The scoundrels deadly de.., p.4
The Scoundrel’s Deadly Deed, page 4
“My word, this is what you call a cottage?” Evans asked, whistling in surprise.
The drive led directly to the tall stone house with its ambling wings to either side, then curved back to the shop and office. If it hadn’t caved in, there should be a barn out back as well.
“It’s hardly a manor.” Damien couldn’t very well turn back now. Reluctantly, he dismounted and tied his horse to a post. “It started as a traditional two up, two down. Local stones are inexpensive. It just takes labor and my family was once large. Most of Gravesyde was built using the quarry.”
The original cottage had probably been built over a hundred-and-fifty years ago. As the family had grown, they’d added on. Damien had vague memories of doddering great-aunts and uncles occupying the wings, of aunts and uncles visiting. The sons and daughters had all left in search of their own places in the world, as he had. His father had been the heir and no one had been interested in going into shoemaking with him.
Very few had been desperate enough to even share the house with his father. Damien’s childhood had been a series of final departures.
He stepped onto the porch and produced the key the solicitor had given him. He hadn’t wanted to return here alone. The memories weren’t pleasant.
He had to shoulder the door open. The stench of must and dead vermin hit him. They spent the next few minutes prying open shutters and warped window frames.
“Should have rented it out,” Evans said. “Empty houses deteriorate.”
“That was Harry’s decision. He thought the war would end soon and he’d return here, take up where our father left off.” Damien let the familiar pang roll over him. They’d both been young and stupid. He didn’t have the excuse of youth any longer.
Evans wandered off, testing floorboards and admiring the size of the rooms. The furniture hadn’t been covered. Dust and mice droppings littered the cushions. The colorful quilts his mother had hung on the wall to keep out drafts had vanished. Perhaps she’d taken them with her.
Their family had never been poor. They’d built to last, built for generations.
“The shop is out back, beyond the hedge,” he called as Evans entered the spacious kitchen. His mother never had a proper stove. The enormous fireplace had produced adequate meals. They’d seldom kept servants for very long.
The place was too depressing for words. Damien prayed Evans would offer for it. If Damien wanted to settle down, he’d do it somewhere less haunted by his childhood.
Punching his father’s nose had ended a long war that his father had won.
He followed Evans out to the shop. It offered a few happier memories. He and Harry had escaped here in the evenings, pounding their frustrations into leather soles. The Calhoun sisters had run in and out, bringing flashes of color and laughter. His father hadn’t minded teaching the girls how to work the leather and sew slippers. They had been like bright flowers that last summer before he couldn’t take it anymore.
“Good solid foundation,” Evans said approvingly, walking around the shop interior. “Walls are solid. I’ll have someone up to look at the roof.”
“He had it tiled about twenty years ago. Should be sound for a while.” Wanting to escape grim memories, Damien ignored the interior office door and returned to the open air. They’d owned a carriage once. He assumed his parents had left in it.
“Do you have the deeds or a survey map?” Evans came out to admire the graveled, weed-filled drive. “Good wagon lane, good drive, room to expand. I’ll need to go above, see if we can set up dormitories, check all the roofs for leaks.”
“He had an office behind the shop. Might be papers there.” Damien went around the outside, checking shutters and overgrown shrubbery. Pulling out his keys, he sorted through for the office key. He hadn’t had this ring when he’d last been here. He’d simply verified that everything was locked up.
Evans opened the outside shutters to let in light. Damien found the key and unlocked the door.
The gray November light fell on overturned chairs. A hurricane of paper caught in the breeze from the open door. All the drawers in the desk hung open.
Evans whistled. “Looks like you had thieves.”
Six
Brydie
Adding the final polish to the stove, Brydie heard the rise of excited voices in the pub, dodged the kitten dashing for its bowl, and knew lunch hour had arrived. She washed her hands and brought out the jugs of watered apple juice. Each child had their own tin cup. They clamored around her when she carried in the jug.
“Orderly line,” she commanded, refusing to pour until they settled in place. She tilted her head at the kitchen as she spoke to the exhausted teacher. “I put together a lunch for you. Rafe had some official duty.”
With a grateful nod, Verity took Brydie’s place in the kitchen. It had taken them a few weeks to work out this routine. They were supposed to have more help, but so many mothers had babies at home, or worked elsewhere, that sharing work hadn’t happened. With no children of her own, Brydie had to act as substitute for Kate. Since Rafe wasn’t earning any income on the inn yet, she wasn’t certain what fancy financial juggling paid her small salary for cleaning so Kate could pay Verity for teaching.
Something had to change if she and Kate were to dress the children another winter. They’d outgrown almost everything. The farmhouse was large and drafty. Selling eggs and a few pigs barely put coal on the fire. Kate’s husband might have been an uneducated hired hand, but he’d kept the farm producing even while ill. Kate and Brydie had been raised as the daughters of a wealthy landowner, not to be farmhands. It wasn’t as if men took orders from women.
As she poured juice, Rafe stormed into the inn’s lobby, followed by Jack de Sackville, the owner of a stable on the other side of the village. Jack’s wife, Lady Elsa, even though she was an earl’s daughter, cooked for the manor inhabitants. The couple lived up there. To Brydie, the manor folk had an easy life, but both Rafe and Jack were currently wrapped in thunderclouds.
“We are damned well not bringing in the earl for questioning,” de Sackville shouted. “I’ll haul Johnson in by his heels and let him explain himself! If Weston had shot at him, he’d be dead by now.”
Brydie filled the last tin mug, and while the children tore through the lunches they brought from home, she stopped in the doorway to the lobby. “Do I need to bring you whiskey or ale?”
“A barrel of ale and a whipping post,” Rafe said in disgust. “But we can fetch for ourselves. We’ll go around back so as not to disturb your students.”
“Verity’s in the kitchen. Try not to shout too loudly. The little pitchers carry everything home.”
They saluted and strode out the back hall. Before she could retreat to keep the wild ones from turning the classroom into a circus, Damien and his stodgy older friend stormed in, looking nearly as unhappy as Rafe and Lt. de Sackville.
“Sgt. Russell is the bailiff, is he not?” Damien asked. Before she could reply, he asked, “Is he around?”
“In the kitchen with Lt. de Sackville.” Brydie wanted to escape to the safety of the classroom, but she had an uneasy notion that Damien had been out inspecting his father’s shop. Surely, he wouldn’t notice how much leather was missing?
“We need a room with a table to spread papers on. Do we have to wait until your students leave?” He’d removed his hat and now ran his hand through his thick hair, making a rat’s nest of it. Silver strands gleamed in the golden-brown. The years had carved his jaw and cheekbones with maturity. He’d been a handsome boy who had made it impossible to look at another man since.
He was a more handsome man. She wasn’t about to fetch and carry for him, no matter how good he looked, but he was a guest. She had to be polite. “The inn has a small library. Ask Rafe for the key.”
She retreated into the pub, pointed commandingly at a boy dancing on the table until he climbed down. She waited to hear Damien’s voice in the kitchen. When it became apparent he’d gone to his room first, she entered.
Rafe and Jack were shouting at each other while quaffing ale. Verity was no cook, but she was sawing at bread and had slapped cheese and pickles on the table.
And this used to be such a quiet inn.
“Your guests would like to use the library,” Brydie said over the hubbub. When the men didn’t immediately respond, she banged a tin pot against the iron stove. She hadn’t learned to deal with Kate’s three, plus drunken farmhands, by being polite.
Once she had their attention, she repeated her first request and added, “Mr. Sutter is looking for a bailiff.”
Before anyone could react, Damien’s fancified valet waltzed in from the schoolroom. “I am to prepare a light luncheon for the gentlemen, if I may. And if you have a stout whiskey, they will gladly pay.”
Brydie didn’t hold with drunkenness. Having said her piece, she swung around and returned to the classroom. Dancing Boy was now prancing around poor Lynly, who clung to her stuffed sock doll, terrified. Lynly was small for her age and had vapors that were enough to give the adults around her attacks of the heart.
This bully was too large for Brydie to lift by the collar, but she was still taller. She picked up Verity’s pointing stick, came between the two, and shoved the stick at his midsection, pushing him back to the coldest corner of the pub. “Sit there this week, freeze your dancing toes a bit until you learn to treat others with respect.” He protested. She crossed her arms and glared down at him from her greater height. He slumped on the bench at the pub’s most dilapidated table.
Despite not being paid to monitor the schoolroom, she enjoyed doing it. Lynly flashed her a trembling smile that broke her heart. That poor lass had so many difficulties. . . She didn’t need bullies pushing her round, not until Brydie could teach her to set their pants on fire.
Kate would probably object to that.
Verity returned just as Brydie was desperately ordering everyone to add two and two on their slates. Dancing Boy had lost his chalk and Lynly was offering one of hers.
“Show our guests to the library, will you, please?” Verity whispered, handing Brydie a key. “With any luck, that should lure their valet out of the kitchen where Rafe is likely to squash him like a bug.”
“Are the stars in the wrong place in the heavens?” Brydie asked, taking the key. “What on earth is happening that everyone is in such a stew?”
“The troublemaker claims the Earl of Weston shot at him this morning, and Mr. Sutter says someone broke into his father’s office.” Verity added dryly, “Since that house has been empty for years, I assume that last happened before the stars shifted into wrong places.”
Mr. Sutter’s office? Brydie’s throat dried, so she couldn’t reply. That didn’t make sense. The office had always been locked. Trying to work her head around that bit of news, she took the key and entered the lobby, where Damien waited.
He glowered at her as if the vandalism were her fault. She could have told him she only had a key to the shop. But he wouldn’t like that news either.
Silently, she led him up the narrow wooden stairs to the bedchamber floor of the old inn. Verity had stored the remains of her father’s library up here in vague hope that she might someday open it as a lending library. For now, Rafe had furnished it with crude shelves and castoffs from the manor.
An interior room with no windows and the kitchen’s heat below, it wasn’t as cold as other areas of the old inn. Brydie lit a lantern and left it on the battered table she’d polished to a gleam. “There are candles in the box on the shelf if this isn’t sufficient.”
She turned to leave, but Damien blocked the doorway. “Have you ever noticed vagrants or anyone else lingering about after my parents left?”
“You are assuming I have naught better to do than stand in our yard, watching the road,” she said stiffly.
“You once did,” he replied with a glimpse of the old Damien’s mischievous smile. “I suppose you’ve grown up since then.”
He didn’t take his gaze from her face but she was still very aware of their proximity. He was a tall man, topping her great height by half a head. He’d filled out in the chest and shoulders—as had she since she’d seen him last. In this narrow space, they were practically touching, but she refused to back away.
“We all grow up and have to do our share. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” She eased around him as his friend arrived with a sheaf of papers.
“You still live with your family? May I call on them?” He relented and shifted from the door, holding her with his questions instead. He’d always been good at that.
“It’s just Kate and me and the children now. No point riding all that way when you can greet us here in town.” She fled before he could question more.
She almost ran into the valet coming up. Since he had a full tray, she pressed against the wall to let him pass. He smelled of French cologne, wore lace on his neckcloth, and a blue, superfine frockcoat so tight she could almost count his skinny ribs. He feigned a smile and swept past as if she were no more than a charwoman.
Well, she supposed that’s all she was these days. The daughters of once prosperous squires were meant to marry well and take their proper places in the community. She’d shirked those duties, and now look where they were. Perhaps she should have gone to Bath to find a wealthy husband, as the baker’s daughter had. But their father had died and Kate had her hands full with a toddler and another on the way. . . By the time she was eighteen, the chance had been lost.
Rafe and Lt. de Sackville had left the kitchen by the time she reached it. The valet had left a mess for her to clean. She wondered what was happening with the earl and the man Rafe had called a troublemaker, but the inn wasn’t exactly gossip central. Lt. de Sackville had presumably become involved because his stable and training ground was out the river side of town, where the preacher’s followers camped.
Brydie decided she’d have to wait until The Monk opened later to hear the story, but she wasn’t in the habit of visiting the tavern, even though she loved listening to the curate’s sister sing.
She was about to brave the cold to feed the chickens when Minerva Peniston and Clare Huntley rapped at the kitchen door. Minerva was Priory Manor’s librarian and the bride-to-be who had brought a duke to the village. Mrs. Huntley, like Minerva, was one of the late earl’s granddaughters and presided over the manor with her husband. Anywhere else in the world, gentry from the manor would not be sitting in a kitchen with a charwoman, but this was Gravesyde. They all had to work together.
Brydie ushered them in and set them by the fire. “What can we do for you?” she asked while putting leaves in the teapot and checking the kettle was full.
“We’re worried this Mr. Johnson and his followers will disrupt the wedding trying to reach the duke,” Minerva said bluntly.
“We can’t order a duke and his son to go home.” Clare accepted her teacup and sighed. “If they did, all the other guests would feel obliged to do so, too, and that includes Colonel Peniston, who works for him. Minerva needs her father to give her away.”
“Archaic custom,” Minerva scoffed, but she didn’t argue the statement. “The gentlemen seem to have no understanding of why Mr. Johnson and his followers arrived in Gravesyde. Other than the myth of the missing jewels, there’s no wealth here for them to exploit. There’s barely enough population to convert.”
Brydie set out a plate of bread and cheese. They’d run out of scones and biscuits until Rafe had time to bake. “Sgt. Russell has no suggestions? I should think he and the gentlemen could provide adequate protection if the duke stays inside.”
“That’s just it, His Grace won’t stay inside. He’s fishing with his son as we speak. The two never see each other, so they were hoping to have a peaceful opportunity to talk.” Minerva cut cheese as if she’d like to use the knife on her nemesis—whether that was the duke or Mr. Johnson, it was difficult to say.
“So, no one is locking up the earl for shooting at an itinerant troublemaker?” Brydie asked dryly, taking a seat. The kitten jumped into her lap, and she gratefully stroked it, calming her overset nerves. “Shouldn’t we wait for Verity to discuss this? What can I possibly do?”
“Verity will defend her husband’s ability to be everywhere at once. Men prefer confrontation, and that simply won’t do. You know this village as well as anyone. We wish to be devious.” Clare nibbled delicately at her buttered bread.
“I don’t understand.” Brydie pushed her cup about. She’d worked with these women on church projects and in setting up the school, but she had no qualifications for much else.
“That’s because you haven’t a devious bone in your body.” Minerva licked her fingers.
Byrdie leapt up to fetch napkins but the ladies waved her down.
“We want you to befriend some of Mr. Johnson ’s followers, lure them here with tea and friendly gossip,” Minerva explained.
“Find out everything you can about their reason for being here,” Clare continued. “We’ll pay you.”
Brydie could not afford to turn down money, especially if she might be helpful and ease her curiosity all at the same time.
Seven
Damien
“They want you to do what?” Rafe was bellowing as Damien trotted down the stairs in search of writing paper. “I won’t allow it!”
Brydie appeared to be the recipient of the innkeeper’s bellows. Unless she had changed mightily—and Damien had seen no evidence that she had become a genteel, obedient lady these last years—Rafe might as well give up now.
“Unless you tell me you’ll boot the children out of school, you cannot stop me,” Brydie reminded him, reaching for cobwebs in the distant corners of the ceiling with her long-handled mop. “I’ve lived here my entire life. I know people you haven’t even met. I will have plenty of company. All I want from you is your permission to use the pub after school lets out. I’ll still put in all my hours for you.”
