My Lady Innkeeper

by Barbara Metzger

  Lyndell smiled and told the boy to go back to sleep, she was just out for a walk. Then she bent to pet Ajax once more, telling him to stay there in his nest of old blankets and what looked a great deal like that old grey squirrel-lined shawl. So that’s what Felicia had done with the ugly thing, given it for the dog’s bed, wretched girl, rather than chance having to wear it again. What if someone came to claim it? But no, it had not been found upstairs in one of the inn’s rooms, nor even in the common room; Lyndell remembered Mrs. Bennett finding it in the Quinns’ closet, the only garment there, the only thing left in a closet that was later ransacked! The shawl was already a hotel for fleas when Hammerly searched the clothespress, when he examined the hollow tree. No wonder he thought Lyndell had the seals!

  The lumpy seams ripped easily, the fur parting on its own as Lyndell tugged. Four, five, no, six seals fell into the straw, and a stick of dark red wax. Lyndell gathered them up into the pocket of her cloak, then reconsidered and pressed one into Sam’l’s hand. “If I am not back in an hour,” she told the boy, “give this to Lord Cheyne and tell him I’ve gone to the coach house at King’s Mark. Bennett will know where to find him. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded quickly. He understood fine, but would he tell anyone? Here she was, entrusting her life to a boy who’d said less than ten words this week! Lyndell didn’t even know if he could figure an hour’s time. Well, Hammerly still wouldn’t kill her, not with one seal missing, and not if she offered to pay her and Jasper’s way out, if she could return for a bank draft. She touched Sam’l’s cheek one last time before leaving to pick her way between the hedges on the path leading to the manor. Lyndell turned and waved at Sam’l, still in the stable doorway. She took the final step into the hedge gap—and there was Captain Jamison, just on the other side. Lyndell’s heart practised the quadrille in her throat for a moment.

  “What ... what are you doing here?” She noticed he was smoking a thin black cheroot.

  “One of my men was at the pub last night.” He jerked his head toward the inn; two stringy blond strands came uncoiled. “He heard something about the murder and missing evidence, so I came to investigate. What about you, hm? What’s Jasper Riddley’s beautiful sister—if you are his sister—doing out so early? Meeting a man, sweetings? It wouldn’t be Jasper, would it?”

  His smirking presence made sense; she hadn’t been downstairs last evening to hear the talk, but the captain was at least in full uniform for the first time, sword and all, and no soup stains on his front. Yet where were his troops, and why was he lurking (the only word that suited the ogling, droolly toad) in the shrubs before sunrise? Besides, even if she could bring herself to trust him, the note had been specific: “Come alone.” She answered his insinuations with a cool, “What if I am? What business is it of yours?”

  “Hoity-toity is it? You weren’t so high in the instep when you were done up like an old spinster. Why don’t we see if you can be a little friendlier to an old soldier, hm, sweetings?”

  He took her arm and started to lead her away, still on the King’s Mark side of the hedges, but toward the road. She was going to be late if this buffoon continued. She pulled away from him, toward the home wood path.

  “I believe you mentioned government business, sir. I suggest you get on with it and let honest citizens go on their own way. Good day.”

  She did not get far before his hand was clamped on her arm. “You just don’t know what you’re getting into, sweetings. I tried ...” He twisted her arm behind her back and propelled her closer to the road where two horses were standing, held by a hugely fat, dark man—Quinn! She started to kick and scream, which earned her a filthy rag stuffed in her mouth, making her almost retch, and a sharp upward jerk on her arm, nearly causing her to faint from the sudden pain.

  “Anyone see you?” Quinn was asking.

  “No one but the boy.”

  Quinn snickered. “ ‘E’s nobut a dummy. I seen to that. Let’s go. T’boss be waiting.” Lyndell was hoisted up sideways into the saddle in front of Jamison, firmly pinned there by his arms reaching around her for the reins. A slap on the face and a warning, “That’s just a taste, if you don’t sit pretty,” kept her from struggling.

  Lord, what had she gotten into now? Jamison was obviously in the plot, and how foolish of her not to have seen it in his watery, shifty eyes! Someone had to warn Hammerly or Quinn when the couriers were coming, and someone had to cover up any murmurs among the soldiers about delays or altered wrappings. And someone, someone in a position of authority, had to be turning a blind eye to the smuggling operations. Jamison. Lyndell wondered if Cheyne knew or suspected. Then she wondered if he would come. In time.

  They were passing the open lodge gates of King’s Mark, unchallenged. The gatehouse looked abandoned, but surely the grounds staff would be up and about... or old Tyler or the kitchen maids. Anybody!

  Jamison and Quinn turned off the carriage drive long before reaching the house; Lyndell could clearly glimpse the tall red-brick chimneys. They picked their way through the ornamental shrubs, finding the short cut to the stables, almost as if they owned the place, she thought bitterly. They gave the empty stables a wide berth, going back in the trees to circle around to approach the carriage house from the wooded side. Not a soul was in sight, as opposed to all those times when she had had to acknowledge ten curtsies and seven head bobs just getting from the house to the stable. Never again would she let the place be so deserted, even if she had to adopt some indigent relations.

  They rode right into the carriage house where two horses stood harnessed to the dusty old family coach, not used in years. A few other vehicles, one without wheels, huddled in the gloom. Lyndell did not see Hammerly before she was dumped off Jamison’s horse and into Quinn’s hairy clutch, to be dragged to the equipment room. Quinn fairly reeked with the scent of garlic and sweat, and he grunted as he shoved her across the room toward Jasper, who had blood dripping down his forehead. Diccon sat, tied up, in another shadowy corner.

  “Swine,” she spat out, along with the foul rag, knowing she was insulting every pig in England. She was bending over, mopping Jasper’s head with her handkerchief when Quinn growled, “Tboss says to check’n make sure she’s got them seals.” He grabbed at her while Jamison pawed at her body, for “places of concealment,” he told her, and sniggered.

  Jasper jumped up, behind Quinn, and brought both fists down on the fat man’s head, shouting, “Get your filthy hands off her!” Quinn released Lyndell, shook his head, setting his black-whiskered jowls to flapping, and clouted Jasper above his ear. Riddley went down, almost out.

  “Here,” Lyndell said, flinging her cape at Jamison, “they’re in the pocket, you dastard,” then stooped to cradle Jasper’s head in her lap. “Thank you,” she murmured. “That was foolish, but sweet. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Jasper managed a weak grin. “Neither did I.”

  Jamison tossed back her cloak, without the seals, slamming and bolting the door behind him and his apelike cohort. Lyndell was starting on Diccon’s ropes when she first heard Hammerly’s voice, without its Tulip’s drawl.

  “What took you fools so long?” he was shouting. “We’ve got to get them and the carriage out of here now!”

  “Ah, y’know t’capting with a pretty face.”

  “A pretty face? Miss Riddley? What cork-brained notion do you have now, Jamison?”

  “Cork-brained, is it? I’m thinking I’ve got a better use for Miss Riddley than sending her off a cliff in a coach with your precious evidence.”

  Hammerly snorted. Lyndell could hear his footsteps coming, the bolt being slid back. She stood up and faced the door defiantly.

  He was wearing lime-green pantaloons and a purple waistcoat strewn with red roses. He held his glass-headed walking stick in one hand, and a pistol in the other. And he was cackling. After an instant’s shocked silence, the wrinkled, purplish lips had opened in a squawky chortle, and it went on and on, almost insanely.
Lyndell shrank back against the wall where Jasper was propped.

  “Ah, how kind the fates can be,” Hammerly finally got out. “Your servant, Miss Markham. Here we were, taking the last, desperate measures, and salvation was sitting around the corner.”

  “ ‘Ere now, Gov, let’s just get on w’it like we figgered. Make it look like they was headin’ for the coast with the goods ‘n some kegs, ‘n end this bloody enquiry for good.”

  “Plans have changed, you fool. This lady represents one of the largest fortunes in the kingdom. The very building we’re standing in is hers! And we don’t have to harm a hair on her pretty little head, either. We just marry her and it’s all ours. She can’t testify against her husband, and I’d see that she wouldn’t. Oh, it’s too, too perfect.”

  Lyndell was too relieved he wasn’t talking about overturned coaches and cliffs to concern herself with his ravings, but Jamison was paying closer attention. He was getting redder in the face, and breathing in raspy gulps.

  “What makes you the one to get the girl and the fortune, hm? You were all set to kill them, if not for me. And what about Riddley? And him?” pointing at Diccon. “I say we send the two of them over, like we planned, and I get the woman. We can live like kings in Italy, if what you say about her money is true. Then neither of you has to worry about a thing.”

  Hammerly cackled again. “Stubble it, Jamison. You’d only waste the opportunities. With the Markham connexion I can reach the highest circles; no doors would be shut to me. While you—Pah, you’d never amount to anything but a half-pay officer gambling away your wife’s dowry. You’re nothing but low-born scum, Jamison, so don’t get ideas above your station.”

  “At least I don’t wear corsets and high heels like some stinking Nancy, you damned Macaroni.” He lunged at Hammerly, ready to throttle him. “Why, you—”

  The shot was deafening in the small room.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “I will never, ever, marry you.” Lyndell spoke quietly, determinedly, in the silence that followed Jamison’s body slumping to the ground and Hammerly’s pistol, now empty, clanking on the floor. Instead of fainting, as she wanted to do, or even casting up her accounts like Jasper in his corner, or being shocked witless, Lyndell found perfect clarity, and a last smidgen of courage. The man was a complete bedlamite, and she had to stall, to bargain, to delay whatever obscene plan he devised.

  ‘Tongue-valiant to the end, eh? I think you’ll change your mind, though. What if that was the only way of keeping Jasper alive, eh? Not that I relish having a rowdy innkeeper for a brother-in-law, mind you, but he does seem to hold some place in your affections. Too bad I didn’t recall the connexion earlier, although I can understand your not bruiting it about. Relatives in trade, my dear, are not at all the thing.”

  “I’d rather have my relations earning an honest living than leeching off society,” she countered, only to be met with, “An honest living? Jasper? How naive you are. But you will marry me to keep him safe, for now.”

  “I’d rather die first.”

  “That, too, can be arranged, my dear. After the ceremony, of course. No, you’ll be the perfect bride—rich and beautiful—and the most compliant of wives, one way or another. Too bad about Jamison, I could have had him tame you. That was his type of diversion, you know. Ah, well, there’s always Quinn.” Lyndell couldn’t help the shudder that rippled through her.

  “Quite. And you needn’t think your family will protest either, for I’ll make sure they know there’d be an epic-proportioned scandal, without their cooperation. One way or another. Miss Markham, you’ll be well and truly compromised.”

  “Sorry, old chap,” came a deep voice from the doorway, “but I’ve already had the pleasure. Innocently, of course.”

  The marquis stepped into the room, a pistol held nonchalantly in his hand as he surveyed the carnage. “Miss ... Markham? Are you injured?” he asked, his dark eyes strained with anxiety.

  When Lyndell shook her head, he muttered, “How fortunate for you, Hammerly.” He nudged Jamison’s body with his boot, wrinkled his aristocratic nose at Jasper, still retching in the shadows, and returned his attention to Hammerly, while keeping a loose aim with the pistol, for Quinn’s sake. “I have three men outside, all armed, plus a boy and a particularly nasty dog. How easy shall you make this?” He could have been offering for a dance, for all the emotion he showed.

  Hammerly also stayed remarkably cool, merely nodding his acknowledgement of the odds. Perhaps it wasn’t so remarkable, Lyndell decided, considering he’d just killed a man without an instant’s hesitation. “Swords?” he asked, as if debating between a waltz and a quadrille. What a peculiar ritual! The marquis gave a half-bow and stepped over Jamison, pulling the captain’s sword from its scabbard and slicing the air a few times to feel its weight.

  “You mustn’t!” Lyndell cried, but the marquis only nodded and told her, “It’s the only way.” He handed her the pistol, having to wrap her limp fingers around it, and squeezing them in his. He gestured toward Quinn. Lyndell moved the pistol in Quinn’s vague direction as, horrified, she watched the marquis drag Jamison’s body toward a wall. She knew Quinn was edging to the door, but her eyes would not leave the trail of blood smearing along the floor. When she did look up, Quinn was at the entrance. Maybe she could have pulled the trigger if he was moving toward the marquis, but away? Her hand fell to her side.

  There was a clatter of hooves and a shout, barking—then a shot. Willy’s voice called out, “Got him, Wesley. You couldn’t have done better.” Cheyne’s lips tightened into something between a smile and a grimace as he bowed once more to Hammerly.

  Sir Frauncis twisted the eyeglass on his walking stick and pulled a wickedly thin blade from the cane, then attacked. No bow, no salute, just a mad lunge. Lyndell gasped, and this time the pistol came right up to center on the dandy’s waistcoat, but the marquis parried easily. The lighter blade had the advantage of speed and manoeuverability, and in the hands of a master might have threatened the heavy sabre, but it was the marquis who had the agility, the stamina and the skill. There was some metal screeing against metal, but no real contact before Hammerly was clutching his side as blood poured over his fingers, the blade slithering to the floor.

  And then Farrow and Bennett and Willy were all there, untying Diccon, holding a pad to Hammerly’s wound. “You could have killed me easily,” he gasped. “Why not?”

  “That’s why,” said the marquis, his eyes on Lyndell, “though you’ll never understand.” He was taking the gun from Lyndell before she dropped it. “Give it to me, my girl. That’s how Willy lost a toe.”

  “I say, Wes, you swore not to tell! What do you wish done here now? Can’t just leave bodies strewn about, you know.”

  Cheyne had his arms about Lyndell’s shoulders and was leading her to the door, but he paused. “No, I suppose not. Bennett, if you could fetch the magistrate and that discreet doctor of yours, I’d be grateful. I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here till then, Will. Farrow, see what you can do to keep Hammerly awake till I get a confession signed by him. And you”—to Diccon—”I don’t know your name, but get Riddley cleaned up, will you?”

  “As for you, sir,” he addressed Hammerly, “I’m tempted to let you free once I have the guarantee of your confession, and your promise to stay abroad. Jamison and Quinn were guilty enough to satisfy Whitehall.” Hammerly grimaced, but acquiesced. “I would like to avoid that scandal you mentioned.” Another nod. “Yes, I thought so, especially when you’ll remember how very, very easy it would have been for me to kill you ... or would be in the future, if ever a mention of Miss Markham’s name passes your lips. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, yes, a pox on both of you. Just leave me.” He waved one lace-edged wrist at them, then he gave the ugly cackle again. “But you’ll get yours too. With the magistrate and the doctor and the servants and the stable hands— you’ll have to get married. B’God, cotched at last, a cold bride and a reluctant g
room! You’ll find what hell is, soon enough.”

  “Perhaps” was the only answer as Cheyne gently ushered Lyndell out. She hesitated this time, whispering to him until he turned back. “One last question, Hammerly. What did happen to Quinn’s wife?”

  “They were going to France ... smuggler’s boat. Revenuers started firing . . . men all ducked down but she jumped overboard. Couldn’t swim. Too, too stupid, don’t you know?”

  * * * *

  Lyndell was too numb to reprimand Felicia for flying into Willy’s arms while a strange man in an old-fashioned wig harumphed in the background, and she was too exhausted to wonder at the girl’s dainty sprigged muslin and the pink ribbons in her curls. It was unseemly, of course, but Lyndell was simply beyond caring. Mrs. Bennett gathered her up, exclaiming at the state of her dress. It was covered in blood and dust and horse hair, with the hems sodden from the snowy walk home. Lyndell was trembling with cold and fatigue—and relief—when the marquis handed her a glass of something hot and, in his usual politely commanding fashion, requested Mrs. Bennett to see to a hot bath and a warm bed for her.

  “Come, poppet. You’ll feel better in no time. And I’m going to burn that awful dress,” Sarah fussed. Lyndell would have protested, but the marquis raised the hand he was still holding and kissed it tenderly. “Go now, I have some details to take care of. I’ll see you at luncheon.”

  Lyndell had a few details of her own to take care of once she was warm and clean and rested. The first was putting on her prettiest dress, a green shot-silk with ecru lace at the low neckline, the high waist and the scalloped hem. It was a trifle too fancy for ordinary daywear, but not for this extraordinary day.

  Her next business was with Jasper, and it was simple:

  how much and how far. Riddley still had a greenish tinge and was not really up to complicated negotiations, so he settled for less than Lyndell was prepared to offer—a tidy advance on a monthly allowance and passage to America—if he left that week.