Glancing at several other patrons nursing mugs, she was satisfied when none met her gaze. It was a shame more benches weren’t filled, though with the storm, she could hardly expect less. Winding past empty tables, she paused near the band. Their song crashed to a halt at her arrival, the last jarring notes leaving a ringing in her ears that might never go away.
“Did ye like that one, lassie?” Mr. Quail’s wooden flute player, Lachlan, leaned over and nudged her with his shoulder, his behaviour as inappropriate as his music.
She retreated a step, dodging his touch and the question. “I’m wondering when Mr. Quail might be down? I’ve kept your suppers warmed until he arrives.”
“Ach, lass. Did I not tell ye?” Retrieving a cloth hanging off the side of his belt, he rubbed down his instrument while he spoke. “Quail’s ailin’. Says his throat pains him, so he begged off for the night. Not to worry, though. We won’t let you down.”
He stuffed the rag away and lifted the flute to his lips. After two notes, the others joined in, and another hair-raising ballad began.
Johanna bolted toward the kitchen, grateful her long skirt hid the flurry of her feet. Mam turned from the hearth, her good eye widening at such an entrance.
Bypassing the larger mugs on the shelves, Johanna settled on a wooden tumbler and faced her mother. “Have we some licorice root left?”
“Aye, there’s a bit.” Mam squinted and searched her head to toe. “Feeling poorly, Jo?”
“Oh, it’s not for me. Thought I’d take some tea up to Mr. Quail. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the sooner he graces the taproom, the better.” She ducked into the larder and reached for the small crockery next to the tea caddy. When she removed the cover, she frowned. Mam might need to change her definition of a “bit.” Only a few spare nubbins of licorice root remained.
She emptied the contents, replaced the jar, and returned to the kitchen, where Mam stood with a kettle in hand. The hot water barely changed color once in the cup, but at least a faint whiff of spiciness crawled out.
“Mind checking on Thomas while you’re up there?” Mam asked as she set the kettle back on the fire.
“Of course.” She scurried over to the stairs, trying to shove down the wish for Mr. Morton to arrive and evict Mr. Quail’s band as effectively as he had Mr. Nutbrown. No good. With each upward step, the wish grew with intensity, but at least the music lost some of its sting when she entered the hall and turned toward Thomas’s chamber.
She pushed open his door with her free hand. “How goes it, Thom—what on earth are you doing?”
On his belly, Thomas sprawled sideways across his bed, injured leg dangling off the edge. The position allowed him to reach the floor, where he’d lined up small soldier figurines in a mock battle. A fake explosion issued from his mouth, and he whaled a clay marble at half the little soldiers before he lifted his face from the skirmish. “Alex told me England expects every man to do his duty. I’m just doing mine.”
“And I suppose Mr. Morton felt it his duty to spoil you with a sizable militia. Honestly, Thomas. You should not accept such an offering. We will never be able to pay him back.”
“Don’t have to. This were a gift.”
“Think on it. Why would a man who’s known us little more than a week be so generous?”
He stared at her as if she were daft. “Because he likes us.”
She frowned. “More likely he expects something in return.”
Thomas rolled to his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.” She gnawed on her lower lip, trying to work up a more suitable answer. “But I intend to find out.”
“Aww, Jo, you make him sound like a no-good, rotten-faced scoundrel. I won these soldiers off him fair and square. He don’t expect nothin’ for ’em.”
Rotten-faced? With that chiseled jaw and eyes the color of an August sky? The way tiny creases highlighted the side of his mouth whenever he smiled. How his gaze made her feel like she was the only one who mattered. Warmth rushed into her cheeks just thinking of his handsome face.
Shaking off the crazy notion, she crossed to the table—when all of Thomas’s words hit her. He’d won those soldiers off of Alex? She set down Quail’s mug and put her hands on her hips. “How exactly does one win a gift?”
“Alex were teaching me a game, and I bested him. Those soldiers were a prize and a gift. He even said so.”
“What kind of a game?”
His cheeks puffed out with a huge exhale. “Cards. But don’t be angry with him, Jo. He were just helping me pass the time. You wouldn’t begrudge me that, would you?”
“Oh, Thomas, don’t you understand by now?” She frowned at the way such honeyed words slipped past his lips. The lad was far too much like Father. “If you would but tell me the truth of things up front, I’d not get so cross. Gambling is wrong because it’s a poor way to steward our money—but what is worse is that it always leads to lying. Don’t you see? You first told me those soldiers were a gift to hide the fact you won them at a game of cards. I cannot tolerate lying, young man … especially not from those I love.”
His head sank face-first onto the mattress. “Sorry, Jo,” he mumbled.
With a sigh, she bent and scooped up the soldiers. When would he ever learn? “Very well, now off to sleep with you. Finish your battle in the morning.”
Thomas lifted his face. “Don’t you ever have any fun?”
His question rankled on more levels than one. She’d known frivolity once, years before, so long ago she barely remembered. But over the years, life had leached out her enjoyments one by one, until she’d learned it was better not to enjoy anything—for that delight would surely be taken away.
She shook her head.
Sticking out his tongue, her brother blew an unsavory noise.
Ignoring him—for truly, any response she might give would only encourage the little scoundrel—Johanna collected Mr. Quail’s tea and closed the door on the lad. She scurried down the corridor, hoping to arrive before the drink turned completely cold.
She lifted her hand to knock, but before her knuckles met wood, glass crashed on the other side. “Mr. Quail!” Throwing propriety to the floor, she shoved open the door. “Are you all right?”
Nothing but rumpled blankets slept on the bed and the extra pallets on the floor. A gust of wind and rain charged in through a broken pane on the bottom quarter of the window. Why would glass shatter if no one were in here to break it?
Unless someone had been in here until a moment ago.
She dashed over to the window and peered out. Sure enough, below, a dark shape rolled to a standing position. Hard to tell for certain in the stormy darkness, but it might be Mr. Quail. If he’d exited the window and it slammed shut, that would account for the glass and water now on the floor.
But it wouldn’t account for a sick man sneaking off into a storm when he ought be downstairs, playing with his band.
“Care to explain?”
Behind Alex, Lord Coburn’s words growled a shade darker than the accompanying peal of thunder, both rattling the sitting-room windows. For a moment, Alex tensed, caught between Louisa’s mocking gaze in front of him and the angry father at his back.
Slowly, he released her against the couch cushions and stood. Amusement sparkled bright in her brown eyes, chafing as painfully as the newly formed blisters from his wet leather shoes. Spoiled little rich girl. He clenched his jaw. If entertainment was what she wanted, then far be it from him to disappoint.
“An explanation you shall have, sir.” He turned and faced the viscount. Sucking in a breath, he steeled himself to bid more than was judicious. Hopefully Robbie and Louisa would make good on their elopement plans. “I ask permission for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Louisa gasped so deeply, she started coughing.
Lord Coburn grunted, but no words followed.
Alex counted every time the yew branch outside smacked against the window
glass—better that than count what a high price he was paying to accomplish Ford’s intelligence gathering.
“You are full of surprises, Mr. Morton.” The viscount bypassed them both, striding over to the mantel. He made quick work of opening and shutting a carved wooden box, then bent, working to light a cheroot from the glowing coals below.
Skirts rustled behind Alex. Breath scented with cloves tickled his ear. “What do you think you are doing?”
He pivoted partway, keeping both the lioness and the king of the jungle within his range of view. “A miraculous recovery, hmm?” he whispered back.
“I told you I wasn’t hurt!” Her words picked up speed. “Had you listened, we wouldn’t be in this situation. Furthermore, when I asked you to divert my father, I never meant for you to—”
“Save your lover’s whispers for another time, Louisa. Leave the room. And for God’s sake, change out of those wet garments. I’ll not have you taking ill.” Lord Coburn straightened, daring her with a widening stance.
She remained silent, but there was no need for verbal rebuttal. Her stilted movements as she left the room said it all. Rebellion lived inside Louisa Coburn—though there was no hiding the way she favored her left foot, whether she owned up to the pain or not.
The viscount tipped the glowing end of his cheroot toward Alex. “I’d offer you one, but I know you’ll only turn it down—and that is one of the few things I do know about you.” He sank into the chair closest the hearth. “Come. Warm yourself by the fire and tell me why on earth I should give my only daughter to you.”
Wet wool, though finely woven and tailored to perfection, stuck to his legs as he took the viscount’s suggestion. He stationed himself in front of the coals, warming his backside and facing Lord Coburn. “There is one simple yet compelling reason why you should grant your blessing to me—because you despise Robbie.”
“Do be serious.” Coburn huffed. “My nephew is not worth that much passion.”
“Neither is a bite of rancid meat, yet one forcefully spits such out.”
Coburn took a long drag of his tobacco, the end of which glowed like a demon’s eye. A curl of smoke piggybacked on his exhale. The tightness in Alex’s shoulders relaxed. He’d seen this behavior at the card table, time and again, right before the man made a move.
“Your wit is a fine match for Louisa’s, but do not be mistaken. Louisa will not inherit this estate, for it is entailed. In light of that, it is to her benefit to marry well. Tell me, Mr. Morton, what does a wine merchant have to offer a viscount’s daughter?”
Without so much as a flinch, Alex stared down the barrel of the loaded question. He would not lie, though he was not averse to stretching the truth into an unrecognizable shape. Calculating the odds of each answer he might deal out, he finally settled on one. “For the past week you have witnessed my skill at the card table. Do you think I will ever lack for money?”
Coburn’s face twisted into a sneer. He ground out his cheroot into the ashtray on the side table with more force than necessary, saying nothing.
Alex held his breath. Had he answered incorrectly?
The viscount leaned back in his chair, a faraway glaze in his eyes. “Fortune is a diseased mistress.” He spoke so softly that, had not his lips moved, Alex would’ve doubted he’d spoken at all.
“You speak as one who’s had an affair or two.”
“Three, to be exact. The pox of such unions still runs through my veins.”
Narrowing his eyes, Alex surveyed the man. Skin clear. Nothing sallow in his gaze. Though greying at the temples, the fellow appeared to be in his prime. Still, Alex was no physician. “My Lord, are you unwell?”
“Would to God it were merely that.” The viscount pushed from his chair and paced around it, gripping the back with whitened knuckles. “It’s the nightmares, my friend. There’s no holding back the incubus of past sins.”
Coburn’s tone bled with a distinct rawness, and Alex bit back a wince. This was an unguarded side of the man he’d not seen before. Did he tip his cards from lack of discretion or on purpose? Regardless, truth was the only salve for such a wounded statement. “If I may be bold, sir, nothing you have done is beyond God’s forgiveness.”
“Bah! Spoken like a true innocent.” The viscount’s hands dropped to his side, his shoulders falling with the movement. “Judas paid the price for betrayal, as do I, every day I draw breath, so spare me your platitudes on forgiveness. There is no erasing the terror in a victim’s eyes as you watch the lifeblood drain from his throat.” He stalked over to a sideboard, where he snatched up a green bottle.
Alex stared, slack-jawed. What kind of devilry had Lord Coburn committed in his past? Worse, what was he capable of in the future?
The viscount slugged back a shot of brandy and turned, still gripping the bottle in one hand, an empty glass in the other. “Care to rescind your offer to unite with such a family?”
Everything within him screamed yes … yet he forced out, “No.”
“Good.” The viscount lifted the bottle. “Join me?”
Alex shook his head.
Coburn poured another drink, then retreated to his seat and deflated. “It is no secret I wish Louisa married by the time she comes of age in a few months, but Robbie is not the man for her, no matter how much she thinks he is.”
“You know of her feelings?”
“I am unsure how much emotion plays into the equation. Louisa will not rest until she steps foot in India—and God help her if she does. Robbie is foolish enough to accommodate that whim. So I’ve been looking for a safer alternative to secure her future. Are you safe, Mr. Morton?”
“That depends upon your definition.”
“Wily, as always. Yet … oh, do sit down. Surely you’ve warmed through by now.”
Indeed, his backside fairly stung with heat, but standing was a more powerful position. He angled himself so that warmth crawled up the front of his trousers. “I’ve already ruined your carpet. I shouldn’t like to damage the furniture. Furthermore, if I dry out my front, I shall be ready for a long eve of gaming rather than wasting time traveling home to change garments.”
“You always have a card to play, and usually one better than my own.” The man skewered him with a glower. “Very well. On the matter of my daughter, I don’t doubt your ability to provide, and your travels might fill Louisa’s need to wander. Still, I must have your word that India is never—ever—to be a destination.”
The viscount was as determined as Louisa about the continent, though diametrically at odds. Why? Thatcher and Ford might have to do a little digging into the viscount’s military past for him. He nodded, satisfied on his course of action and on the freedom to concede without deceit. “Agreed, though it’s no difficulty on my part. India is not known for vineyards.”
Coburn ran a finger around the rim of his glass, slow and methodical, his gaze never varying from Alex’s. “And what of your fine Madeiran vintage to escort back to Sheffield? I should think by now your father would be wondering what the delay is.”
“The winnings I’ve earned at your table provided for a far better escort than I.” Or would, if he actually had a precious cargo to transport. “I stayed here because of your daughter.”
Setting his glass on a side table, the viscount stood and advanced, slapping Alex on the back. “Then I’d say we have an arrangement, of sorts.”
Alex’s brow tightened. “What sort?”
“Mere formality. A simple background check. Can’t have just anyone finding out my secrets now, can I?” Rounding back to the side table, Coburn snatched up his glass and returned to the brandy decanter. “Nor can I have just anyone joining the family. In that respect, I hope you understand I must be very thorough. Are you willing?”
“Of course.” As soon as the words slipped from his tongue, he clenched his jaw. Hopefully Ford had constructed a rock-solid history for Mr. Alexander Morton.
For if the magistrate hadn’t, the viscount would put a ball through
more than just his hand.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Fresh. Earthy. Johanna loved mornings like this, the kind that wrapped around her shoulders like a lover’s embrace. She inhaled deeply as she crossed the courtyard from inn to stable. Last night’s storm had scrubbed the world clean, leaving behind the trill of birds and a peppery scent. This was the type of day in which she could pretend all was right and good in her life—except for the haunting cry of the mourning dove reminding her of her mission. If she listened hard enough, she might almost believe it cooed poor girl, poor girl, poor girl.
She upped her pace, grinding the gravel beneath her shoes a little harder than necessary. Surely calling on Tanny Needler was what God wanted her to do. Every other means of raising money had come up dry. She glanced at the sky, blue and innocent.
“That is what you want me to do, is it not?” she whispered.
Poor girl. Poor girl. Poor girl.
A frown folded her lips. If only she could hear God as clearly as the call of the doves.
Reaching out, she grasped the barn door and shoved. The wood didn’t budge. Oh, bother! Again? What was it Mr. Morton had—aah, yes. She gripped her fingers tighter and lifted, just as she’d seen him do a few days ago.
Yet the obstinate thing would not be moved. Perhaps if she bent, then heaved with all her might? She crouched and searched for just the right place to plant her fingers, for there was only a thin space between door and wall. When she found it, she wrapped her hands tight and—
A puppet head jutted into her face.
She shot up, barely containing a scream, and slapped a hand to her chest. “Mr. Nutbrown! You scared the breath from me.”
The lines of Mr. Nutbrown’s face twisted into a question, as if he were the one affronted. “Why, Mr. Nutbrown is exceedingly sorry, miss.” His falsetto voice drowned out the sweet morning sounds. “He merely wishes to give you something.”
The silly puppet disappeared into the man’s dress coat. And my, what a dress coat. Johanna stared. Sunlight glinted off golden embroidery looped along the edges of the lapel, collar, and cuffs. The material was rich green velvet, deep in color and offset by ivory woolen pantaloons. He still wore his ridiculous yellow stockings, but these were of the finest silk. Not a snag or smudge to be found. What on earth had the fellow been up to the past week to affect such a change?
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