The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  “I’ve learned from the best, Father.” She mimicked his napkin fanfare.

  Alex bit back a smirk. They both belonged on a Theater Royal stage.

  Coburn nodded toward the footmen, lining the walls like soldiers. They stepped forward in one movement and opened the tureens of soup. Alex inhaled. Turtle, he’d bet on it.

  The viscount sipped an obligatory spoonful before cocking his head at Alex. “I hope you’ll give me the chance to win back some of my fortune, Mr. Morton.”

  “You have but to say when and where, sir.”

  “Tomorrow evening. Eight, sharp.”

  Louisa leaned forward. “I was not aware you’d taken to adding common merchants to your circle, Father.”

  Alex choked back the broth, mind whizzing to line up a plausible rejoinder. Little troublemaker! A common merchant was not the professional spin he’d intended to present to the man.

  Lord Coburn lowered his brows toward his daughter. “Better a merchant than a slacker, and a dishonorable one at that.”

  The cut spread a flush over Louisa’s cheeks, and she suddenly took a great interest in her soup. Hard to tell if the blush was inspired by shame—or anger.

  Alex set down his spoon. “The lady speaks the truth somewhat, sir. I am a connoisseur of wines, travelling the continent to keep my father’s vast collection in stock. You may have heard of him, Mr. Jonathan Morton, esquire? Up near Sheffield.”

  “Don’t believe so, no. Unless … any military connections?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Then it is a definite no.” The viscount mouthed another bite of soup, then put down his spoon as well and eyed him. “But what brings you to Dover? Unless I am mistaken, which I hardly ever am, there are no exotic stores of wine to be had in this part of the country.”

  Alex paused to allow the footman to remove his dish. “I am on my way home from Porto Moniz, escorting a shipment of a fine Madeira vintage.”

  The viscount lifted one brow toward Louisa. “Hardly a common merchant, I’d say.”

  Her jaw set into a rigid—albeit pretty—line, though she made no further response.

  A butler, austere in his black suit and cravat, handed Lord Coburn a folded slip of paper. Turbulence darkened the viscount’s gaze as his eyes roved over the words. He balled the note, palmed it, then stood.

  “Excuse me.” He bypassed the butler and strode from the room.

  Another round of whispers ringed the table, making Alex wonder if the guests attended the viscount’s soiree for the opulence of the mansion and the richness of the food—or the intrigue that accompanied the event. Surprising, yet fortunate, for now he had Louisa relatively to himself.

  He glanced back at her. A half smile softened her lips. Was she glad for her father’s departure or the anguish the missive had caused? Whatever, theirs was no simple relationship.

  Alex offered her a slice of beef from the platter in front of them and waited for the nod of her head before continuing. “Now that you know what I do, how is it you occupy yourself?”

  “Orchids.”

  Returning the serving fork to the plate, he chewed on her answer before sampling a bite of his roast. Orchids? What the devil could one do with those? Paint them? Sell them on a street corner? Gather them in bunches and decorate the lounges of all the fine women in Dover? “I was not aware that flowers could be so amusing,” he admitted.

  Either the beef disgusted her, or he did, for she pushed away her plate.

  This would never do. Inducing scorn was a far cry from wooing her. He poured all the charm he owned into an earnest tone of voice. “Miss Coburn, I realize I am a poor replacement for Robbie, but truly, I am applying my best effort. It is not my intention to spar with you, for I should no doubt be the one bleeding on the floor.”

  She frowned. “You are very odd, Mr. Morton.”

  “And you are very beautiful.” The words came out easily enough, but they left a traitorous aftertaste in his mouth. He didn’t mean them—leastwise not in the way he would speak them to Johanna.

  Johanna? What the deuce? He reached for his glass and drained it. Why in the world think of her now?

  “All right, Mr. Morton. I shall be candid as well.” She faced him, quirking her brow. “Father wishes me to be on the hunt for a husband, but I fancy working in the garden, hence my orchid preoccupation.”

  Interesting. Most females relished husband wrangling as a favorable pastime.

  “I wonder if gardening is your true love, Miss Coburn, or rather your passion for rebelling against your father?”

  “I assure you, sir, I am nothing but obedient.”

  She turned back to her meal. Providential, for she missed the roll of his eyes. Obedient, no doubt, but not to her father. To herself.

  “I think I can help you, Miss Coburn,” he drawled.

  She didn’t look at him, but he’d snagged her attention all the same, for her brow wrinkled. “With what, sir?”

  “Hunting.”

  Dawn was a heartbeat away, but Johanna couldn’t sleep. She wandered the empty taproom, righting benches, straightening tables. She wasn’t alone, though. Mr. Quail’s snores from upstairs kept her company. The single lantern yet burning cast a blend of shadows and light. Fitting, she mused as she knelt to pick up shards of earthenware. Darkness always found a way to encroach into the brightest parts of her life.

  “Oh, Thomas,” she whispered. “Why you? Why now?”

  The slow shush of the front door answered her. In stepped Mr. Morton, cravat askew, hair loosened and sweeping his collar. Not the polished figure she’d seen leave earlier in the evening, and certainly not a man to be trusted. Even so, for one traitorous moment, she remembered how he’d held her, and the thought of running into his arms and weeping away her heartache swept through her.

  “You’re still awake?” He spoke soft enough that sleeping ears would not stir.

  “That’s debatable.”

  His gaze scanned the room as he crossed the floor on silent feet. If she weren’t so tired, she’d marvel at his ability. As he drew near and focused on her, he sucked in an audible breath.

  Not that she faulted him. She must look a wreck. Dress ruined with char marks. Hair unpinned and fallen down her back. Her cheeks stung, chapped from tears, and her eyes must surely be swollen. If he cared to sniff, he might think he stood in front of the kiln master on Brickyard Lane instead of a woman.

  “Looks like you had quite the evening.” Though the comment was lighthearted, concern thickened his voice.

  “Quite.”

  He likely expected her to say more, but one word would have to suffice. Hers was a raw wound, too fresh to consider. She went back to picking up broken tankard pieces and stacking them in a pile. It was a mindless task—and for that she was grateful.

  The toes of Mr. Morton’s shoes entered her field of vision, but she refused to look up. His clothes rustled as he squatted in front of her.

  “Care to tell me what happened?”

  Her hands didn’t slow. She stacked one piece atop another, and when the pile towered too high and wobbly, she started a new mound.

  “Miss Langley, I clearly see you are troubled. Though my behavior of yesterday morning suggests otherwise, I am not a beast of opportunity. I am sorry about that kiss, but believe me, it was necessary at the time.”

  Stack. Stack. Just like his words. She probably ought to care. She had once. What did a stolen kiss matter now? Tragedy had a blunt way of rearranging offenses, or rather, defining them.

  She glanced up, surprised to see a bit of color rising on his neck. So, this was difficult for him. Perhaps he wasn’t as big a scoundrel as she’d pegged him. “Let us forget that incident and move on.”

  He cocked his head, studying her like a foreign species. “Do you always forgive so freely?”

  “It’s not my forgiveness that matters. You should have a care for what you’ll say to your Maker, for you never know how soon that day will be.” Her breath caught a
s the truth of her own words hit home.

  Mr. Morton’s clear, blue gaze burned into hers. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  Oh, no. If she answered that, she’d be undone. She snatched the last pottery fragment and set it atop the heap. The pile tipped and crashed into the other. Pieces scattered everywhere, the sound making her flinch. Now she’d have to start over. She reached to begin again.

  Mr. Morton’s hand wrapped around hers, solid and warm, and entirely too supportive. “You’re trembling.”

  Fresh tears blurred her vision. She blinked, forcing them back, and looked anywhere except at his face—or at the strong fingers entwining with hers.

  “Come.” He pulled her to her feet.

  She allowed him to lead her to a bench near the hearth, in the corner where Mr. Quail and his band had played. Why would this night not end? If she listened hard enough, would she still hear leftover strains of music—or worse, her brother’s screams?

  A shiver rippled across her shoulders as she sank to the seat.

  Shrugging out of his dress coat, Mr. Morton bent and wrapped it around her. Still warm from his body, the fabric carried his scent—bergamot and strength. She shivered again.

  Without a word, he grabbed a poker and stirred the banked fire. Ashes knocked back, air breathing life, a flame burst out. Red and deadly.

  “Don’t!” she cried, then immediately wished she’d said nothing.

  He jerked his gaze toward her.

  She bit her lip. What must he think?

  Without a word, he walked away—and she didn’t blame him. If she could, she’d walk away from herself as well. Away from this night. This inn. This life. Closing her eyes, she shut out the evil hearth fire. Where was her faith?

  Footsteps returned. The bench jiggled. A cup was placed into her hands. “Here. Drink.”

  She shook her head then lifted her face to Mr. Morton’s. “No, thank you.”

  “Do it.”

  It wasn’t a harsh command, but a command nevertheless, and one she suspected would take less effort to obey than to argue. When the first sip met her tongue, thirst took over. She drained the mug dry. How could this man know her better than herself?

  “There. That wasn’t so hard, hmm?” He took the cup from her hands and set it on the bench next to him. “Now then, close your eyes.”

  Accepting a drink was one thing. What he might have in mind, quite another. “Mr. Morton, I hardly think—”

  “Ah, ah.” He wagged his finger at her. “Trust me, Miss Langley. Close your eyes.” The determined set of his jaw left no room for debate.

  Eyelids heavy, she gave in, but not without tensing for a quick exit should he make an untoward move.

  The bench jiggled again. A few light steps. Not far. The scrape of one of the instruments left on the table from Quail’s band.

  And then a single, haunting note on a violin. Followed by another. It was a sweet sound, in an eerie sort of way. The kind of tune that reached in and struck chords in her soul. One she’d hear in dreams to come.

  Deep down, a sob began. At first she fought it, scrunching her eyes tighter to keep the tears inside. But the music was merciless, coaxing her to let go.

  The next thing she knew, the song was over. Arms wrapped around her. She wept into Mr. Morton’s fine waistcoat until it was soaked through.

  Finally catching her breath, she pushed away.

  He studied her for a moment. The room was no longer dark. The grey light of dawn crawled in through the front window, highlighting myriad questions in his gaze. “Now, would you care to tell me what happened that brought you to such depths?”

  “You are very persistent, sir.”

  He merely cocked a brow.

  “I see I have no choice.” She sucked in a shaky breath. Could she do this? “It was a busy night. Good business, but as you know, we are short on help. Thomas, bless his heart—” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat twice over before beginning again. “He was rushing about. I warned him, but …”

  Glancing around the taproom, she collected what was left of her bravery. “I’m sure you’ve noticed our inn is mostly held together by baling twine. We’ve needed to replace the spit hook in the kitchen hearth for years now, but a smithy is expensive, and the hearth itself took priority. We replaced that and made do with the rest. The hook is yet functional somewhat, if one is careful. Thomas wasn’t.”

  She shuddered.

  “Go on,” he coaxed.

  If not for Mr. Morton’s fingers on her jaw, turning her face toward his, she’d not have had the courage to speak another word. “My brother leaned over the hearth to scoop a ladle of stew from the pot. He moved too fast, with too much force. The hook broke. The pot fell into the flames. Coals shot out, one catching in the folded hem of his trousers. He tried to smother it, brave boy, but ended up fanning the flames larger. In a panic, he ran. I stopped him. I thought he was”—she gulped back the lump in her throat—“dead.”

  All expression drained from Mr. Morton’s face. This close, she could feel each of his muscles tensing rock hard.

  “Is he?”

  “No. I did not mean to imply …” Words failed her. Some fates were worse than death, and unless God acted in mercy, Thomas might very well find that out.

  Mr. Morton breathed out, “Thank God,” then pushed to his feet. “Where is the boy now?”

  “Upstairs. Mam attends him. He will live.”

  “That’s a relief—”

  “But”—she cut him off lest she mislead him yet again—“the doctor won’t say if he’ll ever walk again.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After two nights of listening to Quail’s off-tune fiddling, Alex purposely left his gun up in his chamber. If he carried it to the taproom, he’d shoot the man to put him and everyone else out of their misery. Was it too much to ask that a musician actually play music?

  He swigged back the rest of his drink and frowned at the kitchen door, willing a blue skirt to appear. He’d had precious few moments to query Johanna on how Thomas or she fared, and he was beginning to think she and Mrs. Langley were avoiding him.

  “Looking for someone?”

  Alex tensed. The question struck him from the side, flanking him like a well-planned skirmish. He jerked his gaze to the shadow slipping onto the bench beside him. Only Thatcher could steal inside a sparsely populated taproom without being noticed.

  Alex scowled at the man. “Must you always sneak up on a body?”

  “No, but that would steal the enjoyment of it.” Thatcher reached for the mug, then glowered when he found nothing but drops remaining.

  “What are you doing here?” Alex leaned against the wall and eyed the man. “You couldn’t possibly have met with Ford this quickly.”

  “I didn’t. I met with Flannery on the road.”

  “Flannery?” Alex winced, both from the screech of what should’ve been a C-sharp and the mention of fellow officer Killian Flannery. He’d never worked with the man directly, but after the hair-raising tales he’d heard about him from fellow officer Brentwood, neither did he want to. “Please tell me he’s not in on this.”

  “Only as a pack mule. He brought a message from Ford.”

  Thunder and turf! This assignment was turning into far more than he’d bargained for. One by one, Alex cracked his knuckles, a vain effort at releasing the tension. “What does Ford want now? Am I to dress as a tart and swing my hips in hopes of luring out the traitor?”

  Thatcher’s lips quirked—the closest he ever came to smiling. “I’d like to see that.”

  “No doubt.” He held out his hand. “Let’s have it.”

  Thatcher handed over a small paper. Once opened, the scrap was hardly bigger than a playing card. Only five words graced the center.

  Clarification: ingratiate, eliminate, then extricate.

  Alex blew out a long breath. Refolding the note, he shifted his gaze to his friend. “I’m assuming you’ve read this.”

  Thatcher no
dded.

  “Then let me see if I’ve got this straight.” He angled on the bench, facing the man head-on. “I am to ingratiate myself with the Coburn family by making an offer for Louisa. By doing so, Ford assumes I will be able to identify the traitor—which I’m guessing he expects to be either the viscount himself, Robbie, or Louisa. I arrest said traitor, thus eliminating the threat. At that point, I extricate myself from any betrothal ties before the marriage deed can be carried out. Is that your understanding?”

  Thatcher nodded again, his dark eyes giving no hint as to what he thought of the matter.

  Which only served to kindle the rising irritation burning in Alex’s gut. He purposely lowered his voice, denying a strong urge to shout. “Why the deuce would the viscount or his daughter even consider me as marriage material? I’m a stranger. An unknown.”

  Thatcher merely shrugged. “You’ve talked your way in and out of impossible situations before, and it’s no secret your … skills with women are unmatched.”

  “This is different. Coburn’s a peer of the realm. He’s not going to let honeyed words alone persuade him.”

  “Of course not. He’ll do a thorough background check.”

  “For Alexander Morton, a nonentity.” He grit his teeth. “Ford better be doing some fantastic slight-of-hand work on my behalf.”

  “He’s sparing no expense on this and is keeping close watch on all that happens.” Thatcher leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Though it may seem so, you are not alone.”

  Alex pressed the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose, fighting off an ache starting at the back of his eyes. The duplicity of the plan was stunning. So many things could go wrong, the legality of it, the unpredictability of toying with people’s lives—the possibility that he wouldn’t find the traitor in time to extract himself. It was a dangerous line to walk, but if the scheme worked as Ford hoped, it was likely the fastest way to discover the needed information.

  He pinched his nose harder. For the first time in his life, he suddenly regretted his fame for going beyond the rules to bring in a criminal.

  “I don’t like it,” he said at last.