The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  The little lady disappeared, leaving him with a full belly, renewed hope, and more questions than ever.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Dumping the contents of the strongbox onto the counter, Johanna shook it for good measure. No more coins joined the small piles already counted and recounted. Horrid, horrid numbers! They wouldn’t just be the death of her, but of them all. One by one, she picked up each pence and shilling, recalculating carefully as she put them back into the box.

  Her heart sank. The exact same total—and far smaller than what it should’ve been.

  She slammed the lid shut, relocked it, and set it beneath the counter. Think the best, she scolded herself. Wait expectantly. Hope continually. Had she not read that this very morning?

  Marching toward the kitchen, she prayed with each step. Maybe Mam had simply tucked the money away elsewhere for safekeeping. Of course. That was it. It had to be it.

  “Mam?”

  Her mother whisked about from a basin full of dishes, hands flying to her chest and water droplets spraying everywhere. “My stars, girl! What’s going on? Is it Thomas? He’s not trying to get out of bed again, is he?”

  The bloom on Mam’s cheeks kindled guilt in Johanna’s stomach, and she pressed her fingers against her middle. “No, nothing so dire. I am sorry to have frightened you. I was just putting away my first payment from Mr. Needler and I noticed a fair amount of money missing from the strongbox. Where did you put it?”

  “Me?”

  “Surely it must have been you.”

  Mam turned back to the dishes. “Must it?”

  Her fingers pressed deeper, as if she might hold in the dread that bubbled to come out with her last cup of tea. If Mam hadn’t moved it, then …

  “Oh, no. No, no. We’ve been robbed, Mam! And with only three weeks before Mr. Spurge comes looking for his payment. Now even with my extra work, we won’t be able to pay him.” She leaned against the doorjamb, shoring herself up. “We are ruined.”

  Leaving the sink behind, Mam wiped her hands on her apron and crossed over to her. “Such dramatics.” She reached up and tweaked Johanna’s nose. “A wise woman once asked me if we fail to trust in God’s provision, what kind of faith is that, hmm?”

  She sighed, her own words boxing her ears—no doubt what Mam intended. “Feeble, I suppose.”

  “And there’s nothing feeble about the Johanna Elizabeth Langley I know. Come on, chin up.” Mam cocked her head, looking out with love from her good eye—her bad eye weak and squinty—

  And a tangible reminder to Jo that she must remain strong, for Mam’s sake, as well as her own. She forced a smile. “You’re right, of course. We shall wait and see what God does.”

  “There’s my girl.” Her mother returned her grin. “Now off with you. I hear patrons in the taproom, and I’ve not yet brought Thomas his lunch tray.”

  Grabbing an apron off a peg, Johanna slipped it over her head and worked the ties behind her back while she swept out of the kitchen. At a table near the door was a big man with eyes so cavernous, she wondered if such depth darkened his view. He sat at an angle, one of his legs jutting into the aisle. Across from him, a crazed mop of red hair topped a shorter man. Both their shirts strained against muscles. These were obviously working men. Dockhands, perhaps, judging by the deep color of their skin and huge biceps. Her step hitched. Something wasn’t right about this. At this time of day, they ought be heaving crates, not swilling ale. Good thing she’d thought to hide the strongbox.

  She neared them with a professional smile—one that froze on her lips when a pair of yellow stockings slid in the front door. No, there wasn’t anything at all right about this.

  “Not late. Not late! Mr. Nutbrown is on time, sirs.” Lucius and his clown puppet raced to a chair between the two men and sat so forcefully, it suspended precariously on two legs for a moment before thudding back down on all fours. Without missing a beat, Mr. Nutbrown shoved his jester toward her. “Afternoon, Miss Langley. My, but you’re looking fine today.”

  Her mouth flattened. “Mr. Nutbrown. Gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

  “Ale for the three of us, miss.” The big man jerked out a hand the size of a small frying pan and slapped a coin on the table.

  The flash of the golden guinea drew her a step forward. Why would a dockhand flaunt such an amount here? And where had he gotten it in the first place? “I am sorry, sir, but I won’t be able to make change for that. Have you anything smaller?”

  “Not to worry.” He eyed her with a grin shy of several teeth. “No change required.”

  La! They’d be passed out on the floor before that much ale was consumed. Still, a drunkard’s coin was no less valuable than a rich man’s. Maybe this was how God was providing? She considered the possibility all the way to the counter, where she filled three mugs.

  “Here you are, sirs.” She set down their drinks and stepped back, not liking the way the red-headed one kept his gaze pinned on her every movement. “Let me know if you require anything else.”

  She turned, but a puppet pecking on her arm pulled her back around. She narrowed her eyes and glared. “Mr. Nutbrown! I’ll thank you to stop—”

  “Mr. Nutbrown has another business opportunity for you, miss.”

  The beginnings of a headache pounded in her left temple, and from the beat, it promised to be quite a superb one. What a day. First taking Tanny’s abuse, then discovering missing money, now this. “I told you before that I will not serve as a lookout for underhanded or illegal activities. I have not changed my mind.”

  “You’ll have to excuse Mr. Nutbrown.” The big man leaned toward her, bidding her closer with a crook of his finger and lowering his voice so that only she might hear. “He’s a few cards short of a deck, you know.”

  Across from him, the red-headed man shoved one of the mugs toward Nutbrown. “Put Nixie away now. There’s a good fellow. Here, have your drink.”

  With Mr. Nutbrown occupied, the other men faced her. The big one spoke first. “I’m Mr. Cooper and this is Mr. Pickens.” He indicated the redhead with a nod. “As Mr. Nutbrown was about to say, we have an opportunity for a young lady of upstanding character and connections. He vouches for your integrity on both accounts.”

  Danger throbbed inside her skull. Or was that just the headache? She should turn right around and escape into the kitchen, send Mam out here, anything but consider whatever these men were offering. But the flash of the golden coin on the table held her in place. It wouldn’t hurt to listen, and ought she not judge according to looks?

  She crossed her arms and nodded at the big man. “What is your offer, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Mr. Nutbrown has been doing some paperwork for us. Reading and ciphering aren’t our strong points, eh Charlie?” Mr. Cooper lifted a brow at Mr. Pickens.

  The redhead slowly brought up his fist, flexing his arm. “No, sir.”

  She frowned. If the man thought muscles impressed her, he could think again, though she doubted very much he thought deeply about anything at all. The bump of a nose broken too many times showed he used his brawn more than his brain.

  Mr. Cooper continued, “Still, we’ve a business to run, and we’re stretched thin at the moment. Mr. Nutbrown suggested you might be able to help. He’s doing a little task for us tomorrow down at the harbourmaster’s, but, well …” He leaned toward her once again. “I’m not completely confident he can do it on his own.”

  “What has that to do with me?” she asked.

  “There’s a particular shipment we’re expecting, a profitable one. Coming in from Woolwich. We just need to know the name of the ship and the time of arrival.”

  Reaching up, she massaged her temple with two fingers. This wasn’t making sense, no matter how hard she tried to unravel it. “Seems that wouldn’t take any reading or writing. Why don’t you go and ask yourselves?”

  “That’s just it, miss. Mr. Pickens and I are expected elsewhere. Were it only reading and writing, why Mr. Nutbrown would do j
ust fine. Champion, he is.”

  Mr. Nutbrown perked up at the mention of his name. He set down his mug and rummaged in his waistcoat. Surely a ridiculous puppet conversation would follow.

  But the big man pivoted on the bench, turning his back to Mr. Nutbrown. “This task requires conversation, miss. As you can understand, the harbourmaster won’t likely give out information to a puppet.”

  While true, the explanation hardly clarified. She folded her arms. “Then why send him at all?”

  “Why, to save you a trip, miss.” Mr. Cooper smiled, and she wished he hadn’t. It was like watching a coach crash, so disturbing was his grin. “You give the information to Mr. Nutbrown, and he’ll deliver it to us. Shouldn’t take but an hour of your time.”

  She shook her head. Right now, a cool cloth in a darkened room sounded much better than this offer. “I don’t know, Mr. Cooper. I have my own business to run.”

  “Did I mention it pays five guineas?”

  “Five!” She choked, then narrowed her eyes. “Why so much? Are you certain this is not illegal?”

  The big man laughed. “Nothing illegal about asking for information, is there? And as I said, this shipment will be very profitable for us. Five’s a pittance. What say you?”

  She lowered her arms, smoothing her hands along her apron. There was nothing wrong with what he asked, yet it didn’t seem right. Still, maybe this was God’s provision. And if it did turn into something underhanded, in even the slightest fashion, she’d walk away—or run, if need be.

  “Very well,” she agreed, but the words tasted sour in her mouth. “Tomorrow afternoon, then.”

  Once again Alex trod down the gaol’s corridor, a guard on either side in the usual fashion. This time, though, no one dragged or shoved him. In truth, the men hardly even looked at him, as if they didn’t care whether he tried to escape. That could only mean one thing, possibly two. Either the charges had been dropped, or the gallows in front was rigged out and ringed by a crowd, waiting to watch his demise. A smirk twitched half his mouth. Either way, he would be free.

  As they swung around a corner and cleared the entrance hall, he still wasn’t sure what to expect. The master turnkey was not at his station behind the tall desk. In the shadows near the main doors stood a short man in a dark greatcoat, back toward him, hat set low. He turned at the sound of their footsteps, and his lips curled up, revealing short, yellowed teeth.

  The guards dropped back as Robbie Coburn advanced. Whatever the arrangement had been, or might be, Alex kept his feet moving toward freedom. There’d been no paperwork, no final admonitions, not even a word that his time was up. Quite the irregular release. Then again, his arrival had been anything but conventional. He apparently had Robbie to thank for that—and he would with a sound thrashing.

  “Thanks, fellows.” Robbie gave the guards a smart salute, then drew up alongside Alex, slapping him on the back. “My, but you’re looking a little rugged. Had quite the stay, did you?”

  Alex winced, the clap of Robbie’s hand managing to whap against one of his more recent bruises. “Quite.” His hands curled into fists at his side. Once they were outside, he’d give Robbie a little taste of his stay for putting him here. He glanced at the man sideways. “Am I to thank you for my holiday?”

  Robbie laughed, the sound incongruous inside these walls of guilt and desperation. He shoved open the front door with one arm. “No, not me. I’ll explain on the way.”

  Slowly, Alex’s fists unfurled, and he strode out into freedom, then paused on the top step and breathed in until it hurt. Early evening air, moist with saltiness, fragrant with honeysuckle, filled his lungs. He allowed the sweetness to wash over him. Dried blood, sweat, and grime remained, but even so, he felt cleaner. He probably ought wonder where Robbie was taking him, but truly, as long as it was away from here, he found it hard to care.

  “Not having second thoughts about leaving, are you?”

  When he opened his eyes, Robbie was already down to the curb, one foot up on the carriage step. Seated atop, a driver in gold-and-navy livery held the reins to a smart set of bays. Alex descended, straightening what remained of his dress coat. Hopefully the viscount would be in a charitable mood, for if he didn’t miss his guess, that’s exactly where they were headed.

  With a grunt, he hoisted himself upward and sat opposite Robbie. The thick scent of cherry tobacco and leather chased away the fresh evening air. As he sank into the cushions, he wondered for the hundredth time in the past few days if he weren’t getting a mite old for this lifestyle.

  Robbie retrieved a pocket watch, then snapped shut the lid with a curse. “Bah! Shouldn’t have stopped off for that pint, I suppose.” He rapped on the ceiling and the coach lurched into action. “The old man won’t be happy”—he tucked away the watch with a grin—“but then, he’s never happy with me now, is he?”

  “Lord Coburn?”

  “The very same. You can thank him in person for your recent holiday.”

  The viscount had put him in gaol? Anger shook through him as the coach rattled over gravel. He speared Robbie with a frown. “That explains the anonymity, but why the accusation?”

  “Oh, nothing personal, I assure you. My uncle’s methods are rarely orthodox.” He held up his hand, a thick white bandage yet wrapped around the middle where the bullet had taken one of his fingers that first fateful night they’d met. Robbie let it fall back to his lap without a wince. Apparently the wound was healing well. “My uncle merely needed the time to check on your background. Can’t marry his daughter off to just anybody, you know.”

  His gut clenched. That’s what this whole thing had been about? He’d anguished and suffered and nearly given in to failure and doubt, all for the whim of a rich man who needed assurance? Rage prickled along every nerve, too spiky and abrasive for the coach cushions to soften. “He couldn’t have done that without locking me up?”

  Robbie’s shoulders shook with a good chuckle. “Anger will gain you nothing, friend, leastwise not with the old man. Trust me. I’ve learned that one the hard way.” His tone took on a biting edge, belying the remnant of a smile yet on his lips. “Hence the need for my secrecy with Louisa. He’d never give her to me willingly. Oh, and thank you for your rather timely diversion on the matter. You will be well paid.”

  Gloaming crept in the open window shades, hiding Robbie’s face in shadow. Alex leaned forward, hoping to catch some kind of facial tip off. “Cousins marry every day. Why not you?”

  He turned his face, a pretense of staring out at the night, for there was nothing to see outside. Even so, there was no hiding the stiffness of his shoulders. “Let’s just say that Uncle and I disagree over politics.”

  Robbie? Political? He stifled a snort.

  “But enough of that morose topic, hmm?” Quick as a summer storm, Robbie pulled out a flask. The silver flashed in the darkness as he held it out.

  Alex shook his head. “I think some food would be in order, first.”

  “Aah, sorry. Didn’t think.” He swigged back a drink and tucked it away, breathing out the tang of bourbon. “In a fortnight, give or take, Louisa and I will sail away on our adventure, but what of you? What will you do with the tidy sum I intend to pay you? Live large? Chase a few skirts or—no. I know. You’ll take it to the table, won’t you? Will it be Brook’s or White’s? Or maybe someplace a little more risqué? St. James’s, if I don’t miss my guess.”

  Outside the windows, torchlight flashed bright then dark, bright then dark, indicating they’d pulled onto the viscount’s estate. He met Robbie’s gaze, slipping into his gambling mask. “I’ve never been one to turn down a game.”

  “Thought as much.” When the carriage pulled to a stop, Robbie didn’t wait for the door to open. He worked the latch himself and jumped down.

  Relieved that the elopement plans were still moving ahead, Alex exited and joined him on the drive.

  Robbie nudged him with an elbow. “Why don’t you see the old man alone. I’m a little gun s
hy. And with my uncle engaged, there’s a certain lady I’d like to entertain.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Robbie dashed up the front stairs and through the door. By the time Alex gained the entry, the footman stood scowling. His upper lip curled higher when the stench of the gaol, woven into the fiber of Alex’s clothing and grease of his hair, met the man’s nose. To his credit, the footman said nothing.

  But the fat man striding down the hall did. “Egad!” Major General Overtun clapped his hat atop his head then lifted a gloved finger to block his nose. “You smell like a gang of Coolies come in from a day beneath the Indian sun.”

  “Trust me,” he smiled, “I feel as beat. Are you not staying for tonight’s game?”

  “No, not tonight. Duty calls, I’m afraid.” The general gave him a wide berth as he edged past. “Good evening, Mr. Morton.”

  “Good evening, General.” He saluted his goodbye.

  As soon as the footman shut the door behind the man, he turned and led the way to the viscount’s drawing room. Though Alex kept downwind of him, he doubted the servant breathed the whole way. For a moment, Alex toyed with the idea of pausing on the threshold as he passed the man, seeing just how long he could hold his breath.

  Setting down a pen, Lord Coburn looked up from where he sat behind a burled oak desk, polished to a glassy finish. “Well, a new suit is in order, I think.” He wrinkled his nose. “And a bath.”

  Alex eyed one of the leather library chairs in front of the bureau. Better to sit and cool down than dash across the room and give Coburn a taste of the violence he’d endured the past week. “Mind if I sit?”

  “By all means.” Coburn leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Your father speaks well of you.”

  Taking his time to settle in the chair, Alex wondered what actor Ford had paid to play that part. Whoever, the fellow ought to receive a bonus for pulling it off. He frowned, mixing just the right amount of ire and resignation to the bend of his brow. “I would expect nothing less. I hope you are satisfied.”