He placed the potato next to the bread. He reached into his pail and removed another potato, this one even bigger than the last. There was nothing else in the pail, and Mr. Kettle once again stared with dismay at his lunch.
“Mercy, your luncheon has not improved, has it?”
Mr. Kettle snapped to attention at the sound of Mrs. Honeycutt’s voice. He thought he was done with her. He’d sold his soul to the devil for a piece of cake, but here she was again, smiling at him in that way that caused his skin to tingle. He glared into her blue eyes.
“Good day, Mr. Kettle!” she said, as if they were old friends.
“Mrs. Honeycutt.” He noticed she had a basket on her arm, and he could see a cheesecloth peeking from the top of it. His mouth was already watering—he remembered with great fondness the cakes she’d brought last time. To say they were divine was no exaggeration. Perhaps he ought to mention it to Mrs. Kettle. Perhaps she could learn to make cake like that.
“A potato?” Mrs. Honeycutt asked.
Mr. Kettle shook himself back to the present. “To what do I owe this visit?” he asked crisply. “I thought I had your word you’d not bother me again.”
“Did I say that?” she asked, her brow furrowing as if she was trying hard to recall. “I don’t think I saidthat.” She glanced over her shoulder, which is when Mr. Kettle noticed her Adonis standing in his usual spot. “Did I say I would never bother him again?” she asked curiously.
“I can’t imagine you’d say that,” the man said.
Mr. Kettle noticed someone else. Another man, just as tall as Adonis, but a bit broader in build. He was not as pale as the Englishman, either. He reminded Mr. Kettle of the Spaniards who often sailed into London.
Another thing he noticed was the man’s hands. They were enormous. He felt a curious and uncomfortable flush. He imagined those hands could easily wrap around a man’s neck and squeeze the breath from him without much effort at all. Had it come to that? Did they mean to murder him for the manifests?
“Mrs. Honeycutt, I’ve already—”
She didn’t allow him to finish his sentence. “I know, and you were so veryhelpful, too.” She reached into her basket and removed whatever was wrapped in cheesecloth and placed it on his desk. With one long finger, she pushed open one flap of the cheesecloth, and then the other. Mr. Kettle couldn’t help himself—he leaned forward to see.Apple tarts.And not just any apple tarts. These were as thick as his fist and as wide as dinner plates. There were two of them nestled in that bundle.
“As I was saying, you weresohelpful...but it seems we need one more bit of information to complete our study, and I think you may be able to help with that.” She nudged the tarts closer to him then slid onto the chair beside his desk. She propped her arm on his desktop and leaned forward. He wondered if she knew that her bosom was just there, directly in his line of sight. Sometimes, Mrs. Kettle didn’t seem to notice her bosom was just there, either. His gaze moved over the fleshy mounds of her breasts and then up to her eyes again. “Pardon?”
Her eyes were shining. The woman enjoyed tormenting him, clearly. “You’re so very knowledgeable. It’s a wonder to me you’ve not risen higher in the ranks. But then again, you very well might do so when your help is revealed to the King of Wesloria.”
“What?”
She broke off a bit of one tart and popped it into her mouth, and just like that, his gaze was on the tarts again.
“Would you happen to know where four Weslorian soldiers might billet?”
He snorted. “How would I know something like that?”
“Well...you go to the docks every day, don’t you? I should think you might have heard something here or there through the years.”
He did hear things, actually. He crept one finger toward the tarts. Mrs. Honeycutt smoothly pulled them out of his reach.
“I just meant to smell it,” he said.
Mrs. Honeycutt pulled the tarts even closer to her and took another bite. “Dear Lord, this isexcellent. Simply melts in your mouth! Where do you think soldiers would billet if they didn’t want anyone to know they were here?”
Mr. Kettle’s face began to heat with his anxiety. He wasn’t sure he really knew the answer to her question, but he was certain that even if he had an idea, he was not to share it. But he wouldn’t be telling her, would he? He’d be guessing. A guess for an apple tart.
Mrs. Honeycutt lifted one of the tarts and held it up right under his nose. He leaned back because the smell of baked apple was torturous, and when he did, his gaze landed on his potatoes.
“I find potatoes are only tolerable when nothing else will do, and then, only cooked.”
As if he needed to be told that. He reasoned he was not showing her the manifests, which his lordship had specifically told him not to do. He was not showing her anything at all, really. He wasguessing. “You might have luck with Mr. Rangold in the Jewish quarter of Hackney,” he said. “Well, Hackney Wick, to be more precise.”
Her lovely eyes sparked with delight. “Does Mr. Rangold have a first name?”
Mr. Kettle had to think about that. “Ivan, I believe.” He’d seen the man a time or two down at the docks, collecting his pay for housing whoever needed housing. And generally, the people he seemed to house looked as if they might not obtain housing in the usual ways.
“You have been most helpful.” She pushed both tarts toward him, bumping into his linen cloth and pushing it out of the way, which caused both potatoes to roll from his desk and hit the floor. Mr. Kettle ignored the potatoes, picked up one of the treats, and took a large bite. “No more, Mrs. Honeycutt,” he said through a mouthful of tart that was indeed melting in his mouth. “You have caught me at a particular moment that will be rectified this evening,” he said, eyeing one of the potatoes. “I will not be bribed.”
