The Innkeeper's Daughter Page 21

  “And I hope you understand it was necessary. A man in my position cannot be too careful.”

  “What is that position?”

  Pushing back his chair, the viscount stood and stalked to the mantel like a panther on the prowl. He opened the lid of his precious cheroot box and proceeded with the ceremony of lighting and puffing before he strolled back and reseated himself. “It was curious, you showing up here, at such a time. I have many enemies and thought perhaps you might be one.”

  The viscount took a drag on his tobacco, his gaze skewering him. For a few loud ticks of the corner clock, the man said nothing, then slowly, a stream of smoke curled out of his nostrils like a great dragon. “Of course, I know differently, now. I think, instead, that you were a godsend.”

  Were he a horse, he’d have reared. There were many things the viscount might’ve labeled him. A godsend never crossed his mind. “Pardon me,” Alex said, “but I didn’t take you for a religious man.”

  “Nor did I peg you for a man of violence.” The red tip of the viscount’s cheroot glowed, as murderous as his statement.

  Alex ran a hand through his hair, giving ample alibi for the flinch he couldn’t deny. What had Ford’s man told the viscount?

  “Yet I am glad of it.” Coburn ground out the rest of his tobacco and laid the stub to rest on a silver platter. “Your sharpshooting skills might come in handy. Your father is quite proud of your talent with a gun. Though I suppose that’s to be expected in your line of work.”

  Sweet, merciful heavens. What story had the viscount been fed? Sure, he could manage a muzzle, but put to the test, he was no crack shot. He cleared his throat, unsure how to respond, hoping—desperately—that words would magically appear.

  Coburn held up a hand. “No need for false pride. I didn’t believe for a moment that you were a simple wine merchant. Your military service is exemplary for one so young. A sorry shame that friendly fire took you out of commission. Had I known of your injury, I’d have paid for better accommodations in the gaol.”

  Alex grit his teeth to trap a grimace. Not only was he a sharpshooter but an injured one? Well, thanks to this man, at least he had plenty of aches and pains to make that believable—but if Ford were here, he’d get an earful of censure.

  “Good thing your daughter is worth it,” he ground out.

  The gleam in the viscount’s eyes hinted at approval. “All water under the bridge, eh? Good. We move forward from here. I’m expecting a shipment in a fortnight that I could use some help with.”

  Alex shifted in his seat. Though he’d love to throttle the viscount for having him arrested, at least the gaol time had garnered him some capital with the man. “I know very little of shipping, other than the transport of fine wines. What kind of help is it you want?”

  “In times like these, I find it best to compartmentalize information. It’s safer that way. You’ll be given information as needed.” Once again, leaving his desk behind, Coburn crossed to the mantel and tugged on the bell pull. “In the meantime, you’ve a week to clean yourself up. Are you sure you prefer to remain at The Blue Hedge? I can accommodate you here.”

  Alex ran a finger along his bottom lip, thinking. The man was very cagey, very shrewd. Was Robbie in on this? The timeframe he planned to run off with Louisa matched up. If so, how much did he know? What kind of family secrets mouldered beneath the wealth of the viscount’s roof?

  “Alexander?”

  He startled at Coburn’s use of his Christian name, and slowly pushed himself up, using his battered appearance to his advantage. “Er … yes, sir. Forgive me. Afraid the past week has taken a toll on me physically and mentally. The Blue Hedge is fine for now, but tell me … what exactly is it I’m cleaning myself up for?”

  “The betrothal dinner, of course. Get yourself a new suit of clothing down at Featherstones on the High Street, and spare no expense. I’ll give word you’re coming and that it’s to be put on my account. Can’t present you looking like a beaten thug dragged from a rookery, can I?”

  Alex pressed his lips together. Why not? That’s exactly how he felt, though he suspected he’d feel worse when his engagement went public and word spread that he was to wed a woman he didn’t intend to actually marry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Johanna wrung out a cloth so frayed and thin, even a ragpicker would turn it down. Cool evening air stole in from the taproom door, propped open to encourage customers. She frowned at the darkness outside. Closing time already and she’d served only two dray drivers nothing but a mug apiece. Pursing her lips, she set about scrubbing off tables that were hardly dirty. Surely she’d made the right decision to visit the harbourmaster on the morrow.

  Behind her, the last strain of a violin chord screeched into oblivion, taking some of the tension in her shoulders along with it. At least one tribulation was drawing to a close. That would be Mr. Quail’s last song under this roof if she had anything to say about—and she did. Plenty.

  Weaving around tables, she crossed the room to where he packed up his violin. “Excuse me, Mr. Quail, but I must speak with you.”

  He snapped shut the lid and grinned down at her. “Delighted.”

  The man was relentless. If he practiced his music with as much dogged pursuit as he did his flirtations, he’d be a virtuoso. “You might not be once you’ve heard me out.”

  “Oh? Intriguing.” He leaned close, his grin widening. “And I love a good intrigue.”

  With a sigh, she retreated a step. “Nothing of the sort. I merely wish to inform you that your services here are no longer required. You and your band may pack up and leave in the morning.”

  He staggered back, slapping a hand to his heart as if shot through the chest with an arrow. “You wound me!”

  It took all her willpower to keep from rolling her eyes. “Really, Mr. Quail. Such dramatics. This is a business matter, nothing more. Your expenses far outweigh your benefits, Oak Apple Day is long gone, and so you must leave.”

  “Ah-ah-ah.” He wagged a finger at her. “My band has brought in customers. You can’t deny that.”

  “Not enough to cover food and drink. And let’s not forget that broken window for which you still haven’t paid me, hmm?”

  Like a dropped cannonball, he plummeted to his knees and hung his head. His hands folded in prayer as if she were a goddess to be offered devotion. “Have I not begged sufficient forgiveness for that unfortunate incident, my queen?”

  She tried, valiantly, but this time there was no stopping the roll of her eyes. “Yes, of course you’re forgiven, but that does not fix the glass. Now get up, please. You have some packing to do.”

  He rose, snatching one of her hands on the uptake and kissing two of her knuckles before she could yank them away.

  “Two weeks, my sweet Miss Langley. Just a fortnight more, and my band and I will gladly move on.”

  “I am sorry.” She shook her head. “There are simply not enough funds to keep housing and feeding you for free.”

  His face darkened like a quick-rising storm at sea, then evaporated with the snap of his fingers. “I know! Yes! Why, I should have thought of this before.” He laughed and snatched up his violin case, waving it over his head like a lunatic. “I’ll have grounds more relative than this—the play’s the thing!”

  Though she ran the words through her head several times, he might as well have been speaking Portuguese. Perhaps he truly had become mad. Had she caused him to snap by asking him to leave? She leveled a firm glare at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “A play, Miss Langley. Who doesn’t love theatrics?” He swung about, taking his violin case for a merry ride.

  She opened her mouth, a hearty reprimand on her tongue, when he silenced her with a finger to her lips.

  “Tut, tut. Other than you, I mean.”

  Pulling from his touch, she swept out her arm. “Look at the size of this taproom, sir. We haven’t the space to put on a play. By the time you clear an area for a performance, you’ll
have no room for patrons. A play would not be profitable.”

  “I see.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze darting about. “Something of a smaller scale, then.”

  “Something of no scale.” She sighed. “It is time for you to move on. Are you not travelling musicians? I should think you would be happy to get on the road.”

  She might as well have been speaking to a deaf man. He pivoted, continuing his search for who-knew-what around the room. One brow rose, then the other, and eventually his whole head bobbed. “I’ve got it.”

  “Mr. Quail, are you even listening to me? I said it is time to move on—”

  “Here.” He strode past her and stopped at the counter, littered with her wash bucket and leftover serving dishes. Shoving a tray aside so that the mugs atop it rattled, he bent and eyed the area. “Looks to be maybe two feet wide, seven or eight in length. Some wood, nails, a simple modification is all, and … yes. This will be perfect.”

  She scowled, gaining his side. “Perfect for what?”

  “A Punch and Judy Show, of course. A few boards, some drapery, and voilà. A puppet stage that will take up no more additional space in this room.”

  La! The man was daft. Curling her hands into fists, she planted them on her hips. “And how am I to operate without use of the counter? No. Absolutely not. I have a special abhorrence of puppets.”

  “We can be ready in a week. I’ll make up some handbills and begin spreading them around on the morrow.” He flashed her a smile and dashed toward the stairs. “Good night, Miss Langley. Big day tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Quail, I insist you come back here right now. This discussion isn’t over.”

  But his footsteps didn’t slow.

  “Mr. Quail!” She growled. Infuriating, pig-headed—

  “Angry at Quail again, eh? Apparently things haven’t changed much.”

  She spun at the deep voice behind her. Her jaw dropped, unladylike yet completely unstoppable. Alex stood framed in the front doorway, like a macabre painting of a war scene. The longer she gaped, the more her heart broke into piece after piece, until it was a wonder the thing could beat at all. As a young girl, she’d come across a crushed robin, wings broken by a wagon wheel, flying a thing of its past. She’d run home to Mam, horrified, weeping.

  But this time, there was nowhere for her to turn.

  She sucked in a breath, frantic for air. The gentleman she knew was gone. His dress coat was ripped and dirty. He wore no cravat. His pristine white shirt was torn and bloodied beneath what remained of his waistcoat, both gaping at the chest. An ugly gash cut across his cheek, disappearing into a growth of beard, matted with more blood. Even his gaze was a bruise. No one deserved that much brutality, especially not a man who’d been nothing but selfless and compassionate toward others. Toward her.

  “Oh Alex,” she sighed, her voice as derelict as his face.

  It took him a moment to understand the emotion in the sag of Johanna’s shoulders and that the crackle in her words belonged to him, like a gift from a secret admirer, given without a tag. And he wasn’t sure what to do about that. Wrap his arms around her—or run out the door? He settled for shoring his shoulder against the door frame.

  Tears shimmered in her eyes, caught by lantern light. She cared. About him. Not that in the past other women hadn’t, but this? This was entirely different. His heart pounded hard against his ribs. He harbored such affection for this woman that it cut into his soul she would hurt for his sake.

  What kind of man loved one woman yet let everyone believe he’d marry another?

  He ran a hand through his hair and winced when his fingers grazed a gouge behind his ear. Good. He welcomed the pain, for only a scoundrel would carry out such a vile act.

  “You’re back,” she whispered.

  The quiver on her lips and in her voice, the charged tension between them, was too much to bear. Either he ought kiss away every worry she’d suffered on his behalf—or completely change the subject. The latter was honorable, of course, but the first? Aah … desire rippled through him from head to toe.

  He settled for clearing his throat. “Still have a room available?”

  A smile broke, then. One to shame the brightest star in the heavens. “Of course.”

  She snapped into action, apron strings flying as she pivoted. “But first come to the kitchen, and I’ll fill a basin of warm water. Those wounds need a good cleaning.”

  He followed, his step hitching halfway across the taproom. The crooked floorboards. The beat-up tables and rugged chairs. The way the roof sloped at the corner near the hearth, debating whether to cave in or not. Alex’s gut twisted, but wonder of wonders, not from scorn. This place felt like home. Comfortable. Familiar. Worn by decades of life and love, not tatty by sinister neglect.

  He upped his pace. Clearly several nights in a gaol had affected him deeply.

  Johanna pulled a stool away from the worktable, and he sank onto it. One of his eyes was squinty from a leftover right hook, so he angled his head and watched her gather a bowl and some cloths with his good eye. “What’s Quail done this time that’s got you agitated?”

  She slammed the bowl onto the table, rattling a wooden mug, then retrieved a teapot from the hearth. “He and his band have overstayed their welcome.”

  “Sounds like your earlier problem with Nutbrown. Shall I evict them for you as well?”

  “No.” She dipped a rag into the basin and wrung it out. “I suppose I can put up with them for two more weeks if I must, but you can be certain—”

  “Two weeks?” he thought aloud. Itinerant musicians didn’t usually operate on such a strict schedule. “Did he say why?”

  “He did not. I suppose it’s anybody’s guess with that lot. I’ll just be glad to see them go. Now then, let’s get you taken care of.” She stood so near, he inhaled her sweet scent of rosewater and heat, alluring as a dusky summer day. Her fingers guided his chin sideways, and she dabbed at the slash on his cheek.

  “You have suffered much,” she murmured. “Too much, I think.”

  Despite the sting of it, he leaned into her ministrations. He could get used to this attention. “The suffering is over now. I am free.”

  She pulled the cloth away, her brown gaze smiling into his. “You are not a traitor after all?”

  “Did you not believe me?”

  She dipped the rag again. The water in the basin turned pink. “One doesn’t usually get thrown into gaol for no reason.”

  Hah! He could think of at least twelve men currently gracing the cells of Millbank and Newgate prisons whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the worst possible time. “You’d be surprised,” he said, and left it at that.

  An easy silence fell, as soothing and healing as Johanna’s deft touch. She worked with a gentleness that tightened his throat. Each time her cloth plunged into the water, the basin deepened into a murkier red.

  Eventually, she stepped back and examined her work. Satisfied, she quirked a brow. “There. Your face is nearly as good as new.”

  Right. He still couldn’t see out of his left eye. “You are a poor liar.”

  She flashed a smile. “I shall take that as a compliment, sir.”

  But just as quickly, her smile evaporated. She clenched the rag until her knuckles whitened. “I—I saw what they did to you. That day I was there, when they … when you … Well, I should tend that wound on the back of your neck, but I suspect you shall have to remove your shirt. Shall I call Mam?”

  “No need. While I have no doubt of your virtue, I suspect you’ve seen more than the average young lady who’s not tended an inn—especially with no father to take care of the, er, dirtier business of maintaining a taproom. Am I correct?”

  Pink blossomed on her cheeks, but to her credit, she did not shrink from his assessment. “As usual, a sharp observation on your part.”

  While she busied herself emptying the basin and replacing it with fresh water, he slipped his arms out of what remained of his waistc
oat, then shrugged out of his shirt, biting back a cry as the fabric stuck to the dried blood on his back. To save her the embarrassment of having to look him in the eye while he sat bare-chested, he turned on the stool, facing the kitchen door instead of her.

  But he almost turned back when she lifted his ragged hair aside and sucked in a sharp gasp.

  “That can’t be good,” he said.

  “It’s not.” She blew out a long breath, warming the skin on his back. “But I suppose in time, and with some of Mam’s famous salve, it will clear up. The wound is quite infected. I’ll have to trim your hair so it’s not in the way.”

  “Doctor, innkeeper, cook, and now a barber as well? You are a woman of many talents.”

  While locks of his hair fell to the floor, he pondered what she’d mentioned about Quail. Why would the man want to stay a fortnight more? Did this tie in somehow with Robbie and Louisa’s planned elopement in two weeks? And what of the viscount’s shipment arriving in that very same time period? Some thread knotted them all together.

  “What does it mean?”

  Johanna’s question mirrored his thoughts—but she could have no way of knowing. Could she? “What does what mean?”

  “This mark on your neck.” She laid the scissors on the table next to his elbow, then leaned closer, her warmth heating his exposed flesh. “It almost looks like the letter B. Why would someone cut you like that?”

  He gritted his teeth, shoving away the painful memory when knife met flesh. “Despite God’s edicts, man is not always kind.”

  “True.” The weight of the world hung in her single, exhaled word. She knew exactly what he was talking about—and the knowledge kindled a rage deep in his belly. It was one thing for him to experience the depravity of man, but she ought not. Ever.

  Her skirts rustled. A jar lid opened. The acrid scent of liniment—a strange mix of turpentine and vinegar—filled the room.

  “I am sorry,” she said, “but this may sting a bit.”