My Lady Innkeeper

by Barbara Metzger

  * * * *

  “Sir Frauncis, you’re back.” That sounded cloth-headed even to Lyndell. Of course the aging macaroni was back, now in a red and gold waistcoat and red-heeled shoes with sequined buckles; he was staring at her through the glass on the top of his walking stick, almost searching for flaws, she felt. “And your nephew?”

  “Oh, I sent the dear boy back to school. Too, too tiring. Then my valet developed a putrid throat, so I left him at Ipswich, couldn’t travel with him of course. What was one to do? I simply couldn’t show my face in London without being dressed properly; luckily I remembered this quaint little inn. So refreshing, you know. Perfect for a repairing lease. I trust there’s a room for me?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Willy was to be allowed down for dinner for the first time that evening, and Cheyne invited Lord Crowley and Sir Frauncis to join them in the parlour. Felicia had offered to serve, an idea quickly vetoed by Mrs. Bennett, Willy and Lyndell, who together finally convinced the girl that she’d never be able to take her place in Society if she was found out. Besides, she would most likely spill something. The problem was, however, that Molly had decamped for good, dresses, bonnets and all, sometime during the day, before anyone could question her about Quinn’s presence. With so many travellers, especially those used to special services, the inn was short-handed, even with the marquis’s man Farrow assisting. Lyndell’s offer to pour ale in the common room didn’t even merit a tongue-click from her old nurse, who simply assumed she’d been teasing. The work was finally apportioned: Bennett would take care of the tap. Farrow would serve the titles, Mrs. Bennett would cook and dish out supper for the common room, Sam’l would watch the stables, Felicia would mash the turnips (the only kitchen task Mrs. Bennett would assign her) and Lyndell would again mind the hall desk, and help ferry dishes from Mrs. Bennett to Farrow. So it was that, amidst all the comings and goings, when the parlour door was left ajar, she could overhear parts of the conversation.

  “Fine table they put on here. Much better than before.” Obviously Lord Crowley.

  “You’ve been here before?” Cheyne’s deep tones.

  ‘Too damn often. There’s a good breeder an hour north. Hard bargainer, old Eckles, but prime stock. I got my bay colt off him in—”

  “Why don’t you try some of this hock, Crowley? It’s quite fine. What about you, Sir Frauncis, have you stopped here before?”

  “Occasionally. On the way to my nevvie’s school, of course. But tell me, does the proprietress seem familiar to you?”

  Cheyne said no, he was positive he had never seen her before coming here; Willy, a few glasses of wine in him, started: “It’s ‘cause she’s—”

  “Related to some of the better families,” Cheyne finished. He didn’t want Willy babbling on about Miss Riddley’s possibly illegitimate connections with any local noble houses.

  Lyndell was thankful to the marquis for protecting her, as it appeared, until Willy persisted: “But she’s not just plain Miss Riddley. She’s—”

  “My dear boy,” Cheyne drawled, almost in imitation of the dandified Hammerly’s affectations, “if you are finding Miss Riddley anything but plain, you’d best go back to bed. The wine has been too much for you.”

  All four men laughed. Lyndell wasn’t quite so appreciative anymore. She positively glared at Lord Dodgett when he came wandering down the hall, heading toward the kitchen.

  “If it is dinner you want, my lord, Mr. Bennett will serve you in the common room.”

  “What? Oh yes. I forgot I wasn’t at home, of course. At home I simply see if cook has left me something, whenever I’m hungry. It’s much too difficult otherwise, leaving an experiment in a crucial stage, just because others call it dinnertime.”

  “Of course.” Enough of this, Lyndell decided. The gentlemen would be a long time over dessert, then port and cigars, maybe even cards later. And with Dodgett out of the corridors too, she could not miss the opportunity. She signalled Bennett to listen for the bell, then went up.

  Dodgett’s room was nearest, so she began there. It was much the same as before, except there actually was a telescope set up on a tripod at the window, with stacks of notebooks on the chair. The notebooks really did seem to record dates in monthly intervals, times and distances for various planets, comets or whatevers. It could be a clever device for noting full moons for smuggling, perhaps too clever, since every farmer or fisherman knew the times and tides without such equipment. The rest of Lyndell’s search revealed a single change of clothes and some books, many in Latin. They could contain hidden messages, for all she knew, but she doubted it.

  Hammerly’s room was closest to her own, so she saved it for last, certain she could make a dash for the corridor, seeming to be innocently on her way, if she heard anyone approach. That left Crowley’s and Willy Richardson’s, of course, now that he was out of it for the first time. No, not Cheyne’s own cousin. She opened the door to Crowley’s room. What a mess!

  She had seen the man carry in his luggage, a satchel and his saddlebags. The stuff must have grown on being unpacked. There were discarded clothes and only barely fresh ones, a sack of sugar lumps and some ancient apples. There was another set of notebooks, and a leather wallet, right in sight, on the dresser with used towels. The man was a fool; the wallet was stuffed full of money—money borrowed, stolen, extorted? The first notebook listed mares and foaling dates, with sires, stud fees and breeders. Another diabolical code!

  When she had the second book in her hand, she heard steps on the stairs. She dropped the book and ran. Damn, she was on the wrong side of the corridor. There was Cheyne, helping Willy into his room, and there was Crowley, coming straight at her.

  “Good evening, my lord, I was making sure the room was adequate. Is everything to your liking?”

  Cheyne was scowling at her, suspicious of what she’d been at. She didn’t look at him.

  Crowley looked at her though, looked at the door to his room, and said, “So the old maid’s still got a race in her yet, eh? It ain’t what I’d have bet on, but if you’ve a mind—”

  Lyndell spat out, “Sir, this is not the stable!” and stalked off. Cheyne was smirking, while Crowley muttered something that sounded like “heated-up spinsters.”

  She opened her own door, turned and slammed it behind her, then locked it. There! She took a few steps across the sitting room toward her bedchamber when a shadow moved and a man came toward her. Oh God, Quinn was back! “Cheyne!” she screamed.

  The man said, “Hush, Dilly. It’s me, Jasper.”

  By now Cheyne was pounding on the door. Lyndell took a deep breath, requested her heart to beat less loudly so she could think, and shoved Jasper into the bedroom. She went to the entry and opened the door enough to give a view of the empty sitting room. “I’m sorry, I thought I saw a mouse. Good night.”

  She could hear Crowley mutter, “Yup, skittish, just like an old mare in season.”

  * * * *

  “Jasper, what are you doing here?”

  “Zounds! Dilly, you look a quiz. What’s that? Oh, I thought you wanted me to come. Bennett kept nattering on about your reputation and rakes and Quinn. Did he really try to stab you?”

  “Don’t you try to tell me you’ve finally found your conscience, Jasper Riddley, and you’ve come to protect me, for I won’t believe it for tuppence! Bennett said you’d show, for fear of Quinn. Well, you can end it all now. Your spy’s most likely here so you can identify him to Cheyne and settle the whole thing. Cheyne says if you do, the other charges will most likely be forgotten.”

  “Cheyne, huh? Is that how come you called for him just now?”

  “He ... The War Office sent him. I’ll go fetch him, Jasper, except please remember he only knows I’m your sister, Lynn Riddley.”

  “Wait up there, sis. How is it, if he’s so trusty, he don’t know your real name, huh? And besides, what am I supposed to tell him?”

  “Jasper Riddley, you have your attic to let! Do you think I
’d want anyone to know I’m running an inn, fraternizing with smugglers, all in this dowdy rig?” She didn’t add the clincher, “And that I’m really related to you,” but she was thinking it! “As for what you’ll tell him, you’ll say which man spoke most with Quinn, or the couriers, and who was here when that messenger was killed, Crowley, Dodgett or Hammerly.”

  “They’re all here at once, and Cheyne too, you say? Damn good opportunity for a hand of faro.”

  “Jasper!”

  “Shush, Dilly, unless you want to bring ‘em all in here. Listen, I don’t know why you’d think I’d know who it was;

  they all come and go regularly, and Quinn, well, he was always around. I didn’t watch who he talked to.”

  “Don’t you have a suspicion?”

  “No, and for that matter I can’t figure why you’d think the real traitor would come back here. Now that the government’s in on it, he’d be a fool to show his face.”

  “Unless he wanted to finish you off too!” When Jasper whitened, she said she was sorry. “That was mean.”

  “No, you’re right. If it is one of them, and he sees me here, he’ll think I’ll name him to Cheyne—and I’ll be found when the snow thaws in the spring. Better be going.”

  ‘Tell me one thing first, Jasper: if you had no evidence, and you weren’t involved in this, why did you write to me? What did you think I could do?”

  “Oh, I ... ah ... I thought you could go to someone in the War Office, say, and, you know, get them to drop the whole thing. For a favour, like.”

  “For a favour? You mean you thought I’d—Jasper, how could you?”

  “What about Cheyne, huh? You and he—”

  “Get out!”

  Jasper poked his head out the door, making sure no one was stirring. Then he tiptoed down the hall, boots in hand, and down the stairs. Three doors shut softly after he’d gone: Lyndell’s, Cheyne’s, and one other.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Lord Dodgett paid his shot Tuesday morning and left after breakfast with only his telescope, reserving Room Twelve for next month. He returned about noon for the forgotten suitcase of clothes. Lord Crowley spent the morning in the stable with Cheyne and Bennett, and departed after luncheon. He left rubbing his cheek, finally convinced that Miss Riddley was not ripe for a tumble in the hay. Sir Frauncis was keeping Town hours, sleeping till noon, then requesting breakfast, which was not forthcoming due to rebellion in the kitchen.

  “Ham and buns, indeed. If his fancy lordship is so ‘dreadfully famished,’ he can just lay his own eggs! Who’s going to cook lunch, I ask? And serve it, and clean the turnips off my stove top? And who, Mr. Bennett, is going to put my closet back to rights? There’s Miss Lyndy nigh murdered in her bed, and now some ... some swine is pawing through my dresses and tossing them all about. Dirty, that’s what it is, and I won’t stand for it. You go right into town, Mr. Bennett, and hire me some more help. Two chambermaids mornings, is it, so I can slave all afternoon and nights while you argle-bargle with every sot in the tap? And not keep an eye on what’s ours. I know the way back to Islington, I do.”

  Bennett went into town. It was Farrow, fetching his employer’s luncheon of rabbit stew with dumplings, who kindly offered to carry the eggs in to Hammerly, who again was sharing Cheyne’s once private parlour. Lyndell herself carried in the coffee and stayed to pour it, a perfectly ladylike service that Mrs. Bennett, even in a pet, couldn’t argue with. Lyndell was busy noticing how Cheyne’s smile grew, just for her, right up to little gold flickers in his eyes, when Hammerly’s drawl caught her attention.

  “I always take a walk after meals, so healthy for one’s digestion, you know. A brisk jaunt on a sunny winter’s day is the perfect thing. Perhaps you’d care to join me, Cheyne?”

  “Sorry, I promised Willy a hand of piquet. Perhaps Miss Riddley would like an outing, put some colour in her cheeks.” And he winked, behind Hammerly’s back, knowing full well her ashen look was due to powder, not lack of fresh air.

  “Thank you, but no. With Mr. Bennett off to town to hire new help, I must stay to look after the desk.”

  She stayed about two minutes. After Hammerly minced out the door, all fussily muffled and mittened and in boots at least, instead of his high-heeled shoes, she raced up the stairs to search his room. She was deciding whether to start on the dresser or the clothespress when the marquis quietly, cautiously, entered. He was not exactly pleased to see her there.

  “You little fool,” he raged, shaking her at the same time. “What in all damnation are you doing here? Haven’t you had enough excitement, almost getting killed? This is not some ladies’ tea party, my girl, and I will not have you in any more danger, do you understand?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But nothing! I said I’d handle it, blast it.”

  That was too much for Lyndell. His concern was touching; his high-handed domination was intolerable. “Is this how you intend handling it, my lord, by shouting at me? I suggest we get on with the search instead, before Sir Frauncis comes back and finds us here squabbling like children.”

  The marquis sheepishly acknowledged her logic, going so far as to admit his ill temper was due to worry over her safety, before turning to the wardrobe, patting down each garment.

  Lyndell gingerly lifted handkerchiefs and neckcloths, putting everything back in its precise place. “What of your game of cards with Willy?” she thought to ask.

  “Oh, he was teaching Felicia to play piquet. Something about winning all the money now, so no one can say he’s after her fortune later.”

  “You know, then. Do you mind?”

  “Mind? I’m delighted. It’s about time Willy settled down and made a life for himself. He can’t go on just being my heir and nothing else. Especially now.”

  Now that the marquis was thinking of setting up his own nursery? It was something to think about. Right now, though, Lyndell watched him squeeze the shoulder padding on a jacket. “Wesley?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  Ah. “This may sound foolish, but could you please tell me what we’re looking for?”

  “Seals. I thought you knew.”

  “No, I had no idea there was any evidence here. I just thought it was worth a look. Jasper couldn’t have known either; he said last night the spy would be insane to come back.”

  “So that was the mysterious Jasper. I was hoping so, and not some new beau of yours creeping about at night.”

  “What, did you think I was like Molly, with gentleman callers?”

  “Of course not,” he answered, wisely, if not honestly. The thought had crossed his mind, to be instantly dismissed.

  Content, Lyndell kept searching: “Tell me about the seals. How many? What kind?”

  “As for what kind, stolen and counterfeited, from the War Office. At least three or four, we think. I’m not positive they are here either; I don’t think our man would be carrying them around. In addition, the attempt on your life makes me more sure that someone doesn’t want you stumbling over anything.”

  “Yes, but what were the seals here for?”

  “It’s fairly complicated, and still conjectural, but London pieces it together this way: At first the traitor in London collected valuable information himself. You know, the kind mentioned at parties and discussed at clubs. He located Quinn, who we know had business dealings with the French, to transfer what he learned. Then, our man realised he could find out when couriers would be passing through here with more substantial information—reports, orders, et cetera. He could not simply steal the documents, but he could copy them, hence the false seals ... and hence Quinn’s part, besides his role of carrying the stuff to Napoleon, in exchange for the brandy and silk. Quinn or his wife would drug the wine, or get Molly to, uh, distract the courier. It only took seconds to read the documents and reseal them, using the counterfeits. The riders never knew the packages had been tampered with, so the plan went undetected a good long time, I’m afraid.”

  “The dead cou
rier?”

  “Exactly. He must have noticed, or protested, and they had to get rid of him. After that, the investigation showed a great many of the riders would stop here as the last stage before Southwold Barracks. A few finally admitted dallying with Molly. Incidentally, if you are interested, that’s why I was ... visiting her that evening, to try to get information.”

  “Why should I be interested?” Lyndell wasn’t going to fall into that trap. She’d heard lots of sweet names and sweeter hints. What she hadn’t heard, loud and clear, was any kind of declaration. She started checking behind the drawers now. She found a shilling, nothing else. “But if it’s Hammerly, and he didn’t carry the seals with him, why should they be here? In this room, I mean? I could have given him any room in the place.”

  Cheyne stopped trying to get the high heels off the red shoes to see if they were hollow. “Damn, what fools we’ve been! Of course they’re not here. And he’s certainly too clever to travel about with evidence that can hang him. But he’d have to come back, to make sure they were safe, and not likely to be discovered ...”

  “Outdoors!”

  “Exactly! I thought it strange that that Bond Street stroller would crave vigourous activity, much less chance mussing his clothes.”

  “Yes, the road is muddy and the fields and bypaths are still snowy. It’s not a very good day for a walk, not in yellow-lined top boots. Let’s go!”

  “Let us?’

  * * * *

  They were well chaperoned: Ajax doing his rambunctious best to muddy the trail, and Sam’l studiously following the tracks as Cheyne had taught him. Just beyond the inn they passed Hammerly coming back.

  “Your idea of a walk sounded so enticing after all, I decided to follow your lead,” the marquis told him. “Miss Riddley kindly agreed to accompany me so I wouldn’t lose the way.”