The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  “Good day to you, Maggie.” Johanna smiled at her friend then fixed her gaze on the child. “And how is little Charlotte?”

  “See for yourself.” The woman, Maggie, handed the bundle to Johanna.

  You’d have thought she’d been given the crown jewels. Her face beamed. Coos and ohs and, “Who’s a sweet baby?” bubbled from her mouth.

  Maggie looked from Johanna to him, then back again. Johanna kept on murmuring endearments to the wee one, oblivious to the awkward situation. If she loved children so much, why was she not married with babes of her own?

  Alex stepped forward. “With Miss Langley preoccupied, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Morton.”

  Maggie dipped her head. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I am Jo’s longtime friend, Mrs. Scott. At least we used to be friends, until I had Charlotte. Now I’m not so sure she even knows I exist.” She nudged Johanna with her elbow. “Right, Jo?”

  “Hmm?” Johanna looked up, then adjusted her voice down a notch from baby talk. “Oh, sorry. May I introduce Mr. Mor—”

  “No need, Jo.” Maggie slid a grin from her to Alex. “We’ve already met.”

  Beneath her bonnet brim, Johanna’s brow scrunched, but only for a moment. She turned her face and went right back to gooing and gawing at the babe.

  “Mags! Come along, Wife. I’ve a place for us up front.” A shorn-headed man, as excessively stout as Maggie was thin, beckoned from the crowd ahead.

  “Sorry, Jo.” Maggie held out her arms. “You’ll have to play with Lottie another time.”

  Johanna handed back the babe with a sigh. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “I have no doubt. I’ll stop over in a few days. Good day Johanna, Mr. Morton.” The woman nodded toward them both, then scurried after her husband.

  By now the drums had passed and trumpeters blasted away. The parade would be over before he could assess the gathering. “If you’re up for a little unconventionality, Miss Langley, I’ve spotted just the place to watch the parade.” He pointed toward the passageway across the street.

  She frowned, the dimple reappearing in all its glory. “All I see are a pile of boxes.”

  “Exactly.”

  Lifting her face to his, she narrowed her eyes. “What have you in mind, sir?”

  “There’s no time to explain if you want to be able to see the parade—and possibly your brother.”

  Her brow lifted.

  Enough of a consent for him. He grabbed her gloved hand and led her across the road, ignoring another humph from her.

  Stacking one crate atop another, he assembled a small platform, but with no easy way for a lady to ascend—and he’d used up all the boxes. “Wait here.”

  He trudged farther down the narrow passageway, scanning the shadows created by the two tall buildings. There ought to be another crate or at least a rock to use as a step. Midway down, a dark figure entered from the other end. With each step, the man grew larger—and each step was unmistakable. One of the man’s legs was wooden.

  For a second, Alex froze. The village of Deal wasn’t that far from Dover, where a peg-legged smuggler had escaped the reach of the law—his reach—in the Dooley Affair. A free trader who knew his face.

  One who could easily reveal his true identity.

  “Aye there, matey,” the man called out. “Can ye spare a swig o’ the nipper with someone in need?”

  The voice was bass, carrying a slight lisp, spoken like someone who’d had half his teeth knocked out. Alex flexed his fists, the scars on his knuckles tightening. No doubt about it. Blackjack Cooper.

  Alex wheeled about—

  To face Johanna, who’d followed him. “Mr. Morton, are we to see this parade or not?”

  Behind her, swinging around the corner of the building and into the alley, came a short fellow with a crop of red hair too wiry to fit completely beneath his hat. “Ay Blackie! Been lookin’ for ye.”

  Alex bit down hard on a curse. Blackjack’s accomplice, Charlie Pickens, known as the Axe. Not that he should be surprised. The two were close as scabs on a pox victim.

  Sinking a bit, Alex leaned toward the wall, using Johanna as cover. A few more paces and Charlie would gain a full view of his face. But if Alex turned away, he’d expose himself to Blackjack.

  His heart pounded hard in his ears. He didn’t have any tactics left—save one. Gathering Johanna in his arms, he pressed her against the brick wall.

  And kissed her.

  Heat spread through Johanna. Feelings she’d never before experienced—let alone would be able to name—made her dizzy and breathless and horrifyingly wanting more. For the second time in as many days, the arms of Alexander Morton held her in a tight embrace. Only this time his mouth burned a fire against hers. Maddening enough, but worse, her body—the traitor—leaned into it, enjoying the swirly-headed sensation of freefalling.

  Well, then. There were no other options. She jabbed her knee upward, connecting quite sharply with his most vulnerable area.

  He released her at once, doubling over with a groan.

  “How dare you!” She spoke as much to herself as to him, hating the way she already missed his warmth.

  “Please … I can”—he gasped, his voice straining on the sharp inhale—“explain.”

  She turned on her heel and darted ahead. The explanations of men were never to be trusted, a hard truth she’d learned well from her father.

  “Miss Langley, wait!”

  It would be satisfying to turn and watch him hobbling behind, but not very effective if she wanted to evade the grasping liar. Had compromising her been his plan all along? If so, she much preferred the libertine Mr. Quail. At least he didn’t pretend.

  Bypassing two men, one short and one peg-legged, she dove into the crowd, earning herself a few, “I beg your pardon’s,” and some outright curses. Holding her loosened bonnet atop her head with one hand, she used the other like a plow, turning rows of people and clearing space enough to wriggle through. She dodged a group of schoolboys, skirted an overturned barrel of pickles and an angry vendor, then darted across the street behind a row of redcoats on horseback. The view was not pleasant, neither the odor, but she made it to the other side without slipping in a pile of manure.

  The crowd was thinner here, and she soon discovered why. Her dress clung to her moist skin, the sun having full rein to beat down upon the spectators without hindrance. After a glance over her shoulder, she slowed her pace, both from necessity and relief. No broad-shouldered man with hair the color of ripened wheat followed her. For a moment, she considered stopping and watching the last of the parade—until a freckle-faced boy crossed her path.

  She snatched Thomas’s collar an instant before he could dash off. “How providential, Brother. I’ve been looking for you. There’s an inn full of musicians for you to attend, and they’re likely waking just about now. It’s chamber pot duty for you, my boy.”

  “Aww, Jo!” Thomas squirmed in her grip.

  “Come along.” She tugged him out of the press of the crowd and onto a side street. He rattled off excuse after excuse about why he shouldn’t have to work, ranging from an old hoop rolling injury in his knee that he claimed pained him to no end, to pleading he was only a child.

  She bit back a smile as she yanked him around the corner of St. James—then froze. Two paces in front of her stood Mr. Spurge, the man she’d been trying to avoid for the past two weeks.

  The lien holder of the Blue Hedge Inn.

  “Miss Langley.” His dark eyes narrowed as he drawled out her name. He towered above her, his height emphasized by a tall, black hat. “How fortunate to cross paths.”

  Thomas scooted behind her, the coward. Was this how Lucius Nutbrown felt when she confronted him for rent? “Mr. Spurge.” She bobbed her head. “G-good to see you.”

  “I wonder.” He stared down his nose as if he were a king. His white hair and beard were as colorless as his voice. “I’ve stopped off several times to collect what’s owed me. I daresay, judg
ing by the frequent absence of you and your mother, that it’s a wonder the Blue Hedge Inn operates at all.”

  “Yes, well … I can explain.” Wonderful. She sounded exactly like Mr. Morton. For a moment, she considered shoving Thomas to the front and letting his wily tongue spin a whale of a tale.

  Spurge held up a gloved hand. “No explanation required. Simply provide what’s owed me by next Friday.”

  She licked her lips. With any luck, sweet words would flow, giving him reason to put off what she prayed wasn’t the inevitable. “Perhaps you ought make that the week after, sir. With all the busyness of the holiday, I’m sure you can understand—”

  “What I understand, Miss Langley, is that you and your mother need to face facts. The Blue Hedge Inn is going under. I suggest you bail out as soon as possible.”

  His prophecy hung in the air, as unpleasant as the stink of the soldiers and their horses. Fighting the urge to run away, she planted her feet a little wider apart and lifted her chin. “We’ve been in dire straits before, Mr. Spurge. God always provides a way out.”

  “Funny. I’ve heard that sentiment many times.” The lines of his face hardened into angry tracks. “Until a stint in the workhouse changes that philosophy. One week, Miss Langley. Twenty-five pounds. Nothing less.”

  “Very well.” She lifted her chin higher. “You shall have it.”

  “Yes, I shall.” A sneer slid across his face. “One way or another.” Without waiting for her reply, he tipped his hat, then sidestepped them both.

  She watched his camel-colored dress coat disappear into the crowd, her confidence vanishing along with him.

  Thomas tugged her sleeve. “Where you gonna get twenty-five pounds by next Friday, Jo?”

  She blew out a long, low breath. Miracles still happened.

  Didn’t they?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Alex handed over his invitation to a footman, who was more primped and tailored than some of the guests. If the viscount’s servants were this ostentatious, what would the man himself be like? And worse … what of his daughter?

  He swallowed back a bitter taste and forced a pleasant curve to his lips. Better to shove aside all thought of Ford’s ludicrous directive for now, tuck it away into a back corner of his mind. Given enough time, surely he could come up with some plan that would release him from obeying such an outrageous command—and perhaps he worried for nothing. He could’ve misunderstood. Thatcher had yet to return with clarification. Or maybe Ford had changed his mind.

  Oh God, make it so.

  The footman placed the invitation into a basket stationed next to him. “Welcome, Mr. Morton.”

  Alex strode into Lord Coburn’s mansion as if he owned the place, confidence his best ally for the moment. He grabbed a glass from a passing silver tray and drained the contents before crossing the front atrium. The drink was not overly sweet and left a dry aftertaste. No bubbles tickled the back of his throat, but even so, he had no doubt about the origin of the viscount’s wine. Sparkling or not, champagne always made him—

  He turned aside and gave in to the inevitable sneeze.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off a repeat performance, he entered a wide corridor and headed toward the open doors of a ballroom. With each step, he collected curious glances from strangers. He knew no one, but could name them just the same. The fat merchant hoping to sell his soul to gain a contract with the viscount was Greed. The servant sneaking off for a tryst in an unused closet, Lust. And the pair of matrons whose plan was to allow their charges enough slack to hog-tie a bachelor? Self-serving Languor. Here in a manor home or down at a quayside bawdy house, people were people the world ’round.

  The first notes of a quadrille welcomed him into the ballroom, and once past the threshold, he fought the urge to cover his eyes from the brilliance of chandeliers, jewels, and hopeful gazes noting his entrance. To his right, a line of dancers bowed in front of their partners, one dark head and slender figure almost familiar. From this distance, however, he couldn’t be certain.

  Quickening his pace, he skirted the gathering, hoping to gain a closer look. The woman was petite, shapely, and then completely blocked by an ape-shouldered monster of a fellow. Alex angled for a better view and … there. Was it? Could that be Johanna Langley?

  But when the woman looked up and bright light bathed her face, blue eyes stared back at him, not brown.

  And not angry.

  He averted his gaze and moved on. Surely one glass of champagne couldn’t have skewed his vision already—but yes. Better to blame the fruit of the vine than a truth he dare not admit.

  He could not get the woman out of his thoughts.

  Aah, but Johanna Langley was a fiery one when roused. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon trying to chase her down and apologize for the kiss. Every time he drew near, she shot off like a fox from a hound. Not that he blamed her. His behavior had been abominable.

  But it had worked. By the time Johanna had stomped out of the alley, Blackjack and Charlie had disappeared down the street.

  Unfortunately, the ground he stood on now wasn’t much safer. How the deuce had he strayed so close to the punch table? Females of all shapes and sizes eyed him over the rims of their cups. He suddenly understood why a stag froze. The slightest twitch would be conveyed as an invitation, drawing a rush of taffeta and ambition.

  Slowly, he shifted his weight, prepared for a quick about-face. Handkerchiefs dropped like a cloudburst. If he picked up one, a frenzy would break loose. There was nothing to be done for it, then. Sometimes the best way out was to simply barrel through. So he did—

  And came face-to-face with three matriarchs, cocking their heads in unison, eyeing him like a vulture over a laid-out carcass. He swallowed.

  They advanced.

  He’d rather take on Blackjack and Charlie’s swinging axe than this.

  “There you are! Come along, ol’ scuffer. We’ve been waiting on you.” A deep voice reached his ear an instant before an arm draped around his shoulder and towed him sideways.

  The fellow who led him through the crowd was short, the top of his slicked-back hair even with Alex’s nose. He smelled of pomade and cherry tobacco—and strongly, to be distinguishable in the midst of ladies who’d bathed in rose water and lavender. He was also no stranger to the viscount’s mansion. Instead of crossing the length of the ballroom, he darted behind a three-paned partition near the wall, used to disguise the comings and goings of servants. Behind the panel, the man paused in front of a closed door and turned. “That was close. What were you thinking?”

  “I …” Exactly. Think. Should he know this fellow? Had he overlooked any passwords or codes given him during the magistrate’s briefing?

  Swerving away from a passing servant, Alex summed up his options, the best being to play along with this charade—but charades was his least favorite party game. He looked the man square in the eyes. “Do I know you?”

  “Likely not.” Stubby, yellowed teeth peeked out of a grin that lifted clear to the man’s brow. He’d only seen that once before—on a goat. “You’re new here, are you not, Mr. Morton? Oh, hang it all. That’s much too formal. I shall call you Alex, if you don’t mind, or even if you do.”

  Alex rubbed the back of his neck, stalling for time. Was this man a threat or as big a ninny as Nutbrown? Either way, the fellow knew his name, a distinct disadvantage for him since Alex couldn’t credit who he might be.

  “Don’t think too hard on it, old man. I had the footman alert me should we have the good fortune of the arrival of a new player. You didn’t really want to dance, did you?” The man’s gaze flickered over him from head to toe. “You don’t strike me as a fleet-footed dandy.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  “Pah!” He landed a playful punch on Alex’s upper arm. “If we’re to be gaming partners, I suppose I should introduce myself. I’m Robert Coburn, but call me Robbie. Quite got used to it over there.” His head angled toward the west.
r />   “Bristol?”

  “Boston. Served some time as a lieutenant. And now that the formalities are over …” He turned and shoved open the door. “Shall we?”

  “What have you in mind?”

  Robbie glanced over his shoulder before entering a dimly lit stairwell. “You can thank me for this later.”

  Flexing the fingers of his right hand should he need to draw the knife hidden inside his waistcoat, Alex followed Robert—Robbie—up the stairwell. The man’s surname was the same as the viscount’s, but the spring in his step, lack of polished manners, and careless demeanor labeled him anything but. Probably. Not that he hadn’t encountered stranger things.

  Alex blinked in the dimmer lighting. Were shadows and confined spaces among his fears, he’d likely be sweating. The higher they climbed, the more the music and laughter of the ballroom faded. With this many stairs, he suspected they’d bypassed the first floor and gone directly to the second.

  At the top step, for there was no landing, Robbie knocked on a panel with no knob. Two sharp raps, a pause, then five successive taps. The door opened inward. Cigar smoke wafted out. Before Robbie passed through, he glanced back. “You do play faro, don’t you, Alex?”

  The muscles in his gut tightened. This had been far too easy. Almost like a gambling rogue had been expected to walk through the viscount’s door this night. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his knife, taking care to keep the blade concealed.

  “Alex?”

  He forced a half smile. “Sorry. Just trying to recall the rules of the game. Now that I think on it, I believe I have played a time or two.”

  “Excellent!” Robbie strode through the door.

  Alex stopped on the threshold, ready to sprint back down the stairwell if necessary. A few paces away, a manservant near a sideboard appeared innocuous enough. Hard to tell about the three men seated at a round table halfway across the room, especially since a fair amount of ivory betting chips at center indicated a small fortune was currently at stake.

  “Look what I found.” Robbie beamed a smile and swept a hand toward him. “Fresh meat.”