Rapture Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Luc was sprawled in a chair near the fire, studying the cards laid out on the table before him; Lamb, looking very much at home, sat across from him. Hearing the door open, both men looked up and a welcoming smile lit Luc’s face when he saw Barnaby.

  Rising to his feet, he clasped Barnaby’s hand warmly and exclaimed, “Tiens! I certainly didn’t expect to see you today.” Luc glanced at the rain spitting against the window. “In case you haven’t noticed it’s filthy outside. Little Lamb nearly drowned on his way over here.”

  “I noticed,” Barnaby said, “but I have a desire to visit The Ram’s Head.” He shot Lamb a glance. “And since I am under orders not to stray from my nursemaid’s watchful eye, I came in search of him.” He grinned at Luc and added, “I’d be happy to have you join us—if you don’t think you’ll melt.”

  “Try and stop me!” Luc said, the azure eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “Perhaps I shall find someone to give me a good game—Lamb has no head for gambling. He has lost at least two fortunes equal to yours to me already today.”

  There were little signs of the invalid that Jeb had brought back to England just over a month ago. Luc’s build was deceptively slender and he was still a little thin, although Mrs. Spalding’s cooking seemed to be taking care of that. The sunken look around his eyes was gone and his skin had lost that unhealthy pastiness. His color was good these days and the mocking light was back in those brilliant eyes.

  Ignoring Luc’s barb, Lamb scowled at Barnaby. “You just can’t resist poking at a hornet’s nest, can you?” he growled.

  “You know me so well,” Barnaby returned, smiling sweetly. Luc had been made privy to all that had occurred before he arrived in England so he understood the exchange. He’d been too ill in the beginning to do more than speculate about who was trying to kill Barnaby and how to deal with the Nolles gang, but that time was past and he was eager to lend his half brother aid. Besides, he had had his own reasons for wanting to observe Nolles—no more than Barnaby did he appreciate the attack by the Nolles gang the night he landed in England.

  Brushing aside Lamb’s words, Luc said, “Bah! Little Lamb, you act like an old woman, sometimes.”

  “At least I’ll be old,” retorted Lamb. “Unlike a certain pair of devil-may-care scamps I could name.”

  Luc and Barnaby grinned.

  Lamb was not amused. His gaze fixed on Barnaby, he said, “I would remind you that right now might not be the best time to tackle Nolles and his gang.”

  Barnaby looked innocent. “Who said anything about tackling Nolles?”

  Lamb snorted. “I know you.” His fist hit the table. “Blast it, Barnaby! You have a wife to consider now. What the devil are you thinking of by gallivanting off to the village and stirring up God knows what sort of trouble?”

  “You have no need to remind me of my responsibilities,” Barnaby shot back. “I cannot remain hiding at Windmere for the rest of my life. At some point, I will have to leave the haven of Windmere. A trip to the village—accompanied by two stalwart protectors—doesn’t seem an unreasonable first step.”

  “He’s right,” said Luc. “There has been no sign of this would-be assassin—perhaps, he has given up.”

  Lamb eyed Luc disgustedly. “I should have known you’d side with him—you’re so bloody wise, you nearly lost your life on a fool’s quest.”

  Luc’s fists clenched and he started forward. Lamb rose from the table, looking as pugnacious as Luc. As he had so often in the past, Barnaby quickly stepped between the two of them.

  A placating note in his voice, Barnaby said to Lamb, “If I thought I was in any danger today, I swear, I’d follow your advice. I don’t believe my would-be killer has given up, but who knows how long it will be before he strikes again? Am I to remain a prisoner forever?”

  Something in Barnaby’s voice caught Lamb’s attention and his eyes narrowed. “You’re not just going to the village to see Nolles—you’re also hoping to draw out whoever is trying to kill you!”

  The guilty look that flitted across Barnaby’s face was answer enough and Lamb swore low and viciously.

  “Mon Dieu!” cried Luc, realizing Lamb spoke the truth. Grabbing Barnaby’s shoulder, he shook him. “Are you mad?”

  “No,” said Barnaby, shrugging off Luc’s hands. “But if I stay secluded at Windmere, sooner or later, this killer will be forced to strike, and I’d prefer Emily and Cornelia nowhere around when he does.” When Lamb and Luc remained unconvinced, Barnaby said wearily, “May I remind you both that we know nothing about this man? Not who he is, where he is or even why he wants me dead. We’re unlikely to learn anything as long as I stay confined at Windmere. Despite the danger, at some point, I have to resume some semblance of my life.” He took a deep breath. “He has to be drawn out and the only way I can do that is to give him an opportunity to kill me.”

  “And it has to be today?” snarled Lamb.

  “If not today, then when?” Barnaby asked. “Tomorrow? Next week? Next month?”

  Thoughtfully, Luc said, “Unless we have very bad luck, it is doubtful that this mysterious fellow will even know that Barnaby has left Windmere to visit The Ram’s Head.”

  “My point exactly,” said Barnaby. “I should be safe today. The danger will be greatest once I return to a more regular routine.”

  Lamb wasn’t happy about it, but in the end he agreed that for today Barnaby’s ill-advised trip to The Ram’s Head should be without peril. “That is,” he grumbled as the three men mounted in the light rain and prepared to ride to the village, “if the pair of you don’t get up to any of your tricks.” He bent a fierce eye onto Luc. “Especially you! Barnaby’s in enough trouble without having to risk his neck pulling your chickens from the fire.”

  Offended, Luc glared back at him. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself—and I outgrew the need of your scolds long ago.”

  Barnaby sighed. It was going to be a long ride.

  Chapter 21

  The Ram’s Head was a handsome brick-and-timber building built within the last half century situated at the edge of a country lane that led to the intersection of two main roads—one leading to Brighton, the other to Tunbridge Wells and from there to London. The tavern was easily twice the size of Mrs. Gilbert’s establishment and there was none of the shabby charm of The Crown; no shutters hung crookedly at lace-edged windows and no door dark with age guarded the entrance; Barnaby hated the place on sight.

  From the raucous sounds that spilled from inside out onto the road, it was obvious that The Ram’s Head did a rousing business. There were several horses tied to the oak rail in front of the inn and, along with Lamb and Luc, Barnaby dismounted and tied his horse.

  Entering The Ram’s Head they were assaulted by drunken laughter, loud conversation and a film of smoke drifted above the crowd, the scent of tobacco, spirits, brandy and ale and other less identifiable odors hung in the air. Despite the hour, early afternoon, the main room was packed with men of all stripes—fishermen, farmers, common laborers and a few leading landowners. Barnaby spied Sir Michael and a pair of gentlemen he recognized sitting at a table near the massive stone fireplace on the other side of the big room. He also saw a pair of the neighborhood’s young bucks leaning against the long oak bar at the rear of the room, ogling the buxom young women scurrying around carrying trays covered with overflowing pitchers of dark ale and heavy, pewter tankards and mugs dripping with froth.

  Barnaby’s entrance, flanked by Lam and Luc, created a stir and conversation ebbed for a startled second, before rising again with renewed vigor. Lamb leaned near and murmured, “How much do you want to wager that we, mainly you, are the topic of conversation?”

  Barnaby shook his head, smiling wryly. A commotion near a door at the side of the room caught his attention and he glimpsed a tall, broad-shouldered form rising from a table half-hidden by shadows and disappearing through the door. Thomas? Simon?

  Luc asked softly, “Did you see that? I could have sworn one of your cou
sins just bolted out that door over there.”

  “Did you recognize him?” Barnaby asked, his gaze on the door.

  “Thomas or Simon,” answered Lamb, “but I couldn’t tell which one for certain.”

  “Neither could I,” muttered Luc. “I’d swear though that it was one of them.”

  From that same discreet table by the door a slim, smartly garbed gentleman stood and sauntered over to Barnaby. Stopping in front of him, he smiled and bowed.

  “Lord Joslyn, this is a pleasure,” purred the gentleman. “I have long hoped that you would sample the charms of my humble establishment. I am Will Nolles.”

  Barnaby hadn’t known what the vicious leader of a notorious gang of smugglers should look like, but he would never have connected Will Nolles with such an ungenteel enterprise. Nolles’s luxurious ginger hair was worn in a queue and confined with a black silk ribbon, much like Barnaby’s, and his dark green coat of superfine and buff pantaloons could have been made by the same Bond Street tailor Barnaby favored. There was a hint of the dandy in Nolles’s stiff collar points, gaily-embroidered white waistcoat and the striped hose he wore with his black kid pumps—the heels higher than fashion demanded to give him some much-needed height: the top of his head barely reached Barnaby’s shoulders.

  “Thank you for the welcome,” Barnaby said with a cool smile. He glanced around. “You appear to have a fine place here . . . quite popular, I see.”

  Nolles nodded. “Indeed, we are reputed to be the finest tavern in the area.” A sly expression in his pale green eyes, he added, “I trust you will find The Ram’s Head far superior to . . . other inns and taverns you have visited recently.” Radiating complacency, he continued. “If you haven’t already, you will discover that all the gentlemen, in fact, anyone of note in the area, prefer what we have to offer over the, ah, rustic charms to be found elsewhere.”

  Barnaby didn’t consider himself a violent man, but he was fighting hard not to punch Nolles in the face. Smug bastard.

  “I find that I like a certain rustic charm, and whether your establishment lives up to my expectations remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Barnaby replied.

  Nolles’s thin lips tightened and he murmured, “Indeed, it does, my lord.” The pale green eyes speculative, he asked, “Would you prefer a private room or will you allow me to escort you to a table here in the public area? Of course, your first round of drinks will be at my expense—a welcoming gift as it were.”

  “No private room for us—we’ll be quite happy with a table out here.” Not wishing to be beholden to Nolles for anything, Barnaby said, “It’s kind of you to offer us free refreshments, but it isn’t necessary.”

  Nolles smiled. “Oh, but it will be my pleasure, my lord.” “Then thank you,” Barnaby said, giving in gracefully. Nolles paraded them across the room and settled them at a large, round oak table not far from where Sir Michael and his cronies sat. After asking their choice of libations, Nolles said, “I shall see that your refreshments are served promptly.” Those green eyes fixed on Barnaby’s face, he added, “We are noted for our service, and of course, if there is any complaint, please do not hesitate to make your concerns known to me.” He bowed again to Barnaby and said, “I shall leave you to enjoy yourself, my lord . . . for what I hope will be the first of many visits.”

  Watching Nolles mince away, Barnaby said slowly, “Fellow reminds me of a coral snake. Small, dainty, lovely to look at . . . and deadly.”

  Lamb agreed. “I think he could smile, not even breaking into a sweat while he cut out your liver.”

  Luc nodded. “A most dangerous man our Will Nolles. He leaves one feeling in need of a bath, oui?”

  Catching Sir Michael’s eye, Barnaby smiled and nodded. As his gaze moved around the room, he acknowledged a few other men he’d met, aware that Luc and Lamb’s presence with him was sure to cause talk—the neighborhood still wasn’t easy with Lamb and Luc’s obvious illegitimacy or how to treat them. Barnaby’s casual acceptance and warm relationship with both men puzzled nearly everyone regardless of wealth and rank, but while people like Sir Michael appeared to accept it, there was no escaping the whispers and raised eyebrows. Barnaby grinned. Bugger ’em.

  The three men said little until after their tankards of ale had been served by a dark-eyed wench whose low-cut bodice gave an enticing view of her impressive bosom. Placing down a pitcher full of rich, dark ale, a saucy smile on her lips, she said, “If there is anything else you wish, my lord . . . you have only to ask.”

  Barnaby would have had to be dead not to admire the seductive sway of her hips as she ambled away, but after an appreciative glance, deciding he much preferred his wife’s trim little buttocks, his eyes turned to Lamb and Luc.

  Leaning back in his chair, Barnaby said, “Interesting that we interrupted a meeting between one of the cousins and the smooth Mr. Will Nolles, isn’t it? Tends to make one think the mysterious London backer might just be one of them. Even more interesting is the fact one of my esteemed cousins is in the area, but has neglected to pay a call at Windmere. I wonder why?”

  “Curious that he scooted out the door the moment we entered the room,” murmured Luc, sipping from his mug.

  Lamb scratched the side of his face. “Be interesting to be privy to what they were talking about over there in that private little corner . . . and why he didn’t want to be seen by you, us.”

  Barnaby nodded, his glance moving around the room. There were not many people he recognized, as much from being new to the area, as the fact that the majority of the inhabitants were not likely to be found in the sacred precincts of Almack’s or any of the gentlemen’s clubs along Pall Mall favored by the ton. These were common laborers, farmers and fishermen with a scattering of the wellborn and wealthy amongst them. Spotting a pair of uniformed customs men at a table with three other men, their heads close together, Barnaby’s brow rose. The revenue men appeared to be right at home in the tavern. The three other men at their table could have been honest fishermen, but there was a furtive air about them that made Barnaby suspect they were smugglers. Part of Nolles’s gang? he wondered. If so, the gossip and Lieutenant Deering’s suspicions that Nolles bribed the very men that were supposed to stop the smugglers appeared to be true.

  Barnaby recognized no one here that he’d ever seen at The Crown and he thought it odd that with Mrs. Gilbert’s tavern closer to the waterfront that more of the fishermen wouldn’t have patronized her place rather than traveling the extra miles out to The Ram’s Head. Recalling that Mrs. Gilbert’s husband had died after a visit to Nolles’s establishment, he frowned. Perhaps, Nolles had given the community a good reason for avoiding The Crown.

  Barnaby, Lamb and Luc relaxed around the table, drinking their ale, talking in low tones. After a moment, Luc nudged Barnaby and tipped his head to the left. “Do you see what I see through that doorway over there, brother mine?”

  Barnaby looked in the direction Luc motioned, noticing for the first time an opened door in the far wall. Across a hallway, another door stood half open and Barnaby saw what had caught Luc’s attention. From this narrow vantage, he couldn’t see very much, but he realized that the room he was looking into was set up for gaming. More interesting, while he didn’t recognize one of the men playing cards, he knew the other one very well: Jeffery Townsend. One of the barmaids came out of the room where Jeffery sat and shut the door behind her, closing off the view.

  Barnaby looked at Luc and asked, “Do you mean to try your hand?”

  Luc shook his head. “Not today.” He smiled. “But perhaps some other time.”

  Unobtrusively, the three men continued to assess and track the area. Most of the patrons they dismissed as being precisely what they seemed—gentlemen of leisure or honest hardworking men enjoying a tipple or two on a rainy afternoon. But eventually, Barnaby’s gaze fixed on a group of tough-looking brutes hunched over a table across the room. More members of Nolles’s gang, he decided, noting the way the other men in the room gave that ta
ble a wide berth—that and the covert, hard glances those brutal-faced fellows slid his way now and then.

  About the same time, Lamb murmured, “Over there on the far side, at the second table from the end.”

  “They’ve been studying us,” Luc said, “since the moment we sat down.”

  Barnaby nodded and finished his ale. Setting down his tankard, he said, “I think our time here is over. We’ve met Nolles—our main purpose—and we will recognize some members of his gang should we come across them again.” Rising to his feet, he muttered, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve had about all I can take of Nolles’s hospitality. Let us be off.”

  Taking his time, stopping to chat for a moment with Sir Michael, Barnaby wasn’t surprised that before he reached the doors at the front of the room, Nolles materialized at his side. “Leaving so soon, my lord?” Nolles asked. “I trust everything was to your satisfaction?”

  “I found no fault,” Barnaby said, continuing on his way. A touch stopped him and he looked down to see Nolles’s dainty, white hand on his arm.

  “Perhaps, you will come again soon and stay longer,” Nolles said. “The Ram’s Head has much to offer a gentleman wishing to while away an afternoon . . . women, gambling . . . whatever you wish. Having Viscount Joslyn frequent my establishment is good for business.” His hand tightened on Barnaby’s arm. “Your, ah, preference for a different tavern has cost me a few patrons.” Nolles smiled thinly. “You’ll discover that I don’t like losing.”

  Barnaby considered the small, slim man before him, reminding himself that this man had ordered the attack on Emily’s intrepid band of smugglers. The Nolles gang had brazenly stolen the contraband Jeb, Mrs. Gilbert and the others had worked so hard to land and had visited violence upon them. Luc had been with Jeb that night and anger simmered within him at the notion that this same, dandified little creature could have caused Luc’s death. A terrifying thought occurred to him. Only by the grace of God Emily hadn’t been on the beach that night. . . .