The Innkeeper's Daughter Read online

  Ahead, briars congregated like a horde of fat, black monsters against the backdrop of a rising wall of a hill. Good thing Nixie was safe inside his coat. Things were about to get rough.

  He slowed as he neared the hedge, then bent, looking beneath the thorny verge. Oh, for a lantern. Though there might be some truth to Mr. Charlie’s insistence that he not bring one along. Just like the man predicted, his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. But these briars weren’t merely dark—they were the gaping jaws of hell itself. He padded along, half-bent, looking, searching, squinting until finally … was it?

  He smiled. A crawlspace punctuated the bottom of the hedge. For a moment, his hand hesitated over his breast. If he pulled Nixie out, his friend would surely crow some praises for this victory. But he’d need that hand—and his knees—to clear the thorny tunnel in one piece. Hopefully this wouldn’t snag his stockings too horribly. Taking great care, he shuffled ahead on all fours.

  The bristly hedge-tunnel was short and opened up to the mouth of a cave, wherein a lantern glowed sun bright. Voices increased in volume. “Coburn’s not going to be happy. This fool can’t even pull off the few tasks we’ve given him. I say we kill him.”

  Egad! Someone was in for trouble. Lucius rose to his feet and duck-walked through the cave’s opening and into a carved-out cavern. Stretching to full height, he dusted himself off—then immediately bent once more, examining his legs. Oh figgity! Flesh peeked out from a tear on his hose, dousing some of the yellow glory from his stockings. His lower lip quivered, then he sucked it in between his teeth. Nothing to be done for the mishap now.

  “’Bout time you showed, Nutbrown. We were about to give up on you.” A gravelly voice interrupted his inspection.

  Lucius met the gazes of Mr. Blackjack and Mr. Charlie, who both sat near the light. They scowled almost in unison, their brows drawn into a V. If he didn’t know better, he might almost think they were cross with him—but of course it was only the play of shadows from the inconsistent lantern light.

  Mr. Charlie shook his head, red hair the colour of spilled wine in the dim illumination. “So far your performance hasn’t met with our expectations. And here we thought you was a businessman.”

  This would never do. He had a reputation to uphold. He yanked Nixie from his coat and popped him onto his hand, shoving the puppet out to take care of this potential disaster. “Mr. Nutbrown assures you, gentlemen, that you’ll find none more businesslike than himself. None at all.”

  Mr. Blackjack scratched the scruff on his chin, the sound rasping overloud in the contained space. “Let’s see … you failed to get us a lookout for our last meeting. This time you’re late. We’ve already spotted you enough money to dandy up an entire gentleman’s club, but other than promises, you’ve given nothing in return.” He swung his shaggy head toward Mr. Charlie. “What kind of business you suppose that is, Charlie?”

  “Bad, I’d say. Maybe the worst kind of bad. Disappoints me, it does.” He reached for the straps on his back, biceps bulging like a butcher’s, and slowly pulled out an axe. He tapped the flat of the blade against his palm, the thwapping noise a crazed heartbeat bouncing from wall to wall.

  Or was that mad pounding his own heart? Lucius swallowed a sour taste in his mouth and bobbed Nixie’s head from Mr. Blackjack to Mr. Charlie. “Mr. Nutbrown is your man, sirs! Don’t doubt it for a minute. He’ll do anything for his friends. And we are friends, are we not? Friends and businessmen, one and the same.”

  “A’right. We don’t have time for this. We’re on a tight schedule, and the gears are clicking into motion.” Mr. Blackjack shifted, his wooden leg scraping the ground as he moved, the sound eerily like bone on bone. With a thick hand, he patted the dirt next to him. “Sit yourself down and listen up.”

  In a trice, Lucius dashed over to the spot and sat, cross-legged, making sure to keep Nixie’s head at a pert angle.

  Mr. Charlie didn’t say a word, but he stopped thwacking the axe against his palm.

  “There’s a shipment coming in, about three weeks from now,” said Mr. Blackjack. “All our groundwork must be in place. Preparation is key. As is secrecy. Wouldn’t want word to get out to smugglers now, would we?”

  “Smugglers?” Beneath the cloth and plaster of the little puppet, beads of sweat popped out on Lucius’s skin. “Horrid creatures.”

  “Right.” Mr. Charlie lifted his gaze from his axe blade to stare at Lucius, bypassing a glance at Nixie. “Which is why we hire only respectable businessmen, such as yerself. But yer not going to be enough. We need a woman to work along with you, just for a small task. Someone who’s familiar to the town, of good standing and that sort. We need you to find one of those for us. Think you can do that?”

  Mr. Charlie slapped the axe blade against his palm so sharply, Lucius and Nixie jumped.

  “Why, of course Mr. Nutbrown can.” His voice came out squeaky without even trying—maybe a little too squeaky, judging by the knowing look passed from Mr. Blackjack to Mr. Charlie. Lucius cleared his throat and tried again. “But you gentlemen had no trouble acquiring me. Why don’t you find a woman yourself? Ought not Mr. Nutbrown’s talents be put to more use like ciphering or scribing?”

  “Do we look as proper as you?” Mr. Blackjack shrugged one shoulder, the ripple of muscle as fluid as the swipe of a dragon’s tail. “Why do you think we gave you new garments in the first place?”

  His eyes dropped to the awful snag in his stocking, and it took all his reserve to keep Nixie atop his hand instead of tucking away his friend and attempting to mend the tear. “Of course. Mr. Nutbrown sees.” He whipped his puppet’s face to his as if to confer, then held Nixie back out into the fray of conversation. “It will take a gentleman—such as Mr. Nutbrown—to solicit the service of a reputable lady.”

  “Right. That’s your next assignment.” Mr. Blackjack leaned toward him, his tone lowering to a near-growl. “And if you fail again, you’re out.”

  Nixie trembled, his little cape shivering against Lucius’s shirtsleeve. “Umm, a little clarification, if you don’t mind. Out? As in …?”

  Mr. Blackjack and Mr. Charlie laughed loud and long. Nixie looked from one to the other, trying to understand the joke. Poor puppet. Too bad Nix was of limited intelligence. Lucius reached and straightened the jester’s tiny collar with his free hand, trying to impart some sort of dignity to his companion.

  Mr. Blackjack slapped Lucius on the back, the movement knocking Nixie’s head askew. “We’ll see you and the lady tomorrow. Five sharp at the Pickle and Pine.”

  Lucius’s eyes widened. Gah! The only woman he could think of—who would even consent to a conversation with him—was Johanna Langley, and she’d never leave her precious inn near dinnertime. “If discretion is of the utmost, sirs—” he yanked Nixie’s head upright— “the Pickle and Pine won’t do. Too many patrons. Too many ears. Mr. Nutbrown suggests you consider the Blue Hedge Inn.”

  Mr. Charlie snorted. “That rat hovel on the edge of town?”

  Lucius bobbed Nixie’s little chin up and down.

  “Fair enough. Five tomorrow. Blue Hedge. But don’t disappoint us.” Mr. Blackjack aimed a pointed stare at the sharp axe blade lying in Mr. Charlie’s lap.

  Mr. Charlie ran his thumb along the blade, opening a line of flesh, bloodying both skin and steel.

  Lucius flinched. So did Nixie.

  Mr. Blackjack leaned back and looked down his nose at both of them. “There’s no holding Charlie back when he’s disappointed.”

  Lucius’s throat tightened, and for a moment, he wished Nixie could speak on his own. “N-not to worry, friends. Mr. Nutbrown will be there. On time. Early, even.”

  He shot to his feet and darted to the door, forgetting to duck and smacking his forehead in the process. Naturally he’d be there, but how to get Miss Langley to agree to sit and listen?

  Johanna clamped her jaw to keep her teeth from rattling. The wagon she drove juddered from every rock, dip, or uneven groove on Dolphin Lane, th
e ride as merciless as Tanny’s switch. Resettling her backside on the unforgiving seat, she flicked the reins, urging the horse forward. The animal was hardly more animated than Posey. Not that she blamed the poor bay. Scars crisscrossed his rump from Tanny’s wrath. Though she hated inflicting more pain on the horse, it was a must. She was late.

  Passing by the Magpie Inn, she glanced at the pots of roses, periwinkles, and pert little candytufts. Now there was a good idea. She could paint an old barrel in the barn and transplant some wildflowers for the front of the Blue Hedge. It wouldn’t cost anything and it couldn’t help but perk up the facade.

  Farther down the lane, she bumped past the White Horse and admired the green- and yellow-striped awning over the door. A sigh deflated her. New awnings were out of the question for now.

  The sun grew brighter on the horizon with every turn of the wheels. She’d already passed a few drays loaded with crates for an early delivery. Pedestrians ventured out. Johanna snapped the reins a little harder and ducked her head when Mrs. Dogflacks emerged out a door, shaking dirt from a rug. If the woman saw her driving Tanny’s wagon, she’d spread Johanna’s shame from one end of town to the other.

  At last the Market Place Gaol loomed ahead, hunched on a foundation of crumbling stone. Five years ago, Johanna had held her breath when driving beneath the archway leading around to the exercise yard. This time she stopped the wagon and eyed the disaster before daring a pass.

  The first set of gates stood open, one bent and hanging by a single hinge. The other was completely missing. Light gaped through the ragged openings of the overhead archway, where stones finally gave up their ghost and fell to their death. Maybe if she hugged the right side, she’d make it through without a rock to her skull. Why they’d not torn down this ruin long ago baffled her—and the entire town. Money, likely. It always came back to pounds and guineas.

  With a “walk on” to the horse and a prayer heavenward, she rolled onward, not breathing until she cleared the arch and entered the narrow road between two walls. Spiked iron rods jutted from the top of the barrier closest to the gaol. Sharpened flint grinned like jagged fangs atop the other. Lot of good that would do them should an inmate clear the first wall and walk free out the broken gate.

  The air was close here. Pressing in. Pressing down. It stank of waste and hopelessness, followed by a pungent waft of vinegar. Her stomach lurched. The stench was even more unpleasant than she remembered—and she was on the outside of the walls. Poor Mr. Morton was locked up inside. Often he’d invaded her thoughts the past two days. How was he holding up? Would she see him today? Did she want to?

  She rolled to a stop at the back of the building, then set the brake and climbed down. The bay complained with a snort as she rang a bell next to the rear entrance of the yard. A metal slidey-door shot open on a thin slot. Eyes the color of a great, grey rat stared out.

  “Oakum delivery and pickup.” Her mouth formed the words from memory, the phrase rising from a graveyard where she’d thought them buried long ago.

  Behind the slot, the eyes widened. “Yer not Diggery. Not Tanny, neither.”

  Retrieving the invoice from a pocket of her work apron, she held it up. “Diggery has been given leave for the next three weeks.”

  “Has he now? Well, well. I don’t mind that.”

  The slot closed, and before the wide doors opened, she pulled herself back up to the wagon seat and released the brake.

  The guard’s gaze followed as she guided the wagon through the gate and along the edge of the wall. He relocked the doors and rang for an inmate to unload her noisome cargo. The gravel yard was empty, but not for much longer. Soon the gaol would spit out criminals of all sorts, doomed to spend endless hours picking tar from the used hemp she brought.

  Setting the brake once again, she parked the wagon next to a gleaming pile of cleaned oakum—yesterday’s work—then frowned at the small size of it. Half a wagonload, at best. And next to that, a gnarly pile yet remained to be cleaned. They’d not even finished it? This wouldn’t go over well with Tanny.

  Across the yard, the gaol door opened, which prodded her to climb down. Sometimes the rear wagon gate stuck, and it wouldn’t do for her to still be fiddling with the latch when the guards brought the prisoner on work duty to unload her delivery. She’d made that mistake once, and discovered Tanny was a sweet-spirited altar boy in comparison to a convict.

  She hastened to release both pins—thankfully only one needed coaxing—and lowered the gate. Now to return to her perch of safety in the front. She scooted around the side of the wagon, neared the iron step up to her seat, and—

  A grasp on her shoulder spun her back. Rat-grey eyes coated her with an oily gaze. “How ’bout I show you the guardhouse while you wait?”

  “No, thank you.” She ducked from his hold and turned, reaching for the seat to hoist herself up.

  Fingers dug into her arm, yanking her around so quickly, the world blurred for a moment.

  “Isn’t safe for a skirt hereabouts.” His words carried more than a warning, the bass rumble of it weighted with an insidious promise.

  She jutted her jaw, well aware the move was less than ladylike, and not caring a bit about it. “Safer than a guardhouse, I’d say.”

  “Oh, a bit salty, are ye?” A feral smile lifted his thin lips, all sharpness and edges. He leaned closer, reaching with his free hand to fondle the hair fallen loose at her temple. “I like a bit o’ salt.”

  “Leave off!”

  It was her thought exactly, but not her voice. It came from behind—and stiffened her shoulders. Unsure if she should be mortified or relieved, she froze. Of all the prisoners to be assigned to unloading duty, it had to be Mr. Morton?

  The guard in front of her lowered his free hand—still not releasing her with the other—and looked over her shoulder. “You again? Might’ve known. Why’d you bring that one, Billy?”

  “Bagsley’s orders. This ’un needs a good breaking.”

  He laughed, returning his soulless gaze to her. “As I said, won’t be safe for you here. Not with this one nearby. Come with me—”

  “No!” She wrenched from his grasp and ducked around him, not wishing to be caught in the coming storm.

  As she suspected, a wave of toast-colored hair bobbed amidst a flurry of fists. Three guards. One Alex. Unfair. She raced to the back of the wagon and retrieved the pitchfork used for unloading. Profanity polluted the air, accompanied by grunts, and—oh, sweet heavens! Not the click of a gun. Should she hide or try to be of help to Alex?

  A shot exploded.

  Then silence—except for heavy breathing.

  Time stopped. A host of emotions attacked her from every conceivable angle, pinning her in place.

  “Johanna?” Her name was a ragged whisper.

  Dropping the pitchfork, she dashed around to the front. Three bodies lay on the ground. All clad in blue wool. Alex bent, head down, hands on thighs, shoulders heaving.

  “Mr. Morton?” She stopped in front of him, suddenly unsure of what to do. “Are you all right?”

  Slowly, he straightened, and as he ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back, her heart quit beating. The right side of his mouth was swollen, red and angry. His left eye was purpled and but a slit. One cheek sported a fresh welt, and blood trickled from his nose. His fine clothes were ripped and ruined, a taunting reminder of his fall from grace. All this could not possibly be from a tussle with three guards. What sort of anguish had he suffered the past two days?

  Tears burned the backs of her eyes, and her throat tightened. “Oh, Alex … what have they done to you?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Alex’s lungs heaved, and he flexed his hands, releasing the leftover energy from the fight—but all the while memorizing the sight of Johanna, the way the morning sun painted her in golden light, the brightness of her blue skirts against the backdrop of ugly grey. Pink brushed along the curves of her cheeks. She was an ethereal contrast to the netherworld of this g
aol yard. He’d frown, if his lip weren’t so swollen. “What on earth are you doing here, Miss Langley?”

  Behind him, across the gravel expanse, shouts issued from the prison’s door, a discordant harmony to the moan of the guard laid out on the ground beside him. “And be quick about it, we haven’t much time.”

  “Oh, Alex!” His Christian name came out shivery—

  And sent a pang straight into his heart.

  “I am sorry for your suffering.” Johanna’s eyes brimmed with tears, authentic and altogether too alluring.

  He drew in a ragged breath. How could she show such compassion when she had no idea the validity of his supposed crime? “Why are you here?”

  “I have taken on a side job, oakum delivery.” Johanna leaned sideways, glancing past him, then drew near, bringing the fresh scent of lavender with her. “Are you really a traitor?”

  Fat lip or not, this time he did arch his lips, upwards, into a smile. The woman could make a statue grin simply by the command of her presence. “I am a man of many talents, but not sedition. Never sedition.”

  Her eyes searched his, and the uncertainty there pained him more than his cracked rib. Much as he’d like to grab her hand and run free, defend his innocence and honor, reality pounded the gravel at his back, kicked up by approaching guards.

  He closed in on her, bending to whisper into her ear. “Listen. Write a note. One word. Sackett. Put it in the base of the dead ash, east of center, in a stand of trees behind the rocks at Foxend Corner.” Pulling away, he flashed her a last smile. “Oh, and find yourself a different occupation. This is not the place for you. Now, stand back.”

  He pivoted and strode forward three paces, then dropped to his knees, hands up and behind his head. If he had a white flag, he’d wave that too. Anything to spare Johanna from viewing another brawl.