Marcus scowled. “Get me below stairs before I ask you for a toss-off.” He felt utterly hamstrung, and it was destroying his mood.
Augie hefted him into his powerful arms. “You like this lady?”
“I enjoy vexing this lady.”
Augie carried him to the parlor and deposited him on the settee where he rested his leg on the wooden chest. Sissy took her seat on the cool hearth tiles.
While Augie left to get something from his cart, Marcus unhooked the straps of the fracture box and placed it on the rug, flaring his toes and flexing his foot. Pain exploded in his ankle. It took all of his will not to black out. He wouldn’t be doing that again any time soon. Five weeks, four days.
“Ha-HAH!” Augie strode triumphantly into the parlor. “Look what I brought.”
Above his head, he waved two small barrow wheels.
Marcus, gritting his teeth against the reprisal of pain he caused, eyed his friend suspiciously. “Angry street vendors?”
“No. Better.” He handed over the wheels. They were wooden with a strip of metal lining the outer edge. Augie left to get more supplies. Marcus set them on the floor.
Next, his friend carried in a sturdy Windsor chair made of elm with thick spindles. Marcus finished it a year ago, but it never sold. He’d thought the thicker spindles were an improvement in the sturdiness of the chair, but fashion insisted on a delicate design. Laying across the seat was an axle and a box of screws.
“We’re adding wheels to my unsellable chair?”
“Tell me you don’t love this idea.” Augie handed him the axle and box of screws, then turned the chair upside down, resting it on the settee beside Marcus.
Having worked together for years, and being each other’s second pair of hands, barely a word exchanged between them as they put the wheeled chair together.
After being manumitted when his owner died, Augie came to the Hardwickes to work as a servant. This was after the fated kiss, but before Marcus left. It didn’t take long for the two young men to form a bond.
“You know, if you can sit on this thing without too much pain, ain’t no reason for you to stay any longer.” Augie tightened the last screw and set one wheel spinning. It made a shushing noise as it rotated.
“Here’s a reason: I’m not leaving her alone with Shrupp.”
As if he were any help to her the last time Shrupp mistreated her. There had to be a way for him to get up and down the stairs himself. He needed time to work through the problem.
“Shrupp came sniffing around the Three Squirrels last night. Made some noise about the British coming with thirty thousand soldiers. Bragged about Washington’s troops not getting paid and deserting in droves. He was pushing the Loyalist cause. Spoke to a few in a private corner.”
“He is quite the conversationalist.”
Augie wasn’t laughing. “He demanded Nellie show him the basement.”
“She has access to the passage running under Weber’s shop. I’m sure all he saw were sides of beef and an impressive set of knives.”
“Bad enough when it was Caldwell poking around. Now he’s got use of the Rangers and one living right here. I’m telling you, this ain’t going to end well.”
Between Caldwell, Shrupp, and his damn ankle, he was going to lose his mind. Not being able to protect those he cared about made him feel more powerless than not being able to read.
“Grab the brandy,” he said, scooting himself onto the chair and holding in his frustrations. “Let’s at least have a little fun.”
Chapter 10
By the time Henrietta returned, it was too late to start cooking supper. Not that she wanted to spend another minute cooking. There was cheese in the pantry and bread from the morning. With a few sliced apples, it would make a meal. If only she could solve the problem of the coming rain as easily as supper. Unfortunately, the garden needed the rain, and it was coming whether or not she liked it. Whether or not Marcus had finished repairing her roof before falling.
As her home came into view, she saw the outline of a man on top of her house. “What in blazes?” Was that Marcus on the roof?
On closer approach, it wasn’t Marcus, but his friend Augie, a dark silhouette against the gray sky.
Marcus sat in a chair in the yard.
Henrietta set the brake of her wagon. Sissy tore away from Marcus and circled her, barking her welcome. The horses snorted and stomped their hooves, trying to keep their distance from the excited dog. Noticing the disruption, Marcus broke off mid-sentence. He was shouting about a bear, a cat, and a salmon the size of a man’s leg.
This was all the confirmation she needed. Marcus was not an appropriate choice. Not like Dr. Nealy.
Henrietta climbed down. Marcus wheeled himself closer. His injured leg extended from beneath the bottom of the seat, supported by a board. The heel of his other foot dug into the earth, drawing the chair clumsily toward her.
“What do you think?” He held his hands wide to encompass everything at once. His right hand held her brandy bottle.
Henrietta glanced up at Augie on the roof. Mist sprinkled her face. She shielded her eyes. “You are both loons. Inside, all of you.” She included Sissy, realizing her mistake too late. The dog was wet, muddy, and carrying an odor she’d never encountered before.
Augie saluted from the roof with a big, broad grin. “Evening, Mrs. Caldwell!”
Her insides turned to water seeing him up high. “Come down this instant.” If he fell, she couldn’t take in another man.
“About done with this section.” He flipped his hammer into the air and caught it. Henrietta’s stomach rolled over.
“A little push?” Marcus inclined his head toward the door.
“I have to take care of my horses.”
“Right. Well, I don’t actually need you.” Marcus grinned.
Good. He didn’t need her. He’d leave soon. That was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?
By the time Henrietta entered her house, her bones were heavy with exhaustion. All she wanted was to sit in the parlor for a minute before cooking. She took one look and nearly cried. Tools lay scattered about, the settee was against the wall, pillows littered the floor, and one drunk man lounged on an unfamiliar, ugly chair.
Marcus spoke before she could scold him. “How is Mrs. Mizrahi?”
Sighing her defeat, Henrietta collapsed into a chair and hid her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes. “The baby hasn’t come yet. Mrs. Mizrahi is uncomfortable, and her legs are swollen. You probably didn’t want to hear that part. It’s not the thing a man wishes to discuss. I am sorry. I’m too tired to think before I speak.”
“Then I should ask all manner of questions to get a real sense of you.”
Henrietta dropped her hands, eager to argue but lacking the energy.
“Look, if it concerns you, Hen, I want to hear about it.”
Where was Augie? This conversation had to stop. Instead, she said, “Why?”
“We’re friends, are we not?”
Not that either of them seemed to have a choice in the matter. As children, their homes backed against a shared woods. Now, chance brought them together, and until he healed, they were stuck with each other.
They were different people, always had been. She was quiet, bookish. He, wild, and, well, somehow sitting in his chair he filled the room with his presence. The kiss she stole from him at fifteen was an experiment. His response, or lack thereof, underscored the fact that wildness didn’t belong in her life. It still didn’t. But that didn’t stop her from liking him.
“Of course we are.”
Augie finally came inside. Dampness on his shoulders turned the linen of his shirt into a dark mantle. “Got as far as I could, Mrs. C. Marcus had me start at that end.” He used his chin to point toward Willow’s room. It would finally stay d
ry. “But the rain picked up.” He bent to gather the pillows.
“Oh, don’t bother.” Henrietta reached for the same one as Augie. He tugged playfully, releasing it from her grasp.
“Easy, sweeting. I got this.” He moved about the room, tidying up. Henrietta stared after him. She’d never had a man offer to help with domestic chores. Here both men were, offering her help when she needed it. She didn’t doubt Marcus would have been back on the roof had he been able to. Instead, his friend stepped in.
The tears she tried to halt rolled down her cheeks. The day had been long and emotional. Even when her problems overwhelmed her, she didn’t dare ask her friends for help. She didn’t want to burden them. But Augie and Marcus marched through her door, dismantling all the walls she’d purposefully erected, shielding herself from pain.
“Careful, Augie. She’s on the hunt for husband number two.”
“She can have me. Can’t think of a better place to lay my head at night.” Augie blinded her with another of his bright grins. She burst into flames of embarrassment.
“Aye, well, she’s not interested in that kind of marriage.” Marcus kicked a pillow at Augie with his good foot.
Augie tossed it on a chair by the fireplace. “What other kind is there?”
“The kind that don’t share a bed.”
Augie laughed deep in his chest. “Never? Sounds like you ain’t been properly bedded, Mrs. C. Take your pick. We’re here for you.”
Her jaw fell open, and her puffy eyes went wide with shock and outrage. And curiosity, if she were being completely honest. She should scold Marcus for teasing her. She should make it clear to Augie she wasn’t interested. But her arguments crumbled before they formed. Yes, she was a widow, not an innocent, but she didn’t desire a lover. She desired a safe, companionable partner.
And she desired Marcus.
The two ideas were fundamentally exclusive of the other. God help her.
“She has her reasons,” Marcus continued, speaking for her and looking doubtful.
Henrietta wiped her cheeks with her sleeves. “When you’re done talking about me, I’ll remind you I can hear every word you say. And you, Mr. Hardwicke, are no gentleman.”
“Mr. Hardwicke. You’re in trouble now, bruh,” Augie teased.
“What did I do? He’s the one making licentious suggestions.”
“He is a guest. You are a fixture.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. A hearth is a fixture. It’s set into the wall and doesn’t move. I move.” Marcus showed her again how his chair rolled. Henrietta stood, emotions sending her in every direction. “Sit, Hetty Betty. We’re making you supper.”
“We are?” Augie said. “We don’t cook. We go to the Nellie’s.”
The side of Marcus’s mouth lifted, revealing his dimple. “We take direction. What’ll it be? Roast chicken? Soup? Stew?”
Henrietta blinked, the promise of a cooked supper evaporating. “You have no idea how long those take, do you?”
“Not one bit.” Marcus hobble-rolled himself to the hallway. Augie pushed him the rest of the way to the kitchen. Henrietta followed. They insisted she sit.
Marcus poured her a glass of red wine. Augie poked through the cupboards and pantry until he found all the items Henrietta suggested for a quick supper.
The wine made her mind numb and her scalp tingle. The day caught up with her. She and Mrs. Gittel prepared enough meals for the Mizrahis to last a week. After a couple of mouthfuls, Henrietta excused herself for the night. If Augie brought Marcus below stairs, she figured he’d be able to deliver him back up there.
Sometime past midnight, a barrage of blasphemy boomed from the attic, waking her. She rushed above stairs. Expecting to find Marcus in pain on the floor, she found his bed empty, and Sergeant Shrupp stalking the floor in a rage.
“Is this the hospitality you offer your guests?”
The rain was a steady pelt against the roof.
Henrietta ground her teeth, fear and anger forming a sour taste on her tongue. “Whatever are you on about? ’Tis late, and ’tis not up to one’s host to manage the weather.”
“I expected sleep regardless of weather.” He stood before her in a long shirt, fluttering at his pale, hairy legs. “Instead, I rested my head upon a sodden mass.” He threw the pillow on the ground and stomped on it with his bare foot, making it squelch.
His violence made her heart speed and time slow. She had to escape, but couldn’t make her feet move. The stairs, all of five paces away, felt further than the moon.
“Go below, Mrs. C.”
It was Augie. His voice, a cold stream lapping at her ankles, held a warning.
“Didn’t think you had a houseboy,” Shrupp snarled.
Henrietta’s jaw moved, but her words stuck in her throat, choking her. Augie laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She started.
“There are more pillows. I’ll fetch another.” She stopped at the stairs and turned. “Mr. Middleton is as much a guest as you are.” A fact she hadn’t been aware of until this moment, but oh, was she thankful.
“You,” Shrupp barked. It was directed at Augie. That didn’t stop Henrietta from listening.
“Middleton. Have we met?” He swept a haughty gaze over Augie, assessing and calculating him as a threat.
“No.” It was a small, quiet answer for a man who spoke in volumes.
“Ever drink at the Three Squirrels?”
“I prefer the Golden Apple,” Augie answered evasively. There was a blade to his voice she’d never heard before.
“They serve your kind at the Golden Apple?”
Augie shifted his weight. The floorboards creaked. She might have been watching the earth tilt on its axis to make room for the size of him. There was no other way to describe the change she witnessed.
“The protective kind?” Augie answered in a low, haunting growl. Beneath his shirt, his arms and back rippled with tension.
Henrietta was shaking. She didn’t need to hear more. Below, Marcus and Sissy sat at the foot of the stairs. The angles of his face were sharp in the lamplight. The fur of Sissy’s back stood in a ridge.
“I need a fresh pillow.” She rushed past him and grabbed the first one she came across. She’d bring the pillow above stairs, then lock herself in her room, away from the violence brewing between all of them. Marcus blocked the doorway and caught her free hand.
“I—” His mouth closed, hand tightening on her wrist. The column of his throat moved with a swallow. Then he released her. “Augie won’t leave you alone with him.”
She nodded, knowing this to be true.
“He can get his own damn pillow.”
~ ~ ~
Archibald Shrupp paced the attic. With a dry pillow and the bed pulled away from the wall, sleep continued to elude him. Today had to have been the worst day of his career. Entrusted with carrying Governor Lord Tryon’s correspondences to Major Nelson, the commander of Butler’s Rangers, he all but failed to do so. He put them in his pack and rode north to the British encampment. It had to have been while he took his midday meal.
He stopped at a tavern, wore his pack at the table, didn’t take it off to piss out back. He returned to flirt with the Chinese serving wench—for a minx with one hand she was pretty enough—before resuming his travels.
As daylight faded, he reached Major Nelson’s tent and handed over the stack of letters. He waited while the major wrote out his responses.
“What is this?” Major Nelson barked.
Shrupp cleared his throat, annoyed at such a stupid question. “I wouldn’t know, sir. They were sealed before I received them.”
Nelson pelted a letter at Shrupp’s chest. The sheet was mostly blank. At its center were the words: By failing to prepare, you are
preparing to fail. Signed, Benjamin Franklin. A forgery, no doubt, as the old windbag was in France.
Nelson lay the letters out on his desk. Each rectangle of parchment had a lump of flattened red wax inscribed with a seal, but not Tryon’s. His had a crest at its center and the initials WT above it. These were stamped with an elm tree and the initials SoL beneath.
Sons of Liberty.
“How could you let this happen?”
Shrupp ran through his day, minute by minute, panic making him sweat. At no time had he parted with his pack… not even while he was eating.
“Someone must have switched them before I received them, sir.”
Nelson stood. A vein throbbed in his brow. “Find the originals. If you can’t, find the person who took them. Punish him as you see fit.”
Chapter 11
Henrietta didn’t particularly feel like feeding the animals, but there was no one else to do it. If she asked Shrupp, he’d likely demand something in exchange, beyond staying in her home and eating her food. Marcus wasn’t able yet to help. Augie would, if he were present, which he likely was, but she wouldn’t ask him. He’d been nothing but charitable to her, and she didn’t wish to take advantage.
So she forced herself out of bed, dressed in her serviceable gown, and fed them herself. With the house still quiet, she took her breakfast and tea to her study. The last thing she wanted was to interact with any of her guests. She didn’t want to entertain. Whatever energy she had, she’d rather it go into her writing than making someone else happy. Selfish that may be, but she hadn’t exactly asked to host all manner of man and beast.
On her way into the study, Henrietta caught sight of Augie in the parlor sprawled on the floor, arm slung over his face. Marcus had his feet propped on the wooden chest, leaning in his chair with his mouth cracked open, a soft snore whistling between his lips. Sissy lay against the wheel of his chair. She was awake, keeping an eye on the room, watching over her men.
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 9
