The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  He held out a dirty scrap of red fabric, all balled up in his hand. “I found this lying next to the rot pile out back o’ the Broken Brass.”

  Frowning, she set down her spoon, then took the soiled lump from him. She poked at it with her finger, and the fabric unfolded, bleeding over the edges of her palm. It appeared to be stained scarlet wool sewn haphazardly in the shape of a little jumper, with one arm torn off. What in the world? She scrunched her nose at Thomas. “What is this?”

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out another lump—and when it landed in her hand, a shiver raised gooseflesh on her arms.

  Mr. Nutbrown’s puppet, leastwise what was left of it, stared up at her, one eye missing. So was half of its head. The other half was flattened. Only a frayed scar of the jester hat remained where glue held the ripped strip in place. What used to be a painted smile now gaped open in a broken hole. Knife marks slashed a jagged line at the neck.

  A shiver passed through her. “Where did you say you found this?”

  “Behind the Broken Brass. You gotta go get Alex, Jo. You’re faster than me. I’m sure Mr. Nutbrown’s in trouble.”

  Crossing to the table, she set down the crushed head and tattered fabric, unwilling to look at either anymore. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she mumbled. Drawing strength from her words, she turned to Thomas. “Mr. Nutbrown probably just dropped his puppet, that’s all.”

  But the statement branded her a liar even before it finished passing her lips.

  Thomas scowled. “That ain’t so, and you know it. You gotta get Alex! He’s the only one who can help.”

  Pinching her lips tight, she strode to the door and snatched her hat off a peg. She’d be hanged if she asked Alex for anything. She could take a quick stroll and look for Mr. Nutbrown herself and still be back in time to serve dinner.

  She fumbled with the ribbon beneath her chin. Why were her fingers shaking? “I’ll go. I’m sure I’ll find some ridiculous yellow stockings roaming the town, looking for a lost puppet.”

  “No!” Thomas hobbled between her and the door. “It’s too dangerous. Alex has a gun, and he’s from London. If Mr. Nutbrown’s in a bad way, he’ll know exactly what to do.”

  The information stunned. Alex was from Sheffield … wasn’t he?

  “How do you know that?” She studied her brother. What other knowledge lurked beneath those freckles?

  He shoved her in the arm. “Yer wastin’ time, Jo.”

  The smashed puppet head on the table implored her with its single remaining eye. Nixie’s tiny voice cried silently in her mind, “Mr. Nutbrown would never leave me.”

  Whirling, she slipped out the door and entered the stable yard, then shot toward the broken gate. The afternoon sun bowed to the horizon. She’d have to be quick to make it back in time for any patrons looking for a bowl of stew. But where would someone like Nutbrown be?

  She mapped out a route in her head as she turned onto the High Street. If Thomas had found the puppet at the Broken Brass, then that would be the most logical place to start. She upped her pace toward Wiggett Lane, when a shiny, black barouche turned the corner. Her blood drained down to her feet. She’d see Mr. Spurge’s sneering face next week when he came to collect his due—a due still short a pound. The thought of an encounter with him sickened her more than the ruined puppet head.

  Crossing the street, she darted down a narrow path that led to the harbor. If she skirted the waterfront, she could double back and work her way home through town while looking for Mr. Nutbrown. But trekking on the shingle slowed her steps. It would be faster to hike closer to the water where her shoes could grip firm sand. And she’d have the added benefit of the berm to hide her from Mr. Spurge’s eyes on the chance his carriage swung down to Harbor Lane. She hiked her skirts, crested the berm, and pattered down the other side.

  Across the beach, a line of men hefted something—boards? Flat boxes? She squinted. Hard to tell. Whatever their cargo, they loaded it onto rowboats that skittered over the water toward a ship anchored just off the coast. A strange time to load. They wouldn’t get very far before dark, unless they planned to set sail at daybreak. But why then was the ship not moored in the harbor? She bit her lip, puzzling for a moment, but no matter. It was none of her business.

  She hurried to the sand as fast as the rocks beneath her feet would let her. Once there, she lowered her skirts and sped along, making up for lost time. She’d turn away from the men before drawing too close, then head back to the city proper.

  But just before she could veer off, her steps slowed. Then stopped. A shape emerged from behind a rock, with a peg-legged gait and a gun pointed at her. For a single, awful eternity, she longed for Alex to be at her side.

  Glancing at the berm, she calculated the distance. She could easily outpace the man’s hitch-stepped run and make it safely to town—but she couldn’t outrun a lead ball. What to do?

  “This ain’t no place for a lady.” The big man, Mr. Blackie, if she remembered correctly, stopped in front of her, and thankfully lowered the muzzle of his gun. “Say … you be that girl from the Blue Hedge. The one what helped us, aye?” A glower folded his unshaven whiskers into dark lines at the sides of his mouth. “You were paid, and paid right fine far as I remember. If yer lookin’ for more, missy—”

  “I am not. I am looking for Mr. Nutbrown.” She cut the fellow off before he worked himself into a swirl. Men such as this rarely liked to be parted from their coins, a lesson well learned from Tanny Needler.

  But instead of relaxing of his shoulders, Mr. Blackie yanked the gun back up, aiming squarely at her chest.

  “Now, now … what ye be wantin’ him for?”

  Drat that Mr. Nutbrown! The man had been nothing but trouble since he set foot in the Blue Hedge—and this time it appeared to be the worst trouble of all. Forcing back a lump of panic, she swallowed and retreated a step. “I suppose it can wait. I see that you must be busy with that ship you were expecting, so I’ll just be on my way. Please tell Mr. Nutbrown I have something of his when you next see him.”

  She turned to go.

  The click of the gun and Mr. Blackie’s growl stopped her cold. “If it’s Mr. Nutbrown yer wantin’, I can take you to him.”

  “No, no. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” She forced a light lilt to her tone—yet the words came out strained. “Another time, perhaps.”

  “Now’s the time.” Cold metal poked her in the back. “This way. And keep yer yap shut or it won’t go well for you.”

  Prodded along by the muzzle of the gun, he nudged her, step by step, over to the men. She desperately tried to make eye contact with those filing past her, headed toward town. None of them glanced at her, all too busy laughing and talking of women and drink. Several other men swung their legs over the gunwales of their rowboats and set off toward the ship. They’d be no help. Only a few yet picked their way down the cliff face, wooden frames hefted over their shoulders.

  A short, red-haired man—Mr. Pickens—was the first to set foot from rocks to beach. He passed off his load to another man, then faced his partner. “What you got there, Blackie?”

  “Hold up, girl,” the voice at her back growled. “This one’s sniffin’ around for Nutbrown.”

  A grin rippled across the shorter man’s face. “Then let’s take her to him.”

  Her stomach heaved. Clearly wherever Mr. Nutbrown was couldn’t be good.

  A wad of spit hit the sand behind her. “Pleasant as it would be, the deed would take too much time. I say we tie her up and leave her.”

  “That eats time as well, and this is the last o’ it.” Mr. Pickens hitched his thumb over his shoulder at the remaining four men edging down the rock trail. “I say we kill her and be done with it. Dead men—or women—don’t talk.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribs, and she searched desperately for escape.

  Behind her, Mr. Blackie laughed, the coarseness shredding away the last of her courage. Would she die on this strip of beach, surrounde
d by thieves and murderers? What of Mam? Of Thomas? Why hadn’t she gone for Alex?

  Another gun behind her clicked.

  “That be a waste of a pretty face—and an even prettier amount o’ gold.” The voice was altogether too familiar.

  Her gaze snapped to the man whose boots pounded toward them from the rock face. Mr. Quail’s eyes peered out from beneath a mop of dark, curly hair. Her mouth hung open. Behind him, the rest of his band dropped to the beach from the rocks like so many beetles falling off a rotted log, each one hefting lumber on their shoulders.

  “What ye jawin’ about, Que?” Mr. Pickens flicked sweat from his brow—the movement so sudden she flinched.

  Mr. Quail flashed her a smile as he answered. “I say we sell her along with this shipment. Those fancy French gents pay a fine price for the novelty of an English maid.”

  Alex shifted in the saddle. Thatcher would’ve thrived on this part of his mission, tearing across the countryside like a crazed stallion on a running jag, but not him. He was better at nabbing thieves on foot. At least after the last swap of horses, Coburn had finally relented and slowed their pace, for they’d made good time. They’d be at Ramsgate by nightfall. He shifted back the other way. After a full day of riding, his backside would appreciate it.

  The breakneck pace had given them little opportunity for any conversation—which was good and bad. It gave little time for Coburn to speak of tomorrow’s wedding, but allowed for way too much rein on his own thoughts. And they always turned to Johanna. To her welling tears. The betrayal sagging her shoulders. The sharp edge of her voice when she’d told him to go away.

  Enough! There was nothing to be done for it now. He glanced over at Lord Coburn, riding beside him. Better to poke a bear than wrestle with monstrous memories. “We’re nearly to Ramsgate. No one’s around. Now’s as good a time as any to tell me what this little venture is really about. I’ll find out soon enough anyway.”

  From beneath the brim of a dockhand’s flat cap, Coburn’s grey eyes studied him. “We aren’t there yet.”

  “If I were going to harm you or your enterprise—whatever it may be—I’d surely have done so by now.”

  Coburn faced forward again, the late afternoon sun bathing his profile in brilliant light. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

  “Then who?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “But I have a feeling someone, somewhere, is gunning for us—for me.”

  Interesting. Was it leftover guilt from his Indian affairs that left the man suspicious, or did he truly have a deadly premonition? Alex tugged down the brim of his own longshoreman cap. “I am not that man.”

  “No, I don’t believe you are.”

  They rode in silence for a ways, nothing but the River Stour lapping just past the grassy ridge on the other side of the road.

  “You will find out sooner rather than later, I suppose.” Coburn scratched at his chin. “Several months back I received confidential intelligence from Major General Overtun.”

  “Our gaming partner.”

  Coburn grunted. “My relationship with him goes well beyond wagering. We served together, long ago, in India. But that’s neither here nor there. The crux of the information is that Napoleon’s planning an attack across the Channel on July fourth.”

  This time Alex shifted in his seat to keep from falling off. “Tomorrow?”

  Coburn smiled at him. “A bit poetic, don’t you think?”

  More than that. Tensing, he thought aloud. “Using the remnants of their revolution to rub our noses in our loss of the Colonial uprising. But did we not fortify a few years ago and make the Channel secure?”

  Coburn sucked air in through his teeth. “Of course.”

  Blowing out a long breath, Alex scoured every bit of information from the sparse news he knew of the situation. “Last I heard the fellow was busy with Prussia, not eyeing us.”

  “One can never be sure which rock a snake hides beneath, and it never hurts to be prepared. General Overtun charged me with setting up a little surprise welcome for old Boney, should he decide to visit.” He tugged the reins, guiding his horse’s mouth away from a tasty patch of sweet grass at the side of the road before he continued. “We are accompanying a shipment of Congreve rockets to be set up along the shore. Before the Devil’s Favourite can attack, we simply blow him out of the water.”

  “Cutting it a little close, are you not? Should this not have been done yesterday?”

  Coburn chuckled. “Didn’t want to tip off the Frogs by showing movement too early. It will be a quick setup. Robbie is getting the frames in position now. And there are plenty of men to operate the equipment from the castle.”

  “But why did Overtun use you? You are no longer military.”

  “For that very reason. There are spies about. In a hive of men, there’s increased likelihood of an informant, whereas by Overtun appointing me, there’s less chance of intelligence being leaked.”

  “Hence your, er, compartmentalization, as you called it.” Ducking a swarm of gnats, he urged his horse onward. “But why Ramsgate? Why not simply meet the ship in the dark of night at Dover?”

  “These are notorious smuggling waters. I will relieve the captain of his duty on this last stretch of the journey, removing any temptation to sell out.”

  “Quite the elaborate plan.”

  “It took some arranging but—”

  “Sh-sh.” He lifted a finger to his lips and reined his horse to a stop.

  “What is it?” Coburn whispered.

  Narrowing his eyes, Alex studied the surroundings. On one side, the tall grass, some trees, then the river. To the other, nothing but a rolling sward. The rasp of insects started up, but other than that—hold on. There it was again. He listened with his whole body.

  Laughter, coarse laughter.

  He angled his head for Coburn to follow and led him off road, up to the rise of a small hillock. From that perch, a good view of the road spread out. Not far ahead, two men led two horses … or were the horses leading them? Hard to say for the way they staggered. At least they’d had the sense to dismount before they fell off. But were they truly in their cups?

  He turned to Coburn. “That drink you offered earlier. I should like it now.”

  Coburn’s mount blew out a snort, apparently as offset as his rider. Coburn said nothing, but slowly reached in his pocket and pulled out a silver flask.

  Alex snatched it from him and poured most of it down the inside of his collar, dousing it on like a lady might bathe in rosewater. Then he pointed at the trees opposite them by the riverside. “Take cover down there.”

  Coburn scowled. “If you’re this concerned, simply shoot those villains now and be done with it. It’s your duty as a loyalist and why I brought you along.”

  He gritted his teeth. Sure, a crack sharpshooter could do such a thing. But not him. Persuasion was his best weapon. “You brought me along for protection, not murder. It’s likely nothing but a few drunkards got ahold of some nappy ale, but it never hurts to check. Wait down there, and I’ll be back.”

  Coburn locked gazes with him, the steel in his grey eyes sparking, but then he clicked his tongue and rode off.

  Alex gripped the flask in one hand and the reins in the other, riding haphazardly as if he were the one who’d swigged one too many bottles. Humming an old bawdy song, he neared the two men, taking stock of their assets. Two horses, strong muscled, far too expensive for the likes of itinerant drinkers, a Brown Bess strapped onto each. Military guns for this ilk? The men dropped their leads and fanned out onto the road, watching his approach. Neither swayed nor laughed—instant sobriety.

  He tipped back his head and drained the remaining drops in the flask, taking care they saw the action but not a flash of silver. He made a show of shaking it, then tucked it away and slid from his horse. “Afternoon mates.” He drew close, reeling on his feet. “Got a few drops to spare fer a fellow traveller? Appears I’m out.”

  The shorter man wi
th a broad nose sniffed the air. “Nab off, ye drunken cully.”

  “Just need me a sip, boys.” He stumbled around, reaching out a hand as if to keep him from tipping over, and slapped one of their horse’s in the flank. The mount moved ahead, as did the other. He grinned at the men. “I’m powerful thirsty. Just shared my last bit with a gent a ways back.”

  “A gent you say?” The other man’s voice was strangely high pitched, as if he’d been punched in the throat one too many times. “Well, well, we be looking for a particular gentleman. About yea high,” the man lifted his hand to Coburn’s height, “and walks with a crooked gait. A fancy gent, nice clothes and all. Is that the man you seen?”

  Quite an accurate description of the viscount—almost as if they expected Coburn to be travelling this very road. Alex grinned. Judging by the looks of them, that’s exactly what they were up to.

  “Not a bit of it.” He forced a belch then pounded his fist against his chest. “The fellow what I saw were bow-legged and chin high to a grasshopper, so short was he.”

  “Well then,” the fellow lifted the barrel of his gun. “Like my friend said, be on yer way.”

  He faked a hiccup, then swiped his mouth and held up his hands. “Ay now, no harm. I’m off.”

  He lurched around, giving the fellow enough time to lower his guard, then swung back around with a kick to the man’s arm. Bone cracked. The gun dropped. The bullet went wild. Horses took off, and before the other fellow could draw his pistol, Alex aimed two guns at him. “Disarm. Now!”

  The man’s eyes turned to slits, but at least he complied. The other man wailed, holding on to his useless arm.

  “Turn around, friends. We’re going for a little walk—uh-uh! Hands in the air, gentlemen.” He waited until three arms reached, for the broken one would never be so flexible. “That’s it. Now head to the river.”

  They set off, the tall grass breaking beneath their boots. Clearing the downward slope, they stopped at a jutting drop where, over time, water had cut a deep gullet into the curve.