Pale, Smythe-White sat back. Again, he took out his handkerchief and mopped his face. “Young man, you’re squeezing my heart.”

“Nope, just your bankbook. Which is fat enough to afford it. You caused Brie a lot of trouble, a lot of worry. You messed with her home. Now, while I might sympathize with your predicament, I don’t think you realize just what that home means to her. You made her cry.”

“Oh, well, really.” Smythe-White waved the handkerchief, dabbed with it again. “I do apologize, most sincerely. This is dreadful, really dreadful. I have no idea what Iris would say.”

“If she’s smart,” Gray drawled, “I think she’d say pay up and count your blessings.”

He sighed, stuffed the damp handkerchief into his pocket. “Ten thousand pounds. You’re a hard man, Mr. Thane.”

“Herb, I think I can call you Herb because, at this moment, we both know I’m your best friend.”

He nodded sadly. “Unfortunately true.” Changing tactics, he looked hopefully at Brianna. “I really have caused you distress, and I’m terribly sorry. We’ll clear the whole matter up. I wonder, perhaps we could cancel the debt in trade? A nice trip for you? Or furnishings for your inn. We have some lovely pieces at the shop.”

“Money talks,” Gray said before Brianna could think of a response.

“A hard man,” Smythe-White repeated and let his shoulders sag. “I suppose there’s very little choice in the matter. I’ll write you a check.”

“It’s going to have to be cash.”

Another sigh. “Yes, of course it is. All right then, we’ll make arrangements. Naturally, I don’t carry such amounts with me on business jaunts.”

“Naturally,” Gray agreed. “But you can get it. By tomorrow.”

“Really, another day or two would be more reasonable,” Smythe-White began, then seeing the gleam in Gray’s eyes, surrendered. “But I can wire Iris for the money. It will be no trouble to have it here by tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think it would.”

Smythe-White smiled wanly. “If you’d excuse me. I need the loo.” Shaking his head, he rose and walked to the rear of the pub.

“I don’t understand. I don’t,” Brianna whispered when Smythe-White was out of earshot. “I kept quiet because you kept kicking me under the table but—”

“Nudging you,” Gray corrected. “I was only nudging you.”

“Aye, and I’ll have a limp for a week. But my point is, you’re letting him go, and you’re making him pay such a huge amount. It doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s exactly right. Your father wanted his dream, and he’s getting his dream. Good old Herb knows that sometimes a con goes sour and you count your losses. You don’t want to send him to jail and neither do I.”

“No, I don’t. But to take his money—”

“He took your father, and that five hundred pounds couldn’t have been easy for your family to spare.”

“No, but—”

“Brianna. What would your father say?”

Beaten, she dropped her chin on her fist. “He’d think it was a grand joke.”

“Exactly.” Gray cast his eyes toward the men’s room, narrowed them.

“He’s taking too long. Hang on a minute.”

Brianna frowned into her glass. Then her lips began to curve. It really was a grand joke. One her father would have greatly appreciated.

She didn’t expect to see the money, not such a huge amount. Not really. It was enough to know they’d settled it all, with no real harm done.

Glancing up, she saw Gray, eyes hot, storm out of the men’s room and head toward the bar. He had a quick conversation with the barman before coming back to the table.

His face had cleared again as he dropped into his chair and picked up his beer.

“Well,” Brianna said after the moment stretched out.

“Oh, he’s gone. Right out the window. Canny old bastard.”

“Gone?” Staggered by the turn of events, she shut her eyes. “Gone," she repeated. “And to think, he had me liking him, believing him.”

“That’s exactly what a con artist’s supposed to do. But in this case, I think we got more of the truth than not.”

“What do we do now? I just don’t want to go to the police, Gray. I couldn’t live with myself imagining that little man and his wife in jail.” A sudden thought stabbed through, making her eyes pop wide. “Oh, bloody hell. Do you suppose he really has a wife at all?”

“Probably.” Gray took a sip of beer, considered. “As to what we do now, now we go back to Clare, let him stew. Wait him out. It’ll be easy enough to find him again if and when we want.”

“How?”

“Through First Flight Tours. Then there’s this.” Before Brianna’s astonished eyes, Gray drew out a wallet. “I picked his pocket when we were out on the street. Insurance,” he explained when she continued to gape. “After all these years, I’m not even rusty.” He shook his head at himself. “I should be ashamed.” Then he grinned and tapped the billfold against his palm. “Don’t look so shocked, it’s only a little cash and I.D.”

Calmly Gray took bills from the wallet and stuck them in his own pocket. “He still owes me a hundred pounds, more or less. I’d say he keeps his real money in a clip. He’s got a London address,” Gray went on, tucking the lifted wallet away. “I glanced through it in the men’s room. There’s also a snapshot of a rather attractive, matronly looking woman. Iris, I’d think. Oh, and his name’s Carstairs. John B., not Smythe-White.”

Brianna pressed her fingers between her eyes. “My head’s spinning.”

“Don’t worry, Brie, I guarantee we’ll be hearing from him again. Ready to go?”

“I suppose.” Still reeling from the events of the day, she rose. “He’s a nerve, that one. He clipped out, too, without buying us the drinks.”

“Oh, he bought them.” Gray hooked an arm through hers, sending a salute to the barman on the way out. “He owns the damn pub.”

“He—” She stopped, stared, then began to laugh.

CHAPTER NINETEEN