged out a snowy white handkerchief to wipe his brow, then turned, letting his eyes widen behind his sparkling lenses.

“Well, Miss Concannon, Mr. Thane, what an unexpected surprise.” He had the wit, and the wherewithal, to smile pleasantly even as he pressed a hand to his speeding heart. “The world is indeed a small place. Are you in Wales on holiday?”

“No more than you,” Gray tossed back. “We’ve got business to discuss, pal. You want to talk here, or should we hunt up the local constabulary?”

All innocence, Smythe-White blinked. In a familiar habit, he took off his glasses, polished the lenses. “Business? I’m afraid I’m at a loss. This isn’t about that unfortunate incident at your inn, Miss Concannon? As I told you, I lost nothing and have no complaint at all.”

“It’s not surprising you’d have lost nothing, as you did the damage yourself. Did you have to dump all my dry goods on the floor?”

“Excuse me?”

“Looks like the cops, then,” Gray said and took Smythe-White by the arm.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time to dally just now, though it is lovely to run into you this way.” He tried, and failed, to dislodge Gray’s grip. “As you could probably tell, I’m in a hurry. An appointment I’d completely forgotten. I’m dreadfully late.”

“Do you want the stock certificate back or not?” Gray had the pleasure of seeing the man pause, reconsider. Behind the lenses of the glasses he carefully readjusted, his eyes were suddenly sly.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You understand fine, and so do we. A scam’s a scam in any country, any language. Now, I’m not sure what the penalty for fraud, confidence games, and counterfeiting stocks is in the United Kingdom, but they can be pretty rough on pros where I come from. And you used the mail, Smythe-White. Which was probably a mistake. Once you put a stamp on it and hand it over to the local post, fraud becomes mail fraud. A much nastier business.”

He let Smythe-White sweat that before he continued. “And then there’s the idea of basing yourself in Wales and doing scams across the Irish Sea. Makes it international. You could be looking at a very long stretch.”

“Now, now, I don’t see any reason for threats.”

Smythe-White smiled again, but sweat had begun to pearl on his brow. “We’re reasonable people. And it’s a small matter, a very small matter we can resolve easily, and to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“Why don’t we talk about that?”

“Yes, yes, why don’t we?” He brightened instantly. “Over a drink. I’d be delighted to buy both of you a drink. There’s a pub just around the corner here. A quiet one. Why don’t we have a friendly pint or two while we hash all this business out?”

“Why don’t we? Brie?”

“But I think we should—”

“Talk,” Gray said smoothly and, keeping one hand firmly on Smythe-White’s arm, took hers. “How long have you been in the game?” Gray asked conversationally.

“Oh, dear, since before either of you were born, I imagine. I’m out of it now, truly, completely. Just two years ago, my wife and I bought a little antique shop in Surrey.”

“I thought your wife was dead,” Brianna put in as Smythe-White led the way to the pub.

“Oh, no, indeed. Iris is hale and hearty. Minding things for me while I put this little business to rest. We do quite well,” he added as they stepped into the pub. “Quite well. In addition to the antique shop, we have interests in several other enterprises. All quite legal, I assure you.” Gentleman to the last, he held Brianna’s chair out for her. “A tour company, First Flight, you might have heard of it.”

Impressed, Gray lifted a brow. “It’s become one of the top concerns in Europe.”

Smythe-White preened. “I like to think that my managerial skills had something to do with that. We started it as rather a clandestine smuggling operation initially.” He smiled apologetically at Brianna. “My dear, I hope you’re not too shocked.”