Twenty-five
Lavender: Sat night
Fearing the duke’s officious son had outwitted her by forcing her to wash mugs, Lavender glared at the wretch. Except Fort didn’t notice. He had already abandoned the bar to greet Henri like a long lost friend.
Not appearing in the least confused by the quiet tutor’s transformation into genial tavern keeper, Henri pounded him on the back. Even though Henri’s wife spent most of her days in the orchard, Patience must have informed him of the current state of affairs.
The church deacon sidled up to the bar to order a cider. “What’s with all the strangers tonight?” he murmured, apparently assuming women were more inclined to gossip.
Lavender filled his tankard and accepted his coin while she considered a suitable answer. She knew how to lie. She just wasn’t certain how much she should say. “I think Rafe’s guests grew bored. Maybe the actors were sent to entertain them?”
The nosy old man chortled. “Henri should charge admittance.” He used his mug to indicate the eccentrically-garbed, pigtailed actor called Othello approaching the table of valets.
The armed and untrustworthy lot glared at the bronzed giant with suspicion and disgust. And she could do nothing but pull ale and wait for the men to notice.
Lavender had begun her business because she’d never wanted to be a maid like her mother, but here she was, washing mugs for men who thought she was a menial. She’d obviously lost her wits. Why?
The noble excuse was that she wanted to save her home from monsters.
But the Priory had dealt with monsters this past year without her questionable aid. Right now, the gentlemen were trying to shelter her, because they thought she was weak and stupid, and she’d never done anything to prove otherwise. She could leave right now and they would be relieved.
So why didn’t she? Because she didn’t want Lord Fortescue to think she was a useless piece of fluff. And there it was—she was trying to impress the duke’s son.
Before she could fling down her apron and stalk off, the grumblings in the corner escalated to curses. To her dismay, Othello had grabbed the cards the valets had been playing and now held them up to a lamp, one by one.
Unlike Lavender, he apparently invited trouble by revealing the cheat.
“Thieving cur!” Jones, the muscled pugilist jumped up, intent on overturning table, cards, and coins to reach the pretty-faced card shark.
Lavender froze and shot a glance to Henri and Fort, neither of whom seemed concerned.
She wanted to shout, but a second glance revealed the angry boxer straining at the ancient oak trestle table, which refused to budge.
She almost giggled at his startlement. He actually glanced under the table. . . to see who was holding it?
In almost comic relief, she watched the table’s other occupants scoop up their coins and drunkenly stumble from the impending brawl. They seemed such unlikely killers. . .
“Fresh cards, fresh from the Priory, fellows!” Young, broad-shouldered, and authoritative, Henri stepped between the quarreling servants, distracting them with a new deck from his capacious pockets.
“You’d think he’s done this before,” Fort murmured in admiration, carrying up a tray of empty tankards. “You’ll need to keep these washed. Henri doesn’t have sufficient mugs for a crowd this large.”
She’d like to stick her tongue out at his highhandedness, but she’d volunteered.
Besides, she could tell he was teasing her—talking to her as if they were equals, as if they were both servants.
That lowered her irritation a trifle. “The valets are letting Othello sit with them. Would killers do that?”
Fort grimaced. “Can’t say that I’ve ever met any to know. I can send James home with you, if you’re ready to leave.”
The footman wasn’t doing much more than walking around, looking big. “Is he supposed to be helping us?”
“His father’s a boxer. I told him James could do whatever he thought best, and that is apparently proving that he’s as good as his father at intimidation.
” Fort laughed as the young, good-looking footman came face to-face with the elderly actor in graying hair and last century’s clothing.
“I think he just realized Mercurio is female.”
“Mercurio and Reynard are studying Horrible Humpty’s table.” She poured the last of a bottle into the last of the clean mugs. “The swine have been drinking whiskey and are the worse for it. Take these over but be prepared.”
Fort actually winked at her before hurrying off to do as she’d suggested. She’d hardly recovered from the shock when the bespectacled accountant from the swine table approached with a shiny guinea.
“Do you have change? We’re running out of shillings.”
Before she could reach for the cash box, Reynard leaned against the bar. “The grocer complained one of his customers gave him a bad coin today. Do you know how to recognize a fake guinea?”
He took the coin from the startled accountant’s hand and dropped it in a mug. “Notice the dead plopping noise?” He drew a gold coin from his pocket and dropped it in the same mug. It chimed clearly. “Gold chimes. It also weighs more.”
He handed Lavender both coins so she could test their weight. His coin was heavier. She pushed the real one back to Mr. Reynard and the fake one toward an irate Mr. Perser.
“I worked hard for that coin!” The accountant practically turned blue in the face. “It’s real!”
Reynard looked apologetic, removed an object from his pocket, and waved it over the two coins sitting unclaimed on the counter. The fake one leapt from the counter to the. . . magnet? Lavender stared in fascination.
“Magnets pick up metal, not gold.” He dropped his coin into his pocket with the magnet and pushed the fake one back to its owner. “Sorry. I hope you didn’t take more of these.”
The man scurried away, seeming more terrified than outraged, but perhaps that was just his normal expression.
The handsome actor bowed in apology. “Unless you want to weigh coins all night, best avoid guineas.”
“Thank you,” she murmured warily. The actors had been looking out for her since the incident where she’d been kidnapped and hidden in their home. She trusted Reynard. But now she didn’t know if she could trust anyone else.
As he sauntered back to the elderly actor, who was still gradually working his/her way back to the rich gentry, Lavender took the kettle from the brazier and poured hot water into the tub to wash glasses.
She only had a dozen done when shouts erupted again.
Grabbing a towel so she could start drying, she turned to find what the danger was this time.
She had a tiny bit more confidence that Fort and his company had the crowd under control.
“Take back that scurrilous lie or you’ll end up six feet under like Chandar!” The investor’s blond valet with a soldier’s mustache—Darley, Fort had called him—had pulled his knife from his sleeve to threaten Jones, Humphries’ burly boxer-valet. Charming lot, intent on killing each other?
The table of servants were all on their feet again, backing away. The locals eased their chairs a distance from the fracas but watched in fascination, as if this were a theatrical performance.
The booth of increasingly foxed poker players didn’t even look up.
Wielding his heavy tray as a shield, Fort stationed himself between Lavender and the brawl while the Priory’s footman worked his way back to the corner.
Grabbing the mustached gent from behind, James wrapped his massive arm around Darley’s throat, and raised his chin until the valet gurgled a protest. The giant Othello twisted his wrist until the valet dropped his knife.
Appalled, Lavender watched as Fort set aside his tray and casually tied the villain’s hands as if he did it every day. They had all expected murder?
Henri spoke low and firmly to the angry table of servants, and they returned to their seats, muttering but ordering more ale. Henri refused the guinea the lawyer’s graying valet produced, and they had to dig for smaller coins.
With the shouting prisoner shuffled out in the footman’s hands, Fort slipped up to guard Lavender. Still warily watching the table of troublemakers, she asked, “Why didn’t the table turn over?”
Fort chuckled. “I asked. The curate nailed the tables to the floor, said some of his parishioners got a little rowdy, and Meera didn’t have enough time to patch them all up.”
The ways of men. . .
“Othello has offered to tend the customers and cut off their drinks when they become too rowdy. We’ve learned all we can tonight and are going home.” He slid his arm around her waist and steered her from the protection of the high bar.
Before she could protest, he interrupted. “They’re drunk and increasingly dangerous. And Bobbert isn’t here. The cards may be a distraction from whatever he might be doing.”
That shocked her from selfishness. “The Priory! The babies!” She didn’t wait for him to open the door but rushed out a step ahead of him. Fort caught up quickly.
“I don’t think he’ll hurt the nursery set, but he might attempt to find an entrance, and the east wing is most vulnerable.”
The east wing, with the earl and the sleeping boys and only Arnaud and Thea to guard them. Lavender had never really believed they were in danger. Strangers killing strangers were of no real concern to her. But after this evening of ugliness. . .
“These are not nice people! Who hires servants who cheat and kill?”
“Men who think cheating and killing are acceptable means to an end. I think, this time, Rafe is correct. Whether or not we catch the killer, he needs to send this degenerate party on its way.”
Fort still had his arm around her waist, and she didn’t object. She had no notion why she should trust the duke’s deceitful son, but she needed the reassurance that her secure little world hadn’t blown apart, again.