Chapter 33
Thirty-three
Rafe
The Saturday before Easter, in preparation for the entertainment, Rafe carried a fresh barrel of ale to the bar and kissed his wife’s hair while she polished his tankards.
Verity frowned up at him. “Are you sure the children will be safe in the manor nursery? What if they are stolen for their wealth?”
“Doors locked, Birdwhistle and two of Hunt’s soldiers guarding the attic.
No one can enter until we say so. I don’t think any of our suspects have an interest in children, though.
Coins and jewels are far easier to carry off.
The babes are simply safer in the manor than as potential hostages if things go awry down here. ”
He had gone over the plans with the men at the manor, as well as with Damien and Fletch. It seemed foolish to over-react because of a letter from a dressmaker, but this was Gravesyde. Bad things happened here. This time, they would attempt to prevent them.
Which was why the women had now taken over. Rafe tried not to sigh too loudly as the voices of the manor ladies drifted from the lobby. They were turning what was most likely a bawdy, not for the genteel, theatrical into a church faire. They were selling pies in the lobby!
And hanging banners, ribbons, flowers, and signs pointing to the dressmaking shop and the hole-in-the-wall Henri was creating with his second-hand items. Henri had been in there all week building shelves and hanging ropes to display his wares.
It wasn’t nearly as refined as the airy, lace-and-ribbon bedecked space of Miss Marlowe’s shop, but men wouldn’t mind.
Miss Marlowe and Kate had opened the shop a few hours a day to encourage anyone passing by to stop in.
No one was beating a path to the door yet, but persuaded by the curate’s wife, a few of the church ladies had taken a look.
Rafe wondered how he might reassure them that the inn was respectable if the pantomime turned out bawdy.
Clare Huntley sailed into the pub, her pink walking dress no longer concealing that she was in the family way—which didn’t slow her down in the least. “Thea has found some rather moth-eaten velvet draperies we could use to set up the stage, if you’d like. Will they need to make costume changes?”
“If they didn’t ask for curtains, then they won’t need them,” Rafe concluded, based on nothing whatsoever except his dislike of extra work or concealing any prospective thieves from his sight.
“We’ll save them for another time, then. I do hope your friends are not too rude. Lavender is still a little young but she’ll want to watch.” Clare turned to leave.
“My staff of religious zealots will most likely walk out if they’re rude,” Rafe called after her. “Which means the drinks stop flowing, and the actors will quit.”
Clare’s laughter floated out with her.
His wife narrowed her eyes at the empty space they’d created in a corner of the pub for the stage. Fletch, Damien, and the actors had hauled in Kate’s piano for the performance. Rafe waited for her conclusion.
She just sighed wistfully. “It would be fun to have regular entertainments. Do you think we could find local musicians to play occasionally?”
“If this lot doesn’t insult or rob everyone present, we might try,” he agreed. “Let’s take this one lunacy at a time.”
Fletch stalked in carrying his service rifle. He stored it behind the bar and started out again, until Rafe shouted at him. “I thought you took that piece apart.”
Fletch shrugged. “I put it back together again. It just needed a new catch. Not very useful in close quarters but if we have to run after anyone, it will be ready.”
They’d already decided that displaying weapons might scare off their suspects, but Rafe was carrying knives and had a sword at hand.
He knew Fletch had more than one weapon concealed on his person and quite possibly elsewhere.
By the time the manor gentlemen arrived—most of them former officers—the place would be bristling.
He might need to water the ale.
“I want to see the shop,” Verity declared, setting down the last of the tankards. “I’m trying very hard to resist buying a new bonnet, but maybe a few ribbons. . .”
The inn was barely covering expenses. Verity kept the books and knew that as well as he. But she had a nice nest egg of her own that Rafe refused to touch. If his beautiful, intelligent wife wanted to spend her coins on frivolity, that was her choice.
But he wouldn’t let her out of his sight while potential killers and thieves roamed. He followed her across the bustling lobby, past the manor ladies adorning the dull premises like flowers in their colorful attire.
The shop was less active. As predicted, Miss Vivien was there, attempting to direct every action as if she were the producer of a play. She removed a blue bonnet from the window display to hang it with blue ribbons on the wall and snatched a straw one from a short lady to place it in the window.
“Just for today,” she cried, “or it will grow brittle in the sun.”
“Should we ever see the sun again,” Kate muttered, handing Verity a fluffy silk rose. “I saved this for you. Henri just brought in a new collection of old bonnets and I snipped this before anyone could see it.”
“Anyone, as in your young general?” Verity asked in amusement. “This is perfect to go with my new Sunday gown, thank you. Will Odila fix it to my bonnet if I bring it in? And have you decided who will be working here yet?”
Kate ushered them back to the hall, out of the chaos, and whispered. “No. Upon Fletch’s orders, we’re waiting until today is over before choosing a clerk. He has this insane theory that our sewing ladies are competing for Lavender’s good graces and that they are responsible for the accidents.”
Rafe didn’t believe a clerk’s position worth killing over, but his opinion hadn’t been asked. He supposed, if the Jamesons were trying to hide their past. . . still not worth hanging. Although. . . Rafe grimaced as his thoughts tumbled erratically—
Thieves would hang, if charges were brought and witnesses produced.
As usual, Fletch was one jump ahead of him. Ana Marie had been a witness. Mrs. Young? Maybe.
“If the sewing ladies are competing, that should make all the applicants especially eager to sell your goods today!” Verity crowed, not grasping the seriousness of Fletch’s theory. “And be on their best behavior?”
Kate cast a despairing glance into the shop where Vivien was now removing the fashion plate books from the shelf and ordering Maryann to dust them off. “It is a matter of opinion as to what best behavior might be. I feel exceedingly unnecessary. Do you have any tasks I can help with?”
“Prevent Major Fletcher from storing weapons under every table?” Verity suggested. “Do you think if we found a broken clock, he might sit down and work on that?”
Rafe snorted and Kate shook her head.
“He’s out ordering troops to surround the inn,” Rafe informed her.
“He has young Jasper in the room next door, guarding the hall and the shop. He’s blocked any other access to the inn except through the lobby.
He plans to have the captain and his friends loitering at the lobby door, as if they won’t look like bulls in a china shop among the cake stands and church ladies.
We can hope our thespians don’t realize the ladies are accompanied by armed soldiers. ”
“I daresay the curate won’t be carrying a sword, although Henri might have a knife in his boot,” Verity corrected. “They’re not soldiers.”
“Upton carries hammers under his coat. Damien has a walking stick with a knife in it and a pistol in his pocket. Henri is accustomed to riding the highway and is practically bristling with weapons. Just because they’re not soldiers doesn’t mean they haven’t spent time defending themselves.
I’m afraid they’ll all kill each other,” Rafe added in disgust.
“I think I’ll stay in the shop,” Kate said faintly. “Someone bring me tea after it’s all done.”
“The actors are here,” one of the ladies called from the lobby. “Verity, where are you? You’re to be the hostess.”
Rafe took his wife’s elbow. “Not without me, you won’t. Come along, let us see what the clowns look like today.”
In the lobby, flowers, ribbons, and welcome signs fluttered in the breeze of the opening door. With all the bouquets and perfumes, the lobby smelled more like a whorehouse than a public inn, but Rafe refrained from mentioning that.
He counted half a dozen in the troupe entering. Did anyone know how many there were? He should have asked Damien.
An effeminate young man in tail coat and top hat bowed over Verity’s hand. “My immense gratitude for allowing us this pleasure, madam.” He bowed at Rafe. “And sir.” He glanced around at the decorations with wide eyes. “We have never received quite so. . . enthusiastic. . . a welcome.”
A big man in full skirts and a large woman in a man’s pantaloons entered carrying a trunk.
It took Rafe a moment to regain his usual affability and remember these were guests and not suspects, until proven otherwise.
He directed them toward the pub and hoped he could keep track of the array of silk and feathers and. . . if he did not mistake. . . a donkey’s ass.