The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  “Thank you, Mr. Wigman.” She rose, fighting back a yawn. Her cheek ached enough as it was. “Has Mr. Moore arrived?”

  Speaking Alex’s true surname woke her more effectively than Mr. Wigman’s earlier nudge. It felt strange to think of him so.

  He shook his head. “Sorry, miss.”

  “Very well. Thank you for allowing me to wait here.”

  “Don’t thank me, miss. Thank your Mr. Moore when next you see him. He paid more than a fair amount for you to wait here till the coach arrived and paid your fare to boot.” Mr. Wigman dipped his head. “Safe travels, Miss Langley.”

  The innkeeper darted off to the kitchen, where another pot banged. A small smile quirked her lips, glad she didn’t have to deal with the noise. Some poor cook would likely feel the wrath of Mr. Wigman this morning.

  But her smile faded as she stepped out into the July sunshine and scouted the Arms’ courtyard. At center stood a coach—dust-worn and as travel weary as surely she must look—with a coachman opening the door and lowering the stoop for a couple ready to board. But those were the only figures moving about. A blue-eyed, broad-shouldered Alex was nowhere to be seen.

  Disappointment stole what little vigor Johanna had left, and her steps dragged over to the waiting coach. She’d wanted to hear his voice before parting, feel the strength of standing near him one more time, pretend her aching cheek and night of horror had never happened and this was just an outing to be enjoyed.

  The coachman stood ready to assist her up the step, when a deep voice boomed behind her.

  “Hold up!”

  She turned. Alex trotted across the courtyard, bedraggled yet all the more handsome for it. She smiled in full, despite the stinging burn on her cheek.

  He nodded at the coachman. “I’ll help the lady.”

  “As you wish, but secure the door behind her. I’m running late enough as is.” The coachman turned on his heel.

  Yet Johanna couldn’t manufacture any interest in the man’s movements, for the only man she cared about stood real and warm in front of her. “I was hoping you’d come before I left,” she breathed out.

  “And I was hoping I’d make it. Arranging transport to London for a traitor and myself was harder than I thought it would be. Granted, the hour didn’t make it any easier.” He bent, studying her face. “How are you faring?”

  “I’m fine. Some of Mam’s famous salve and I’ll be right as a thruppence in no time. Thank you for all you’ve done—”

  The coachman blew his whistle, cutting off her last word.

  Alex shoved back a wild fall of hair from his brow, taken in flight by a morning breeze. “I’ll come for you as soon as I’m able. In the meantime, go to the Rose Inn. My belongings are still in room three. There’s a wooden chair near the window. Turn it over and you’ll find an envelope of money I secured to the bottom of the seat. Take it. It’s yours, yours and your mother’s, to pay off your debt.”

  She opened her mouth. “But you’ve already done so much, I can’t—”

  His finger pressed against her lips, warm and firm. “No buts, understood? Now off with you. I have a criminal to haul to London.”

  He grabbed hold of her hand and lent his strength as she mounted the stair.

  She turned before he could leave, a sudden desire to leap out of the coach and into his arms rising up from her heart. Despite his promises of last night, what if she never saw him again? Transporting a criminal was no safe thing. “Please be careful.”

  His gaze held her for a moment—a beautiful, glorious moment. “You as well.”

  Then he tucked away the stair and shut the door, securing the latch.

  Ignoring the other passengers, she sat and pressed her face to the window. The coach lumbered into motion, and she watched the retreating form of the lawman, the gambler, the man that she loved.

  Alex counted each tick of the massive clock in the office corner, the fixture as dominating as the black-suited man behind the desk. The tick-tocks were the only thing left to count, for he’d tired of numbering the magistrate’s fingertips drumming on the desk and the varied shouts and hoots outside on Bow Street. Every passing minute in London was one less spent with Johanna. It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d boarded her on that coach in Ramsgate and sent her away to the Blue Hedge, though in truth it’d been less than a week. Aah, but he couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms again.

  He shifted in his chair, the slight movement drawing the steel-grey eyes of Richard Ford.

  Leaning forward, the magistrate planted his elbows on the desk and tented his fingers. “That’s quite the tale. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at the outcome, though I’d have bet my money on the traitor being Louisa Coburn, not Overtun.”

  “First bets are most often lost, until you learn the playing habits of your opponent.” Alex shook his head. “I only wish I’d seen it sooner for the sake of the viscount and his daughter. It’s a shame Overtun won’t stand trial for their murders.”

  “He got what he deserved.” Ford sniffed. “I’d say it was a very fitting end for him.”

  A bitter taste filled his mouth as he recalled Clarkwell’s report from his revenue reinforcements. Quite a few bodies had washed ashore—leastwise those that had jumped ship, Major General Overtun’s among them. The rest lay buried in Davy Jones’ Locker, likely burned beyond recognition from the rocket explosions. Alex nodded absently. “At least Robbie shall receive his just reward.”

  “And likely already has. You know he won’t last on a hulk, not with that deserter brand on his back. He’ll be lucky to live until trial.”

  “No doubt.” Deserter or not, few survived the horrors of a prison hulk, especially a military vessel. Alex rubbed the tightness at the back of his neck. If the other prisoners didn’t get to Robbie, typhoid or some other disease likely would.

  “Come now, so morose?” Ford slapped his hands on the mahogany, and Alex jumped. “It was a job well done. I knew you’d pull it off. Congratulations. What you did was no small thing. England is a safer place because of you, and you are a far sight richer.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He sighed. “But it was by God’s grace alone I managed it.”

  “What’s this? A new humility in Alexander Moore?” Ford’s brows jerked to nearly meet his shorn hairline. “This mission accomplished more than I’d hoped for.”

  In spite of himself, he chuckled. The magistrate could have no idea all that had changed inside of him.

  “Now then, for your next assignment—”

  Alex shot up his hand. “With all due respect, sir, there won’t be a next.”

  He stood and reached inside his dress coat. His fingers wrapped around the worn handle of his tipstaff for the last time. For the space of a heartbeat, he memorized the feel of the wood against his skin. So many adventures. So much thrill and danger and justice he’d experienced with this tool. This bit of wood and metal had been an extension of his life and dreams. Was he truly ready to give it up? To cast aside his ambition of becoming the best Bow Street had to offer?

  A small smile quirked his mouth. For Johanna, he’d give up the moon and stars were they his to give.

  He pulled out the tipstaff and laid it on the magistrate’s desk.

  “Let me guess.” Ford’s gaze drifted from the tipstaff to him, a single grey brow arched. “Is this on account of a certain innkeeper’s daughter?”

  “It is.” He smiled, a silly, sloppy grin but one that wouldn’t be stopped. “Being the top officer no longer holds appeal. I leave on the morrow.”

  Ford leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Hmm. That doesn’t give me much time, but I suppose I can be packed by then.”

  Alex studied the man, but the magistrate’s face could bluff even a faro champion—one as well practiced as himself. “What do you mean?”

  “I should think it obvious. I’m going with you.”

  Ford was known for his grapeshot comments, but this one peppered him back a step. �
��Sir?”

  “Oh, have a seat before you fall.” His arms dropped to his sides, and he leaned forward in his chair. “I’m sure you have some idea as to my unfinished business in Dover. The question is what do you know?”

  Alex sank into the chair. As much as he wanted to tie up the last of his London loose ends, this might be his opportunity for a glimpse into Ford’s past life. “Mrs. Langley told me some of your story,” he admitted. “But not all. I know you married another, a colonial, for the sake of duty.”

  “That I did. While it wasn’t of my doing, nevertheless it was my fault Miss Harrington came to be with child.” His right shoulder twitched slightly, the closest the man ever came to a shrug. “What else was there to do?”

  The afternoon sun cut a swath of light through the Bow Street window, highlighting a faraway glaze in the magistrate’s eyes. His voice lowered to a near whisper. “She died in labor. By the time I returned to England, Eliza had already married William Langley. Not that I blamed her, and I still don’t. I’d always planned to rectify that situation, for I’ve never loved another like her. But the timing never seemed right.”

  Alex scratched his jaw. Each successive tick-tock clicked the assorted facts he’d gathered into place. “So that’s why you placed me at the Blue Hedge.”

  A smile grew slowly, like the first sprig of grass shooting up from a wintery field, until it bloomed into a full grin. “I’d hoped it might get me a foot in the door, though I wouldn’t swear to that under oath.”

  Alex smirked. It couldn’t be helped—nor did such an insubordinate tic matter anymore, for he was no longer under the magistrate’s rule.

  The smirk quickly faded, though. If Ford left Bow Street, neither would the magistrate be beholden to enforcing the law, to mete out justice, to continue in a career he’d held dear above everything else. Alex swept out his hand. “You’ll leave all this? Your respected position? Your cherished vocation? That’s quite a risky bet for someone you’ve not seen in years, someone who may not have you. Mrs. Langley is not a woman easily swayed.”

  “True. She may not succumb to my charms. But what was it you said?” Ford sucked air in through his teeth. “Aah, yes, ‘First bets are most often lost, until you learn the playing habits of your opponent.’ If so, and I lose, well, then I’ll just have to make a study of Eliza until I figure out a way to win her.”

  Alex laughed. That would be a game he’d love to watch play out. Rising from his seat, he offered his hand across the desk. “I wish you well, sir. Mrs. Langley will be a worthy opponent.”

  Ford gripped his hand. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Yes.” He turned and trotted to the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. “I leave at first light. Don’t be late.”

  “I assure you,” Ford lifted his chin, “this time nothing will keep me from Eliza.”

  Alex yanked open the door and stepped out into a firing line of three sets of eyeballs, all gunning for him. He eased the door shut behind him and planted his feet. “This can’t be good.”

  “It could be, depending upon your answer.” Nicholas Brentwood, the tallest of the trio, leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. His dark hair was shorter than the last time Alex had seen him, though the man’s trademark shaggy ends would not be tamed even by pomade. His clean-shaven face had filled out a bit more, and his dress coat strained against his shoulders. Is this what marriage did to a man, fatten him up and style his hair?

  Alex eyed him. “Good for whom?”

  “Me!” Killian Flannery, the redheaded firecracker next to Brentwood, thumped a finger against his own chest. “I stand to make the most.”

  On the other side of Brentwood stood a dark shadow. Alex frowned at Thatcher and shook his head. “Don’t tell me you’re wagering with these two.”

  Thatcher’s chin jutted out, yet he said nothing.

  With a sigh, Alex turned back to Brentwood. “All right, what’s the bet?”

  “Thatcher here,” he tipped his head toward the man, “has been telling me of a certain innkeeper’s daughter down Dover way, one who can hold her own against the likes of you.”

  Alex hid a grin. Showing any kind of amusement would only spark a wildfire of teasing. “What of it?”

  Brentwood laughed. “I say you’ll be married with a babe on the way inside a year’s time.”

  “Listen, Brentwood.” Flannery pivoted to face the man. “Just because a bit o’ skirt snagged you don’t mean it’s the same for ol’ Moore. He’s a man’s man, he is. A sight too smart to get hooked fer life.”

  Brentwood snorted. “Admit it, Flannery. You’re jealous. I see it every time you stop by and dandle my son on your knee or linger over dessert with me and Emily. The family life is what you want, what every man wants if he’s brave enough to admit it.”

  “Bah!” Throwing out his hands, Flannery retreated over to Alex’s side. “Tell ’em, guvner. Tell ’em you ain’t about to fold.”

  Before Alex could speak, Brentwood’s green gaze skewered him. “Am I correct? Did you give Ford your resignation?” Unfolding his arms, he stepped away from the wall and looked down his nose. “Are you not even now sweating about the collar to be off and racing back to Dover?”

  Perspiration did dot his brow. Not that he’d admit it to this bunch. What on earth had Thatcher told them? He frowned at the man. “You know, for a man of few words, you certainly manage to utter the most revealing ones.”

  A slight smile curved Thatcher’s lips, lightening the dark looks of him, yet he said nothing.

  Alex turned to Flannery. “You best pay ’em up.”

  “Blast!” Flannery cursed his luck, his fellow officers, and something about a dog or maybe a potato—hard to tell when the passion lit up and his brogue took over. Even so, he jammed his hand into his pocket to pull out a handful of coins.

  Brentwood reached out and squeezed Alex’s shoulder. “Congratulations, my friend. You know you’ve a home whenever you’re in town. Emily should be glad of a little female company for once.” He frowned over at Flannery.

  Alex chuckled. He’d miss this banter. He’d miss these men. “Bring your wife and boy down to Dover, Brentwood. Johanna and I shall run the finest inn in all of Kent. You’re all welcome, any time.”

  “C’mon Flannery.” Brentwood cuffed the man on the back, nudging him down the corridor. “I’ll help you count out your pennies. Lord knows it’ll take some muscle to pry them from your fingers.”

  Their voices faded down the stairs, until Alex and Thatcher stood in silence. What ought he say to the ghost in the night who’d always been there for him? For once, Alex couldn’t put together two words if paid a king’s ransom.

  Slowly, Thatcher reached out and offered his hand. “Godspeed.”

  Alex gripped the man’s hand, and for a moment, his throat closed. It was hard to let go, to leave behind all he’d known, especially this officer of shadow and dust. But what he was moving toward was even more alluring—something his friend here could have no understanding of. Riding the countryside was a godforsaken lonely job. Would that Thatcher might find a wife as perfect as he’d found.

  “To you as well, my friend.” He released his hold. “Your day will come, Thatcher. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Johanna sat between Mam and Thomas, staring at the taproom door of the Blue Hedge Inn until her eyes burned. Salvation might yet waltz through it. A pack of hungry dockhands or a load of passengers from a late ferry could pile in with empty bellies and full purses. It wasn’t wrong to yearn for redemption via a room full of hungry patrons … was it?

  But all that filled the taproom was Thomas’s consistent kicking of his good foot against the chair leg. Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

  She sighed. Even so, it was a blessing to be alive. To hear her brother’s taps instead of the awful sounds she yet heard in her dreams. Though it’d been little over a week, it seemed like forever ago when she’d been trapped inside the
hold of that ship, an eternity since Alex’s arms held her protected—and far too long since he’d kissed her. He said he’d come for her. But when? Oh, that it would be today. Staring at the front door, she willed a full-shouldered, tawny-headed man to cross the threshold

  Tap, tap.

  Pulling her gaze away, she picked at a thread on the hem of her sleeve, trying to push the thing back into the fabric with her nail. A futile endeavor, but it gave her fingers something to do. Drat the Rose Inn! Drat that Mrs. Neville, the innkeeper. The woman had been more stubborn than Tanny Needler about not letting Johanna into Alex’s chambers without him being present. A good policy, laudable, even—but one that meant she’d not been able to retrieve the money Alex had hidden. Even after Mam gave Mrs. Neville a good earful, the inflexible innkeeper still wouldn’t relent.

  She picked more furiously. It was hard to sit here awaiting Mr. Spurge with their shortfall when the full amount was waiting in an unoccupied guest room at the Rose.

  Mam reached over and laid her hand atop hers, quelling such industry.

  Tap, tap.

  The incessant rhythm crawled beneath her skin, and she shifted on her chair, pressing her lips shut. It wouldn’t do any good to say anything. The boy was as tense as them all, waiting, wondering, wishing their entire future didn’t teeter on a mere five shillings.

  Then suddenly, for one blessed moment, the tapping stopped.

  Thomas screwed his face up at Mam. “Tell me again why I have to sit here?”

  “We will attend this meeting as a family. Your sister has shouldered the financial burden for too long, and for that I am sorry.”

  Mam’s fingers squeezed hers before releasing her hold.

  Tap, tap. Tap, ta—

  She blinked. Was it her imagination, or had the door jiggled just the tiniest whit? Could just be a gust billowing in off the Channel … but no. The door edged open an inch now. A windy blast would’ve swung the wood wide, not teased it agape at such a steady pace.