The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  A slow smile moved across her lips, though she had no idea how she and Mam would provide for so many guests. “This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I asked You to fill the inn, Lord, but thank You for listening.”

  Descending the last step into the taproom, Alex winced at the noise, hard-pressed to decide which was worse—remaining upstairs in a room the size of a wardrobe that smelled of mushrooms, or taking his dinner amidst an offkey violin, a bodhran that could use a good tightening, and two mandolins dueling to the death. To make it worse, Gabriel Quail belted out a ballad with a voice jagged enough to weather the whitewash on the plaster.

  A muscle in his neck tightened. How was it possible he missed the din of London?

  To his right, a checkered blue skirt hem peeked out a door, and for a moment, his spirits lifted. Resting his eyes upon sweet Johanna Langley would take the edge off Quail’s singing. His arms warmed with the memory of holding her. And when he remembered the way she’d stood up to Quail, unflinching and unapologetic, a grin lifted his lips. Had he known such a beauty was part and parcel of the Blue Hedge, he wouldn’t have given Ford such a hard time.

  As the rest of the skirt came into view, his grin faded. It would take two Johanna’s to fill that dress. A hefty woman emerged back end first. When she turned and met his gaze, the tray in her hands teetered, and her face paled to the shade of fine parchment. Odd. He often elicited a response from the ladies—even white-haired ones such as this—but it usually involved blushing cheeks or fluttering eyelashes.

  He tipped his head toward her. “Good evening, ma’am.”

  “Evening, sir. I’ll see ye have a bowl and a mug straightaway.” Above a spray of faded freckles, the woman’s brown eyes—the same shade as Johanna’s—brushed over him like an artist studying a model to be painted. One eye, however, lagged behind the other. Could she even see out of it?

  She turned and crossed the floor to Quail’s band of merrymakers. A hitch in her step caused her skirt to ride askew on her left hip—same side as the bad eye. Grey hair made a run for it out the back of her cap, right side, this time. She had trouble reaching with her left arm as well. Johanna’s mother obviously had suffered an injury years ago. Perhaps it had something to do with the death of Mr. Langley. Perhaps not. Alex filed the information into a storage bin in his mind to sort through later.

  In the meantime, he sank onto a bench in the corner with his back against the wall, giving him a wide-angle view of the room. It might’ve been a cozy inn at some point, but now the walls leaned in toward the soot-blackened ceiling, giving the impression the entire building wanted to lie down and rest.

  His table was one of six and closest to the door. On the other side of the scarred oak, the wall gave way to two paneled windows. Thomas could shimmy through them, but his own shoulders would never fit. The door he’d seen the woman carry the tray through likely led to a back door. As he compiled the list of alternative exits, he traced his fingertip along a set of initials scored into the tabletop. LL. What had possessed LL to pull out a knife and leave the engraved legacy? Drunkenness? Pride? And where was LL nowadays? Behind bars, dead, or reformed?

  His finger stopped. So did his breath. Those initials didn’t represent one man, but many. La ligue la liberté, a growing group of French rebels. He’d bet his soul on it. Casting a glance about the shadowy room, he assessed for possible Leaguers in attendance, though if any were here, their backsides would most likely be warming this bench. Was that why Ford had ordered him to board at this inn?

  Johanna’s mother reappeared from the kitchen, striding toward him like a hunter to the prey, her dress swishing off rhythm. “Here ye be, sir.”

  The bowl she set before him wafted a parsnippy aroma, though considering the minute bits of vegetables floating atop the thin potage, it was surprising he smelled anything other than salty hot water. “Thank you,” he said, hoping the words themselves would conjure up genuine gratitude for the lackluster meal.

  A mug landed next to his bowl. Were it full, a foamy head of ale would’ve sloshed over the rim. As it was, he could play kick-a-pin with the wooden tankard and spill nary a drop.

  “I understand you’re a new arrival here at the Blue Hedge. I am Mrs. Langley, proprietor.” She cocked her head to the same rakish angle he’d seen Thomas employ. “And you are?”

  “Alexander Morton.”

  “Mor … ton, eh?” Her tongue lingered over his surname, her good eye narrowing. Again with the studying gaze? He’d pay a king’s ransom to know what this old woman’s fixation was about. Had Ford put her up to this?

  She leaned closer, though she needn’t have. The music had ceased. Quail and his musicians were too busy slugging back their drinks.

  “I’m sorry, but from where did you say you hail?” she asked.

  Shrewd. Very shrewd. A smirk begged to lift one side of his mouth. He pressed his lips tight. Was she the plant or was he? Had the magistrate ordered him to stay at this establishment in an effort to toy with him, and in the process, sharpen his vigilance?

  He doled out a tidbit from his carefully constructed background. “I didn’t say, but I was born and bred a Sheffield boy and am on my way home from Porto Moniz.”

  “Sheffield?” Her mouth folded into a frown. “Humph.”

  He smiled. “Is there a problem?”

  Her lips parted, but it took a moment before any words came out. “None at all, sir. Forgive an old woman.” She tapped a finger against her cap, easing her frown into a half-smile. “The mind is one of the first things to go, you know.”

  She turned, and he watched her weave her way through the taproom. Her body might be hindered, but her mind was as dodgy as a pickpocket’s fingers. Maybe it would be better to avoid the woman altogether.

  The front door opened silently, and a dark figure slid in on a draft of night air. Dressed head to toe in black, the man wasn’t a mammoth, yet that didn’t make him any less dangerous. He was solid, compact, and entirely hidden in shadow. Stealth graced his every movement. Quail and his fellows didn’t turn a head amongst them as he eased the door shut behind him, but Alex instinctively reached for the blade at his side.

  The cloaked figure stalked toward him. Alex wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his knife and pulled it loose. Lantern light dared an advance beneath the man’s hat brim, revealing a stubbled jawline and a gaze that could make a saint flinch.

  Alex slipped his blade back into the sheath. “Evening, Thatcher.” He waited until the man sat opposite him. “You don’t waste any time. I arrived just this afternoon.”

  “I know.” Officer Samuel Thatcher’s voice was low timbred and smooth, the kind of tone one heard while wondering why the fellow’s lips had not moved.

  Alex leaned back in his seat. “You always were a ghost in the shadows.”

  Thatcher merely stared, his dark eyes hinting at neither pleasure nor irritation.

  “And a quiet ghost at that.” Alex lifted his hand, hailing Mrs. Langley for a drink for his friend. Who knew how long—or hard—the man had ridden.

  Thatcher pulled off his hat and pushed back the damp, dark hair on his brow, which answered that speculation. Why the breakneck pace?

  Taking a mouthful of ale, Alex mulled over a few possibilities, coming up short-ended on each. “I am surprised to see you so soon. Which leads me to wonder, how often am I to expect you?”

  Shrugging out of his riding cloak, Thatcher took the time to lay the garment beside him on the bench before he answered. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On when Ford has a message for you.” Thatcher wrapped both hands around the mug Mrs. Langley held out for him and took a long draw before he set the cup down. “Or you have a message for Ford.”

  He snorted. “So tell me, how exactly does one conjure a spirit?”

  While Quail’s discordant music wailed, Thatcher stared at him, the kind of gaze that might raise the fine hairs at the nape of a stranger. The fellow had no idea of social norm
s, or polite and pleasing manners. This was simply the way he was. Inward. Intense. And altogether unnerving.

  Finally Thatcher spoke. “You know the trees behind the rocks at Foxend Corner?”

  Alex nodded.

  “There’s a hole in the base of a dead ash, east of center. Smaller of the two. I’ll check it as I’m able.” Thatcher drained his mug, yet he did not reach for his great coat. Clearly the man had more on his mind.

  Alex folded his arms. “Ford isn’t seriously expecting me to have a report for him already, is he?”

  “On the contrary.” Reaching into an inside pocket of his waistcoat, Thatcher pulled out an envelope and slid it across the tabletop. “He’s sent a missive.”

  “So soon?” Strange. Ford had briefed him long into the night and well into the morning before Alex had packed his bag and set foot on the coach. Reaching for the letter, he studied the wax seal on the back. Not that he didn’t trust Thatcher, and in fact would with his life, but some habits refused to die no matter the absurdity.

  He scanned the first few words, his mouth slowly dropping. Pausing to blink, he reread the immaculate penmanship, then continued on. Surely not. He shifted, tilting the paper to the best advantage in the dim light. Each word sliced into his soul like an assassin’s rapier. “Dash it!” He growled under his breath, anger building with each beat of his heart. “Dash it! Dash it! Dash it!”

  Thatcher’s dark eyes widened. “Is that your official response?”

  “No. This is.” He shot to his feet, balled up the paper, and lobbed it across the room into the hearth. Quail and his band turned as one in his direction, but Alex didn’t sit until flames engulfed the magistrate’s note.

  Then he leveled a granite stare at Thatcher. “This time Ford’s asked too much.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Retrieving his hat from a peg on the wall, Alex clapped it atop his head, then straightened his collar. Good enough, for now. He’d fret over his appearance later this eve, when it really mattered.

  Happy to leave behind the tiny bed of torture he’d shared with Lucius Nutbrown, he crossed the small chamber in three strides. Nutbrown. Gads! What a bizarre fellow. Spare of mind and fat as well. Reaching for the door, Alex bit back a wince and pressed a hand against the sore spot below his ribs. Nutbrown’s elbows and knees had battered him more thoroughly than the time he’d lost a bare-knuckled brawl to Tom Cribb. Aah, but that fight with Cribb had taught him a trick or two—and so had his evening with Nutbrown.

  Tonight he’d bed down on the floor.

  He pulled shut the door and headed downstairs, the snores of Quail and his band distinguishable in the empty taproom. Sweet heavens! The ragtag fellows made as much racket asleep as with instruments in hand.

  Stifling a yawn, he silently cursed Nutbrown and Quail for the fatigue weighing his steps—but he’d likely have laid awake the entire night anyway. He scowled as he passed by the hearth. Ford’s directive taunted him from the ashes. Not that he’d never been asked to put his life on the line before, but this? He’d rather face a hundred musket barrels at point-blank range than even consider marrying a woman he’d never met. Why on earth would the magistrate order him to offer for the viscount’s daughter? Thatcher better return with some good answers—or this game was over before it even began.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Morton, but have you seen my brother this morning?”

  The sweet voice of Johanna Langley turned him around, and all thoughts of Ford and weddings evaporated. She stood six paces from him, fresh as the late spring morning, in a blue dress that had no right to brush over her curves so mercilessly. Wisps of dark hair escaped her hairpins, sweeping across her brow in such an innocent fashion, his fingers itched to smooth it back. How soft would it feel against his skin? Like the down of a gosling or the silk of a—

  “Mr. Morton?”

  A slow burn worked its way up from his gut. Had she noticed his stare? Giving himself a mental shake, he replayed her original question then shot her one of his own. “The lad’s slipped you again, has he?”

  “Afraid so.” When she frowned, a crescent-shaped dimple in her chin appeared, quite beguiling and—

  Oh, no. He’d not be caught twice at the same crime. He purposely focused instead on a point just beyond her ear, giving the impression he looked at her but without the temptation to ogle her like a love-struck schoolboy. What was going on with him to skew his thinking so? Lack of breakfast, perhaps. Or lack of sleep?

  That was it.

  Relieved to have solved the mystery, he rolled his shoulders and returned his gaze to hers. “I am surprised to find you still here. Are you not attending the parade?”

  Johanna retrieved a tipped-over mug lying forgotten on the floor. After setting it in the dish bin near the kitchen door, she turned to him. “The running of an inn does not cease for a holiday.”

  “Right.” He swiveled his head, taking in the taproom from one corner to the other. “Quite the bustle in here, I’d say.”

  She scowled, or perhaps not. Honestly, how did one tell if an angel grimaced?

  The thought made him smirk. “Come now, do you never have any fun, Miss Langley?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Then I shall make it my personal quest to remedy that ailment and see you to the parade myself.” He angled his arm in invitation.

  Johanna’s eyes skimmed over his sleeve, but nothing more. Apparently, she’d have none of his offer.

  Well then, if entertainment weren’t a draw, he’d use another tactic—something he was never short of supplying. “We might find your brother amongst the merrymakers.” He added a wink.

  For the first time that morning, a smile dawned on her face, bright enough to shame the sun. “You are very persuasive, Mr. Morton.”

  “You have no idea.” He matched her grin.

  “Humph.” The sound was an exact replication of her mother’s. “Give me a moment to grab a bonnet, then.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget.” He pointed to a ragged bit of oak leaf pinned to his lapel. He supposed he ought to feel guilty for ripping the snippet of greenery from the gnarly garland he’d hung yesterday—but he didn’t. “You should be thankful it was I who came upon you this morn and not Mr. Quail. When he does finally surface, I’ve no doubt he’ll keep a keen eye out for forgetful misses who’ve neglected to sport a leaf this Oak Apple Day … unless you’re intending to solicit pinches?”

  Her eyes widened into brown pools, complimented by a deep flush spreading over her cheeks. She spun and stalked off, her skirt swishing fiercely enough to stir the ashes in the hearth.

  He suppressed a laugh. Making the prim Johanna Langley blush was good sport, but not his purpose here in Dover. While he waited for her return, he devised his plan for the morning. With the town gathered for the parade, he’d have the best opportunity to study people. Though Ford suspected a traitor amongst Dover’s elite, a conspirator rarely acted alone. Most likely there was a disgruntled lackey or two among the common folk who carried out the less desirable tasks associated with intrigue.

  “All right, I am ready, sir, though I warn you I shan’t stay long.” Johanna’s voice preceded her as she swept into the room. Her dark hair was tucked beneath a straw bonnet, a brown shawl caressed her shoulders, and yes … a sprig of oak leaf was pinned to her collar like a warrior’s shield. “My mother will need me to prepare for this evening when the inn shall be”—she mimicked his earlier gaze about the taproom—“quite the bustle.”

  He smiled. Prim, yet saucy … traits far more alluring than the usual flattering and fawning.

  Crossing to the door, he held it wide for her. When she passed, he gained her side, and they proceeded onto an empty street. The low drone of a crowd carried from blocks away, where the parade would begin.

  “Tell me, Miss Langley.” He glanced at her sideways. “Have you lived in Dover all your life?”

  She nodded. “And Mam tells me you’re from Sheffield.”

  He was glad
she stared straight ahead, her face half-hidden by her bonnet’s brim. The lying part of his job usually flowed smoothly, but this time, with this woman, a queer ripple of conscience came out of nowhere, cutting off his carefully prepared answer. Were she an officer or a scalawag, she’d have caught his hesitation. “Yes, Sheffield it is.”

  At the corner, they turned right. Latecomers like themselves dotted this street. The distinct tattoo of a drum corps chastened them to up the tempo of their pace.

  “How long do you plan to stay here, Mr. Morton?”

  “Depends.” His answer was as evasive as Thatcher’s the night before.

  “On?”

  He cut her yet another glance, and still she did not meet his eyes. Was she purposely hiding her face? Interesting method. Bow Street could use an interrogator like this woman. “Business.”

  He expected more inquiry, even formulated a few semi-truths that wouldn’t be outright falsehoods, yet she surprised him once again by holding her tongue.

  The closer they drew to the festivities, the more they zigzagged around a gauntlet of vendors selling parade whistles and all sorts of sweet treats. A thick hedge of people gathered two blocks ahead along the High Street, where an effigy of King Charles would be borne upon a flower-strewn cart. Alex veered to the left, hoping to avoid the crush of revelers and instead perch upon a stack of crates near the mouth of an alley for a bird’s-eye view—though how he’d persuade Johanna to such heights was a mystery.

  Good thing he had his tactics.

  “Oh, Johanna!” Across the street, a female voice rang above the crowd. “Over here!”

  Johanna waved then faced him. “Do you mind, Mr. Morton? I’d like to say hello, if only for a moment.”

  “After you.” He swept out his hand.

  The woman they approached was of a slighter build than Johanna. In truth, he feared a stout wind might tip her over—a very real danger this close to the Channel with the breeze gusting in from the southeast. She held a babe, bundled in a thick blanket as if the late spring sunshine were a foe.