The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  The thinnest of the men, seated nearest the hearth, flicked an ash from his cheroot onto a crystal saucer. He studied Alex as he might a new card, then refocused on his own hand, discarding the new arrival as a non-trump.

  The fellow sitting opposite him stuck out his lower lip, considering Alex as if he were a tray of sliced beef or carved guinea fowl. In truth, the man would likely pass up neither. Gaps stretching between the double buttons on his red coat—the pairs of them giving away his rank as major general—attested to his love affair with food.

  The third man, seated with his back to them, didn’t move. Not at first. Then a slight ripple whispered across the fabric between his shoulder blades, barely perceptible.

  Alex shifted his weight, poised to flee.

  The man shot to his feet, turned, and fired a black powder pistol.

  A scream gushed from Robbie’s mouth. Blood streamed from his hand. He dropped to his knees, clutching the injury to his chest. The bullet had passed through Robbie’s hand and lodged into the mahogany paneling dangerously close to Alex. It wasn’t a killing shot. It was a warning.

  Alex clenched his dagger tighter, ready for anything.

  The man holding the gun flicked his gaze toward Alex, summing him up with a sweep of his eyes. Alex returned the favor. The fellow was neither large nor gaunt. His dress coat was well tailored in an understated fashion. The cut of his trousers labeled him neither a trendsetter nor outmoded. His hair, greying at the temples and thinning on top, was brushed back into a nondescript style, his face clean-shaven and without blemish. Truly, he was no more interesting or intimidating than a dish of jellied pigeon livers. Yet with a single nod toward the servant, the man commanded immediate action.

  The manservant rushed to Robbie’s side and helped him to stand. With an arm around his shoulder, he escorted Robbie out of the room, leaving a trail of stains in the carpet and the remnants of Robbie’s whimpering.

  “Well, I suppose we’ll give you a try, being that you’re already here.” The man tucked away his pistol and locked stares with Alex. “Are you going to stand there or play cards? Oh, and grab yourself a drink first. Drake will likely be busy with Robert for a while.”

  Sheathing his knife, Alex closed the door behind him, sealing off the ghostly chords from the ball far below. He counted his steps—twelve—over to the sideboard laden with bottles, glasses, and an intricately carved cigar box. Then he estimated the remaining steps—six—to the only other exit from the room, the door Robbie had been ushered through. Sometimes the difference between life and death was a number. Alex added the information to his arsenal, for he might well need it. The only available seat would leave him facing away from the main door. He’d known one too many officers who’d taken a lead ball to the back of the skull from a situation such as this.

  Bypassing a crystal decanter of brandy, he grabbed a green bottle of wine and a glass, then seated himself. He poured only enough to leave the bottle mostly full, then positioned it to his right, two hand spans from the table’s edge. It made for a poor mirror, but from that angle, he’d at least see should the door open.

  “Two-fisted drinker, eh?” The fat major general spoke, his voice distinctive—like the bark of a dog that’d been at it for too long. Though with the thick folds around the man’s neck, it was a wonder words came out at all. “My kind of fellow, but let’s be about it, hmm? I assume you have the money to front your bets?”

  Alex nodded. “If I didn’t, I’d have made a dash for it down the stairs by now.”

  Without another word, the man shoved five chips toward him, and the game was on. These fellows were serious. Conversation was not only an unnecessary interruption, but clearly an unwelcome one as well. A tip of the head. The blink of an eye. Even the lifting of a finger communicated far more loudly than a roomful of sailors embroiled in a round of hazard.

  The first card dealt didn’t interest Alex so much as the second, and neither of those as much as the cards toward the end of the deck. He had no clue how much a chip was worth, but no matter. The magistrate had endowed him with a sizable sum, and Thatcher could always retrieve more funds for him. He slid his entire stack of chips onto the nine of spades printed on the felt in front of the dealer—the man he assumed to be the viscount. Coburn flipped over the last card.

  Alex smiled, then scooped up his winnings.

  As the game wore on, he continued his devil-take-all strategy. At first, the others split their bets between cards, but as his stack grew and theirs diminished, their patterns changed. All of them placed the sum of their chips on what they felt would be the winning card. Alex suppressed a smirk. Monkeys, even well-dressed ones, were known to mimic.

  And that didn’t slow his winning streak. Though the men looked the part of well-versed gamblers, they weren’t. Oh, they’d employed a few winning strategies early on in the game, but nothing he hadn’t already encountered during his darker, cardsharp days.

  When Alex’s chips outnumbered everyone’s, the dealer threw down the deck of cards and leaned back in his chair. For a tense few moments, nothing but the ticking of the ornately inlaid longcase clock in the corner broke the silence. That and the loud grumble of the big man’s belly.

  Finally, the dealer leaned forward, skewering Alex with an intense gaze. “Where did Robert find you?”

  Alex smiled, offsetting his jaw slightly, the same grin that’d saved his behind more than a time or two. “He rescued me from a rabid pack of debutantes.”

  The silence stretched once again, but this time only as far as it took for his words to sink in. Laughter, starting with the fat major general, spread around the table.

  “I suppose I ought not have reprimanded him so harshly, then. But you must understand, my nephew has been warned on previous occasions to stop bringing uninvited players to my table. He needs to learn I mean what I say. I am Viscount Edward Coburn, the lord of this manor, or what’s left of it after your significant fleecing.” The viscount lifted a brow at the winnings heaped atop the last bet Alex had placed. After a sigh, he swept out his hand—a large, gold signet ring flashing with the movement—and indicated each man in turn. “And you’ve also lightened the pockets of Mr. James Conroy and Major General William Overtun.”

  “Gentlemen, pleased to make your acquaintances, and especially pleased to take your money.” He scooped the chips toward his side of the table. It was a hefty sum. Perhaps he ought be more thankful that Ford had given him this assignment. “I am Alexander Morton—”

  A sharp rapping at the door cut him off.

  Lord Coburn raised halfway, a distinct growl rising from his throat as well. “I said I was not to be disturbed until—”

  The door flew open. Every nerve on edge, Alex reached for his knife, then slowly regained his lost breath when he saw the swirl of a skirt reflected on the bottle in front of him.

  “I can hold off dinner no longer.” The woman’s voice, while cultured and resonant, was harsher than a fishwife’s. “Either you come down—now—or I shall lead every last guest up here to your little sanctuary, Father.”

  Father? A cold sweat shivered through Alex. Slowly, he stood and turned.

  And looked full into the face of the woman he’d been ordered to marry.

  “Will you marry me?”

  If her hands weren’t full, Johanna would slap the silly, lopsided grin off Mr. Quail’s face as soundly as she’d clouted Mr. Morton earlier in the day. She didn’t have time for this lunacy, not with a full taproom. Taking care to keep the dishes from toppling, she pulled from Mr. Quail’s touch on her arm and turned slightly, wielding her tray of dirty soup bowls like a shield. “How many cups of ale have you downed tonight, sir?”

  He clapped a hand over his heart and staggered back, earning himself a tart reply from the redhead behind him. Ignoring her, he kept his gaze pinned on Jo. “You wound me, my fairest, to imply my wits have been compromised.”

  “Better your wits than me,” she shot back.

  With a laug
h, the redhead craned her neck over Mr. Quail’s shoulder. “She’s got ye there, she does. Yer better at singin’ than courtin’.”

  “Really?” Mr. Quail shifted his eyes sideways, a tic running along his jaw. “And what would you know about music, except for bawdy house ditties and—”

  “Mr. Quail,” Johanna breathed out his name as a warning. There was no way he could see the big man approaching to his left, though he might have felt the floor rumble with each of the fellow’s giant steps. A brawl now would break more than all the mugs Thomas had dropped this evening.

  “There a problem, Lovey?” The man draped his arm around the redhead’s shoulder, pulling her toward him.

  Johanna forced a smile. “I’d say the only problem is the music has stopped. Should you not be about it, Mr. Quail?”

  “That I should.” Sneaking in a quick wink, he darted off in the opposite direction of Lovey and her man.

  Thomas didn’t see him coming. He was too busy weaving in and out of people at top speed with an armful of mugs.

  Quail swerved an instant before impact, leaning hard on one foot while swooping his arms to keep him upright.

  Thomas teetered like a wobbly top, far to one side, then the other, until there was nothing to be done for it but to throw out his hands like Quail had done.

  Six earthenware tankards shattered on the floor. Johanna frowned at them. She ought be glad it wasn’t her brother’s head hitting the planks—which truly she was. But such an event might knock some sense into the boy. A wicked thought, but one that could not be helped. Had she not told him thrice in the past hour to slow down?

  He scooped up the pieces with a laugh, as if the world were nothing but a riddle and he the jester.

  “Oh, Thomas.” She groaned and her shoulders slumped, rattling the bowls on her tray. Where would they find the extra funds to replace all he’d broken?

  “Don’t be hard on him, Jo. He’s but a boy.”

  She turned toward her mother’s voice. Creases fanned out at the sides of Mam’s eyes. Shadows smudged half-circles underneath. Had she ever seen her mother look quite so tired? A woman her age ought to be dandling a grandchild on her knee, not running foamy heads of ale to and fro like a common bar wench.

  But at least they had customers to serve. Last Johanna had checked, the coin jar was nearly half full—not enough to stave off Mr. Spurge, but at least the miller would be paid. Blowing out a sigh and a prayer, she repented of her foul attitude.

  “You’re right.” She smiled at Mam. “Thomas is young. I should be thankful he’s working and—”

  A scream ripped out the kitchen door. Mam’s hands flew to her heart. The music stopped as quickly as it began.

  Dropping the tray of bowls, Johanna broke into a dead run toward the howling, heedless of who she shoved aside. “Thomas!”

  Her brother tore into the taproom, the hem of his trousers aflame. The faster he ran, the higher the fire climbed.

  Jo launched forward, tackling him to the ground. She wrapped her arms about him and rolled. Over and over. Smothering the flames between her and the floor. The stench of burnt fabric and flesh was sickening. The heat of his clothes singed her own skin, but she wouldn’t quit. She’d roll back and forth until the flames of hell were quenched if that’s what it took.

  “Lassie, lassie! It’s done. It’s over.”

  The deep voice of a Scotsman cut into her nightmare. Breathing hard, she rolled to a stop and pushed up slightly.

  Beneath her, Thomas lay still. Eyes shut. Mouth slack.

  “No!” She wailed. “God, please. Not Thomas!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alex studied the woman standing in the doorway. Only one word came to mind. Green. Yet color had nothing to do with it. Her off-white gown was embellished with golden embroidery, all loopy and feminine. If he squinted, the design took on a fleur-de-lis pattern—strange icon for an English woman these days. Her hair was dark, her eyes darker. She didn’t appear to be ill or jealous, yet all the same she was green. Straight and willowy as a field of grass, lithe as a fern frond, all delicate and wispy. A pleasing sight, one that might turn a man’s head—but not his.

  She directed a cancerous gaze at her father. “Why will Robbie not be joining us?”

  “He is detained.” The viscount ground out his cheroot onto an already overloaded salver, creating a small cloud of ash. Then he nodded toward Alex. “I am sure Mr. Morton here will be happy to fill your cousin’s seat so that you should not lack for a dinner companion. You will find him a refreshing diversion. Mr. Morton, meet my daughter, Miss Louisa Coburn. Louisa, Mr. Alexander Morton.”

  Alex kept his gaming face intact, though not without struggle. What an irregular breach of protocol. Why would the viscount seat him, having no knowledge of his heritage or credentials, above known guests who surely bore higher social rank? Clearly the man had no qualms about making enemies or choosing his allies on a whim. Nothing about this evening made sense. What nest of hornets had Ford sent him into?

  A scowl marred Louisa’s pretty face. “You cannot be serious, Father.”

  Still, this was an opportunity he shouldn’t pass up. Alex advanced, leaving behind the three men at the table. “Your father speaks truth, Miss Coburn.” He flourished a bow and finished with a rogue grin. “Not only will I take pleasure in dining next to you, but it is my deepest desire.”

  Her lips parted, closed, then parted once again.

  Lord Coburn snorted. “Flit, girl! Don’t stand there gaping like a codfish.”

  A small dimple—not nearly as charming as Johanna’s—indented her chin, deepening when she clamped her lips shut.

  Alex crooked his arm. “I should be delighted to escort you.”

  “Very well.” At last she rested her fingertips atop his arm, allowing him to lead her out the door.

  He paused. “Left or right?”

  Her fingers twitched, the movement frustrating the fabric of his sleeve. “Don’t tell me you are too far into your cups to remember which way you came, Mr. Morton.”

  He glanced sideways. “Not at all, Miss Coburn, though the way I came is a bit narrow for such a wide hem as yours.”

  “Oh, you are one of those. I expected as much.” Her voice held all the warmth of a baited bear. Removing her hand from his arm, she turned left and set off at a surprisingly brisk pace.

  He caught up in four long strides. “I am curious about the category you’ve filed me under. Should I be flattered or affronted that I’m one of those?”

  “That depends if you consider it a badge of honor to be a member of my father’s cronies.”

  He smiled. Ford would be proud of the progress he’d made in only two days.

  Pieces of gilded-framed artwork blurred as they sped down the corridor. When this woman was on a mission, she obviously would not be stopped, a hallmark of determination and danger. He tucked the trait away for later use.

  “So tell me, Miss Coburn. Do you fancy him?”

  She angled her face, a fine line following the curve of her brow. “Whom?”

  “Robbie, of course.”

  Her step hitched at the top of a grand stairway, and he offered his arm. She ignored it, but the fingers of her other hand gripped the banister tightly. “What a strange question, Mr. Morton. Why ever would you ask it?”

  “I noted it was an unwelcome surprise when you discovered Robbie would not be present.”

  “Which merely indicates I dislike change.”

  “Aah, but combined with the flare of your nostrils and the heightened color in your cheeks, I wondered if there were something more?”

  She descended the stairway without an answer, then stopped at the bottom and faced him. “You are quite observant, sir.”

  As was she. Her gaze pinged from his left eye to his right and back again, as if he hid truth behind one or the other like the shell game Thomas had tried to master. Her father and his friends bypassed them into the milling guests, heralding the beginning of dinner, but Louisa
did not move. Apparently infringing upon etiquette ran in the family, for she ought be leading the other women into the dining room at this moment.

  Alex pulled his attention from the daughter to the father, just before Lord Coburn disappeared into the dining room. The man’s left foot lingered behind the right, slightly dragging to catch up with each step. Quite the distinctive limp. An old war injury, perhaps? A defect from birth? Or was some disease even now leaching life in increments from the man?

  Louisa followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing. “How does Father know you?”

  “I am a recent acquaintance.”

  Her lips puckered like a tot trying to figure out by what means rain fell from the sky. “By what connection?”

  “Commerce.”

  “La, sir! Are you nothing but a merchant?”

  He leaned in, close enough to inhale a whiff of civet musk—a scent all the rage in France. “I am a man with many skills, Miss Coburn.” He allowed just the right amount of huskiness to his voice, intimating at promises he never intended to make, Ford’s directive or otherwise. “The question is what would you like me to be?”

  Her pupils widened. The rise and fall of a Cross of Lorraine pendant resting between her collarbones increased. Again, a very curious choice of accoutrement. Surely the traitor Ford sought wasn’t this woman.

  Or was it? Lord knows he’d collared his fair share of female criminals on London’s streets. Perhaps Dover’s were no different.

  “The hour is late, Mr. Morton, and I have put off dinner long enough.” She turned and dashed ahead of him toward the dining room, then slowed her pace to a more regal gait as she entered.

  He followed, as did the eyes of every guest awaiting her arrival. Whispers travelled the length of the long table, from powdered women to clean-shaven men, and a fair amount of officers in their regimentals. Louisa sat at her father’s right, and Alex sank into the empty seat next to her.

  Lord Coburn snapped open his napkin, placing it on his lap while addressing her under his breath. “Must you insist on dramatics, Louisa?”