“Quinn. Testing me, or testing yourself?”
“Can a man not do both?”
“I would ask what brings you here, but I can guess.”
“Lady Seagrave.”
“Older or younger?”
Quinn shot him a cool glance. “There’s only one.”
That was interesting. Somehow, Quinn was already a partisan in this fight. Or perhaps he was merely a stickler for the finer points of the law. “You know where she is?”
“No.” Quinn stood and joined him at the window. “But I know I was hired to kill her.”
Rom took a step back, every hair on his body standing on end, and firmly denied himself the pleasure of reaching for a weapon. “And did you?”
Quinn’s raised eyebrow was answer enough.
“You don’t know who hired you, do you?”
“Not yet. The messenger was traced to Camber. Lady Norelle has tasked me with finding out who paid him before further action is taken. If Louise Seagrave is at fault, the evidence must be clear. Beyond all doubt.”
Rom grunted and walked back to his desk. “I’ve been here for months and haven’t managed to find conclusive evidence of anything else she’s suspected of. No money trail, no communication with Thalassa, no suspicious visitors. What makes Lady Norelle think that will change?”
The shorter man cast him an inscrutable glance. “I understand the former Lady Seagrave has designs on you.”
Rom felt a flush rising and tugged at his collar. “Who told you that?”
“The current Lady Seagrave. She seemed quite certain that Louise hopes to convince you to marry her for her money.”
“Then Lady Seagrave is far more observant than she seems,” Rom said dryly. “Though I can’t quite picture her having a rational conversation with an assassin.”
Quinn said nothing, so Rom let the matter drop.
“I knew Louise was flirting,” he admitted, “but it honestly never occurred to me that she might be serious enough to commit murder over it.” Rom shook his head incredulously. “I know I look older than I am, but she’s what… over twelve years my senior? Even if she were as rich as she pretends, what man would be tempted?”
“One who believed she could offer him status as well as wealth, and might be dazzled by a refined, mature woman,” Quinn said.
“You mean an idiot such as Rommel Griffin is currently pretending to be?”
Thankfully, Quinn ignored the opportunity to needle him. “She needs stability. Craves recognition. Her husband has been missing over a year, which means their marriage can be legally dissolved by Andari law if she chooses. You’re a fool with a title, you don’t seem desperate for an heir, and her estate neighbors yours. Why wouldn’t you be tempted by a rich widow who could enlarge your holdings, and who used to have connections at court?”
It was the longest speech he’d ever heard Quinn make. It also had the ring of truth.
“Even so, why would Louise invite her daughter here, where Brenna’s death could only invite scrutiny? Why not have her quietly murdered in Evenleigh?”
“Lady Seagrave knows too many important people,” Quinn pointed out, surprising Rom. “Her death in Evenleigh would immediately be considered suspicious and investigated accordingly.”
“And it won’t here?”
“It was meant to look like an accident.” Quinn shrugged. “Also, the former countess may have wished to establish her innocence by demonstrating her desire to connect with Brenna now that the earl is out of the picture.”
If it was true, the old witch got more than she bargained for. First an afternoon of utter embarrassment, and then her intended target’s disappearance.
Rom grunted his assent. “So have you seen her?”
“Louise?”
“Lady Seagrave,” Rom corrected impatiently. “You apparently staged her murder so effectively that Louise fainted and her maid is having hysterics.”
“I told her to disappear.”
“You told…” Rom got hold of himself with an effort. “You’ve met Lady Seagrave, correct?”
“Yes.” Quinn remained impassive.
“And you just let her wander off with the instruction to disappear? The woman is likely to end up in a hole in the middle of the woods being mauled to death by skunks!”
The prospect didn’t seem to concern the other man in the slightest. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you go find her?”
“Dash it all, Quinn!” Rom ran a hand through his hair and grabbed his jacket off the arm of his chair. “I’m involved in an investigation at the moment. I don’t have time to chase runaway heiresses.”
“Then leave her be.”
Rom shot the assassin a frustrated glare. “I can’t. Lady Norelle explicitly charged me with keeping an eye on her, and if anything happens while she’s here, it’s my head on a pike, not yours.”
As he strode out of his office, Quinn called after him.
“I wouldn’t suggest trying to rescue her.”
“Why not?” Rom turned back with a scowl.
“She won’t like it.” Quinn’s expression was unreadable.
“Then she shouldn’t run off and get lost! As it stands, I’ve got no choice but to find her before she gets into who knows what kind of trouble.”
Quinn’s lips curved into a smile. It was not a happy look, more the expression of something dangerous, hungry, and very, very amused.
“Good luck,” he said.
On her first morning in Camber, Brenna visited an apothecary shop and a store selling ready-made clothing. Afterwards, she returned to her hotel room, which she’d acquired only by claiming to be a maid preparing for her mistress’s arrival. Hotels did not generally permit unattached and unchaperoned young women to rent rooms, so she would only be allowed to remain for as long as it took them to realize that her “mistress” was never going to arrive.
A few hours later, she emerged feeling like an entirely different person. If she had done her work well, the rest of the world would have to agree. Her hair had been dyed to an unrelieved black, and her clothes were now that of a just barely respectable female from the seedier side of town. A red bodice was laced tightly over a plain white blouse, while her dark skirt featured enough flounces to catch the eye. High-heeled boots completed the outfit, leaving Brenna quite ready to set out in search of gainful employment, and, hopefully, a more permanent place to live.
During her years working for Lady Norelle, Brenna had held numerous jobs, but one of her favorites was the time she’d spent as a tavern keeper. After a few drinks, a mark would tell a tavernkeep nearly anything, especially if she was female and sympathetic. The food was usually decent, the company was rarely pretentious, and no one expected her to fake anything. When she was hungry, she ate. When she was angry, she’d occasionally punched a man in the face and found herself congratulated for doing so. If anyone got drunk, she simply threw them out. Men would come in for a pint and a chat, but they usually kept their hands to themselves and then went home to their families, while those who didn’t have families might stay until closing time.
She’d found it to be simple, satisfying work, and, as a bonus, no one acquainted with the Countess of Hennsley would ever think to look for her in a seedy pub.
Sadly, no one in Camber seemed to be hiring. Brenna traipsed from one tavern to another until she was exhausted and her feet hurt, but it was clear that not only was she in a much smaller town than she was used to, they didn’t much care for outsiders. At one place she’d actually had a fish thrown at her when she didn’t leave fast enough after her request for employment was rejected.
It was growing late, and Brenna was beginning to think she needed a new plan. She’d never had this much trouble finding work before. Maybe the hotel would let her stay another night, and she could try a different appearance and a different sort of business the next day. There might be a higher demand for bookkeepers, which would make it providential that Brenna had remembered to pack her most sensibl
e and respectable outfit when she was fleeing Crestwood in such unseemly haste.
But when she returned to the hotel, the first thing she noticed was her bag, already packed, lying on the floor just to the side of the desk. She caught the eye of the clerk, who merely sniffed and held out a hand for her key, never deigning to so much as speak to her.
Apparently they’d discovered her deception sooner than she’d hoped.
Brenna handed over the key, shouldered her bag, trudged back into the street, and headed for a less affluent part of town.
There were a few pubs she hadn’t tried yet, mostly because they appeared to be the sort that wouldn’t necessarily welcome women. She’d worked at a few before, and it was always more of a challenge to prove that she could handle herself and wouldn’t tolerate disrespect.
And there were some she wouldn’t even walk into because it was simply too dangerous.
After surveying the last available options, Brenna decided to start with The Bad Apple. She’d passed it by before because it was loud, crowded, and right in the middle of the busiest street in the area. It also had a laughably awful sign featuring what appeared to be an ancient crone holding a piece of fruit, but it wasn’t like Brenna was in a position to be choosy.
After taking a moment to assess the crowd, Brenna pushed through the doors and took her time strolling up to the bar. She cast an assessing eye over the patrons, and even bestowed a wink on one or two, noting that they were overwhelmingly male. It had already become apparent that in Camber, women did not frequent pubs for their own amusement.
Quite gratifyingly, conversation slowed for a moment as the customers eyed her back before returning to their drinks. They appeared to have pegged her as unusual but ultimately forgettable—which meant her disguise was perfect.
Interestingly, the bar was currently being tended by a woman.
“You must be new around here,” the nasal-voiced brunette called from behind the bar. “Let me acquaint you with the way of things. If you’re lookin’ for a dance hall, this isn’t it. If you’re lookin’ for a free meal, this isn’t a charity. And if you’re lookin’ for a man, I think he ran out the back way when he saw you coming.”
The crowd roared with laughter, and Brenna grinned right along with them, feeling suddenly quite at home. This was a game she knew how to play.
“If I were looking for a man,” she returned with a wink, “he’d be under the table, wetting himself and pleading for mercy. But as it happens, I’m looking for a job. I work all hours, I don’t spill unless the customer deserves it, and I don’t stand any nonsense. I can sing, dance, cook and clean, but if a man touches me without my permission, he loses a hand. Any chance you’d happen to be needing an experienced barmaid?”
The woman behind the bar looked at her and snorted. “Experienced, are you? If you’ve that much experience, why ha’nt you got a job? Do you even know the proper way to be waterin’ down a beer on a bad night?”
Brenna let a bit of ice show in her eyes. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake in coming in here. I’ve always been honest, and I’d never work for a ‘keep, man or woman, who would water down their beer and charge the same for it.” She started to turn away.
“Very good then. But what do you do when the customers are drunk and ready to riot?”
Brenna sensed rather than saw the man approaching her from behind, right before she smelled his breath. She’d rather hoped she could irritate a regular into trying something, but it was kind of him to time his interruption so beautifully. When his hand latched onto her arm and spun her around, she grinned.
“This,” she said, pulling free and linking arms with the startled drunk, only to grab his wrist and twist it up behind his back until he began to howl. “Now this nice fellow will do anything I ask, just so long as I promise not to break his wrist. Won’t you?” She pressed a little harder, and the man shrieked.
“All right, all right, let him go.” The disgruntled barkeep waved a towel at her. “Petey, sit down, man, before she takes your arm off.” She eyed Brenna with a bit less hostility. “Happens I could use you. My best muscle is laid up with a broken leg, so if you can serve and stop the rascals from starting fights, I might pay extra.”
Brenna concealed her sigh of relief, walked back to the bar and held out a hand to seal the deal. “I appreciate you giving me a chance. My name’s Renee, and I’ve just arrived in town. Would you happen to know of a boarding house that takes single women?”
The other woman chuckled. “Camber’s not so big as that. Mayhap they have such a thing in places like Lansbridge, but folk are a bit more old-fashioned in these parts.”
Brenna let her face fall, and it wasn’t much of an act. She had no idea where she could stay now that the hotel had kicked her out. “What do your other girls do?”
“Oh, they’re all married, or living at home.”
“I suppose they’re lucky to have the option.”
“Some of ‘em, maybe.” She eyed Brenna. “You married?”
“Never met a man I cared to take home. Most of ‘em seem too much like my da, and that’s more than I ever cared to put up with.”
The other woman chuckled. “Fair enough. Look, Renee, if you think you’ll be staying a while, I may have an idea. A few friends have a place of their own a few streets over, but they’re careful about who they accept. You’d have to pay your own way, keep your space clean, and contribute to the household chores, though none of them can cook, so the food won’t be anything to brag about. I’d live with them myself, but I look after my ma and we do all right together.”
“Your ma is lucky,” Brenna said sincerely.
The woman grunted, but she didn’t appear displeased. “Go two streets to the south, look for the place with a fence. Not much to brag of on the outside, but it’s clean enough. Ask for Grita, and tell her Myra sent you.”
“My thanks.” Brenna nodded. “When would you like me to start?”
“How about tomorrow?”
Brenna grinned. It might not have been her first choice, but working at The Bad Apple just might be the most fun she’d had in a long time.
It didn’t take long for Brenna to explore the neighborhood Myra indicated, eventually locating the run-down little house with a fence around the front. It was tucked in between two much taller buildings, and the roof appeared to have been slapped on at an odd angle, but it was clean, the yard was neat, and there were curtains over the tiny front window.
She went through the gate, noted the well-swept walk, and knocked firmly on the green-painted door.
After a few moments, it cracked open to reveal a baleful dark eye.
“What do you want?” a gruff female voice demanded.
“Are you Grita?” Brenna tried her best to sound friendly and non-threatening. “My name is Renee. Myra sent me. She said you might be willing to take on another single female boarder.”
“No.” The door slammed.
Brenna’s heart sank, but she knocked again.
“Go away.”
“I can’t. There’s nowhere else in town that will rent me a room.”
“Then there’s just nowhere. I don’t rent rooms to anyone I don’t know.”
“Please give me a chance.” She didn’t like to beg, but she liked sleeping in the street even less. “I pay well, I clean up after myself, and I know how to cook.”
The door swung open a crack. “You said Myra sent you? What can you cook?”
Brenna shrugged. “Yes, and tavern fare, mostly. Soups, stews, bread, biscuits, and pies. Apple pie is my specialty, but my meat pies are good too.”
The door opened a little wider, revealing a tall brunette wearing what appeared to be a habitual scowl. “You’d have to abide by all our rules if you want to live here. No men are allowed in the house, ever. You lose your job, you tell us. You decide to move on, you tell us. You nose into anyone else’s business or ask too many questions, you’re out. We all have our secrets and we keep them.”
“Sounds perfect.” Actually, it sounded awful, but Brenna wasn’t in a position to object. “When can I move in?”
Grita stepped back to reveal a narrow hallway. “Come in and meet the others. They’ll have to decide if anyone’s willing to share a room with you.”
She led the way to a cramped, dingy room with a single fireplace, where six other women were clustered around a small table, engaged in various tasks.
“All right, pay attention,” Grita said, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “This is Renee. She’s new in town, she needs a place, and she cooks. Anyone care to throw her out?”
The chorus of replies was immediate and decisively affirmative.
“Please stay!” said a cheerful blonde woman with a smattering of freckles over her nose. “I’m Hannah, by the way, and we’d love to have you.”
Brenna was relieved to find that not all the women were as unfriendly as Grita.
“Anything but your cooking, Grita love,” joked a tall redhead. She offered Brenna a quirky grin. “I’m Sinna.”
“Does she do windows?” That was from a loose-limbed girl of maybe sixteen, who drew a quelling look from the much older Grita.
“That’s enough, Dora.” She glared around the room and nodded once. “Fine. She stays. Everyone else give their names and decide who’s sharing.”
Brenna was quickly introduced to Silvie, Dulcie, and Batrice. Aside from Grita, the women all appeared to be quite a bit younger than Brenna. They also, unlike Grita, all seemed to have a sense of humor. Dora, the youngest, was the least serious, and the only one who volunteered to share a room.
“It’s tiny,” she said apologetically, “but there’s enough space for another bed.”
“Thank you for letting me stay.” Brenna had never felt a more sincere sense of relief and gratitude. They had no reason to trust her, and probably more reason than most to turn her away, but they hadn’t.
The situation was odd enough that Brenna wished she could ask these women for their stories, but Grita had made it clear that questions were strictly forbidden. For now she would simply have to prove that she was worthy of their trust.
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