CHAPTER TWELVE
“Shall I tell him?” Divers kept his gaze trained on the spot somewhere behind Lyon’s head, his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “Or will—”
“Me brother.” The retort was fast as a bullet. But maybe she was about to throw herself in with Lyon? “Orwell Rhodes, seeing as you must know and you’re going to tell.”
“Who is where?”
“Probably Daindridge’s or any of the other local hostelries within a three mile ride.”
“I see.” Lyon narrowed his eyes. “So? he's not here?"
“Not unless he's in sodding hiding in the bushes. Doing it well though, if he is.”
“Well then, we’ll just have to arrest you.”
“Me? Are you serious? Me? Why would you go and--?”
“You’re here, aren’t you? So are these barrels.”
“Yes. But—“
“But maybe you’re going to tell me they walked into your summerhouse on legs?”
“Walk? What?” she scoffed. “These barrels? Now you’re being no end of ridiculous. Trying to win first prize in the—“