The Innkeeper's Daughter Page 9

  “How soon?” he asked.

  “Friday.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five pounds.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Ten.”

  His nostrils flared, and she got the distinct impression he sucked in more than air. Her own head spun from the swiftness of his interrogation. If this was how he conducted business, no doubt merchants quaked in their boots to cut a deal with him.

  “That’s quite a shortfall to gather in three days.” His tone was even, placid almost, but his conclusion was deadly accurate.

  “Oh, what you must think, Mr. Morton.” She retreated to the corridor’s wall and leaned against it for support. “Had providence not brought you here, we’d not even have that much. It’s not like Mam and I haven’t minded our accounts. In truth, there are hardly any to mind. Mr. Quail and his band play nightly, which draws in some patrons, but pays only enough to cover the musicians’ room and board.” She shrugged. “And I’ve yet to see a coin from Mr. Nutbrown, despite his puppet’s excessive promises. Perhaps the Blue Hedge Inn really is cursed.”

  “On the contrary. I’d say the inn is blessed, Miss Langley, with your fair presence.”

  The intensity of his gaze heated her cheeks. “If having no rent money is a blessing, then I’d hate to hear your description of mishap, sir.”

  “Have we not moved beyond sir and mister? The name is Alex. And as I said, all you need is a different perspective.”

  She threw out her hands. “From where, the workhouse window?”

  “Now there is the quick-witted spunk I admire.” He smiled. “I see exactly what must be done to cure your monetary ills. Leastwise, for the time being.”

  “Do tell.”

  Advancing toward her, he reached inside his greatcoat and pulled out a small pouch. With a touch as light as a whisper, he grabbed her fingers and deposited the bag in her palm, the leather still warm from his body heat.

  Without a word, he wheeled about and stalked down the hall.

  She stepped away from the wall. “Where are you going, Mr. Morton?”

  He kept walking.

  “Alex!”

  He turned back. “You see? Christian names work for me as well. Now then, there’s a certain patron I shall be happy to evict for you.”

  Her lips parted. Surely he wasn’t hinting at collaring Mr. Nutbrown?

  “You can thank me later. Now, go tend your brother. He’s got an ear for stories, so if nothing else, make one up.” He pivoted and disappeared down the stairway.

  She gaped. How long she stood there, she could only guess, but slowly, as one surfaces from a deep slumber, she realized her fingers had gone to sleep from grasping the pouch so tightly. Loosening the drawstring, she poked about at the coins, calculating their worth.

  Sweet mercy! She must be dreaming. Twenty golden guineas … more than enough to pay Mr. Spurge when he came to call on Friday.

  The few bites of porridge she’d managed this morning slowly rose from her stomach, and she swallowed. Nothing good ever came of taking money from a man. Absently, she rubbed the small scar behind her ear. That was a lesson she learned early on. This was more than just rent, and while Spurge may be staved off for yet another month, what compensation would Mr. Morton expect for giving her such a sum?

  CHAPTER NINE

  Darkness had never been a friend to Lucius Nutbrown. An acquaintance, yes, and a familiar one at that, but not a jolly, hobnobbing comrade. No, not a bit of it. Still, he scrunched his eyes shut, closing out the taproom’s meager light—and the lurid image of the meat-cleaver-sized hands reaching for him. Maybe this time his frail childhood belief that if you could not see danger, then danger could not see you would prove true.

  Come, darkness, hide me now.

  Fingers bit into his shoulders. So much for childish convictions.

  “Out! And don’t come back, ye barmy beggar!” The words flew out the door along with him. Tuck and roll time. Even with a full afternoon of practice, his elbow caught in a pothole, ripping yet another gash into his greatcoat. Gads! Could not a town the size of Dover pay to even out the ruts in the road?

  He bumped to a stop and opened his eyes—then wished he hadn’t.

  A beast of a horse reared over him, the silhouette ghoulish with the sun behind it. Front hooves hovered above his head, about to spear his skull to the ground like a harpoon through an eel.

  Lucius jerked sideways. Gravel shards stung his neck when a hoof dug into the lane, but better bits of rock than bits of brain being splattered about.

  The stallion screamed, as did the man atop it. “Mind the horse!”

  Lucius staggered to his feet, shooting out his puppet-clad hand. “Mind Mr. Nutbrown’s head!”

  The man atop the horse gave him nary a look as he retreated down the road. Lucius flipped his hand around so the jester’s painted face looked into his own. “I get no respect, aye Nixie? None a’tall.”

  “None a’tall,” he repeated in Nixie’s voice. “Speeding devils ought to look where they’re going, Mr. Nutbrown.”

  “Right as always, my friend.” He slipped Nixie into an inside pocket and bent to retrieve his hat, where it lay crushed on the ground. As he punched the shape back into the felt, a quiver ran down his spine. This could’ve easily been his head.

  Two pair of footsteps, one of them kind of thumpy, drew up along either side of him. A low whistle blew from the short man on the left. He smelled like overcooked peas. “That were a sorry pass, squire. Ye might’ve been flattened.”

  The other man slung his arm around Lucius’s shoulder, maybe for balance, as one of his legs was wooden. “What’s this world coming to when a squire such as yerself can’t peacefully cross the street?”

  Hmm. All day long he’d been shunned. Why the sudden attention? Shrugging away from the taller man’s embrace, Lucius put on his hat and pulled out Nixie. The little puppet’s head bobbed though he tried to keep it still, the effects of the near-trampling still jittering his nerves. “Mr. Nutbrown is no squire, sirs, but a true and bona fide businessman.”

  “Why, I said such a thing when we see’d what’d happened, right, Blackie?” The shorter of the two squinted up at the other. “I says, ‘There’s a businessman, a right true one.’ Din’t I?”

  “That ye did.” The big one bent and shoved his face into Nixie’s. “Well, well, little man. Ye’re shaking like a maiden on her wedding night. Can we buy you and your partner a drink? If you’ve the time, that is.”

  Lucius froze. No one ever addressed Nixie except for himself, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. This would take some sorting through … and a mug of ale was just the thing for sorting. He splayed his pinkie and thumb, causing Nixie to spread wide his arms. “Yes, sirs. Mr. Nutbrown is finished with his appointments for the day, so he believes he could fit that into his schedule.”

  The big man straightened, his smile as irregular as a carved squash. “A right proper businessman, you are, Mr. Nutbrown. We can tell, aye, Charlie?”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.” The other fellow—Mr. Charlie—lifted the brim of his hat to scratch a patch of shockingly red hair. “It’ll be an honor to share a pint with the likes o’ you both.” He nodded at Nixie and him in turn.

  Lucius sucked in a breath. Each of these strangers acknowledged Nixie for what he’d always believed him to be—alive. Which, of course, moved them from the category of strangers to beloved friends.

  “Right, let’s be about it, then.” The big man turned toward the door of the inn from which Lucius had recently flown.

  “No!” Lucius swallowed, hating that he’d caused a wrinkle on the brows of his new friends, but mostly hating that he’d slipped and used his real voice. He kicked his tone up a few notches and held Nixie higher. “That establishment would hardly do for men of our caliber. Mr. Nutbrown suggests the Drunken Duck.”

  Lucius held his breath, waiting for the questioning lines to smooth on his friends’ faces. Ple
ase. Please. The Drunken Duck was the only establishment he’d not been thrown out of yet, ever since Mr. Morton began the awful trend earlier this morning. Dirty scoundrel, usurping him like that.

  Mr. Charlie cuffed him on the back with a firm pat. “The Drunken Duck it is, squire.”

  His lungs released, as did the tension in his jaw. They fell into step three abreast—four, if he counted Nixie—with him in the middle.

  The big fellow talked over his head to Mr. Charlie, his words keeping time with the thump of his peg leg. “I told you from the looks of him, he’d be too far above our station.”

  Mr. Charlie shrugged. “I says we ask anyway. All he can do is say no.”

  Lucius glanced sideways at the other fellow, his palm feeling sticky and hot beneath Nixie’s cover.

  “He don’t need our money.” The man’s words hung suspended for a moment.

  Until Lucius grabbed them. Money? There was an opportunity here. He could smell it—fresh and green and more pleasant than overcooked peas. He turned Nixie to face them all. “Do you fellows have a proposition for Mr. Nutbrown? He is a man of business, after all.”

  Mr. Charlie leaned forward, grinning past him toward the other fellow. “We could sure use a businessman, right Blackie?”

  The big one—Mr. Blackie, apparently—rubbed a hand over his stubbly skull, his step not missing a thumpy beat as he kept walking. “Well, we do got a regular transaction coming up. One with ledgers and numbers and all kinds o’ business type stuff we can hardly understand. We know, though, that it promises to pay real well.”

  “Real well,” Charlie echoed.

  Nixie stared at him from an arm’s length away, bobbing up and down with each step. One of his papier-mâché cheeks bent inward, dented from a piece of gravel. With his free hand, Lucius rubbed his own cheek, then winced. His was scraped as well. That settled it. He brought his little friend closer to his face. “We ought help out our new friends, hmm?”

  Mr. Charlie elbowed him. “We’d be mighty obliged.”

  Mr. Blackie repeated the action on the other side. “What do you say, Mr. Nutbrown?”

  A slow smile crawled over his lips. If he looked close enough, Nixie grinned too. In fact, Nixie perked up so much, his little jester head waggled. “Mr. Nutbrown says yes, gentlemen. We’d be happy to lend our business finesse.”

  Alex strode down the street, wishing for the hundredth time he could ease the ugly questions he’d created in Johanna’s eyes. Not that he blamed her. Men didn’t usually hand over coins without the tether of expectations. Sidestepping a mound of refuse swept up by a closing shopkeeper, he huffed out a breath. Money was nothing to him. He’d already put out a word for Thatcher to bring him more. It was the woman distracting his thoughts he couldn’t afford. He reseated his hat and strode on.

  Ahead, a shop matron grunted as she backed through a doorway, each of her hands loaded with a bucket of flowers left unsold for the day.

  Flowers? His steps slowed. A seed of an idea sprouted. Might be a bit forward, but sometimes it paid to take a risk.

  He upped his pace. Ignoring the CLOSED shingle hanging in the window, he pushed through the florist’s door, setting off a jingling bell.

  “We’re done for the day.” The woman’s voice travelled from a back entryway.

  “Yet you’ve flowers left. I’ll take them.”

  The woman poked her head out the doorway, wearing a mobcap so tight, it puckered the skin of her brow. “I said we’re done. Closed. Finished for the day. Buy your flower on the morrow.”

  “I don’t want a flower.” He grinned. “I want them all.”

  “All the … you mean … all what I got left?” Her gaze shot to his hands, her words wadding up as tightly as the roll of bills he pulled from an inside pocket of his greatcoat.

  “All. And may I have use of a pen and a slip of paper?”

  “You can have use of the flamin’ best stationery in the shop!” She dashed from the back room and swiped aside scraps of twine and stem cuttings littering the counter. After a quick wipe down with her sleeve, she pulled out a tray from beneath, containing his requested items plus a few envelopes. “Here ye are, sir. I’ll wrap those flowers up straightaway.”

  As she bustled over to the buckets, Alex uncorked the ink and dipped the pen. Now, what to say to a woman who looked at him with eyes of mistrust?

  I can help you. Let me.

  ~ A. Morton

  He blotted the note dry and folded it into an envelope, then turned to the woman. “I should like those delivered to Miss Louisa Coburn.”

  Her eyebrows rose, the mobcap pinching in a whole new way. “You mean the viscount’s daughter?”

  “Unless you know another Louisa Coburn. Good day.” He stalked out, the jingling bell competing with the woman’s ne’er-would-have-guessed and didn’t-see-that-coming mumbles. No doubt Miss Coburn would mutter the same when she received the flowers. He blew out a sigh. As of yet, he’d still not figured out how to accomplish Ford’s directive without actually marrying the woman, but he’d come up with something. He would. There was simply no other option.

  Glancing at the sky, he calculated daylight. An hour remained, give or take. Was he too late? He lengthened his strides, bypassing those headed home for a warm bowl of stew. Shops thinned out the closer he drew to the beachhead. To his left, white cliffs stood like stark sentinels, watching over the harbor. The castle on top loomed over all, a dark reminder that war had been—and always would be—a present danger from offshore. Ahead, earthen batteries rose along the seafront, providing a small measure of protection should the French decide on a bold affront.

  He crested the line of defense and trotted down the other side, his boots grinding into the sand, shells, and rocks of low tide. For now, foreign invaders didn’t concern him. The smugglers off to his right were a bigger threat. One he could manage, though.

  Lifting a hand, he hailed the three men with a loud voice. “Done for the day, Slingsby?”

  The two men with their backs to him turned immediately, hands covering pistol hilts belted at their waist. Dark gazes searched the length of him. He returned the favor. Neither were familiar. Judging by the set of their jaws and shoulders, he’d have two bullets to dodge if Slingsby’s memory slipped.

  Slowly, the old smuggler stood, leaving the fish he’d been tending over an open fire. His eyes squinted nearly shut, then popped wide. “Well, I’ll be a toady-headed cully! That you, Ratter?”

  “In the flesh.” He drew near and offered his hand. Three shakes, a drawback, then a touch of thumbs, the local code. Leaning closer, he breathed into Slingsby’s ear. “But it’s Mr. Morton, this time.”

  “Oh? Morton, is it? A regular gent, are ye now?” Slingsby reared back with a hearty laugh, the cries of overhead gulls squawking along with him. Alex stood and waited. He’d learned long ago the best course of action with the fellow was to let him ride out the wave of whatever emotion swelled inside. The other two men hunkered back down and snatched blackened sticks of skewered fish off the fire.

  Slingsby leaned aside and spit out the rest of his laughter along with a stream of tobacco, then lowered his voice. “I’ll call ye whate’er ye like, long as yer tipstaff don’t bear a warrant with my name on it.”

  Alex slapped a hand to his chest and staggered back a step. “You really think I’d turn on you?”

  “Pah! Save yer playacting.” The old fellow dropped to a rock draped with a bit of sailcloth. “Sit yerself down, man.”

  Alex chose his spot carefully, positioning himself so that his back was to the water and the vista of Dover in front. Napoleon may be an enemy in the rear, but that tyrant was farther away than the thugs before him.

  “Thrush, Bane.” Slingsby nodded at each of his henchmen in turn. “This here’s Morton. I trust him with my life—mostly.”

  The other men slipped him a slanted glance, then went back to silently chewing their fish. It would take more than an old smuggler’s word of endorsement to gain
their trust.

  Slingsby grabbed a skewer and offered it to him over the small fire.

  “Still sore about Ned Dooley?” Alex bit into the fish, chewing slowly to allow Slingsby time to digest his question.

  “I admit Ned were a cocklebur of a man.” Slingsby shook his head, his dirty neckcloth hanging so loose that it remained motionless with the movement. “Still, Dooley were one of the brethren.” He leaned forward, the glint in his eye hardening to flint. “None of us take losin’ a brother lightly.”

  “Dooley was a maggot, and well you know it. Smuggling tea is one thing. Slitting throats quite another. I will not abide violence on these shores.” He speared Slingsby with a glower of his own. “Do we have an understanding?”

  Thrush and Bane quit chewing. All it would take was one word from Slingsby, and they’d turn on him. He shifted his left foot slightly, just enough to yank out his boot-knife if need be.

  “Ye hurt me. Hurt me cruel, ye do.” The setting sun cast an eerie glow on Slingsby’s face, setting the tips of his grey whiskers on fire. Finally, he sat back, taking the tension along with him. “I’ve harmed nary a fly.”

  Alex snorted. “You don’t need to.” His gaze slid from Thrush to Bane, making his point clear.

  “Why, these are naught but honest fishermen. Just finished putting away the nets and boat to prove it. Right boys?”

  Bane grunted.

  Thrush said nothing.

  Slingsby hitched a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a ramshackle wooden vessel pulled inland not far down the beach. “Yessir. Fishing. Wenching. Drinking. Other than that, things been real quiet since you were last here. What’s yer game this time, Rat—er, Morton?”

  Alex pulled off the last morsel of fish from the stick and popped it into his mouth. Sometimes silence accomplished more than words.

  “Holding yer hand close, eh? I respects that, I do.” Tossing his fish bones aside, Slingsby dragged his hand across his mouth before he continued. “But I’m guessing this here ain’t no social call.”

  “Just keeping a running account, Slingsby. I like to keep an eye on things.” He reached into an inside pocket and pulled out a small leather bag, making sure to jingle a few of the coins inside. Three sets of eyeballs followed the movement. “Any new brothers in the fold?”