Twenty-four
Fort
“Are you insane?” Fort murmured as a familiar figure draped in a ghastly black sack and overlarge mobcap appeared in front of Henri’s bar to lift a tray of mugs.
No one with half an eye would miss Lavender’s buxom slenderness—even in a gown two sizes too large, her golden curls concealed, and spectacles blurring her big blue eyes.
“They will be gambling tonight! There will be fights.”
“The Priory is my only home. I have more reason to defend it than you,” she whispered with more determination than the last time, before walking away—straight to a table of men, every one of whom might be killers.
In her roundabout way, Lavender had shoved a knife through his heart: she had family, home, and a satisfying occupation worth defending.
He didn’t belong here. He had vast ducal estates he could rot in, but they weren’t his to defend.
His honorary title had no meaning or worth.
He was only playing this role because it kept him occupied while he tried to work out what to do with himself.
And probably because he wanted to impress the lady.
She wouldn’t be very impressed if he let her get killed.
Despite the actors promising to help watch the tavern occupants, Fort didn’t trust their antics to produce reliable information. And they had yet to put in an appearance.
Fort had left Arnaud and Thea guarding the earl, but brought James, the Priory’s large head footman, with him.
Neither he nor James had enough eyes to observe all the shadowy corners of the ill-lit tavern.
Unlike the earlier weekday opening, Saturday had produced an early crowd that filled the place.
“Miss Marlowe is used to being boss,” James said, unworried, as Lavender took orders from rude men who had no respect for women. “S’what comes of ladies having the run of things.” He left to serve the table of gentry.
Fort didn’t have time to ponder that philosophy while pulling pints, collecting coins, and trying to keep an eye on Lavender at the table filled with uncouth servants.
Jones, Humphries’s burly valet, the one with a deformed ear, presumably from too many blows in the ring, tried to put an arm around Lavender’s waist. Fort didn’t even have time to set down the mug he was filling before she upturned a half pint over the former pugilist’s sparse hair.
Whatever she said in accompaniment had the rest of the table guffawing.
Fort needed to remember that the women who had raised her were servants. This was Lavender’s original milieu. She handled herself well on both ends of the class divide. That didn’t mean he had to accept that behavior. His fists bunched as he watched.
With no further display of emotion or interest, she set out the rest of the mugs and collected their coins. Jones apparently refused to pay for his spilled drink. Lavender gestured, said a few words, and the valet, spluttering, paid up.
When she returned to the bar to hand Fort the coins and collect the next round, she spoke before he could protest. “The blond, mustached one has a knife up his sleeve. The pretty, smooth-faced lout is cheating.”
“How do you know—”
She cut him off before he could finish. “Lady Lavinia cheats.” Lifting the next tray, she sailed off to serve the regulars.
Lady Lavinia cheated, of course. The dowager baroness had spent a lifetime in society’s salons where cheating was all part of the fun. A charming reminder that class differences did not necessarily improve character.
Fort had finally begun to put names to faces. The knife-carrying, blond, mustached Darley worked for Gladstone, the investor, presumably as valet, but if he carried a weapon, then possibly also as bodyguard.
Tatum, the cheating pretty boy, worked for Featherstone, the gambler. Naturally, he cheated.
Practicing strategy among a half-dozen brothers and cousins in no way compared to watching Lavender gather information in a roomful of drunken gamblers.
Even though she’d disguised herself as a Friday-faced dowd, complete with an enormous mole on her upper lip like her grandmother’s—most likely compliments of the actors—Lavender simply turned heads by wearing a skirt.
Guts in a knot as he watched her, Fort had the urge to pull his short sword and follow her from table to table.
Realizing the tantalizing female was blurring his normally focused, sharp mind, Fort clenched his teeth, left James at the bar, and carried a tray to the table of wealthy gents.
They were far more intent on the play than their servants, even though it was early yet and they hadn’t attracted any locals to fleece.
Not that there were many in the village with coins to play.
Fort wasn’t even certain they noticed the working men around them who merely watched for entertainment.
Bobbert, the builder, wasn’t among any of the players. He’d returned to the Priory at noon with coins and instructions for the funeral, leaving with the architect’s notebook. Featherstone had produced said notebook from his pocket earlier. They were using it to keep count of points.
“Persimmon, if you don’t ante up more blunt, we’ll send you over to play with the peons.” Humphries sat back in his chair, resting his hand of cards on his stout abdomen while chomping on a cigar.
Fort had already discerned that the bespectacled Persimmon was an accountant of some sort and his real name was Perser, which seemed a little too appropriate and was probably fraudulent. An accountant who fixed books seemed a proper fit for this lot.
“Don’t risk more than I can afford to lose,” the maligned bean counter said with a shrug of narrow shoulders. “I prefer Faro anyway, so perhaps I should join the other table.”
The men at Humphries’ table did appear to be playing a game Fort hadn’t seen before, but he’d heard of it. Given that the American had chosen it, one assumed Humphries was more familiar with American poker than the others and relied on his knowledge to win.
“Can’t leave, Perser.” Gladstone, the nattily dressed investor threw in his cards. “You have to tally our winnings. Trusting Featherstone with the tally is an invitation to bankruptcy.”
“You’re implying I cheat?” the gambler asked calmly enough, shuffling the cards. “There’s a river out there that goes straight to the ocean—”
But the killer hadn’t dumped bodies in the river. He’d left them in place like so much trash, as if he knew no one dared convict him. Would a man with manicured hands as smooth as the gambler’s bother dirtying them with strangulation?
Maybe if Fort poisoned the lot of them—he could hire himself out as a murderer. It wasn’t as if he had any other future planned.
A large, bronzed man in vaguely medieval, Italianate garb of bloused shirt and loose pantaloons, sporting coarse hair in tiny braids, strode in as if he owned the place.
Behind him strolled Reynard, a finely-tailored frockcoat emphasizing his lithe physique, along with an older—person—in frockcoat and breeches from a prior century.
The actors had arrived, late, as usual.
Most of the locals hailed them welcomingly, shouting and gesturing for the unusual trio to take places at their tables. The gentry in the far corner were far too intent on their game to do more than frown at the interruption. Such unusual characters were probably commonplace in London.
The citified servants, on the other hand, seemed to take umbrage at the eccentric intrusion on their cozy cave. Human nature, Fort knew. Everyone had to look down on someone, and men of narrow education disliked anything beyond their understanding of normal.
The actors were pretty far outside normal, right into illegal.
Lavender took their orders as the trio stopped at a table containing the hardware clerk and Reynard’s friend, Jacques, the shoemaker. She flitted back to the bar frowning. “They want lavender water?”
“Anything non-alcoholic,” Fort translated. “Fisticuffs will follow shortly and they’re being cautious. Let James escort you home.”
“Then you’d be here alone. Don’t be silly.” Her jaw set stubbornly.
He wanted to kiss those plump lips and not argue, but he couldn’t justify endangering a foolish female who thought she protected him.
“I have the actors and half the town here for safety.” With a sigh, he admitted, “You are the distraction. I cannot watch you—no matter how good you are at defending yourself,” he added when she glared, “while watching for knives and impending brawls. And should one break out, I’d have to see you out of danger first and that might delay my ability to stop anyone else from being killed. ”
“Then put me behind the bar while you wait on tables,” she said sweetly, but her smile was more of a challenge.
That would put him right in the center of action where he wanted to be. Damn, but she was blinding him to right and wrong. He stalled. “What happened to Vivien? Shouldn’t she be here on a Saturday night?”
The smirk Lavender offered was beyond mischievous, into devious. “I told her she might submit designs for Thea’s gown. She’s at home for a change, studying books and sketching.”
Oh, damn, he was in deep and sinking fast. He almost drowned in those long-lashed blue eyes lighting with deviltry.
Before he could surrender to temptation, the door blew open on a gust of wind and leaves, and Henri Lavigne, the tavern’s owner, swept in.
“Ah, mes amis, now, the party shall begin!” he shouted to a chorus of greetings.
Not as large as his brother, the comte, Henri was still a powerful man who had gone from impoverished emigre to tavern and shop owner in a few short years. Henri would guard Lavender with his life. Now, the fun really did begin.
Turning the tables, Fort grinned back at Lavender. “Fine, you work behind the bar with Henri, and I’ll serve the ale.”