Twenty-three
Rafe: Saturday
“You’re the bailiff here. Can’t you make the nobs up at the house hand over Calendar’s possessions?
” The tall gambler with the sharp cheekbones and flashy diamond pin in his cravat leaned on Rafe’s bar and spoke confidentially, as if Rafe were his best friend.
“There’d be something in it for you, of course. ”
“No,” Rafe replied curtly, wiping his glassware. “Deceased’s family receives his effects. Anything else is thievery.”
Having taken over the big oak table with the pub’s only chairs, Humphries glanced up from his correspondence with disgust. “Just tell them you’re his cousin, pay for the funeral, and claim his possessions if you want that notebook all that much. What’s a few bob to you?”
“It’s the principle of the thing. They’re making me rot in this hole instead of having the courtesy of inviting us to stay as the gentlemen we are.
And now they’re keeping what is rightfully mine.
There’s no reason they can’t quarantine the youngsters in their schoolroom.
” Featherstone took his whiskey glass and dropped into the chair across from Humphries.
The contrast between the dark-haired, well-built gambler and the corpulent Humphries with his thinning yellow hair combed carefully over his pate was jarring.
Rafe had to wonder who was playing whom.
He bit his tongue on the insult to his establishment.
He and Verity had worked hard to make the inn a welcome respite from the road.
Perhaps they shouldn’t have been so hasty in turning the parlors into shops, but he was in no humor to make these gents comfortable.
“It’s a house full of women.” The nattily-tailored but otherwise undistinguished money man continued reading reports that had arrived in the morning post. “We timed our visit poorly. I, for one, am ready to return to town. I’m not rotting here for two weeks on the chance that they might let us in.
” He slapped one paper aside and picked up another.
“We don’t have all the information we need, and it’s the women who can provide it. Do you really want to deal with the gentlemen?” Humphries glared at them, glanced in Rafe’s direction, and didn’t say more.
Taking the hint, Rafe set his mugs in order and departed through the kitchen door.
Had Humphries purposely waited until he’d known the manor’s male inhabitants were gone?
Given that Hunt and his associates, with their petition for annexation, were stirring ripples probably as far as London, it was common knowledge that they weren’t at the Priory.
In the kitchen, Rafe growled to no one in particular, “Maybe I should ask Meera for some of those bad mushrooms she keeps.”
His kitchen staff were all older, God-fearing women, half deaf and blind. Grateful for their employment and the roof over their heads, they tended to ignore his grumblings. “How are our guests’ servants keeping occupied?” he asked a little louder.
“Playing cards, mostly,” the youngest of the lot said. “Complaining they aren’t staying in a castle as promised.”
“They said Mr. Humphries was supposed to be courting one of the ladies,” the arthritic housekeeper added with a frown. “Can’t think which one, though.”
“Well, Miss Talbot just agreed to marry Comte Lavigne, so that only leaves Miss Marlowe. Old men and young ladies, that’s not right.” The nearly blind baker slapped her dough around.
Rafe was pretty certain it was Thea and her wealth and aristocratic family that had drawn them here. But he’d have to keep a closer eye on Lavender. She had family but no name to show for it. Maybe that didn’t matter to Americans.
Playing cards. An idea niggled in the back of his mind. Rafe wasn’t much at plotting, but he really needed to know his guests’ servants better. As far as he could ascertain, none of them had gone missing after the latest murder and theft. Yet.
Servants were less likely to be as close-mouthed as their employers, and if they were complaining. . .
“Innkeeper, I need my morning gruel,” a loud voice projected theatrically from the pub.
A melodious song about sixpence warbled as chorus.
The actors had arrived. Rafe had heard the eccentric lot had been poking around the market and gallery yesterday, evidently scouting and plotting in hopes of earning a reward for catching a killer. This might be entertaining.
He carried a plate of scones to the bar. They generally weren’t much interested in tea but given the roles they played, one never knew.
Reynard, the troupe’s handsome manager, was finely dressed as always. He could easily pass for an elegant young gentleman from the manor.
Kitty. . . was another story. Large, raw-boned, with a shadow of a beard even at this hour, she wore a voluminous satin gown from a prior century, tucking a colorful shawl modestly over her invisible bosom. She trilled happily at the scones. “Oh, you lovely man! These look positively scrumptious.”
“Two half-pints,” Reynard ordered, pretending the staring gentleman at the table didn’t exist. “I heard Monk’s needs a bartender until Henri returns.”
Rafe drew the ale and wondered where the actor intended to take this gambit. “Mr. Birdwhistle has two ill students and can’t easily open the tavern every night,” he said cautiously.
“But we can’t go without Saturday’s games of chance,” Reynard exclaimed in resonant, theatrical protest. “Henri promised Faro at the tavern this week.”
“I suppose you might speak with Birdwhistle. He’s working Henri’s shop today. Or are you volunteering to tend the tavern for him?” After hearing about the card-playing servants, Rafe was starting to grasp the value of this scheme. “I didn’t think the stakes high enough to be worth your while.”
Reynard hid a grin behind his mug. The actors had heard about the gambling guests.
Kitty sipped her ale and responded musically, as if she were whispering, which she most definitely was not. “Henri keeps the stakes low, but without him. . . Unless you wish to hold the game here.”
Rafe decidedly did not. Given that he had women and children living here, and he’d not furnished any of the private parlors, gambling was not an activity he encouraged.
But the gentlemen at the table appeared interested.
“The tavern might be arranged,” Rafe agreed carefully. “The lot of you will take the till and keep order? I don’t want to be called out at midnight for public brawling, so you’ll have to close up early.”
“Most excellent! We knew we could count on you.” Reynard finished his ale and the two of them sauntered out, presumably in search of the tutor, since Fort had Henri’s keys.
When Rafe glanced across the room at the table of gents, the gambler hastily turned back to his drink. The young lawyer had a gleam in his eye. And the investor was whispering to Humphries, who hadn’t paid a whit of attention to the theatrical display.
Rafe didn’t know how much information actors could pry from a lot of drunken gamblers, but he certainly didn’t have any better ideas.