The first to arrive were the Hamerstone twins, Miss Poppy and Miss Alexandra. Identical down to their very toes, they were a high-spirited pair, and Liv adored them from the off.
"Gemini!" Poppy exclaimed, as they were ushered through the door. "It looks just the same as it did in Mrs Baker's days."
"Only better," Alexandra interjected as she beamed at Olive, and dropped her bags on the rug,before twirling around and bouncing with excitement. The twins were trailed by their aunt Augusta Hamerstone, who looked exhausted after the long coach journey. Olive couldn't blame her; if this was what the twins were like after three days ensconced inside a cramped carriage, then she was sure they'd be twice as sprightly when well rested.
"You're the first guests to arrive," Olive explained, as she led the trio upstairs to their suite of rooms. "We're expecting a full house by week's end."
And indeed by the time Saturday evening arrived, the boarding house had a no vacancies sign hung outside its door. The other guests were an eclectic mix of authors, historians, musicians and philosophers. Most were ladies who elsewhere would have been dubbed spinsters, but in St. Jarvis found sanctuary from society's labels. The only man amongst their ranks was a Mr Alastair Jackson, a very serious young fellow of thirty, who wore spectacles which magnified his eyes and gave him the appearance of a startled bug. Which was quite apt, as Mr. Jackson was involved in the business of entomology, which a rather flustered Jane explained was the study of insects.
"He's a genius," she whispered to Olive, as she helped her prepare tea in the kitchen. Jane's face was beet red, as it was wont to turn when she was discussing Mr. Jackson, and she wore the look of an excited puppy. Her movements were jerky, and as she made to pour milk into the small serving jug, she spilled the pail all over the flagstone floor.
"Oh, no!" Jane exclaimed, hopping out of the way of the encroaching puddle of milk, "Look how stupid I am."
Her face, already pink, was wreathed in dismay. Tears welled up in her eyes, visible even behind her glasses, and Liv gave her a comforting pat on the elbow.
"There's no use fretting over shed milk," Liv gently consoled her, dropping a dishcloth to the floor and wiping it on the puddle with the toe of her boot. "No harm done to either of us, or your pretty slippers, and that's the most important thing!"
"But there'll be none for breakfast," Jane wailed, wringing her hands in despair. It was true, the pail which held the milk for the breakfast was now empty, its contents having been completely emptied onto the floor, but Liv shrugged lightly.
"I'll just bring the trays into the library," she said evenly, lifting a heavy tray up easily, "And then I shall run down to Mr. Lawless at the tavern, he's bound to lend me a jug until tomorrow."
"Oh, no let me," Jane protested passionately, "If you go, you'll miss Mr. Jackson's lecture on the Hemipetra species of insects he's been studying at the cove."
"Oh, drat," Liv struggled to sound genuinely remorseful in response to her friend's scholarly enthusiasm. "You stay Jane, then you can relay back to me what he says, you've a far better memory than I."
Liv said this very firmly, and there was a grain of truth in her statement. Jane would remember Mr. Jackson's lecture far better than Liv would, for Jane would avidly hang on the entomologist's every word, whereas Liv would struggle to keep her eyes open. Let alone her ears.
Firmly she prodded her friend into the library and set about serving the tea to her guests, before discreetly excusing herself to fetch the milk. The boarding house was situated at the top of the steep hill on which St. Jarvis was built. The village was made up of one main street, comprising of quaint houses and shops all leaning against each other. The steep road wound down to a small cove, where a few small fishing boats were moored. Liv pulled her shawl tightly around herself, to ward off the cool evening's breeze, as she scurried toward The Fisherman's Friend, the one and only tavern in the tiny village.
She welcomed the break that the walk granted her, for the past few days had been frantic, filled with serving her guests, as well as attending to the cleaning of their rooms. Liv rose at dawn and did not go to bed again until all her guests had retired for the night. She needed more help; Jane was good to her, but unused to domestic activities, and quite scatterbrained despite her obvious intelligence.
"Here she is," Mr Lawless called as Liv pushed open the stiff, saltwater-swollen door of The Fisherman's Friend. A group of weather beaten fishermen were perched on stools at the long bar, which took up most of the space in the tiny tavern.
"Mrs Black," they mumbled in unison, raising their tankards in greeting to her. Liv rather enjoyed her status as a widow. In Frome she had always been the daughter of the local Lord, and the villagers -- while outwardly deferential -- had never sought her friendship, or aired their honest opinions. In St. Jarvis, however, she had found the local population more than friendly, eager to take her under their wing.
"Gentlemen," she said with a stiff nod of greeting, befitting of a widow, "I hope the evening finds you well."
"It's much brighter now that you're here," Mr Lawless beamed, throwing the dishrag in his hands over his shoulder. "What can I do for you Mrs Black? A pint of bitter?"
"No,thank you." Liv gave a self conscious smile, " I wondered if I could borrow a pail of milk until tomorrow?"
"Anything for you m'dear," Mr Lawless said with a saucy wink that left Liv rather red-faced. The proprietor of the tavern was seventy if he was a day, but his rheumy blue eyes still twinkled mischievously. He disappeared through a low door, which led to his private rooms, leaving Liv standing awkwardly in the dim tavern.
"So you're the widow Black, that I've heard so much about."
The voice that spoke was accented with money and privilege, though there was a definite slur to the words. Liv whirled around, and saw who it was that had addressed her. A man, of about her father's age, who was seated alone by the hearth, clearly in his cups. His clothes were fine as any Lord's, and Liv knew for certain that she was looking at a member of the ton.
"I am," she replied steadily, her voice carrying across the room. She would not walk to him; let him say what he had to say for everyone to hear. "Though we have not been introduced, sir, so I do not know your name."
"Keyford," the man grunted, standing to his feet and swaying unsteadily. "I am Lord Keyford, of Aylesbury. And you my dear are not welcome in this town. Trying to dreg up old ghosts, eh? Well St. Jarvis has been peaceful since that old bat died and the boarding house closed. I won't have it, I won't have you here."
Lord Keyford lunged for Olive, who was so taken aback by his outburst that she was momentarily paralysed with shock. It was only the quick intervention of another customer, a black haired woman who had been dining alone, that saved her.
"Oops a daisy," the woman sang, in a broad Northern accent, as she stood and grabbed Lord Keyford by the elbow. "I think you've had a bit too much to drink, my Lord."
Her voice was firm, and Liv could see that her grip on Keyford's elbow was even firmer. The drunken Lord raised two, thick, grey eyebrows in confusion, as he struggled to register that he was being frogmarched to the door.
"I want to have a word with the Widow Black," he protested, but his captor simply smiled sweetly at him as she blatantly ignored his protests.
"And you shall, my Lord," the dark haired woman crooned, as she opened the creaking door, "But just not tonight."
Olive watched, open mouthed, as the woman gave Lord Keyford a gentle, but firm, push out the door and slammed it in his wake. She stared with satisfaction at the closed door for a moment, before turning to the elderly fishermen, still sat at the bar.
"Fat lot of help you lot were," the dark haired woman grumbled at them.
"I can't bite the hand that feeds me, lass," one of the older men defended himself, glancing apologetically at Olive as he spoke. "Lord Keyford is my landlord, if I'd manhandled him the way you had, I'd be sleeping under a bush tonight."
"Aye," the other men chorused in agr
eement, staring down at their pints of ale and avoiding Olive's eye.
"I am most grateful," Olive ventured to the woman, "If there's anything that I can do for you, please allow me."
"You're Mrs Black?"
The question was delivered in that abrupt, no-nonsense, Northern accent that brokered no arguments or lies. Olive nodded, her eyes locking with the woman's own, which were a troubled shade of grey.
"And you run the boarding house," the woman continued, still watching her closely with unreadable eyes.
Again Olive nodded, wondering if perhaps this fierce Northerner was going to request a bed for the night.
"I'm Polly," the woman stuck out her hand for Olive to shake, "Polly Jenkins. I'm looking for work around these parts Mrs Black, and I heard you might be looking."
"Oh,' Olive was momentarily taken aback by the directness of Polly's statement. She hadn't expected to find her new maid in a tavern, but the woman looked capable and strong, and Olive liked the straightness of her character.
"I'd be delighted to take you on, Mrs Jenkins," Liv replied, a warm smile creasing her face, for she would be glad to have this Polly Jenkins on her side. Though small in stature, Polly looked strong, and she radiated energy.
"Did I miss something?"
Mr Lawless was back, a pail of milk in his hands, and a look of bemusement on his lined face as he regarded the silent men at the bar, who were avidly watching the exchange between Mrs Black and Polly.
"Only the local lord being escorted out, on account of his rudeness to Mrs Black," Polly replied demurely.
"Old Keyford was in his cups, I should have cut him off after the last pint," Lawless glanced at Liv, his eyes full of apologies. "He's only recently back from Southampton, he always drinks like a fish when he's back from there. And to add to it, he's probably drowning his sorrows, now he's heard that his son in law survived the downing of The Elizabeth."
Olive bit back a gasp -- Lord Keyford was the father of her husband's late wife. He had seemed bitter, and now she knew why; to outlive your child was every parent's worst nightmare.
"I'm sure Lord Keyford will be filled with remorse on the morrow," Liv said lightly, not believing for a minute that the old man would. She did not wish to stand and talk about the drunken Lord, however, for now that she knew who he was she felt a stab of pity for him.
"Thank you for the milk, Mr Lawless," she said, with a bright smile, relieving the man of the pail he held. "I will replace it tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Mrs Black," Lawless said with a gap toothed grin, and the men at the bar echoed him. Liv waited for Polly to fetch her bag from the table, and settle up with Lawless for her supper. When she was quite ready Liv led her out onto the quiet road.
There was not a sinner to be seen as the pair made their way up the steep hill toward the boarding house, watched only by the silent houses of the village.
"Have you been in St. Jarvis for long?" Liv ventured as they walked.
"Only arrived this evening," Polly said in reply, her grey eyes scanning the buildings as they strolled past.
"And what brought you so far south?" Liv asked, wondering how such a lively creature had ended up in such a remote part of Cornwall. Polly did not seem like a woman who wished to while away her life in a sleepy backwater like St. Jarvis.
"My husband passed," Polly avoided Liv's eye, instead focusing on the road ahead. "He was a sailor and he left me widowed in Bristol, but the city's no place for a woman alone."
"You're right, it's no place for a widow."
As she spoke Liv glanced down at her companion's right hand. There was no ring there, though when Polly saw where Liv's eyes rested, she arched an eyebrow and looked pointedly at Liv's own bare ring finger.
"Did you love him, Mrs Black?" Polly asked quietly, as they neared the boarding house. "Your husband, I mean."
Liv pondered the question for a moment; perhaps it was a normal exchange between women who had lost their husbands, but it unsettled her a little.
"I barely knew him," she finally answered, for it was the truth.
Ruan's hand was itching to form itself into a fist, and thoroughly punch the recalcitrant man seated before him. They were in the small, damp gaol near the docks, where George Beattie -- the tar who had blown up The Elizabeth -- was being held. Ruan had been informed that Beattie hailed from Bristol, and was a well known thief, who often acted as hired muscle for local criminal gangs.
"I'll ask you one more time," Ruan said, in a voice so low and menacing that even the magistrate who had accompanied him to Beattie's cell, quaked upon hearing it. "Who paid you to wreck The Elizabeth?"
"And I told you," Beattie sneered, "I don't bloody well know."
Whack.
Ruan delivered a blow so forceful to the sailor's chin, that he fell from his chair to the floor.
"Are you going to let him punch me like that?"
"Punch you like what?" the magistrate replied blandly, to Beattie's outraged protests. "I didn't see a thing."
Ruan suppressed a grin; if he was so inclined he could have strangled Beattie to death and the magistrate wouldn't have blinked an eyelid. Such was the power of his title. But Ruan wasn't there to kill Beattie, he didn't need to for he would surly hang on the gallows for his crime; Ruan just wanted to know who had paid him to commit the act in the first place.
"Once again Mr Beattie," he said softly, advancing on the young man, who was still sprawled on the cold, hard ground of the gaol cell. "Who paid you to wreck The Elizabeth?"
"I don't know."
This time Beattie sounded scared, as he made his reply, his eyes darting around the cell, as though searching for a means of escape. "If I knew I'd tell you, but it was dark when I met him. Alls I know is that he sounded like a toff. He spoke just like you did, your Grace."
Ruan frowned; this information didn't narrow down his list of suspects by many. Every aristocratic male of the ton spoke with the same clipped vowels; the product of an Eton education.
"Where did you meet with this man?" he asked.
"The alley behind The Seven Stars, in Redcliff, your Grace," the prisoner offered reluctantly. "I was relieving myself after a couple of pints, and he approached me from behind."
"Brave man, to approach a man engaged in that particular act."
Beattie snorted with laughter; "Aye, he was, but he came ready with a bag of coins the weight of a small calf, and the promise of another once the act was done."
"And you were to collect the second payment here, in Southampton?"
"Aye," Beattie grimaced, "And then I was to take a boat to France and disappear."
"You'll disappear alright, young man," the magistrate interjected, "In a few weeks time you'll hang for this, and the world will forget that George Beattie ever existed."
At these bleak words, the young man paled, and Ruan knew that he would get no more answers from him. Still, he ventured to ask one final question.
"When were you supposed to have met this gentleman, Mr Beattie?"
"Last night, your Grace," the criminal replied.
Damn; so whoever it was that had hired Beattie, would already have heard of his incarceration and fled. Ruan thanked the magistrate for his time, and left the gaol to return to the coaching inn. Southampton had been a clever choice for a meeting place, Ruan decided. The town had a port that was moderately busy due to the Navy ships which docked there, but was also highly fashionable with the gentry. They came from London to take the waters at the spa, and as Ruan walked through the bustling city streets toward his hotel, he spotted a familiar face.
"Lavelle," he called, much surprised to see his friend hurrying in the direction of the port.
"Everleigh," Henry Lavelle, Lord Somerset turned at the sound of his name, and a wide grin broke across his handsome face. "I've been looking for you, heard from your Captain Black that you'd been down to the gaol to interview the cur who blew up The Elizabeth."
"Aye, I did," Ruan grimaced, "Though fat lot of help
he was. What brings you all the way down here?"
"Why, you of course; it's all over London that someone tried to kill you. You can't blame your second for hot footing it down, in case you needed my services."
Ruan tried not to wince at the innocuous reference to duelling; Henry had once acted as his second in the first, and only, duel that Ruan had ever partaken in. He had been there to witness Ruan shooting dead Charles Birmingham, the man who had been having an affair with his late wife. Though contrary to rumour, Ruan had only killed the blighter because Birmingham had turned before the count, and shot Ruan in the leg. The man had been deranged, and for what he had done to Catherine, Ruan felt little regret for having taken his life.
"Are you staying in The Dolphin?"
"Where else?" Ruan replied, as Lavelle fell into step beside him. The Dolphin Hotel was England's largest and grandest coaching inn, and after the long journey from Falmouth, Ruan wouldn't countenance staying anywhere that wasn't the height of luxury.
The men repaired to the hotel saloon, and over brandy Ruan shared with Lavelle his suspicions that someone was trying to kill him, the story of how The Elizabeth had sank, as well as Olive's disappearance.
"Any idea where she is?"
For the first time in Lavelle's life, he seemed to be struggling to speak. His face was pale and drawn, it seemed he was shocked to his very core. Ruan felt touched by his obvious worry, though said nothing. Speaking about feelings wasn't the done thing, for men of their ilk.
"Actually," he said, taking a deep sip of his brandy, "I know exactly where she is, and you do too."
"I do?"
"St. Jarvis," Ruan supplied, and he was gratified to see Lavelle splutter on the drink he had taken.
"Good Lord," the blonde haired man gasped, as he struggled to regain his composure. "I haven't been there in years. Not since -- not since --"
The Duke of Ruin: Reluctant Regency Brides Page 8
