Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle

by Stephanie Laurens

  As if in answer, a distinctly feminine giggle percolated through the door.

  Lucinda’s expression grew coldly severe. “I see.” She shot an accusing glance at Blount, then, head high, moved along the corridor. “I’ll see the room at the end, then we’ll return downstairs.”

  There were no further revelations; it was as Mr Mabberly had said—the Green Goose was sound enough in structure but its management needed a complete overhaul.

  Descending once more to the hall, Lucinda beckoned Sim forward and relieved the lad of the bound ledgers he’d been carrying. Leading the way into the back parlour, she was pleased to discover the table and chairs dusted and wiped. Setting her ledgers on the table before the chair at its head, she placed her reticule beside them and sat. “Now, Blount, I would like to examine the books.”

  Blount blinked. “The books?”

  Her gaze steady, Lucinda nodded. “The blue one for incomings and the red one for expenditures.”

  Blount stared, then muttered something Lucinda chose to interpret as an assent and departed.

  Harry, who had maintained his role of silent protector throughout, strolled across to shut the door after him. Then he turned to his aunt’s unexpected acquaintance. “And now, my dear Mrs Babbacombe, perhaps you would enlighten me as to what you’re about?”

  Lucinda resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at him—he was, she could tell, going to be difficult. “I am doing as I said—inspecting this inn.”

  “Ah, yes.” The steely note was back in his voice. “And I’m to believe that some proprietor has seen fit to engage you—employ you, no less—in such a capacity?”

  Lucinda met his gaze, her own lucidly candid. “Yes.”

  The look he turned on her severely strained her composure.

  With a wave, she put an end to his inquisition; Blount would soon be back. “If you must know, this inn is owned by Babbacombe and Company.”

  The information arrested him in mid-prowl. He turned a fascinated green gaze upon her. “Whose principals are?”

  Folding her hands on her ledgers, Lucinda smiled at him. “Myself and Heather.”

  She did not have time to savour his reaction; Blount entered with a pile of ledgers in his arms. Lucinda waved him to a seat beside her. While he sorted through his dog-eared tomes, she reached for her reticule. Withdrawing a pair of gold-rimmed half-glasses, she perched them on her nose. “Now then!”

  Beneath Harry’s fascinated gaze, she proceeded to put Blount through his financial paces.

  Appropriating a chair from the table—one that had been dusted—Harry sat by the window and studied Lucinda Babbacombe. She was, undoubtedly, the most unexpected, most surprising, most altogether intriguing woman he’d ever met.

  He watched as she checked entry after entry, adding figures, frequently upside-down from Blount’s ledgers. The innkeeper had long since abandoned all resistance; out of his depth, faced with a totally unforeseen ordeal, he was now eager to gain approval.

  As she worked through the ledgers, Lucinda came to the same somewhat reluctant conclusion. Blount wasn’t intentionally neglectful; he hadn’t meant to run the inn into the ground. He simply lacked direction and the experience to know what to do.

  When, after an hour, she reached the end of her inquiries, Lucinda took off her glasses and fixed Blount with a shrewdly assessing glance. “Just so we are clear, Blount, it is up to me to make a recommendation on whether Babbacombe and Company should retain your services.” She tapped her closed ledger with one arm of her glasses. “While your figures are unimpressive, I will be reporting that I can find no evidence of malpractice—all seems entirely above board.”

  The burly innkeeper looked so absurdly grateful Lucinda had to sternly suppress a reassuring smile. “I understand you were appointed to your present position on the death of the former landlord, Mr Harvey. From the books it’s clear that the inn had ceased to perform well long before your tenancy.”

  Blount looked lost.

  “Which means that you cannot be held to blame for its poor base performance.” Blount looked relieved. “However,” Lucinda continued, both tone and glance hardening, “I have to tell you that the current performance, for which you must bear responsibility, is less than adequate. Babbacombe and Company expect a reasonable return on their investment, Blount.”

  The innkeeper’s brow furrowed. “But Mr Scrugthorpe—he’s the one as appointed me?”

  “Ah, yes. Mr Scrugthorpe.”

  Harry glanced at Lucinda’s face; her tone had turned distinctly chilly.

  “Well, Mr Scrugthorpe said as how the profit didn’t matter so long as the inn paid its way.”

  Lucinda blinked. “What was your previous position, Blount?”

  “I used to keep the Blackbird’s Beak, up Fordham way.”

  “The Blackbird’s Beak?”

  “A hedge-tavern, I suspect,” Harry put in drily.

  “Oh.” Lucinda met his gaze, then looked back at Blount. “Well, Blount, Mr Scrugthorpe is no longer Babbacombe and Company’s agent, largely because of the rather odd way he thought to do business. And, I fear, if you wish to remain an employee of the company, you’re going to have to learn to manage the Green Goose in a more commercial fashion. An inn in Newmarket cannot operate on the same principles as a hedge-tavern.”

  Blount’s forehead was deeply creased. “I don’t know as how I rightly follow you, ma’am. Tap’s a tap, after all.”

  “No, Blount. A tap is not a tap—it is the principal public room of the inn and as such should possess a clean and welcoming ambience. I do hope you won’t suggest that that,” she pointed in the direction of the tap, “is clean and welcoming?”

  The big man shifted on his seat. “Dare say the missus could do a bit of a clean-up.”

  “Indeed.” Lucilla nodded. “The missus and you, too, Blount. And whoever else you can get to help.” She folded her hands on her ledgers and looked Blount in the eye. “In my report, I am going to suggest that, rather than dismiss you, given you’ve not yet had an opportunity to show the company of what you’re capable, the company reserves judgement for three months and then reviews the situation.”

  Blount swallowed. “What exactly does that mean, ma’am?”

  “It means, Blount, that I will make a list of all the improvements that will need to be done to turn this inn into one rivalling the Barbican Arms, at least in profit. There’s no reason it shouldn’t. Improvements such as a thorough whitewashing inside and out, all the timber polished, present bedding discarded and fresh bought, all furniture polished and crockery replaced. And the kitchen needs a range.” Lucinda paused to meet Blount’s eye. “Ultimately, you will employ a good cook and serve wholesome meals continuously in the tap, which will be refurbished accordingly. I’ve noticed that there are few places at which travellers staying in this town can obtain a superior repast. By providing the best fare, the Green Goose will attract custom away from the coaching houses which, because of their preoccupation with coaching, supply only mediocre food.”

  She paused but Blount only blinked at her. “I take it you are interested in keeping your position here?”

  “Oh—yes, ma’am. Definitely! But…where’s the blunt coming from for all that?”

  “Why, from the profits, Blount.” Lucinda eyed him straitly. “The profits before your wages are deducted—and before the return paid to the company. The company considers such matters as an investment in the inn’s future; if you’re wise, you’ll consider my suggestions in light of an investment in your future.”

  Blount met her gaze; slowly he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good!” Lucinda rose. “I will make a copy of the improvements I’ll be suggesting to the company and have my groom drop it by tomorrow.” She glanced at Blount as he struggled to his feet; his expression suggested he was still reeling. “Mr Mabberly will look in on you in a month’s time, to review your progress. And now, if there’s nothing else, I will bid you good day, Blount.”
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br />   “Yes, ma’am.” Blount hurried to open the door. “Thank you, ma’am.” He was clearly sincere.

  Lucinda regally nodded and sailed from the room.

  Reluctantly impressed, Harry followed close behind. Still inwardly amazed, he waited until they were back on the pavement, she gliding along with her nose in the air as if she had not just taken on Goliath and won, before catching her hand, neatly trapping it on his sleeve. Her fingers fluttered, then stilled. She cast him a quick glance, then studiously looked ahead. Her groom followed two paces behind, her ledgers clutched in his arms.

  The young traveller who had been slouching in the tap slipped out of the inn door in their wake.

  “My dear Mrs Babbacombe,” Harry began in what he hoped was an even tone. “I do hope you’re going to satisfy my curiosity as to why a gently reared female, however well-equipped for the task, goes about interrogating her company’s employees?”

  Unabashed, Lucinda met his gaze; aggravation showed clearly in the green. “Because there is no one else.”

  Harry held her gaze. His lips thinned. “I find that hard to believe. What about this Mr Mabberly—your agent? Why can he not take on the challenge of such as Blount?”

  Lucinda’s lips quirked. “You must admit he was a definite challenge.” She slanted a deliberately provocative glance his way. “I feel quite chuffed.”

  Harry snorted. “As you well know, you performed a minor miracle. That man will now work himself to the bone—which will be a distinct improvement in itself. But that,” he continued, his tone hardening, “is not the point.”

  “But it is, you see.” Lucinda wondered why she was allowing him to put in his oar. Perhaps because it had been a long time since anyone had tried? “Mr Anthony Mabberly is all of twenty-three. He’s an excellent man with the accounts and is scrupulously honest and fair—a far cry from Scrugthorpe.”

  “Ah, yes. The undesirable Scrugthorpe.” Harry cast her a quick glance. “Why was he so undesirable?”

  “Fraud. He was appointed by my husband just before his death—on one of his bad days, I’m afraid. After Charles’s death, I by chance learned that the books as they were being presented to me did not reflect the actual figures generated by the inns.”

  “What happened to Scrugthorpe?”

  “I dismissed him, of course.”

  Harry noted the righteous satisfaction that underlaid her tone. Clearly, Lucinda Babbacombe had not approved of Mr Scrugthorpe. “So until recently the agent took responsibility for negotiating with your tenants?”

  Lucinda lifted a haughty brow. “Until I reorganised the company’s procedures. Mr Mabberly would not know where to start with such as Blount—he’s of a somewhat timid disposition. And I consider it appropriate that both Heather and myself are familiar with the inns that form our legacy.”

  “Laudable though such sentiments might be, Mrs Babbacombe, I do hope—” Harry broke off as she stopped and looked consideringly across the street. “What is it?”

  “Hmm?” Absent-mindedly, Lucinda glanced up. “Oh—I was just wondering if there was time left to do the Barbican Arms today.” She glanced back at the busy inn across the street. “But it looks rather crowded. Perhaps tomorrow morning would be better?”

  Harry stared at her, an unwelcome suspicion slowly crystallising in his brain. “Very much better,” he averred. “But tell me, Mrs Babbacombe—how many inns do you and your step-daughter own?”

  She looked up at him, an unlikely innocence in her powder-blue eyes. “Fifty-four,” she replied. Then added, as if in afterthought, “Up and down the country.”

  Harry closed his eyes and struggled to suppress a groan. Then, without another word, with no more than a single speaking glance, he escorted her into the yard of the Barbican Arms and, with heartfelt relief, handed her up to Em’s gig and watched her drive away.

  “SO SHE’S STAYING in Newmarket?”

  Mr Earle Joliffe drew a riding crop back and forth through his fingers. A thickset man of undistinguished mien, he sat back in his chair, his pale gaze, as pale as his pasty complexion, fixed on the young roughneck he’d sent into town to track their quarry down.

  “As to that, I ain’t sure.” The youngster took a swig from his tankard.

  They were in a rundown cottage three miles from Newmarket, the best they’d been able to rent at short notice. Four men sat about the deal table—Joliffe, the youngster whose name was Brawn and two others—Mortimer Babbacombe and Ernest Scrugthorpe. The latter was a hulking man, rough despite the severe clothes of a clerk; he sat silently glowering into his beer. Mortimer Babbacombe, a slight figure in the attire of a would-be dandy, shifted restlessly; he clearly wished himself elsewhere.

  “She got into a gig and drove out eastwards. I couldn’t follow.”

  Scrugthorpe grunted. “See? Told you she’d go to the Green Goose. Couldn’t keep away, meddling witch.”

  He spat contemptuously on the floor; the action made Mortimer even more uncomfortable.

  “Ye-es, well.” Joliffe transferred his gaze to Scrugthorpe. “Might I remind you that she should, by now, have been in our hands? That but for your lack of foresight, she would be?”

  Scrugthorpe scowled. “How was I to know it were a race-week? And that gentlemen would be using that road? Everything went perfect, elsewise.”

  Joliffe sighed and raised his eyes heavenwards. Amateurs—they were all the same. How had he, who had spent his life thus far successfully extracting a living from the rich, descended to the company of such? Lowering his gaze, his glance fell on Mortimer Babbacombe. Joliffe’s lips curled in a contemptuous sneer.

  “Ought to mention,” Brawn put in, surfacing from his tankard. “She was walking the street with a swell today—right chummy—looked like the same swell as wot rescued them.”

  Joliffe’s eyes narrowed and he sat forward. “Describe this swell.”

  “Fair hair—like gold. Tall, looked like he’d strip to advantage. One of them bloods with a fancy cape.” Brawn grimaced. “They all look the same to me.”

  Not so to Joliffe. “This blood—was he staying at the Barbican Arms?”

  “Seemed so—the ostlers and all seemed to know him.”

  “Harry Lester.” Joliffe tapped a pensive nail on the table. “I wonder…”

  “Wonder what?” Mortimer looked at his erstwhile friend and most urgent creditor, his expression that of a man well out of his depth. “Would this man Lester help us?”

  Joliffe snorted. “Only to the hangman’s noose. But his peculiar talents bear consideration.” Leaning forward, Joliffe placed both elbows on the table. “It occurs to me, my dear Mortimer, that we may be involving ourselves unnecessarily here.” Joliffe smiled, an empty gesture that made Mortimer shrink. “I’m sure you’d be most agreeable to any way of achieving our aim without direct involvement.”

  Mortimer swallowed. “But how can Lester help us—if he won’t?”

  “Oh—I didn’t say he won’t—just that we needn’t ask him. He’ll help us entirely for the fun of it. Harry Lester, dear Mortimer, is the rake supreme—a practitioner extraordinaire in the gentle art of seduction. If, as seems possible, he’s got your uncle’s widow in his sights, then I wouldn’t like to bet on her chances.” Joliffe’s smile grew. “And, of course, once she’s demonstrably no longer a virtuous widow, then you’ll have all the reason you need to legally challenge her guardianship of your cousin.” Joliffe’s gaze grew intent. “And once your pretty cousin’s legacy’s in your hands, you’ll be in a position to pay me, won’t you, Mortimer?”

  Mortimer Babbacombe swallowed—and forced himself to nod.

  “So what do we do now?” Scrugthorpe drained his tankard.

  Joliffe considered, then pronounced, “We sit tight and watch. If we get a chance to lay hands on the lady, we will—just like we planned.”

  “Aye—far as I’m concerned, that’s how we should do it—no sense in leaving anything to chance.”

  Joliffe’s lip curled. “Your
animosity is showing, Scrugthorpe. Please remember that our primary aim here is to discredit Mrs Babbacombe—not satisfy your lust for revenge.”

  Scrugthorpe snorted.

  “As I was saying,” Joliffe went on. “We watch and wait. If Harry Lester succeeds—he’ll have done our work for us. If not, we’ll continue to pursue the lady—and Scrugthorpe here will have his chance.”

  At that, Scrugthorpe smiled. Lecherously.

  Chapter Four

  WHEN LUCINDA DROVE into the yard of the Barbican Arms the next morning, Harry was waiting, shoulders against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his boot against the wall for balance. He had plenty of time to admire the artless picture of mature womanhood seated beside Grimms in his aunt’s gig. Elegantly gowned in a cornflower blue carriage dress, her dark hair restrained in a severe chignon thus revealing the delicate bones of her face, Lucinda Babbacombe predictably turned the heads of those still dawdling in the yard. Thankfully, the thoroughbred races were to commence that morning; most of Harry’s contemporaries were already at the track.

  Grimms brought Em’s gig to a neat halt in the centre of the yard. With an inward snort, Harry pushed away from the wall.

  Lucinda watched him approach—his graceful stride forcefully reminded her of a prowling tiger. A very definite thrill coursed through her; she avoided smiling her delight, contenting herself with a mild expression of polite surprise. “Mr Lester.” Calmly, she extended her hand. “I hadn’t expected to see you this morning—I thought you were here for the races.”

  His brows had risen sceptically at her first remark; on her second, his green eyes glittered. He grasped her hand—for an instant, as his eyes held hers, Lucinda wondered why she was playing with fire.

  “Indeed,” Harry replied, his habitual drawl in abeyance. He helped her from the carriage, steadying her on the cobbles. “I own to surprise on that score myself. However, as you are my aunt’s guest, and at my instigation, I feel honour-bound to ensure you come to no harm.”

  Lucinda’s eyes narrowed but Harry, distracted by the absence of groom or maid—Grimms had already disappeared into the stables—did not notice.