Chapter 15 #2
At a prime table by the fire, he found himself face to face with the village’s oldest resident and pillar of the community.
Mr. Walford, known simply as “Wally,” had a shock of white hair and more wrinkles than a laundry.
His coat was a blazing shade of magenta, and his dark eyes were magnified by thick spectacles.
He was accompanied by two ancient cronies, and the collection of empty tankards suggested the trio had been there awhile.
“Lord Manderly.” Wally drew himself up. “I would like to pose a question.”
“I shall be happy to answer if I can, sir.”
“What will you do about the curse?”
James paused, nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you not familiar with the legend of Bloody Thom?” Wally smacked his lips, as if preparing for a delectable dish. “I shall be happy to enlighten you—”
“That won’t be necessary, Wally,” Ethan cut in. “My brother knows about the curse.”
Frowning, James said, “I am acquainted with the legend, yes. However, I wouldn’t say I know all the specifics—”
“Of course you do.” Godwin, known for his composure in any situation, was suddenly as jittery as a kettle on the boil. “Mr. Thornton is taking us to our table, and we mustn’t hold him up.”
James glanced at the innkeeper, who was leaning on a table, chatting with a patron.
“He doesn’t appear to be in a hurry—”
“He’s being polite. Best not take advantage.” Ethan addressed Wally and his friends. “Enjoy your evening, gents—next round is on me.”
As Wally and his pals stomped their feet and waved their canes in appreciation, Godwin pushed James forward. Before James could turn to scowl at his brother-in-law, Ethan grabbed his arm, and James found himself being herded away between them.
“What are the two of you doing?” James demanded.
“Saving your hide,” Ethan muttered. “Or, more precisely, your ears.”
“They begin to bleed,” Godwin explained. “By the time Wally gets into the tenth hour of his story, and you realize that he’s only on the prologue.”
“He seems like a decent old chap—”
“He is, and that is how the trap is laid,” Godwin said darkly. “One minute, you are being courteous to the kindly old codger. The next, you’re being led around the village on a tour…that never ends.”
A few moments later, the innkeeper seated them in a private parlor, hidden behind a tatty blue curtain.
The cozy table had just enough space for the four of them, and a mullioned window offered a blurry view of the dark square.
A buxom serving maid brought them foaming tankards and a trencher of bread and cheese.
Ethan broke a piece of hot, crusty bread, slathering it with butter. “If that was any indication of how the hustings will go, you appear to be in fighting shape.”
“Looks can be deceiving.” James sampled the ale, which was full-bodied and creamy. “No matter how prepared one is, one never knows how such an event will go. Crowds are wildly unpredictable. A single comment or heckle can turn a supportive audience into a mob out for blood.”
“Why expose yourself to potential violence?” Owen studied the slice of crumbly cheese on his plate. “There are better ways, surely, to win votes.”
“With only three months until the General Election, this is the quickest path—and an exercise to separate the wheat from the chaff.” James exhaled. “I have significant backing from the party, but I haven’t won everyone over yet. I must prove that I am the worthiest replacement for Henry Gosford.”
Dunsmuir had put it bluntly. “You’re in the lead, but you haven’t secured the nomination yet, old boy.
Influential members, including our lovely patroness Lady Morgana Vernon, want proof that you have what it takes to beat Ryerson—and that you don’t share Gosford’s Achilles’ heel for scandal.
The hustings will be your chance to show them your mettle. ”
Or a chance to fail spectacularly.
James shoved aside the thought. Doubts got one nowhere. Preparation was the key.
“Assuming you haven’t set up a love nest with an actress somewhere, these are not hard shoes to fill,” Godwin said.
“It is not enough to be free of scandal. I must be worthy of representing the people who have placed their trust in me. I want to be a catalyst for meaningful and lasting change—”
“Save your campaign speech for the hustings, brother.” Ethan feigned a yawn. “You already have our votes. The reason we proposed tonight’s outing wasn’t to discuss politics.”
James quirked a brow. “There was an ulterior motive for the invitation?”
“There’s nothing ulterior about it.”
The looks Ethan exchanged with the other men put James on edge.
“To prove it, I shall inquire plainly.” Ethan cleared his throat. “Is everything all right between you and Evie?”
By Jove. That is forthright.
“While I appreciate your concern, my marriage is a private matter.” Deflecting was a reflex, as was the lofty tone he’d honed during his lifelong tenure as the eldest son and heir. “I will not discuss it.”
“I hate to puncture your hot-air balloon,” Godwin drawled. “When ladies are involved, there is no such thing as privacy.”
“Evie would not speak of—”
“According to Gigi, your countess is as much of a clam as you are. But females, they have a sense about these things. Gigi is worried about your happiness.” Godwin shrugged. “As I do not wish for her to be troubled for any reason, I agreed to broach the topic with you.”
James found himself grappling with the fact that his baby sister was aware of his marital conflict…and that she’d sent her husband to investigate.
“Xenia noticed as well,” Ethan said.
His middle brother’s assertion ended the battle, giving mortification a decided victory.
As an artist, Ethan had a habit of focusing on his music to the exclusion of all else.
The fact that he was now willfully—nay, cheerfully—sticking his nose where it did not belong was a blow to James’s pride.
Was his relationship with Evie so obviously strained that everyone had noticed?
“There is naught for anyone to be concerned about,” James said stiffly. “All is well.”
“You can talk to us, you know.”
Oh, for bloody sake. Now my youngest brother thinks I cannot manage my own affairs?
Looking into Owen’s earnest grey gaze, James sighed.
“I know,” he said. “There is, however, naught to discuss.”
“Xenia thinks your troubles could be related to the prophecy,” Ethan said.
“I don’t have any troubles,” James said testily.
“If you did, Xenia has a theory as to why. She thinks that all four of us—you, me, Gigi, and Owen—were destined to come to Chuddums to find love. When we do, we unravel a piece of the mystery regarding Bloody Thom.”
James was about to express his opinion that the theory was absurd, but Godwin spoke first.
“Gigi agrees with her, and so do I.” The magnate, whom James had formerly thought of as a sensible sort, stroked his chin as he addressed Ethan.
“When you met your wife, you discovered that Thomas Mulligan wasn’t killed by a witch.
Indeed, the ‘witch’ was a beautiful traveling woman named Rosalinda whom he fell in love with.
During our courtship, Gigi and I uncovered more of the story, including the fact that the pair had wed before Thomas was murdered by some bastard who was after Rosalinda. ”
“You think I am going to fall in love?”
This came from Owen, whose face showed both unease and wistfulness.
“You’re a Harrington. Of course you will,” Ethan said. “But I don’t think it is quite your turn, lad.”
All attention turned to James, and he fought the rising heat in his face.
He wasn’t about to share the intricacies of his marriage: that after nearly four years, he and Evie remained on shaky ground when it came to love.
As the eldest, he had always handled his own affairs—set a good example.
There was no reason to reveal his shortcomings.
Luckily, the curtain parted, saving him from further interrogation.
It was not the serving maid but the innkeeper’s wife who brought in their supper.
Mrs. Thornton, a pug-nosed lady with frizzy ginger hair barely restrained by her cap, thumped platters of food onto the table.
Mouth-watering aromas came from the massive golden brown pie and the bowl of spring peas and carrots swimming in butter and herbs.
“Supper smells delicious, Mrs. Thornton.” Ethan’s voice was reverent.
“It is delicious,” she said matter-of-factly.
With an expert hand, she cut a generous slab of pie, plating it along with a scoop of vegetables.
Over this, she ladled a spoonful of rich, thyme-scented gravy.
She repeated the process, plunking dishes in front of James, Ethan, and Godwin.
As she was working on the final serving, Owen peered at Ethan’s plate.
“What kind of pie is that—ouch.” Owen glowered at Ethan, rubbing his side. “Mind your bloody elbow.”
It was too late, however. Mrs. Thornton pinned Owen with a gimlet stare.
“What did you say?”
Ethan shook his head in obvious warning, but Owen answered anyway.
“I was wondering what kind of meat is in the pie, ma’am.”
His polite inquiry had a remarkable effect on Mrs. Thornton, whose complexion went from ruddy to florid. She dropped the serving spoon with a loud clatter. Bracing her hands on her hips, she glared at him.
“Are you questioning my cooking, sir?”
“Um, no.” Owen looked confused. “I just wanted to know the ingredients.”
“The ingredients in this pie,” she said in a dangerous tone, “are what I chose to put in there.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t come to my establishment to know. You come to eat—or starve. It’s up to you.”
Owen frowned. “That hardly seems hospitable.”
Even James, who didn’t know the woman, could tell that the reply was unwise. Like a pot left too long on the fire, she blew her lid.
“Hospitable?” she exploded. “I’ll show you hospitable. No pie for you!”
She snatched the half-filled plate and slammed it back on her tray. The rest of the pie and vegetables followed. The curtain flapped angrily behind her.
Ethan spoke first. “I warned you not to annoy her, lad.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Owen protested. “I just asked what kind of pie it was!”
Ethan shoveled a forkful into his mouth. “A delicious pie, that’s what. Best I’ve ever tasted.”
Grabbing a fork, Owen aimed for Ethan’s plate. “Give me some of that.”
Ethan kept his plate out of reach.
“Sorry, lad,” he said with a smirk. “Ad finem fidelis has its limits. When it comes to pie, it’s each man for himself.”