Blackie’s expletives punctuated the high-pitched voice of Nutbrown, but the man kept right on talking—or rather, his puppet did. Did he seriously have no notion of the danger he faced?
“For the love of women and song, shut up!” Axe’s command was followed by the smack of fist against flesh and then a howl.
Alex gritted his teeth. What to do? Save Nutbrown? Walk on? Or—
Blackie’s next words made the decision for him, leastwise for the moment.
“Quit yer whining, Nutbrown. We’ll give you another chance, for we’ve one last thing for you to do. Come along.”
Boots ground into gravel, growing louder with each step. Alex shoved away from the building and zigzagged across the street, missing—barely—a skull-cracker of a collision with a wagonload of bottles. Losing himself in a swarm of pedestrians, he upped his pace toward Featherstone’s. He might yet have to add saving Nutbrown to his list of tasks to accomplish if Blackjack had a last thing for the man to do. The simpleton could have no idea what the villain meant. But for now, Alex had an appointment with the tailor and—judging by the slant of shadows—he was late.
Three blocks later, he shoved open a glass-paned door, setting off a jingling bell. The woolsey smell of merino and cheviot gave a cheerful greeting. Behind the counter, the sour pull of the clerk’s jowls did not. Nor did the squint of his eyes, amplified into drawn slashes behind his thick spectacles. This was Dover’s finest? How could the man possibly see to cut a bolt of fabric let alone thread a needle? A mystery—but not one tantalizing enough to solve.
Alex offered a smile and a greeting. “Good day. I am sorry I am late.”
Understanding dawned on the clerk’s face, for his eyelids suddenly lifted like the rising of twin suns. “Aah. Of course. You will find Dr. Swallow’s office two doors down.”
“Oh? Are you feeling ill?” Alex stepped forward. “Shall I escort you?”
The man’s eyes narrowed again. “I meant for you.”
“Never felt better, thank you.”
“Then you’ve obviously taken a wrong turn.” The clerk’s voice pinched as he studied the leftover bruises on Alex’s face. “Decker’s Boxing Club is over on Priory.”
“If boxing were what I was about, then I don’t think I’d be standing in a tailor shop now, would I?”
Slowly, the man’s glower evened. “I see. What you’ll need to do then is head south on the High Street and turn left at Snargate. Bagsby’s Thread and Needle is the third building past the fishmonger. Good day.”
The clerk turned his back and ran a finger along a tower of fabric bolts stacked on a shelf behind him. Whispered numbers filled the room like so many scissor snips.
Alex folded his arms. Was this to be more of a fight than his skirmish with Needler? “While I appreciate your fine embroidery of directions, sir, nevertheless, I am exactly where I want to be.”
The clerk cut a glance over his shoulder. “You do realize this is the most exclusive tailor in all of Dover? We don’t serve just anyone. For the last time, I bid you good day, sir.”
“You serve the viscount, Lord Coburn?”
The man wheeled about so quickly, the flaps of his neck swished against his collar. Truly, if he were such a crack tailor, could he not do something about tightening up those loose folds of skin?
“Of course the viscount is a client—and you are clearly not!” A fine shade of red spread over the man’s cheeks. “Now rid yourself from this establishment before I call the constable.”
Alex pulled out a small, white paper from inside his pocket and placed it on the counter, shoving it toward the man with one finger. “I believe he sent word I was coming.”
With barely a glance at the calling card, the clerk retrieved a wooden box and flipped open the lid. He paged through a row of index cards, snorting a few humphs as he worked. Finally, he pulled out a cream-coloured card and held it at arm’s length, his pupils roaming behind the glass of his spectacles like two balls rolling across a carpet. The longer he read, the more his jaw dropped, until at last the index card fell too.
“Oh, my. Oh, sir! My apologies.” Dashing around the front counter, the clerk dipped his head, giving the impression of a naughty schoolboy caught cheating on a test. “I never meant, I mean, I can surely see that you are a gentleman of quality.”
A second ago he was barely above a vagrant and now he was a gentleman? Alex smirked. “No hard feelings. Let’s just get on with it, shall we?”
“Yes! Oh, absolutely.” The man straightened and swept out his arm, pointing to a velvet-curtained doorway. “If you’ll step into the farthest fitting room on the left, just down that corridor, I’ll give you a moment to shed your coat and shirt for some measurements.”
Shopkeepers. All the same. Once they detected a jingle in your pocket, suddenly you were their bosom friend.
Alex swiped the curtain aside and strode the length of the corridor. He passed several doors, all of which stood open. Only one was shut—on the left, far end. Had he heard incorrectly? He glanced back at the curtain, entertaining the thought of asking the fellow, but after their already strained conversation, decided against it.
He opened the door. A shirtless man stood on a pedestal, back toward him. Nothing surprising, really. This was a tailor’s shop. But just above the fellow’s shoulder blade, right side, a dark, puckered scar burnt into the skin an indelible letter D. Alex stifled a gasp. You didn’t see that every day.
In front of him, kneeling with a mouthful of pins and a tape measure running from pedestal to ankle, a tailor jerked his face toward the door. In a competition, Alex would bet a sovereign that this fellow’s glower would easily beat out the front clerk’s.
“Sorry.” Alex grabbed the knob, intending to make a hasty exit. “I must have the wrong room.”
“That you, ol’ chap?” The man on the pedestal turned, Robbie’s ever-present grin a stark contrast to the tailor at his feet. “Thought I recognized the voice. Had I known you were coming, we could’ve shared a carriage. Here for your engagement suit, hmm?” A knowing gleam lit Robbie’s eyes. “Thought I’d get myself one as well.”
This time he did gasp. It would not be contained. “Er … yes. That I am.”
Behind him, hurried footsteps shushed against the carpet’s nap. “Mr. Morton, I’ve made a ghastly mistake! I directed you to the wrong door. Over here, if you please.”
Alex tipped his head toward Robbie. “Duty calls, I’m afraid.”
He pulled shut the door and crossed over to the clerk, not hearing another one of the man’s blustering apologies—nor anything else he said the entire length of the fitting. Who could pay attention to a pandering shopkeeper when—if he were correct—that branded D on Robbie’s back labeled him a deserter. But from which branch of service?
And why?
Clicking her tongue, Johanna urged her pony with a jiggle of the reins. But Posey continued to plod one hoof in front of the other. A steady clop. Clip. Clop. Clip. Until Johanna wanted to scream. It would not go well for her if she were late to Tanny’s. She frowned. Then again, it never went well, were she on time or not.
Still, she’d left Mam with a table full of dirty dishes from the breakfast she’d thrown together. Then there was the bread to bake, the stew to make, and the management of a crazed set of musicians trying to build a puppet stage.
“Oh, Posey, please. Move on!”
Clip. Clop. The horse twitched her ears. Nothing more. Johanna resettled on the pony cart’s seat, wishing to do something about her ears as well. The noise of the High Street carried on the breeze even to this side road, two blocks over. Behind her, the hooves of more motivated horses pounded on the dirt. She guided Posey closer to the side, allowing room for the other vehicle to pass.
It didn’t. A shiny barouche with the top folded back pulled alongside her. The four horses leading the carriage stood nearly twice as tall as hers, spooking Posey. The voice greeting her set her own teeth on edge.
“Good
day, Miss Langley.” Mr. Spurge leaned back against his red leather cushions as if he owned the world—which he practically did. “You’re out early. What, no guests to serve at the inn?”
“Good morning to you, Mr. Spurge.” She forced a prim smile then snapped her face forward.
“I suppose it’s good practice for you.”
His words dangled like bait on a hook, willing her to bite. She fixed her gaze on Posey’s rump. Better that than look at Spurge’s smug face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir, and I’ve not time for riddles.”
“I hear inmates at St. Mary’s are up before dawn, so you see, my dear, you’ll have to be a bit more industrious than this.”
She squeezed the reins until her knuckles cracked beneath her gloves. The gall! Oh, to give him the evil eye, with a hefty serving of what for. But that’s exactly what he wanted, like a boy poking a stick at a hedgehog to see him roll up.
Holding steady, she kept her voice even. “The workhouse will not be my end, Mr. Spurge. You shall have your money, and not a moment before it is due.”
“Indeed. I shall. One way or another. Drive on!” His matched greys stepped lively, the barouche finally gaining speed. As a parting gift, Spurge leaned over the side of the carriage and tipped his hat. “Enjoy your last days at the Blue Hedge, Miss Langley.”
“That’s weeks, sir, not days.”
“Days, weeks, a trifling matter, for that inn will soon be mine.”
She waited until his carriage disappeared around the next corner before she allowed her brow to sink into a scowl. Wicked man. How could he sleep at night?
Posey continued plodding, but Johanna’s thoughts chased circles the rest of the way to Tanny’s. In a little over two weeks, she’d have to face Spurge again. The money she earned delivering oakum would put a dent in that payment, but she’d still be short. That better be some Punch and Judy show Mr. Quail put on. But what if it wasn’t?
“There is nothing more—nor less—than trusting in God. Therein surrender, and you will find rest.”
Alexander’s words prickled across her cheeks, as twangy as the gust of wind carrying off the Channel. Even so, her stomach cramped as she set the brake on the pony cart in front of Tanny’s. Of course she must trust God, but it wasn’t as if she could simply say, “Ready, set, go!” and instantly do it.
Could she?
She hopped down from the cart just as the door to Tanny’s shack opened. Tanny emerged, a curse on his tongue and a clip to his step.
And a switch clutched in his fist. “Get on with you. You’re done here.”
Her stomach cinched tighter, and she dropped to her knees on the dirt, his favorite stance. “I am sorry I’m late, Your Grace. It won’t happen again, I promise.”
He pulled up in front of her. “I know it won’t, because I said yer done.”
She forced her gaze onto the scuffed tips of his shoes. “You also said you’d employ me for three weeks, yet I’ve barely served half that.”
“Oh? I’m to have a serving of your salty tongue now, am I?” The switch slapped against his leg.
She flinched. To say anything more might land the thing on the tender skin at the base of her neck.
“Your lover didn’t pay me enough for that.”
She jerked her face upward. “My what?”
A small pouch thwunked onto the dirt between them. Tanny’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Count it. It’s all there.”
“I—I don’t understand.” Why would he pay her for unfinished work?
“I don’t care a Christmas pudding what you understand. Do as you’re told.” The switch shook in his hand—a snake to be loosened at the slightest provocation.
She retrieved the bag and opened the drawstring. Five guineas jingled against one another as she dumped them into her palm. Dots of perspiration broke out on her brow. Was this a trap? She lifted her gaze to Tanny. “But why?”
“Tell the big oaf I met his price and kept my word, so there’s no need for him to come back here with his threats and impudence.”
Suspicion rose like a mist on a moor. Better to know for certain, though. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Oh? You’re a prim lady now, are ye? All high and mighty. A lacy little princess, all buttoned up tight with nary a loose moral.” His long legs lifted in a jig, his feet kicking sand against her cheeks. Then as suddenly, he stopped and crouched, shoving his long nose into her face. “I know what you are. You’re nothing but a tart. Now, go on. And don’t come back.”
“But—”
“Go!”
A spray of spittle violated her lips, and she recoiled.
Tanny shot to his feet, raising the switch. “Off with ye before I change my mind.”
Clutching the pouch, she dashed to the cart. Even without Tanny naming him, she knew exactly who was responsible for this windfall. The big oaf had to be Alexander, for there weren’t many shoulders as broad as his. Of course she’d anticipated him to act, maybe confront her more forcefully about such work or go directly to Mam to voice his concern, but this? Must the man always exceed her expectations?
With a “Walk on,” she urged Posey to move, but her thoughts wouldn’t be prodded off topic as easily. They never were when it came to Alexander Morton. The man consumed her mind by day and dreams by night.
What was she to do about that?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Afternoon sun warmed the taproom, and for the space of a few breaths, Johanna paused on the kitchen’s threshold and drank it in. Weather such as this was a rare customer. Salty air wafted inside from the propped-open front door, ushering in the sweet scent of wildflowers where she’d planted them in barrels. Why could not all of life smell as fresh?
Balancing a tray of washed mugs, she crossed over to the counter, then frowned. A monstrosity of wood and nails leaned like a drunken dockhand atop it. If Mr. Quail was so fired up to produce a puppet show, why was he not down here constructing a proper stage? She’d seen nary a hair of him or his band since last night. Nor had she seen Alex.
Alex? Must her every thought be waylaid by the man? For the hundredth time, she mulled over why he’d rescued her from Tanny—and came up short once again. Nor had she been able to ask him outright, for she’d scarce seen him to inquire.
She rounded the counter with clipped steps, the tumbledown stage mocking her every movement. Mr. Quail had already plastered the town with handbills advertising the Punch and Judy show. If that scoundrel thought to leave her with a derelict excuse of a stage and no one to operate the puppets—or the puppets themselves, for that matter—then she’d … she’d …
She’d what?
Helplessness chafed worse than the poorly darned stockings she’d put on this morning. With a growl, she stowed the mugs, then snatched up a hammer and a stick of wood. She could hardly do a shoddier job than Mr. Quail.
Skirting the counter, she faced the front of the eyesore, deeming how and where best to begin. The rickety frame could use some shoring up, especially at the base. That settled, she set to work.
Each pound of the hammer rattled the entire structure, and she feared the whole thing might fall apart. Thankfully, it held. She grabbed another piece of wood and started on the other side. It felt good to strike hard and see progress, to pound away tension.
Whack! That was for Tanny.
Smack! One for Mr. Quail.
She swung back for a mighty strike against Mr. Spurge, put all her weight into the blow, and—
“Ow!”
Sharp pain crushed flesh and bone. She dropped the hammer and popped her thumb into her mouth.
“Still taking on the world by yourself, are you?”
She whipped about at the sound of Alex’s deep voice. Pudding and pie! She’d not seen the man in two days and he had to appear at this moment?
With a quirk to his lips, he held out his hand. “Let’s see it.”
Emotions pecked her like a flock of martins. Frustration, ir
ritation, but mostly embarrassment that she’d once again appeared the inept female. She yanked out her thumb and hid it behind her back. “No need. I am fine.”
His outstretched hand didn’t waver. Neither did his gaze. She knew that look, for she steeled her jaw to the same angle whenever confronting Thomas.
Slowly, she offered her throbbing thumb.
His touch was an exquisite agony as he lifted her hand to eye level. His own injuries still marred his face. Purple tainted the corner of one eye, but the edges of the bruise faded into greenish-yellow. The cut near his temple sported new, pink skin where it started to grow together. Doubtful, though, that the carving at the nape of his neck was healed.
He turned her hand one way then another, his breath warm against her skin. His manly scent was familiar now, in a way that connected her to him like a cherished memory.
“I don’t think anything is broken,” he murmured.
Oh, but he was wrong. Her pride lay in hundreds of jagged pieces. Good thing he studied her hand and not the flush spreading to her cheeks. “I find it curious, sir, that whenever I am in some sort of predicament, you appear. I fear you’ll put my guardian angel out of work.”
“If the position should ever open”—his blue gaze shot to hers—“I wish to be the first, and only, candidate.”
Bypassing the offending thumb, he pressed a kiss to her wrist.
Heat shot up her arm, radiating out from where his mouth touched naked skin. She pulled back her hand, heart jolting. Traitorous body!
Would he now expect such liberties in return for freeing her from Tanny Needler? And why did she hope that he would? Breathing hard, she speared him with a glower, unsure if she were angrier with him or herself.
“Please, stop the pretense, Mr. Morton. I know what you’ve done, and I ask you to answer honestly.” She searched the depths of his blue eyes, desperate for truth. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Panic washed over Alex like a dip in a January pond, frigid and unsettling. What did Johanna know? Had she heard of his fitting for a betrothal suit earlier in the week? Was it common knowledge he was expected at his own engagement dinner tomorrow evening? Or was she asking how it could be that a man would so fiercely love one woman yet agree to marry another?
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