Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Busbee thought of several reasons why he couldn’t possibly allow them to view his books. Icarus grew impatient. “Then perhaps we should take this matter to the magistrate?”

  Busbee led them to his office and sullenly produced his ledger. Icarus bent over the desk and ran his finger down the columns. “Four nights’ accommodation. Three dinners and . . . seven bottles of wine. This is your handwriting, I take it?” He tapped the sum that had been scrawled at the bottom.

  “Yes,” Busbee said, even more sullenly.

  “Not eight pounds,” Icarus said, straightening. “Not even close.”

  “I misremembered!”

  Icarus studied the man’s face. “Did you tell Mr. Green that he’d go to debtors’ prison if he couldn’t pay what his master owed you?”

  Busbee flushed. “Of course not!”

  “I think you’re misremembering again,” Miss Trentham said.

  Busbee cast her a resentful glance. “I’m not an almshouse. Seven bottles of my best wine! Someone had to pay for it!”

  “I sympathize with your problem,” Icarus said. “But not with your method of achieving redress. Mr. Green was even more Dunlop’s victim than you were.”

  “Why should I be out of pocket?” Busbee muttered. “It’s not fair, is what it is.”

  “Mr. Green has worked for you for . . . how long? A month? Without wages. Is that fair?”

  Busbee folded his lips together and didn’t answer.

  “How much do you pay your ostlers?”

  “A shilling a day.”

  “Ah . . . Mr. Busbee?” Miss Trentham said.

  Busbee gave her a surly glance. “One and six a day.”

  Icarus looked at the dates in the ledger. He did some mental arithmetic. One and a half shillings a day, multiplied by thirty . . . “So he’s earned two and a half pounds in your service. I think you’d better pay him, don’t you?”

  “Why should I be out of pocket?”

  Icarus reached inside his coat and pulled out his pocketbook. “Who says you will be?”

  Busbee considered the matter for several seconds, then unlocked a drawer in his scarred desk and counted out two pounds and ten shillings. Scowling, he shoved the money at Icarus. “That’s all I owe him. Now what about what Dunlop owes me?”

  Miss Trentham cocked her head. “Are you certain that’s all you owe Green, Mr. Busbee?”

  Icarus glanced at her sharply. So did Mr. Busbee.

  “I don’t owe Green nothing more!” Busbee protested loudly. His voice was fractionally high-pitched, fractionally off-tone. Even Icarus heard that he was lying.

  “That does it,” he said, losing his patience with the man. “The magistrate. Now.” He strode round the desk and reached for Busbee.

  Busbee scrambled backwards and fell over his own chair. “All right! All right! I’ll give it to you!”

  Icarus halted.

  Busbee crawled to his feet and fumbled with the drawer again. He counted out more money. He was sweating profusely, giving off a rank animal odor. Icarus’s nose recognized the smell for what it was: fear.

  “What’s this?”

  “Green gave me some of his things as . . . as payment.” Busbee glanced at Miss Trentham, and slid his hand into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a watch. He placed it on the pile.

  “You took Green’s watch and pawned his belongings?”

  Busbee glanced at him, and had the intelligence not to speak.

  Icarus could barely speak, either. Outrage tightened his throat and thickened his tongue. “Is that everything you owe Mr. Green?”

  Busbee nodded.

  “Say it,” Icarus said, between his teeth.

  “It’s everything.”

  “Mr. Busbee is telling the truth for once,” Miss Trentham said.

  Icarus counted out the money. Three pounds ten. Plus the watch. “I can understand not wanting to be out of pocket, but this is far more than that! You profited from it!”

  “Perhaps the magistrate would be best?” Miss Trentham said coolly. “He does seem an out-and-out rogue.”

  “No!” Busbee cried. “Please! I promise I’ll never do it again!”

  Icarus glanced at Miss Trentham, aloof behind her veil, and then fastened his gaze back on Busbee. “I need a better guarantee than that, Mr. Busbee. Your word. Your word that you will never be dishonest in your dealings with anyone, ever again.” He showed his teeth in a smile. “And you’d better mean it.”

  Busbee wet his lips. Sweat stood out on his doughy cheeks, on his domed forehead. He darted a glance at Miss Trentham. “My word,” he said. “I’ll never be dishonest in my dealings with anyone ever again.”

  “Does he mean it?”

  Miss Trentham nodded.

  Icarus put Green’s money in his pocket, along with the watch, and opened his pocketbook. Carefully, he counted out the exact sum that Dunlop owed and, equally carefully, placed it on the ledger. What he really wanted to do was bury the money in the manure heap and make Busbee dig for it.

  Chapter Ten

  Reid walked fast, practically striding, his arm taut beneath Letty’s hand. She stretched her legs to keep up and glanced at his face. A magnificent man when he was angry, with those blazing silver eyes, that knotted brow, those flared nostrils. She could imagine him facing Achilles on the battlefield at Troy—and winning.

  Reid’s pace slowed. He exhaled, and almost visibly shed his anger. His arm relaxed. He glanced at her. “Luncheon?”

  “Luncheon.”

  Now, he no longer looked magnificent; he looked gaunt and weary. Letty had a flash of memory: Reid as she’d seen him last night, in the throes of his nightmare, crying out in anguish.

  She soberly matched her steps to his, along Beadle Street to the Plough. Reid bespoke a room for Green and then they ate a silent lunch. “Will you come to Wiltshire?” Letty said, when they’d finished. “Talk to Tom Matlock?”

  Reid shrugged. “May as well.”

  “And then what?”

  Reid ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “I made some enquiries before I left London. Houghton’s from Bristol. He’ll have gone back there.”

  “Bristol’s not far from Wiltshire . . .”

  Their eyes met.

  “To try a trick like this once is rash,” Reid said. “To try it twice . . .” He grimaced. “Foolhardy.”

  Very foolhardy. “I want to go to Bristol.”

  “Do you know anyone there? Could you perhaps visit—”

  Letty shook her head. “I don’t know anyone in Bristol.”

  Reid frowned, and raked a hand through his hair again. “Do you think you can get away with it a second time?

  “I don’t know that I’ve got away with it once,” Letty said.

  The frown vanished. Reid huffed a breath, almost a laugh. “That’s true.”

  Letty’s heart gave a thump. That fleeting smile, the barely-glimpsed amusement in his eyes . . .

  “Colonel Cuthbertson sold out after Vimeiro,” Reid said. “Which is odd.”

  “But surely a colonel wouldn’t be a traitor?”

  “Why did he sell out?” Reid countered. “I understand why Grantham sold out, but Cuthbertson? He was a career officer. More than twenty years’ service.” He frowned, and looked down at his napkin, folded it in half, folded it again. “He was wasteful with his money—always outrunning the constable—but I can’t imagine him selling information . . .” His frowned deepened. He shook his head. “Inconceivable!” And then he hesitated, and said, “And yet I can more readily believe it’s him than Matlock or Houghton.”

  The landlord entered the parlor. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Reid, but your man’s arrived. I’ve settled ’im in his room, and he’s wishful to see you.”

  “Excellent.” Reid stood. “Come on in, Green.”

  Mr. Green stepped shyly into the room. Clean-shaven, he was even younger than Letty had thought. Twenty? Twenty-one? No scent of the stables accompanied him into the parlor. He looked
as if he’d scrubbed himself to within an inch of his life.

  “Your wages,” Reid said, placing the money on the table. “Plus what Busbee owed you for your belongings. Plus your watch.”

  Letty almost laughed at Green’s expression. He couldn’t have looked more incredulous if Reid had conjured the items out of thin air.

  “Are those the only clothes you have? Did Busbee sell the rest?”

  Green swallowed, and found his voice. “Most of them, sir.”

  “I suggest you spend the rest of the afternoon replenishing your wardrobe. I shan’t need you until evening.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”

  Letty waited until the boy had gone. “You’ve acquired a worshipper.”

  “Me?” Reid’s face stiffened, as if she’d slapped him. “I’m the last person anyone should worship.”

  Letty eyed him thoughtfully—and returned to the subject they’d been discussing. “Where does Cuthbertson live? Do you know?”

  “Near Exeter.”

  Exeter? Letty was dismayed. “Exeter is . . . rather far.”

  “Yes.” Reid leaned his shoulders against the wall.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. Letty thought about the deception required to travel to Exeter in Reid’s company—and then she thought about the three scouts and the justice they were owed. “It could be done,” she said, finally. “West to Bristol, south to Exeter, back to London. A week. Maybe ten days.”

  “Eliza?”

  Letty considered this question. “She’ll come with us. I shall take her to the lying-in hospital myself, when I reach London.”

  Reid’s mouth compressed.

  “What?” Letty said. “Have you something against the girl?”

  Reid lifted his brows. “Eliza? Of course not.”

  “Then, what?” Why did he not look pleased? “Have you changed your mind? Do you not want to pursue this?”

  Reid looked away from her.

  “What?”

  Silence grew in the room, then Reid looked back at her. “I want to pursue it.” His voice resonated with truthfulness. “But I dislike the risk to your reputation. I dislike being indebted to you.”

  “I suggest you reconcile yourself to it,” Letty said briskly. “Because I want to see this to its end.”

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, while Reid was at the posting inn arranging conveyance to Wiltshire on Saturday, Letty slipped out to visit the apothecary. A bell tinkled above her head as she stepped inside the cool quietness of the shop. Mingled scents filled her nose: lavender and sal volatile and a dozen others she didn’t recognize.

  The shop was a small one, with row upon row of shelves crammed with bottles and flasks and jars and vials. A thin, balding man stood behind the counter, mixing a liquid. To one side of the counter, in an upright chair, sat an elderly woman tucked all around with shawls, busily knitting. She had the sunken mouth and cheeks of the toothless, and large arthritic knuckles. Letty spared her a glance, and stepped up to the counter.

  “Won’t be a moment, ma’am,” the apothecary said.

  Letty waited while the man poured his liquid into a tiny flask and inserted a stopper. Click click click, went the knitting needles.

  The apothecary brushed his hands tidily together and smiled at her. “How may I help you, ma’am?”

  “My husband suffers from insomnia,” Letty said. “He refuses to take laudanum. Have you something else that would help him sleep?”

  “Sleep,” the old woman cackled.

  The apothecary pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Has he tried valerian?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Valerian,” the old woman cackled. Click click click.

  “The taste is . . .” The apothecary’s nose wrinkled. “I’ll let you smell it.”

  He crossed to one of the tall shelves, took down a flask filled with dark brown liquid, and removed the stopper. A smell wafted out, pungent and musty.

  “Not very pleasant, is it?” The apothecary reinserted the stopper.

  It was very unpleasant, in Letty’s opinion. And overpowering; the valerian had quite smothered the other scents in the shop. “How does it compare to laudanum?”

  “Laudanum,” the old woman cackled, her knitting needles going click click click.

  “Oh, much milder, and not at all addictive. It’s not an opiate. It won’t put him out, but it will help him drop off. The effect isn’t instantaneous; it might take an hour or more.”

  Letty thought about it for a moment. “I’ll take some,” she decided.

  The apothecary carefully poured some valerian into a vial and sealed it with a cork.

  “How much does one take?”

  “One teaspoon.”

  Letty took her purse from her reticule and paid. Click click click, went the knitting needles.

  “I hope it helps your husband to sleep,” the apothecary said politely, handing her the vial.

  “Sleep?” cackled the old woman. “There’s two things as make men sleep. Liquor and sex. Liquor and sex.”

  The apothecary blushed a puce color. “Please excuse my mother, ma’am. She’s a little touched. Doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Letty assured him, choking back a laugh.

  Click click click, went the knitting needles. “Three husbands I had, and they was all the same. The feather bed jig allus sent ’em straight to sleep.”

  Letty bit the tip of her tongue. The apothecary’s blush intensified. Even his balding pate reddened. He hastened out from behind his counter, ushered Letty to the door, and opened it for her. Tinkle, went the bell, and click click click, went the knitting needles. “Nothing like a good tumble to put a man to sleep,” the old woman said.

  The apothecary practically pushed Letty out the door. The bell tinkled again as it shut. “Mother!” she heard him say in a faint, anguished voice.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dinner was chitterlings, and a suet pudding. “Chitterlings?” Letty said, trying to determine what exactly was on her plate. Some kind of sausage? “What a curious name. Do you know what it is?”

  “Pig intestines,” Reid told her.

  “Oh.” Letty cut herself a small piece and chewed dubiously. But the chitterling, stuffed with savory breadcrumbs and fried with bacon, was surprisingly tasty. “It’s good. You must have some.”

  Reid glanced at her sardonically. Did he take her comment as a request?

  Letty kept an eye on his plate while she ate. He did eat quite a few chitterlings, and he even suffered to eat several mouthfuls of suet pudding. Not nearly enough food for a man of his size, but significantly more than he’d eaten their first night here.

  “Do you prefer brandy or port, Mr. Reid?”

  His eyebrows rose. “Now?”

  “In general.”

  He shrugged. “Brandy. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  Later that evening she had a discussion with the landlord, which resulted in the man bringing her a bottle of his best brandy, a glass, and a teaspoon. Letty placed the tray on a chair by the door, out of the way. “I shall take you to London next month,” she told Eliza, while the girl brushed out her hair and plaited it neatly. “To a very good lying-in hospital in Holborn. It’s a little early, I know, but I think it’s the best place for you.”

  The girl’s eyes met hers in the mirror.

  “It’s a charity hospital, but I promise you it’s very clean and respectable. You’ll be quite safe there.”

  After a moment, Eliza bit her lip and nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Her hair plaited, Letty turned to face the girl. “I imagine you’d prefer not to keep the child, but . . . I may be wrong?”

  Eliza shuddered, and shook her head. “I don’t want it, ma’am.”

  Poor wee thing, unwanted before it’s even born. “Then it shall be placed in a foundling home. I know some very good ones. You may be certain the child will be well cared for.
And when it’s old enough, it can go into service. How does that sound?”

  Eliza’s eyes filled with grateful tears. “It sounds perfect, ma’am.”

  Letty looked the girl up and down. “You need a new gown. That one’s looking tight. I’ll buy you one tomorrow.”

  “I can let out the seams again—”

  “A new gown,” Letty said, firmly. “Now, off to bed with you. I shan’t need you any more tonight.”

  Eliza smiled through her tears and bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, ma’am. Goodnight, ma’am.”

  * * *

  At a quarter past one, Letty woke to the now-familiar sound of Mr. Reid’s nightmares. She lit her candle, threw a shawl around her shoulders, shoved her feet into slippers, and grabbed the tray.

  Tonight, she wasn’t hesitant; she entered Reid’s room without knocking, put the tray down, and hurried to his bedside.

  This wasn’t sleep; this was torment. Reid thrashed, his tendons standing out, muscles straining, sweat beading his skin. His breathing was loud, harsh, irregular.

  “Icarus! Wake up!”

  Reid was locked in his dream. His face twisted. His breathing became harsher. He bucked wildly. A cry of pure distress tore from his throat.

  “Icarus!” Letty grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard. “Wake up!”

  Reid’s eyelids snapped open. His arm lashed out at her.

  Letty ducked back swiftly. “Icarus! It’s me.”

  Reid lunged up from the bed, murderous savagery on his face.

  “Icarus! Stop!”

  He halted, half out of the bed, one bare foot on the floor. He blinked—and she saw him come back into himself. Awareness, understanding, and recognition flooded his face.

  Letty watched warily as Reid fumbled for the bed and sat. Her heart hammered loud and fast at the base of her throat. So that’s what a berserker looks like.

  But Reid no longer looked dangerous. His skin-tone was gray and he was perceptibly shaking. He rubbed his face hard, as if trying to scrub the nightmare away.

  “Back into bed!” Letty said briskly.

  She plumped the pillows, hauled the sheets and quilt into order again, and put Reid to bed as if he was a child, propping him up to half-sit. He obeyed without protest, shivering hard. He looked slightly dazed, as if his body was in Basingstoke, but his thoughts were somewhere far, far away. His breathing had a faint hitch to it.