A crease furrowed into the lady’s brow. “Have you seen this cargo?”
“Not actually, but Mr. Nutbrown has it on good word—”
She brushed Nixie aside and jabbed her finger onto his chest. “You, my gullible friend, must learn to discern. Were that rope anything worth having, Tanny Needler would’ve snatched it up long ago. It’s likely rat-chewed by now, and what isn’t has rotted. That cargo will not be a good investment. No one will want to buy it.”
Nixie pushed away the offending finger, such a true and loyal companion. “Aah, but that is exactly why Mr. Nutbrown deems this an excellent deal. The fishermen need never know the state of the product until money has first been exchanged.”
“That is not honest, sir!”
Not honest? The accusation floated around but never landed, like an annoying black fly, just buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. Why would she say such a thing?
“But of course it is.” Nixie shook his head, as puzzled as him. “Money is paid for goods, goods are exchanged for that money, and that is the heart of business.”
“Mr. Nutbrown, I fear you have no heart at all, nor any sense. As much as I could use the funds, I will not take part in this offer. I am done scheming up ways to provide for my needs and instead shall leave it up to God. I suggest you do the same.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, toward the front door. “Good day, sir.”
“But—”
She shoved Nixie down, and quite forcefully, too. “I said good day, sir.”
Nixie’s face turned to his, defeat bowing his little chin.
With a last look at the magnificent puppet stage, Lucius tucked his money back into his pocket and sidestepped the silly woman. Clearly she was the one with no sense.
Outside, the day no longer seemed as yellow. It was dull beige, the glitter gone. The colour drained. A flat, soured buttermilk of an afternoon.
“Well, Nixie.” He studied his friend’s scuffed-up nose. “We gave it a good try, eh?”
Nixie’s black eyes stared into his. “That we did. But without Miss Langley, how will we sell to the fisherfolk? Not many take kindly to me.”
He patted his precious friend on the head, careful not to snag any of the threads on Nixie’s torn jester cap. “They don’t know you as I do.” His voice hardened to steel, and before that hardness could work its way to his fingers, he pulled back lest he dent Nixie’s skull. “But Miss Langley or not, we will prevail. We shall finish our business with the likes of Mr. Blackie and Mr. Charlie, then strike out on our own.”
“Excellent.” Nixie drew close, nose to nose, and whispered. “I don’t like them anymore.”
Lucius shuddered. “Nor do I, Nix. Nor do I.”
Why was patience a virtue? Why couldn’t sweet-blazing-mercy-hurry-it-up be a virtue? Alex stood at the top of the inn’s stairwell, waiting, waiting, waiting. Then waiting some more. And still Johanna’s blue skirt flashed at the bottom of the stairs, flitting back and forth as she served customers.
Retrieving his pocket watch, he flipped open the lid. Blast! He should’ve been at the viscount’s half an hour ago. Even so—his lips twitched into a smirk—it would be quite the betrothal dinner without the prospective bridegroom.
He rubbed his thumb over the watch’s glass face, debating which evil would be the lesser. Dressed in his new suit, clearly dandied up for a special occasion, ought he risk an inevitable run-in with Johanna down in the taproom? Or should he hazard a slip out the window with the possibility of tearing the new garments? He blew out a disgusted sigh. If Thatcher or Brentwood had a peek into his thoughts right now, the teasing would be merciless.
Behind him, footsteps clipped down the corridor. Not the thump-step of Thomas, yet the sound closed in on him from the direction of the lad’s room. He turned.
Mrs. Langley stopped in front of him, cap askew, her good eye leveled straight and true on him. “Well, well … look at you. You’re a hair overdressed for the Blue Hedge. On your way out?”
“I am.” He flipped his watch lid closed but held on to the thing. Why did this old woman always make his inner little boy run off on guilty feet? Was it the directness of her questions? The motherly tone? Or did the young lad inside him instinctively know she’d crush him to her bosom in pity if he’d let her. And if he admitted he craved that pity, he’d no longer be a man but a crying ten-year-old once again.
Facing Johanna was better than facing her mother. He shoved the watch back into his pocket and took the first stair. “If you’ll excuse me, I am running late.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind if I hold you up a minute more.”
The statement stopped him cold. Since his release from gaol, the woman had avoided him. Now she wanted to talk?
“It won’t take long. Just a few questions.”
Her hook set deep in his craw. The betrothal dinner be hanged! Questions were exactly what he’d love to ask her. He pivoted and reclaimed the top stair, then followed her down the corridor to an alcove at the end of the hall.
The best defense was always offense, so he spoke first. “I thought questions were off the table, madam. You made that quite clear when you visited me in gaol.”
“In your line of work,” she drawled out the word, once again revealing she knew more of him than he did about her. “You of all people should know how quickly things change.”
Hmm … what had changed? He rubbed his jaw, ransacking memories of the past few weeks, but nothing came to mind.
“I’ve heard rumours that, thus far, Johanna has not.” The short lady lifted her face and impaled him with a glare. “Tell me, sir, what exactly are your intentions toward my daughter?”
A stone sunk to the bottom of his gut. What did this woman know?
Her good eye narrowed. “Do you deny your feelings for Johanna?”
“Yes. No! I—” Words stumbled like drunken sods past his lips, and he shut his mouth. Suddenly he was a boy again, being interrogated by his own mother for using his father’s gun.
Father?
The sickening rock in his gut lightened. He could use this opportunity. “Very well, Mrs. Langley. A question for a question. Fair enough?”
The waning light of day leaked in the corridor’s sole window, and while weak, it softened the woman’s terrible gaze. “All right, but you’ll answer mine first.”
He sucked in a breath. Was he ready for this? Were any of them? Once spoken, his sentiment would be run up a flagpole for all to see, for words could never be refolded and shelved once expressed.
Widening his stance, he met the challenge head on. “I do not deny that I love your daughter.”
There. He’d said it aloud, and despite the awkwardness of professing such deep emotion about a woman to her mother, it felt right, freeing, and he said it again. “I love Johanna with all my heart.”
He studied the woman’s face, expecting horror, surprise, something. But … nothing. The lady could sit at the viscount’s table and hold her own.
“And your intentions, sir?” she pressed.
A slow smile stretched his lips. “That is not our deal, madam. The next question is mine.” He lowered his voice. Why, he couldn’t say. No one was around. Not up here. But even so, it seemed more respectful, almost sacred, when speaking of the hallowed dead. “What do you know of my father, Mrs. Langley?”
Though her expression didn’t change, her fingers gnarled into her apron. “In part, he was my husband’s associate.”
Alex shook his head, trying to make some sense of the information. “But my father was a Bow Street Runner, not in the business of keeping inns.”
“Oh, son, I didn’t always live in Dover.” The hard lines on her face ebbed away. The gleam in her eyes—even her bad one—spoke of years spent, knowledge hard earned. Love won and lost.
She sniffled, just once, then continued. “My husband, William, and I moved here from London, after a murder took place. William and his partner brought the killer in for justice. During the trial, the villain swore
a blood-vengeance against those who’d put him there. The man escaped before his execution, and his threat fair shook my husband to the core every time he looked into his baby daughter’s eyes. And so he left the force.”
Alex gaped. “Are you saying—?”
“Tut-tut, sir.” Mrs. Langley wagged her finger. “I have the next volley.”
“But—”
“Mind the rules, Alex, or I shall stop the game.”
His name on her lips was a smack to the backside. Once a mother, always a mother, no matter the age. He dipped his head. “After you.”
“By your own witness, you love Johanna. That being said, what are your intentions? You should know I will not see the girl hurt. She’s suffered enough in her young life.”
The thought of Johanna’s head bent in grief after her brother’s injury, the tears, the cries, cut low and deep. He strained to speak past the lump in his throat. “I would never willingly hurt her. She is far too precious to me for that.”
“Will you offer for her then?”
Mrs. Langley’s question hit him like a boom gone wild, knocking the air from his lungs. Of course he would, in a heartbeat, were he not even now on his way to his own betrothal dinner.
The woman’s good eye narrowed, as if she could read into the darkest recesses of his soul.
“No,” he said, “I will not answer that question. With our first round complete, we shall have to continue this game another time, Mrs. Langley. As I’ve said, I am late.”
She was silent for a moment, creases etching the sides of her mouth, making it hard to cipher if she were disappointed, angry, or simply amused.
“Then Godspeed to you, wherever it is you’re going. I look forward to another round at your convenience.”
He schooled his step to keep from running down the hall. Though the match had clearly been a draw, why did he feel like the loser?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The taproom was a boil of people, bubbling chatter, men bobbing about, air thick and hot and altogether uncomfortable. But even with so many patrons, not many extra coins for the inn’s coffers surfaced. Standing near the side window, where the last flames of sunset cast an orange glow against the glass, Johanna arched her back, then bent to wipe another table. She ought be tapping into another keg by now, but hardly any customers were interested in ale. Most gawked at the finished puppet stage. She should’ve charged an entrance fee just to look at the thing.
Across the room, a flash of burgundy moved at the corner of her eye, and Johanna turned her face toward the rich colour. Immediately, she straightened and gaped, openly, for her jaw would not shut. The rag slipped from her fingers. Without a word or a glance, Alexander commanded her attention.
He strode the length of the taproom in a tailcoat the hue of fine wine, but it wasn’t his suit that attracted. It was him. The man. The way each of his steps pounded with determination on his way toward the door. He didn’t have to weave through villagers or skirt past anyone. People simply moved from his path.
Wishing away all the sweaty men who blocked her view, Johanna leaned sideways, unwilling to lose sight of him.
Alexander Morton was a king, so regal his bearing, so powerful his stride. His buff trousers were well tailored, the muscles beneath defining the suit instead of the suit defining the man. His hair was brushed back, and as he passed by a sconce, lantern light gleamed streaks as gold as a crown atop his head. His jaw was clean-shaven, creating a strong line above an ivory cravat. And before he disappeared out the door, he clapped a beaver hat atop his head, adding to his height so that he had to stoop when he crossed the threshold.
Johanna dashed to the window, all but pressing her face to the glass, and strained for a last look at him. Sunset sat upon his shoulders, the breadth of them wide enough to hold up the sky. He hefted himself up into a shiny, black carriage, and when the door shut behind him, she gasped at the sudden loss.
She turned from the sight before the coach rolled off. It was too bittersweet a picture. Of course he must attend to his father’s business, and the Blue Hedge was not the place to conduct such commerce. It made perfect sense. But all the same, she wished she might put on a pretty gown and join him.
La! Silly girl.
She snatched up her rag and wound through the tables. Maybe if she fried up a fresh pot of pork cracklings, she could tempt some appetites and put her mind on something other than Alex. Aah, but he had been a glorious sight. The stuff of dreams, and one she hoped would revisit her tonight when her head hit the pillow. Wherever he was going, he would surely be the most striking gentleman of all and—
“Oh!” On reflex, she reached out and grabbed Mam’s arm to keep her from toppling to the kitchen floor, for she’d run right into her. “Sorry, Mam! I didn’t see you.”
“Apparently not.” Mam’s puckered brow smoothed. “No harm done, though. Better you bumped into me than one of those big men out there.” She hitched her thumb over her shoulder.
“Yes, well, it’s those men I’m hoping to coax some coins from. Thought I’d fry up some cracklin’s.”
“Good thought. I’ll put on the pot of fat.”
Jo strode to the crockery of salted rinds and retrieved a bowl full, then set about cutting the pork into smaller bits. While she worked, Mam hummed a folk tune. The melody soon faded, though, as memories of Alexander in his fine suit reinvaded Jo’s thoughts. He was so kind. So thoughtful. She’d never met a man like him before, not one of his standing who’d even deign to give her a second look. For the first time in her life, she wished to be something other than a mere innkeeper’s daughter.
The blade slipped. Red bloomed in a thin line on her finger, wider by the moment. Dropping the knife, she huffed her disgust and reached for a cloth.
“Johanna!” Mam scooted over to her. “Here, let me do that. What’s got you this addle-brained tonight?”
“I …” She stepped aside, allowing Mam to chop the rinds. She couldn’t very well tell her mother she wasn’t thinking straight because of a well-dressed man.
She sighed—again—afraid to admit out loud that truly it was more than smart clothing that befuddled her. It was Alex. He permeated everything and had since the day she’d fallen into his arms. Whew. She fanned her face. The heat of the taproom must’ve followed her into the kitchen.
“I can see, girl, there’s something—or rather someone—on your mind.”
Meeting her mother’s gaze, she swallowed. What would Mam think if she told her?
“Oh, Johanna.” Mam set down the knife and pulled her into her arms. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”
“You were right, Mam. You were right all along.” She returned her mother’s embrace. The top of Mam’s head came just to cheek level, and Jo laid her face against her mother’s mobcap. “Mr. Morton is a good man. He’s a perfectly wonderful man.”
“Humph.” Her mother pulled back and returned to chopping the rinds, giving the next piece a great whack. She mumbled while she worked, something that sounded like, “I hope so.”
Jo cocked her head. Surely she hadn’t heard that right. “What was that?”
Mam paused with the blade in the air. “I said I hope so many patrons won’t tire you out. Looks to be a full house tonight.”
“It is. Though the puppet show isn’t until tomorrow night, word has spread.” Unwrapping the cloth, she peered at her injury, still leaking red, then rewrapped it. “Mr. Nutbrown sang the praises of the stage from one end of Dover to the next, and now everyone wants a peek at it. Didn’t Mr. Morton do a brilliant job on the construction? He is so handsome—I mean handy. He is so handy.” She bit her tongue, hard, to keep the thing from further blunders. Hopefully Mam had missed that one.
“Johanna, please.” Mam scooped rinds back into the bowl, then searched Jo’s face with her good eye. “Be careful.”
Despite the warmth in the room, she shivered at the flatness in Mam’s voice. Alarm throbbed through her, settling in the cut on her finger. “Abou
t what?”
“Just … have a care for your heart, my dear. I wouldn’t want to see it broken.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Her words came out tied on a frayed thread of a whisper.
“Because I’m your mother.” Mam reached up and tweaked her cheek, her good humour clearly returning. “And you will do the same for your daughter when the time comes.”
She shook her head. “I am already five and twenty. Marriage isn’t likely.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
“You are very cryptic tonight.” She peered at her mother. Who knew what secrets she kept tucked beneath that mobcap? “Is there something I should know about?”
Mam clicked her tongue. A smile broad as a beam lit her face, before she turned her back and toddled over to the hearth.
But Johanna wasn’t fooled. Mam knew more than she let on—and it more than likely involved Alexander.
“Are you finished, sir?”
The question rattled around inside Alex’s skull like pebbles in a tin can. He was finished all right—with the cloying odor of too much perfume, the congratulations of Dover’s finest society gathered around the table for dinner, and especially done with this whole loathsome marriage charade. Tonight he would gather new information about the traitor, or die in the trying—which was one way out of this whole mess.
He leaned back in his chair and speared the servant with a direct stare. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”
His untouched plate of lobster cakes swimming in béchamel sauce vanished from in front of him, and he reached for his glass—which was as empty as his soul. The conversation with Johanna’s mother had drained him more than he cared to acknowledge. Despite the beautiful Louisa Coburn seated next to him, every time he looked at her, all he could see was Johanna’s face and hear her mother’s question.
“Will you offer for her?”
He held up his glass. “Refill, please.”
Across the table, Robbie mimicked his action, then pushed back his chair and stood. “Attention!” He tapped his goblet with the edge of a spoon. “A toast!” Robbie directed his glass toward Louisa. “To the fairest of the fair, the honorable Miss Louisa Coburn. May you bloom radiant in marriage, like one of the many flowers in your garden.”
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