Twenty #2
“Go demand it of those thieves and killers at the manor,” the gentleman scoundrel ordered. “We can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.” He returned to the pub without a second look at Fort.
Interesting. The rich and powerful consortium had been reduced to using a pub to meet. Their esteemed innkeeper really did not like the lot if he hadn’t opened his hidden, private library for them.
Bobbert mumbled under his breath as they ascended the stairs. Fort gathered he was terrified of confronting the manor occupants and even more terrified of not doing so. As he unlocked his bedroom door, he muttered. “Shoulda told me that yesterday.”
Before he murdered his employer? That was an unsettling thought as Fort entered the chamber of a potential killer—with the object said killer wanted in his coat pocket.
Bobbert stripped off his breeches without a shred of modesty, revealing dirty, ragged, small clothes. His ill-fitting garments and short, square build concealed the muscled limbs of a man who performed physical labor—and could have easily squeezed the breath out of his employer.
Fort studied the small bedchamber while his customer changed.
What he assumed were surveying instruments littered one corner of the room.
Dirty stockings and muddied boots had been discarded under a table.
Was that straw stuck in the mud? Of course, anyone visiting a stable might pick up straw, although one hoped they’d clean it off before entering a building.
“You ride here with the other gents?” Fort asked casually while Bobbert struggled with the tight trousers.
Giving up on the completely unsuitable silk pair, Bobbert grunted. “Came in Mr. Calendar’s buggy. Bumpy old ride, it was. Don’t know who it belongs to now, or how I’ll get home.” He reached for a more sensible pair.
“Was Mr. Calendar married? Reckon it belongs to his widow, if so. Perhaps you can drive it back to her.”
“Nah, he weren’t hitched. And I ain’t never driven a carriage. Mebbe take the horse, if it had a saddle.” He buttoned the trousers’ fall. “Reckon these’ll do. Add them to the bill.”
That was too easy. Fort folded the discarded pair. “Perhaps one of the other gents will take you back with them.”
“Nah, they’s fancy town fellas. I’m from up the road. Mebbe the measles will pass, and they’ll let me stay at the manor while I work. Place is big enough to house an army.”
“I didn’t think the manor folk had funds for improvements? They only just repaired the one tower, but they did it with pirate gold they found.”
Bobbert dragged on his old breeches. “Pirate gold? Bit far from the coast for that, innit?”
“Original owner was said to be a pirate.” Fort shrugged, trying to sound casual as he questioned. “What are they building up there then?”
Bobbert left his new trousers on the bed and pulled on his shoes. “Humphries bought the place. He’s got grand plans. I heard he’s after a title, but he needs to own land first.”
Fort winced at this confirmation of their suspicions. “Earl of Wycliffe left the place to his family. Wouldn’t it be entailed?” He knew it was not, but conversation required give and take.
“Wycliffe, that’s the name.” Bobbert stood. “Humphries been bragging about all his noble ancestors and claims he’s a distant cousin, thinks he can have the title reinstated. He’s planning on marrying one of the Wycliffe ladies.”
Over the dead bodies of every person in the Priory, Fort figured. Which might be Humphries’ plan as well, if the current body count were any indication.
Remembering Lavender sitting unprotected in her shop, his skin crawled. He took the stairs down, two at a time, ahead of Bobbert.
A tub of lard encased in a corset to fit his finely tailored frockcoat was beating on the door of Lavender’s shop. Thank all the heavens she’d had sense to lock the door while Fort was gone. This had to be Humphries.
“The shop is closed due to illness, sir.” Fort tried to sound casual—and not as if he wished to gut a hog. “If you have need of female frippery, I can send for Mrs. Ferguson. But I think you’ll like my products better.”
Trying to gather his spiraling thoughts, Fort flung open Henri’s shop door and gestured for the wealthy American to precede him. He was very bad at improvising.
Now that Fort had time to take note of details, Humphries did rather resemble a hog, with a flat nose and small eyes hidden by rolls of dissipated flesh.
When the portly American regarded the shop, he pursed his damp lips in a scowl.
What did hog lips look like? Fort hadn’t spent much time studying swine.
“Where else might I purchase gifts for courting?” Humphries’ attempt to conceal his American accent with stilted language failed.
“The mercantile carries sweets and some female fripperies. I’ve not been in need of them, myself.” The family name and wealth had never required that the duke’s sons exert themselves with courtship. If he wished to court Lavender—perhaps he ought to seek gifts?
Ignoring his advice, the American turned on Bobbert. “Find that notebook. You won’t need a new coat until you do.”
Fort almost, not quite, felt sorry for the clerk as Bobbert abandoned his new wardrobe to flee after his swine of a new employer.