The Innkeeper's Daughter Page 25

  He schooled his face into a frozen mask—matching the state of his heart. Why would he do such a thing? Loyalty to Ford was one thing, but this was his life. If Robbie didn’t steal away Louisa soon, he’d have to come up with some other plan to escape the noose of matrimony.

  “Mr. Morton?”

  Burying his feelings deeper than a sexton on a bender, he forced an even tone to his voice. “What have I done to upset you?”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t guess?”

  He dissected every word or action of the past few days that might’ve tipped her off. But no, he’d taken care to cover his tracks. Kept his mission at the viscount’s manor strictly confidential. Yet maybe it hadn’t been him at all, but some other source she’d heard from. Her friend Maggie perhaps?

  “Why did you pay off Tanny Needler?”

  Her question was scissors, snipping away the tension from each muscle in his shoulders. Was that all that bothered her?

  A smile curved his mouth, and he shrugged. “I told you that oakum delivery is not a job for a woman such as yourself. You ought to be attending dinners and dances, not gaols.”

  Bypassing her, he retrieved the hammer from the floorboards and hefted it.

  She huffed behind him. “A gentleman’s son may have no shortage of invitations to the viscount’s manor, but in case you haven’t observed, I am an innkeeper’s daughter.”

  “Oh, do not be mistaken.” He turned from the sorry excuse of a puppet stage and stared straight into her heart. “I observe everything about you.”

  Red flamed on her cheeks. It was entirely too easy to make this woman blush—and for that, he thanked God.

  “My point is, sir, that dinners and dances are beyond my reach.”

  “Were there any justice in the world, that would not be so.” He clenched his teeth with the truth of that statement. The justice of this world was a cruel jest. Poisonous women like Louisa Coburn lived in luxury while Johanna scraped to keep a roof over her head. There was nothing fair about it.

  “You, my sweet Johanna.” Her name rolled off his tongue before he thought. Her eyes widened, but this time she did not denounce his use of her name.

  Emboldened, he advanced, stopping a breath away from her. “You deserve ribbons and laces and walks through a garden, not ramshackle puppet stages and the leftover stench of ale.”

  A sad smile wavered on her lips—lips he very much wanted to kiss. And he could, if he bent just a little.

  “It is kind of you to say.” A curious little quiver, almost too faint to discern, shivered across her chin. “But I am not the angel you make me out to be.”

  He’d taken kidney punches before. This one stunned him most. Despite his best efforts to retain a poker face, his brows shot upward. “What kinds of mortal sin could you have possibly committed?”

  She stood like a soldier before battle, bearing up to fight God knew what army of demons. Tears filled her eyes, shining, glossy, a rainstorm held in check by the thinnest of threads, for they both knew if she spoke, the dam would burst.

  Every muscle in him strained at the leash, begging to draw her into his arms and hold her forever. But this time, it would have to be of her own volition to seek his comfort, or better, to seek God’s. So he held back, barely, and prayed that his words would suffice. “Are you under the impression that what you have or have not done is what gives you worth? Because that is nothing but a vile lie. God stamps His value on everyone—on you—by virtue of His grace.”

  The truth of his words hung in the air, ripe for the picking. Would she?

  Her trembling spread, the skirts of her gown rippling slightly, but she remained silent.

  So he plowed ahead. “Tell me, Johanna, is worth the real crux of why you feel you must be the saviour of this inn? Is working yourself to death some kind of atonement?”

  “You don’t understand,” she wailed. “It’s my fault. All of it!”

  Her tears broke loose, washing down her cheeks until they dripped from her jaw. Though he wished to wipe them away, he clenched the hammer tighter, unwilling to stop the flow, for clearly this was a needed release.

  “What do you think is your fault?” He probed carefully, quietly, not expecting her to answer but hoping she would.

  Her gaze lifted to his, but he doubted she saw him. He’d seen that look before, in a criminal facing the gibbet, the ugly moment when past sins paraded and blocked out the last few breaths of life.

  “I failed,” she whispered. Her throat bobbed with effort as she pushed out further confessions. “I failed to tend the fire beneath the soap, and now my mother is blinded in one eye. I have failed to keep up the inn as my father asked. It’s my fault I didn’t get the hearth hook fixed and now Thomas is scarred.” Her voice ratcheted to a keening cry. “I failed! Don’t you see? I am a failure!”

  She turned from him.

  He reached out, staying her with a touch to her shoulder before she could scurry off. “You’re wrong, you know. Just because you fail doesn’t mean you are a failure. It simply means you’re human.”

  Her backbone stiffened, as did the muscles beneath his touch. She was nothing but bone and glass. The slightest movement might shatter her to a million pieces. So he stood there, suspended, tethered to her by his fingers and the truth.

  “You are too kind,” she said at last.

  Then grabbing up her skirts, she ran as if chased by the hounds of hell and disappeared up the stairs.

  A glower carved heavy into his brow. She couldn’t have been more wrong about him. There was nothing kind about loving her so deeply while agreeing to marry another. Would to God that Robbie would steal Louisa away before he was forced to sign a contract. Better yet, would that he might figure out who the wretched traitor was and be done with the whole affair.

  He seized a board of lumber from the stack, and his first hammer swing collapsed the whole rickety structure. Good. Building a new puppet stage was a far better venture than cataloguing his iniquities.

  He pried out former nails, banged them back into straight lines, then overhauled the whole design with a sturdier construction. At one point, a man stumbled in from the street, looking for someone named Grouper, but other than that, Alex worked alone and unhindered. The stage took on a shape he hoped would please Johanna. The desire to see her smile at his accomplishment drove him on. Just one more board and—

  “It’s a little crooked.”

  A deep voice came out of nowhere. The hammer plummeted. His thumb was smashed between wood and iron.

  And he knew exactly how Johanna had felt.

  “Blast!” Throwing the hammer onto the counter, he veered around and faced a dark spectre. Thatcher. He should’ve known. “Can you not give some kind of warning when you enter a room, man?”

  Eyes black as coals glowed beneath Thatcher’s hat brim. “That would defeat the purpose.”

  Alex threw his hands wide. “What purpose? To startle years off my life?”

  “That’s merely a side benefit.”

  “Bah!” His thumb throbbed as he stomped over to a table and sank onto the bench.

  Thatcher followed, leaving a cloud of dust particles thick on the air behind him. When he sat across from Alex, a fine sprinkling sifted onto the tabletop as well. The man looked as if he’d ridden through the depths of the earth and came out the other side a piece of dirt himself.

  Alex propped his hand on the table, any lower and his thumb pulsed too painfully. “Well, what have you? Surely you didn’t come all this way to remark on my carpentry skills.”

  Thatcher loosened the kerchief at his neck and removed it, then proceeded to rub out a muscle in his shoulder. So, it had been a long ride. “You asked me to check into the viscount’s background.”

  Alex grunted. “That bad, eh?”

  “I’ve heard worse.”

  “Then why such haste?” Alex leaned across the table, shoring himself up to receive dreadful news.

  A narrow flash of white grew as Thatcher smiled
in full. “Even a ghost needs a drink now and then.”

  A drink? Alex threw his head back and laughed. The man toyed with him as surely as a cat with a rat—and he’d fallen for it.

  Still chuckling, he launched from the bench and retrieved two mugs from behind the counter, then filled them from a keg already tapped. He slapped one down in front of Thatcher and eased onto his own bench.

  “All right. I’m listening.”

  Thatcher slugged back several swallows and wiped the leftover foam from his mouth.

  “Coburn was part of a military force back in the eighties in India. Bengali to be exact.”

  Alex rifled through all he knew of East Indies intrigue—and came up shorthanded. Not that he’d let Thatcher know of his scant foreign intelligence. He met the man’s gaze. “Sent to quell uprisings or some such?”

  Thatcher nodded. “Coburn was good. Some say too good. Prestige has a way of going to one’s head. Mix that with greed, and the combination is lethal.” He paused to down another swig of his drink. “Coburn wasn’t content with his conquests or his military pay grade. When a local rajah approached him, promising gold and lots of it, he sold himself to the devil. A regret I suspect he holds to this day.”

  Alex blew out a long breath. Coburn had hinted at past sins, and awful ones at that. “What happened?”

  Thatcher swirled the liquid in his cup as he spoke. “The Rajah assigned Coburn to lead a contingent of Indian nationals and wipe out a neighboring village. Coburn had no love for the native peoples, so he took the job. But he didn’t do his homework. That village contained more than Indians. There were British in residence—a fact he didn’t discover until he’d already burned and killed half the population.”

  Alex’s heart hitched a beat. If the viscount had no qualms about killing fellow citizens across the Indian Ocean, what about here? Was he the turncoat?

  “Are you saying the Viscount Lord Coburn is a traitor?” Alex listened with every nerve standing at attention.

  Thatcher shook his head, his dark hair brushing against his collar. “You’ll find no truer loyalist. Once Coburn discovered English blood being spilled, he turned on his own contingent. He barely made it out of the village alive, or out of India when the Rajah heard of his duplicity. Your viscount had to flee the country.”

  He whistled, long and low. “That must’ve been a powerful man he crossed.”

  “The Rajah Bulbudder is the lineal descendant of an ancient family in Hindustani. So yes, Coburn couldn’t have aligned himself with anyone of more importance.”

  “I suppose you don’t fear the devil if you’re holding his hand.” Lifting his mug, he washed back Thatcher’s information along with a big drink. “No wonder the viscount forbids his daughter a return visit. I hear the Indians carry a grudge as long as an elephant’s memory.”

  “Aye, well don’t get too comfortable holding the viscount’s hand, either.” Thatcher drained his cup and set it back onto the table. “Coburn has murdered countless innocents. He is not to be trusted.”

  Alex grunted. The pain in his thumb faded, replaced by a new, more urgent ache in his bones. If Coburn weren’t the traitor as he’d suspected, that left either Robbie … or Louisa.

  He was getting closer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Despite the scuff of clouds draping over Dover like a filthy canvas, the afternoon was most definitely yellow. Lucius Nutbrown couldn’t pull his gaze off his beautiful new stockings as he strode toward the Blue Hedge Inn. And as he thought on the golden opportunity he and Nixie had dreamed up, his legs pumped faster, creating a vivid shock of colour along the dusty street.

  Rounding the corner, he caught sight of a blue skirt. Fancy that! Just the other colour he’d hoped to spy. He upped his pace. “Miss Langley!”

  She turned. A great brown sack in her arms sagged her shoulders. Perhaps he ought offer to carry it, but how to manage that while yanking Nixie out of his pocket? No, quite impossible. He held out his tiny friend as he approached the woman.

  “My, but you’re looking lovely today, Miss Langley. Mr. Nutbrown is wondering if he might have a moment of your time?” Nixie asked.

  Pride swelled in Lucius’s throat. How polite. How endearing. Good ol’ Nix always knew just what to say and how to say it.

  Miss Langley shifted her sack, ignoring Nixie and frowning at him. Sorrow panged an arrow through Lucius’s heart. Why could she not see his friend? Acknowledge his presence? As much as he disliked the brutish Mr. Blackie and Mr. Charlie, at least they respected Nix.

  “Very well.” She sighed. “But only a moment. Come in while I drop this off.”

  He followed her into the taproom, but as she continued into the kitchen, he stopped—as did all his bodily functions. Breathing. Heart. Hearing, sound, feeling. No, not feeling. Tingles ran the length of him, as did a delicious warmth, bathing him from stocking tips to the sweaty part where his hat band pressed against his skull. Had he died? Was this heaven?

  There, right in front of him, was the most majestic puppet stage he could ever imagine. Whitewashed wood framed red curtains with three-inch fringe dangling at the hem. Golden whorls and curlicues embellished the sides of the frame, and in a superb hand, the words Punch and Judy reigned above all, like a message from God written for mere mortals.

  He barely acknowledged the thump-step, thump-step drawing closer to his side, until a tug at his dress coat forced him to look down.

  Leaning on a crutch propped beneath his armpit, Thomas Langley grinned up at him. “She’s a beauty, aye?”

  Nixie whimpered. So did he. Beauty was too minuscule a description.

  “Punch and Judy show tomorrow night.” Thomas eyed him. “You coming?”

  “Oh!” Nixie squeaked. He’d squeak too, but some of his ecstasy might leak out—and that was something he definitely wanted to savor.

  He forced Nixie to look away from the glorious stage and face Master Thomas. “Yes, my fine fellow. Mr. Nutbrown wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “Cost you a penny jes’ to get in the door. You and Nixie.” The boy thrust his chin out at Nix.

  The acknowledgement vibrated through Lucius, adding pleasure upon pleasure. Indeed, there had never been a more yellow day.

  Thomas lifted two fingers. “That’ll mean two pennies.”

  “No!” Nixie shouted, stunning even Lucius. “No, no, no! A puppet show is worth at least a thruppence per head. Mr. Nutbrown shall pay the full value.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, and well they should. It was an insult asking for a mere penny.

  “Thomas, Mam needs you in the kitchen.” Miss Langley swept into the taproom.

  Instantly the boy’s face folded into painful lines. His back hunched like a coal miner’s who’d spent decades burrowing in tunnels. He gripped his crutch as if he might topple over at any minute.

  “There’s still a fair amount of peas to be shelled,” Miss Langley continued.

  “My leg pains me something awful, Jo. I need a rest, I do.”

  Lucius exchanged a glance with Nixie. Had his friend noticed the boy’s sudden deflated tone as well? But the lad had seemed so perky only a moment ago.

  “All right. But see to it you return as soon as you’re able.” Turning her back on the boy, she faced Lucius. “What was it you wanted, Mr. Nutbrown?”

  Nixie wavered between him and Miss Langley, silent. Lucius couldn’t help but follow the boy’s stealthy movements, especially when the lad lifted a finger to his lips. He skirted the wall, staying out of Miss Langley’s line of sight as he edged toward the front door. What a curious place to go take a rest when a perfectly good bed was to be had upstairs.

  “Mr. Nutbrown, you are wasting my time.”

  “Hmm?” He snapped his attention back to the lady in front of him, then raised Nixie a little higher, for his poor friend had slid to an unacceptable height. “Oh yes, there is a new business opportunity Mr. Nutbrown would like to share with you.”

  She shook her hea
d. “I am not interested, sir.”

  “Please, Miss Langley, just listen. This venture has the potential to be highly profitable.” Inside Nixie’s hollow head, he crossed his fingers. This had to work. It must.

  “Allow me to be plain.” Miss Langley stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Those men you’re working with are surely smugglers. I will not entangle myself any further, no matter how profitable.”

  Smugglers? Ghastly wretches! Lucius tugged at his collar with his free hand, the memory of Mr. Charlie gripping his throat still lingering.

  Nixie shivered. “Mr. Charlie and Mr. Blackie are a bit rough around the edges, and that is exactly why Mr. Nutbrown intends on breaking company with them.”

  “A wise move, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  Lucius shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a pouch of coins, making sure to jiggle it a little so the money clanked together. “Mr. Nutbrown has developed a new business enterprise, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with nefarious lawbreakers.”

  Miss Langley glanced at the pouch. She didn’t say anything, but neither did she shove him out the door—yet. Emboldened, he bounced Nixie, drawing her attention back to his friend.

  “Once Mr. Nutbrown wraps up his business with Mr. Charlie and Mr. Blackie, he plans on …”

  Just to be on the safe side, he swiveled Nixie’s head to scan the room, then pushed him closer to Miss Langley. “You will keep this confidential?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I doubt anyone will ask me, but yes, I will.”

  Perfect! He’d clap Nixie’s little hands if he didn’t still have his fingers crossed. “There’s unclaimed cargo down at Blisty’s Warehouse, namely a load of hemp rope what would bring a good price from fishermen hereabouts. We buy the rope at a bargain, then sell it at a profit. You shall be the cheerful face of commerce, Miss Langley, selling a needed product to a worthy people. Mr. Nutbrown shall keep the books and work on finding other merchandise to sell.”