December 20, 1815
Thirteen
Rafe
Rising in the dark,Rafe brushed a kiss against his sleeping bride’s cheek, a rush of affection warming him as it always did in Verity’s presence.A lady who had suffered at the hands of a greedy relation for all her adult life, she could have found better than an innkeeper’s son.But starting out together, she’d fit into his world as if she’d always been there.He might not be a religious man, but he never ceased to be amazed at the miracle.
He fretted about her recent sadness, fearing she thought she’d made a mistake by marrying him.But the orphans had lifted her spirits, which made him as protective of them as his wife.
He stopped in the adjoining bedchamber to check on them.They were a cause for more concern than he meant to express.Verity loved children.He knew that.She had tamed a schoolroom full of rambunctious brats of all ages and had them learning their numbers and letters without a single complaint.But these two well-bred, educated youngsters...didn’t belong in an impoverished inn.
Someone would come looking for them—and he feared they might not be the ones who should have them.Sending young children out without their belongings, in that broken-down buggy, at night, with a drunken driver...He suspected foul play.He didn’t grasp the reason, only the danger.If Verity lost them like that...There would be no consoling her.
He’d posted the dead woman’s image in the lobby.At this point, she was the only clue he had.
The little girl had crawled into bed with her brother and slept clinging to her new rag doll.The kitten had abandoned his hearth bed, climbed in, and curled up with them.
Last night, Rafe had talked to Daniel a bit and learned Daphne used to talk.Daniel didn’t know why she quit.He’d come home from school to be told his mother had died.His sister hadn’t said a word since.Things like that simply did not happen in respectable households.Rafe hoped and prayed the Uptons foundBeanblossomand that it held people who knew the children.
He dressed and traversed the back hall to the kitchen, where he stirred the fire and heated water.With years of experience, he had the yeast and tea ready at the same time.He gulped a cup, then mixed the ingredients.After he washed and shaved, he kneaded the dough.He had bread in the oven and rashers and eggs fried as the servants straggled in to help.He slapped his food on day-old toast and left the women to finish up.They were capable of watching the bread bake while preparing breakfast.
Finishing his egg-bacon sandwich, he shrugged on his greatcoat, and stomped up the lane to Willa’s cottage.He wished he’d had training in how to be a bailiff instead of making it all up on his own.He was grateful for friends who gave him suggestions, but they didn’t know much more about the position than he.They’d searched Willa’s stable and yard as well as her house, but not knowing what was out of place or missing, they didn’t learn anything.Fletch had only noticed her slow clock.
The aroma of bread baking permeated the chilly morning air.Brydie must have come in early.
Rafe studied the flagstone path as he traipsed to the back door.Had the killer come in front or back?Had she known the villain?Fletch had said she hid a key under a flagstone beside the kitchen door.Any of her visitors might have known about it.There had been no sign that anyone had battered in the door, so her killer must have known—or he’d followed Cooper inside.Cooper hadn’t regained much memory of his arrival.It seemed likely that he’d been hit when he’d walked through the door.
Meera had said the knife had caused a lot of splatter.But Cooper hadn’t had a speck of blood on him, other than a few spots on his linen and around the bump on his head.How did one go about searching for blood-splattered clothes?They’d found nothing in the cottage.Rafe supposed clothes could have been thrown in those great ovens—which Brydie and Cooper had set alight.Would they have noticed clothes?Not if they were already ashes.
Brydie was feeding the guard Captain Huntley had sent in the kitchen.
“Quiet night?”Rafe asked.
The man shrugged.“Except for Fletch’s snoring.He slept on the couch, Mr.Cooper, upstairs.We took turns patrolling, checking doors and whatnot.They stayed locked.No one rattled them.No one tried the windows.Any villain is long gone.”
That’s what Rafe feared.
Fletch sprawled on the sofa in the front room.The mantel clock was back in place, chiming as Rafe walked in.Fletch unburied himself from his greatcoat cover and rubbed his unshaven jaw, grumbling.He must have spent at least part of the night fixing the clock.It chimed seven times.Rafe didn’t have a watch but he’d surmise that was about right.
Apparently drawn by the smell of breakfast, Cooper staggered down the dark stairs, holding the rail instead of lighting a lamp.He scrubbed a hand over his rumpled hair and glared at Rafe.“This is senseless, you realize.One of Willa’s customers took it on himself to rid the world of her, and you’ll never find him.”
Fletch growled, but he wasn’t one to talk much in the morning—or at all.He staggered into the kitchen.The backdoor slammed, so he was on his way to the privy.
“Someone searched her desk,” Rafe reminded him.“They sought something.I’m going to take her trinkets down to Oswald.He buys, sells, and pawns bits and pieces.Maybe he’ll recognize one of them.”He’d come up with that idea while staring sleeplessly at the ceiling last night.
He hated the idea of a killer running free, but he’d be relieved if he knew the town wasn’t under any threat.
Fletch returned while Rafe gathered the trinkets they’d collected so far.Holding out the box of rings and spoons and pins, he asked, “Any of these belong to you?”
His friend didn’t even look.“Nah.I gave her coin.There’s a silver spoon in there comes from up the manor, though.Recognized it yesterday.”
“Quincy wouldn’t steal spoons.He’s in charge of them, isn’t he?”Rafe suspected the portly ex-fighter butler was sweet on the housekeeper.It was doubtful if he’d jeopardize that relationship visiting Willa.Besides, an ex-boxer like Quincy would have been noticed anytime he stepped off the manor grounds.
“Footmen set the table.Kitchen help washes.Anyone could slip a spoon into a pocket.Quincy usually counts them.You might ask if any went missing and when.But even if one of the footmen stole it, it proves nothing.”Fletch pulled a stone from the fireplace and reached in, producing another small bundle.“She hid these things all over, for her old age, she said.”
So Willa had trusted Fletch with her secrets.Or he’d discovered them and questioned.Interesting.
Fletch hid his grief well, but it was there, in the angry rumble of his voice as he handed over the cloth-wrapped bundle.
