Turning to the accounts books, scraps of tradesmen’s bills stuffed in envelopes, Lyndell made another observation: while there were the usual expenses for salaries and supplies, these were mostly for foodstuffs, fuel, ale and horse feeds. Nowhere was there a bill or a receipt for wine, or brandy, or port, not even a note from a whiskey distributor. Yet Lyndell had seen the well-stocked shelves, the nearly full wine cellar. She’d even partaken of some herself. The only conclusion possible, she acknowledged sadly, was that Jasper simply wasn’t paying for those bottles. If he wasn’t paying in cash, he must be trading—what? Silence? A place for the free-booters to store their loads as they brought the stuff inland? Use of his horses and wagon? There was no way of knowing the degree of Jasper’s involvement, but it must be considerable. So what should she do now? Go to the authorities? He was still her stepbrother. Burn the evidence? The bottles would still be there without their customs stamps. No, what she had to do was find Jasper, and get him out of the country once and for all! If it took threatening him with his own account books, she’d do it! In the meantime, Lyndell stashed the records in her valise. If the authorities chose to search Jasper’s rooms, there was no need to make things easier for them, and if they happened to find them in his sister’s closet, no matter. She was studying them—to learn the business.
One part of the business the accounts didn’t teach had to do with salaries. The Quinns drew theirs monthly, the inn’s maidservants were paid weekly, occasional village help, daily. Sam’l was paid twice, a shilling each time, with expenses for his boots and pants marked in. The curious part was Molly, not mentioned anywhere that Lyndell could find. That afternoon, passing the common room on her way to the front parlour, Lyndell thought to ask the girl about it.
“It’s a trade of course, my room ‘n keep in exchange for waitin’ on tables. And what the gentlemen give me I get to keep for myself. A girl’s got to get along, you know.” She snickered, bringing an urge to do mischief to Lyndell’s usually well-controlled temper. “Or maybe you don’t.”
Lyndell fled to the parlour before her urge to throw something got the better of her. Felicia was waiting there, still in her maid’s outfit, since she had only brought a nightgown and an evening dress with her. A disguise was “more exciting by half anyway.” Of course, Lyndell couldn’t help remarking to herself, the girl naturally found a disguise exciting; Felicia looked adorable in hers! To Miss Fullerton’s regret, Lyndell plunked herself down to read aloud from Miss Austen’s latest novel, which she’d brought from London. The younger lady found Miss Austen prosy, much preferring Mrs. Radcliffe, or Maria Edgeworth’s Gothic Tales ...
“You know, where the beautiful heroine is always being kidnapped or ravished or thrown off a cliff. In Miss Austen they only talk. In Miss Edgeworth’s books, something is always bound to happen!”
When she heard the carriage drive up, Lyndell’s first thought was. Oh, no, Ajax isn’t even barking anymore. Her second was to remedy her disguise by snatching the spectacles out of her pocket and pulling the mob-cap down farther on her forehead. She had no time for a third as a tall, dark-haired gentleman in a stylish many-caped greatcoat filled the doorway, shouting orders: best rooms, private parlours, his cattle bedded down.
In two minutes it was as though he owned the inn. Bennett was running this way and that, yes, my lord this and right away, my lord that. Sarah was up and down the stairs, opening up doors, turning down covers, starting hot broth and warming bricks. Sam’l was put to work fetching water for the horses and even Felicia—Felicia of all people!—was told by his high and mighty lordship to run up and light the fires in the rooms. Lyndell, it appeared, was beneath the gentleman’s notice; he assigned her no tasks, at any rate. Just as she was gathering her dazed thoughts for a majestic setdown, another gentleman, slighter and younger than the first one’s thirty years or so from what she could blurrily see, entered the doorway, supported by a servant.
“This way. Farrow,” the first interloper commanded the servant, and led the way up the stairs. Before the younger man, his cheeks flushed, turned to follow, he caught a glimpse of the maid in the hall. “Fel ...”
“Fell down, did you? Poor sir. Let me help you up the stairs.” And Felicia rushed to his side, leaving Lyndell even more dumbfounded. She trailed after the cavalcade to the upper bedrooms in high dudgeon, stumbling over the bottom step.
Upstairs, the man Farrow was helping the younger gentleman out of his coat, a difficult enough task without Felicia still clutching one of his hands. Lyndell said, “The fire, Felicity” and the girl immediately ran over to the fireplace where she stood looking perplexedly at the logs, the kindling sheaf and the tinder box, without having the faintest notion of how to go on. Obviously the ninnyhammer had never started her own fire! Lyndell went to assist, just as she heard his lordship send Bennett for the doctor.
“Oh no!” Dr. Kane was sure to recognise her; he’d brought her into this world! Unfortunately, there was no hope for it, Dr. Kane being the only physician around. Even more unfortunately, she’d uttered her dismay out loud. Bennett’s look was a warning, but the large gentleman’s glance was only mildly curious.
“Nothing serious, ma’am, I assure you. My ... ah ... friend caught a chill.”
“I thought he fell?”
“Well, yes, in the snow. That’s how he became feverish. Damp clothes ... Miss ... Miss ... ?”
“Riddley, Miss Lynn Riddley. I am in charge of this inn.”
“Ah, I see. Here, Miss Riddley, perhaps we might return to the parlour so Farrow can make poor Willy more comfortable till the doctor comes. And Farrow, there seems to be some difficulty with the fire. See to it please.”
Lyndell held firmly to the railing on the way down— dratted spectacles! She couldn’t even get a good look at him! But his darkly handsome appearance, that aura of fearless command and the condescending politeness, all convinced her that here was the villain at last! His jacket bespoke Weston, or she hadn’t been on the Town for six years; the necktie tied in a Mathematical, the black curls just brushing his high collar labelled him a man of fashion; the diamond stickpin meant wealth, ill-gotten or otherwise. He’d made no demurral when Bennett addressed him as my lord, so here he was, Jasper’s fine London gentleman! With an ill companion he couldn’t be here for an affaire. Why else, then, besides evil designs?
Once in the parlour, she couldn’t resist testing her supposition. “I’m surprised you didn’t put up at the Golden Bell in Ipswich, sir. They would have better facilities for your horses and sick friend.”
Cheyne finally took a hard look at his hostess. Gad, what a quiz! The little abigail must be as inefficient a dresser as she was a maid. Miss Riddley was totally colourless, with a slouch and an awful squint despite the spectacles. She looked like the founder of some religious order, and acted like the village busybody. He’d put an end to that presumption, at least. “Because I didn’t want to answer a lot of foolish questions about Willy’s injury,” he told her dampeningly.
Aha! So he had something to hide, did he? Falling in the snow indeed! When Sarah had brought brandy and the gentleman thankfully sipped it, Lyndell took the opportunity to study him in detail, over her rims. Yes, he was the perfect scoundrel, one to make Maria Edgeworth proud: dark curls, thick unruly brows and long, nearly black lashes for a brooding look; a full mouth, firm chin, and sculpted bones for a sensual, rakish quality. Too bad his eyes were such a warm, friendly brown; they quite ruined the overall effect. Oh well, Lyndell charitably allowed, not even traitors could be totally bad. Traitor he was, though, not even commenting on the fine French brandy, after years of the blockade. Of course he wasn’t surprised; he’d helped get it here.
Lyndell had to warn Captain Jamison—and get away from the inn before Bennett returned with Dr. Kane! She excused herself, made a gracious speech about hoping for his comfort at King’s Pass, and made her escape, only stumbling slightly over Miss Austen’s Emma, left lying on the floor. That was not a muffled laugh
she heard; it was an evil snigger.
Chapter Eleven
“Jump, you blasted bonerattler, jump!” Kind words were not going to make the recalcitrant beast take the gate, so with an unladylike oath Lyndell got down and opened it, and it was not the first gate, either. For mat matter, there was nothing ladylike at all about Miss Markham, from the buckskin breeches to the Belcher-style scarf at her neck to the beaver hat pulled low over her short fiery curls.
With Bennett gone to fetch the doctor, and Felicia encamped in the sickroom, there was no one to lend propriety to her afternoon’s call on Jamison. Besides, Bennett had taken the carriage and team, leaving only a sway-backed mule and Jasper’s broken down hunter, with no side-saddle at hand. Lyndell didn’t hesitate for a moment, just proceeded to rummage through Jasper’s clothespress. With the breeches tucked into old boots and pulled up with a belt, a fustian coat to cover her ill-fitting jacket, and the casual neckpiece, she thought she made a passable boy. Her hair was short enough, and, with the hat at a cocky angle, gave her a ragtag look she found a lot more appealing than her guise as the dreadful Miss Riddley. After the humbling experience of being an antidote, she was cheered by this jaunty lad. For a finishing touch, she used a pencil to add freckles, before creeping down the stairs and out when Mrs. Bennett’s back was turned. She’d managed to saddle Riddles—the only riddle being why Jasper had bought such an iron-jawed hay-burner and why he had given it a family-related name—with Sam’l’s wide-eyed help, swearing him, unnecessarily perhaps, to silence. After a regretful sigh for the spy’s fine cattle in their stalls, she was off. She should have taken the mule.
At first, the ride was exhilarating. Riding astride, the cold wind in her face, ventre a terre to report a criminal ... this was what she’d come to Suffolk for! It didn’t take long for her hardheaded realism to recover from this latest burst of fancy. Riding astride when one hadn’t done it since the age of twelve was agony; the cold wind was actually a bitter dampness, chilling already protesting muscles; and riding across farming country on a steed that insisted on keeping all four feet on the ground was downright impossible. She had almost gone right over the gelding’s neck at the first fence, and was forced to seek out breaks in hedgerows and crumbling sections of stone walls. What kind of hunter are you? she’d asked the dumb brute, opening yet another gate. Riddles couldn’t have chased down a hedgehog, nor be it one curled in a ball! But the final, most devastating prick of her bubble of glory was at the realisation, not twenty minutes out, that she didn’t know her villain’s name! She could describe his broad shoulders and well-muscled thighs, the straight nose and the scar on his temple, and most of all the feeling of power about him, but could not give him a name.
Captain Jamison had been less than impressed. At first he had refused to see any Master Dell Riddley, then he was incredulous that the lad Dell should be the same person as the righteous Miss Riddley. Next he made her remove the coat and turn in front of him, to see for himself. He saw enough of rounded breast and backside to make him lick his thin, greasy lips. All of this before he’d even hear Lyndell’s “evidence.” While she was blushing furiously and longing to slap that leer down his hairy throat, he finally offered her a seat. She still couldn’t look down her arrogant nose and turn her back on him as Miss Markham would have done; she needed this worm.
“Now miss, or is it master? Shall I offer Madeira or brandy?”
“Neither, thank you, and miss will do. The disguise was necessary to deflect any suspicion a single female riding abroad would have roused.”
“That’s this disguise. What about the cap and glasses? Why hide your light under a bushel, hm?”
“For personal reasons that have nothing to do with this investigation which, if you could just listen, would be over shortly.”
He stopped fondling his moustache. “I told you I didn’t need your interference. This has nothing to do with you!”
“But it has to do with my brother Jasper.”
“Ah, your ... brother.”
“Yes, my brother, who is under a great deal of suspicion while the real culprit is at the inn right now!” Noting that she finally had his attention, Lyndell hurried on, telling all about the formidable stranger. Jamison laughed.
“You say he’s strong. Was he carrying a smuggler’s keg under each arm? He gives orders, so maybe he has a lot of servants. His friend’s mysterious injuries? Maybe he got caught in milady’s chambers, you understand, and doesn’t want it known. And as for not answering questions, let me tell you, miss, no man likes airing his linen, especially to a meddling, pushy female. You have no proof, damn it, not even a name, and you take my time with these vapourish imaginings! Leave be, ma’am.”
“Then you intend doing nothing?” She jumped up, scrambling into the coat, cramming the hat on any which way.
He stayed seated, again stroking the stained bristle above his wet lips. “Now, I didn’t say that, did I? I’ll take a ride out tomorrow to look over this spy of yours ... and maybe you and I can have a little, you know, private conversation too.”
She knew. She turned on her heel and stomped out of the office in Jasper’s too-big boots.
So there she was, cold, aching and indignant, trying to keep Riddles to a pace that would see them home before spring, if not nightfall. Shadows were bunching up around trees, and every once in a while she thought she heard another horse. Vapourish imaginings, indeed! Bushes don’t form conspiracies and rabbits don’t wear iron shoes and the sooner she was soaking in a hot tub, the happier she’d be.
“Come, Riddles, you can almost step over this one. Up, you—”
She would have been gratified at how easily Riddles cleared the wall if she wasn’t too busy hanging on for dear life, and she would have been surprised at the frantic speed the beserking horse could maintain, if she wasn’t already in a state of shock. She wasn’t imagining it, they’d been shot at! That was a bullet that had whisked by her ear. If Riddles hadn’t been so reluctant a jumper, she might be dead! She crouched low in the saddle, making a small target, or was that for duels? Don’t panic, she told herself, the horse is doing that for you. Just hang on, even if your fingers get numb on the mane and your thighs are chafed bloody, just hang on. If you don’t break your neck falling off, someone’ll come along and shoot you, so just hang on!
Chapter Twelve
Home! Never had a dark foul-smelling stable looked so much like heaven. Lyndell skidded off Riddles’s back but kept her fingers twined in the mane. Her knuckles didn’t want to unclench and her legs didn’t want to hold her up. Muscles unfamiliar with riding astride be damned, it was muscles unfamiliar with being shot at. She cushioned her head on Riddles’s warm sweaty neck and just stood there, trembling.
The gentleman stood by the one window in his tiny room, frowning out at the muddy rear courtyard and stable. His mind was on the next room, where Willy lay in a laudanum-induced haze. Gads, what a cock-brained thing to do, dragging him out in the cold! That Dr. Kane had clucked his disapproval, but thought a week’s bed rest should see Willy fully recovered, thank goodness. At least now there was an excuse for staying on at this bedeviled hostelry, and no awkward questions from Willy, who seemed content with grinning idiotically at that little maid ... Felicity, was it? And that was just one more small detail about this havey-cavey place he’d store away for future reflection: the stable boy who wouldn’t say where his master Jasper Riddley was; that Bennett fellow scooping the doctor away nearly before he’d rolled up his bandages, and before Cheyne could ask him anything; that little chit who had a strange idea of a lady’s maid’s job; and that Friday-faced landlady! Most likely she’d been reading a book of sermons when he came, the exact type of self-righteous priggery he abhorred most in English womanhood. But what was she doing in this place then, at best a secluded hideaway for wayward lovers, at worst a way station for smuggled goods and stolen information, if the War Office was correct? Well, that was his job, collecting all the niggling inconsistencies and using h
is trained observer’s instincts. He had best start soon, with that fellow riding hell-for-leather through the back woods and directly into the stable.
* * * *
Lyndell’s heart was beating so hard she could hear it. Oh God, it wasn’t her heart, it was footsteps! It was him—the man who stole government documents ... who may have killed a soldier ... and whom she had just reported to the authorities! Whatever she did, she mustn’t reveal her suspicions, lest he run off before Jamison get there. As matter-of-factly as possible, she tied Riddles to the crossbars, took the saddle off and began rubbing him down. She wished she hadn’t lost Jasper’s hat on the mad ride home, but her hair was short enough, with luck. She wished she knew how to whistle, just a lad hard at his work, but she could not. While she was wishing, she decided, she may as well wish his lordship would check his own horses and go away. He didn’t.
While Cheyne walked down the central aisle of the stable toward the horse and rider, his eyes were adjusting to the dim light from the widely spaced lanterns. Closer, he could see that the horse was dark with sweat, as if it had been running hard for some time. The rider was no more than a gangly youth, awkward in his movements, about sixteen. His face was narrow, almost delicate, saved from being effeminate only by the ridged nose and the smudges on his cheeks. In the shadowy light, the boy’s hair looked carroty, and the curls were a trifle too long for fashion, most likely his proud mama’s doing. When he filled out some and stopped listening to his mother, he’d be a handsome enough young man, if he lost that trapped-rabbit expression. Shy youth ... or something to hide? To try to reassure him, and gain his confidence, Cheyne picked up a handful of straw and began rubbing the horse too.
My Lady Innkeeper Page 6
