The Notorious Widow

by Allison Lane

  Harry was bursting with impatience, but Blake kept their pace casual as they strolled along the drive. Not until they reached the woods and lost sight of the house did he speak. “Tell me about your proof.”

  “Bob and me visited t’ smith again. Georgie was making a delivery, but Peter was there.”

  “Who is Peter?” Blake leaned against a tree, crossing his arms as he weighed each word.

  “Peter Ballard. His pa makes saddles and harness and such. Mr. Ballard was talking to t’ smith, and Bob was flirting, so Peter and me went down to t’ river.”

  “And?” asked Blake. Relief lit Harry’s face that he hadn’t asked what the boys had been doing. Up to mischief, no doubt, but that wasn’t his problem.

  “We seen Master Jasper cross t’ bridge into town. I said as how I wished I knew something really bad about him, ’cause I was still angry over how he lied about Jemmy. So Peter tells me Jasper killed a man.”

  Blake jumped. Killed? He inhaled deeply, ignoring the excitement that tingled along his nerves. This would come to nothing. Even if it were true, it would turn out to be a duel. Though dueling had long been illegal, few condemned the practice.

  “Who died?” he asked instead.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Peter didn’t say?”

  “He don’t know, either. But he don’t lie,” he added when Blake sighed.

  “I’m sure he is as honest as you, but how could he hear a story without knowing the details?”

  “He lives on t’ edge of Exeter. His pa keeps him busy learning t’ trade, but whenever he can get away, he stops at t’ White Hart to feed apples to Miss Wilson’s chestnut what she keeps stabled there.”

  Blake nodded. He had no idea who Miss Wilson was or why the saddler’s son had permission to feed her horse, but it didn’t matter.

  “About a week ago, Peter was in with t’ chestnut, when Master Jasper and George – he’s one of t’ inn’s grooms – come by. Master Jasper was leaving his horse for t’ day, and he was rattling on and on about what to do and how to handle t’ beast. When he finally left, George grumbled about how he’d been caring for horses since before Jasper was born and why’d he act like he knew more’n anyone else.”

  “Understandable,” said Blake, having indulged in similar muttering when his father had treated him like an ignorant child even after he’d reached Oxford.

  “George hadn’t seen Peter, and Peter didn’t want his pa finding out he’d snuck off for t’ day, so he sat down and waited for George to leave – Miss Wilson’s chestnut has one of t’ loose boxes, so it’s easy to stay out of sight. George grumbled louder and louder as he unsaddled Master Jasper’s horse – real het up, he was. Most of it didn’t make much sense, but a couple of his complaints you can maybe use.”

  “What?”

  Harry paused, seeming uncertain for the first time. “One sounded like Won’t be no trouble today ’cause he don’t want Ajax kept ready.”

  Blake’s heart thudded. Did Jasper behave differently before causing trouble? Evidence of planning would override the claims of high spirits and happenstance. “And the other?”

  “He was talking to Ajax, asking how he liked serving a fool. But you and me know t’ real Jasper Rankin, he muttered – least that’s what Peter recollects. We know he killed – Peter couldn’t catch t’ next words, so he don’t know who died. Then George says, ’Twas no accident, was it, boy? But telling’s no good. He’d see me turned off in a trice and take a whip to you.”

  “He would,” confirmed Blake. “And he’d do the same to you and Peter. Did George actually see the killing?”

  Harry shrugged. “Peter didn’t hear no more. Another groom called George away to change out t’ mail coach, and Peter left.

  Blake nodded, even as he cursed under his breath. They were so close!

  But Harry knew nothing more. Nobody had died recently except old Mr. Parkins, who’d passed on peacefully in his sleep after a long illness. The incident, if it had happened at all, must predate Harry’s memory. Thus only George could supply the information.

  He should send Ted to talk to the fellow. Another groom might learn more than he could himself. Yet impatience clawed at his heels, along with the desire to escape Seabrook for a few hours. By the time he returned, William should have Laura under control.

  As he rode toward Exeter, he kept a firm hand on his rising excitement. The tale might not be true. Though he was sure Harry had reported it accurately, he knew nothing about Peter. Even gentlemen sometimes twisted or exaggerated news, and the boy might not have heard George correctly. And even if the story was perfect, George might refuse to talk. He had every reason to fear Jasper. Beyond that, the death might have been the accident George hadn’t believed it was.

  But it was difficult to remain calm. His instincts shouted that this was what he needed. Jasper was a man who avenged any insult. Since his retaliations always surpassed the original irritations, it would be surprising indeed if an occasional plot did not run amok.

  He found George in the White Hart’s stable. Business was slow this late in the year. The other grooms were busy out back, leaving only George to watch for new custom.

  Blake relaxed. They had met when he’d stayed at the White Hart, and George remembered both him and his horse. Perhaps that would work in his favor.

  Mindful of Peter’s eavesdropping technique, he glanced into each of the stalls edging the stable yard as he joined George in the far corner. Picking out Miss Wilson’s chestnut was easy. He occupied the loose box nearest the arched yard entrance, which made it easy for Peter to slip in unseen.

  “I am investigating Jasper Rankin,” he said quietly, turning a gold coin through the fingers of one hand. Its value was more than a groom might make in a year. The surface winked each time it caught the sunlight, drawing George’s eyes.

  Yet George was already shaking his head. “Best stand clear of that, my lord. No good can come of it.”

  “I understand, George.” The coin winked. “He’s a bad one to cross. Yet I have no choice, for he is hurting people even as we speak. I vowed to stop him, but I need information.”

  “What you’ll get is trouble. Tain’t no information that can harm him.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll tell no one that you helped.” He stepped away from the eaves so the coin caught more sun. “But I cannot let him destroy my friends.”

  George seemed mesmerized by the glinting gold. “What’s my word against a lord’s? Even Falconer hasn’t enough credit to complain.”

  “Would he even try? He swears Rankin was not responsible for tearing up that parlor, though I’ve evidence otherwise.” He kept his voice calm – almost toneless – as he turned the coin through his fingers. He had seen one of Mesmer’s demonstrations and believed that it was the monotonous voice and seductive sway of the pendant rather than magic that put his subjects under a spell.

  “That wasn’t the only incident,” George admitted. “He’s smashed furniture more than once when servants don’t show him proper respect. Falconer don’t like him coming round, but who can stop him?”

  “Not an innkeeper,” agreed Blake. “And certainly not a groom. But I will stop him for all of us. I despise men who misuse their positions. Tell me about his tantrums.”

  The corner of George’s mouth twitched. “That’s what they be, all right. He’s a great one for wanting his own way. I don’t recollect all the times he’s smashed a wine bottle against a wall or hurled a platter into the fire because service was a mite slow. I hafta warn new lads when they start here. Those prissy clothes hide the temper of a angry bull. He demands instant service and accepts no excuses.”

  “That fits the other tales I’ve heard, but sometimes even perfect service won’t satisfy him. What can you tell me about the man he killed?”

  George’s leathery face turned white. “Nothing, my lord.”

  “I think you can.” He raised his hand to eye level, turning the coin faster. “You know exactly
what happened.”

  “Nothing happened.” George’s breath came in shallow gasps, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the coin.

  “That’s not true, George,” said Blake softly. “A man died. You know how and why. If I found that information, others can as well.”

  George leaned weakly against the post supporting the eaves.

  Blake smiled. “That’s right. Jasper can find the truth if he looks. Helping me is the best way to protect yourself. So tell me about this death.”

  “I wasn’t there,” he insisted.

  “But you know what happened. Tell me. I won’t reveal the story until I can prove that Rankin committed a crime.”

  “Proof don’t mean nothing.” George glanced wildly around, calming only when he verified that no one could hear them. “He would never forgive me for hearing him that night. I would lose everything.”

  “I will protect you. If he tries to retaliate, you can join my staff.”

  “Leave the White Hart?” He made the prospect sound worse than death.

  “Only if you wish. But I vow, on my honor as a gentleman, that you will not suffer.” His instincts were alert. Every new protest underscored how damaging George’s information must be. And it proved that George knew far more about Jasper than he’d revealed so far. Only a man who understood Jasper’s ruthlessness would protect himself so well. “If Rankin killed a man, he must be punished. How would you feel if he killed another and yet another because you lacked the courage to speak?”

  George flinched, then let out a long breath. “Yes, he killed a man. Killed two, in fact, though neither was intended. But I can’t prove it. I weren’t there.”

  “Tell me what you know. I can find evidence if I know where to look.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Are you sure you can protect me? I’ve a mother to support.”

  “You won’t suffer, nor will she.”

  George held his gaze for a long moment. Horses stomped, rattling bits of harness. Others wheezed softly or pawed the straw strewn beneath their feet. George finally nodded. “Very well, my lord. Your eyes got a look like that bay over there.” He gestured to a distant stall. “Honest as they come, that horse. I can trust him with the most timid rider.”

  He sighed, seeming to shrink into himself. “I’ve never forgot a moment of that night. We was busy as bees, what with a dozen coaches going to London and Bath and several others headed for Plymouth for a boat race, or some such.” He shook his head in disgust. “Young Rankin had been in the taproom since mid-afternoon, drinking and gaming. I heard later that he won more’n five thousand guineas from a stripling.” Again the graying head shook, unable to comprehend either the amount or the sort of man who could risk it.

  Blake grimaced. Had he coerced the groom into baring a tale he could not use? The man had little understanding of the upper classes. Gentlemen frequently wagered fortunes – Brummell had won and lost several, as had others he knew. Most accepted their fate, and no one blamed the winner.

  “Several men witnessed the game,” murmured George, his eyes again searching for potential listeners. “A few suspected Rankin had unusual luck that night, but no one dared mention cheating.” He paused to bite his lip.

  “So why did Rankin attack?” he finally asked.

  “After the loser left, one of the spectators scolded him, swearing that a gentleman would have quit the game before stripping the lad of every farthing, especially since the boy was the sole support of a mother and two sisters.”

  Blake’s imagination conjured the image of a boy putting a pistol to his head, leaving his family homeless, penniless, and broken in spirit. Despicable, if true – he had never condoned those who risked everything on the turn of a card, nor did he approve those who preyed on them – but nothing he could use.

  “I didn’t learn about the cards or the confrontation until later,” continued George. “All I saw was Rankin. He stumbled out here well past midnight. I stayed clear, not wanting to draw his attention when he was in one of his tempers – and that night was the worst I’d seen before or since. He often demands that his horse be kept ready to leave, so he didn’t summon me.”

  “You mean he retrieves his own mount from the stable?” That did not fit the man’s arrogance.

  “Not as a rule. He just don’t like waiting while we saddle Ajax. But that night he come out here. I was grateful, for we was busy, as I said. I was harnessing a curricle for another gent. The other grooms was out back with the carriages. Rankin didn’t see me, for which I’ve always been grateful. He was in a wicked temper, muttering and swearing and blowing hot with plans I didn’t think he meant. I was glad when he left.”

  “What plans?”

  “I didn’t understand most of what he said until I heard about the man what read him that scold on gentlemen’s honor. The scold was bad enough, but embarrassing him in front of a dozen others made it worse. So he was grumbling. No gentleman himself, he says, and no business of his. He also said something about not being his brother’s keeper. But he’ll be sorry, he says, then follows it up with curses you don’t expect from a gentleman. As he mounted Ajax, he muttered, Maybe he’ll stay out of my business if it costs him that team he sets such store by. That got my attention real quick, though I’d no idea which horses he meant.” His eyes again scanned the stable yard.

  “But he made no move to harm any?”

  “No, so I thought it just talk. Many a man utters threats and curses while in his cups.”

  “And few carry them out,” Blake said in agreement. He’d done it himself. Wine loosened tongues. But it also banished judgment.

  A cat inched toward a bird that was pecking around the cobbles under the corn bin. George watched it pounce, then resumed his tale. “Rankin left. I finished harnessing the curricle and led it round to the door. Two men drove off in it, but they never made it home. An early traveler found them at dawn. The curricle had overturned into a ditch, killing the man who’d scolded Rankin, fatally injuring his passenger, and breaking the leg of one of the horses.”

  “But no one saw the accident.”

  George shook his head. “I told you I had no proof. The muttered threat of a drunken man means nothing.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think Rankin waited until the curricle left, then followed it. It had rained hard that day, stopping only an hour before Rankin collected his horse. The curricle tracks showed on the road when we drove out to retrieve the bodies, as did the tracks of the two horses pulling it. A single horse had also traveled that way. Its tracks veered into the curricle’s a quarter mile before the crash.”

  “Was there any evidence that they were made at the same time?”

  “I didn’t examine them closely, but the horses changed from trot to gallop at that point.”

  “What do you think happened?” he asked again.

  “I think Rankin tried to injure the team. Veering into the ditch where those tracks met would have strained a leg or two. But instead of shying, the horses bolted – they was high-strung tits that jumped at every little sound, and I saw no evidence in the tracks that the driver had control – dropped the ribbons, most like. He was three sheets to the wind that night.”

  “So the horses panicked, ran a quarter mile, and only then veered into the ditch?”

  “With help. Twice more that single horse veered into the curricle’s path. Where they finally swerved off the road, the ditch was deeper and rougher. The driver’s head hit a rock. His passenger was still alive when we got there, but he died on the way back to town. We had to put down the injured horse.”

  “Two men dead, yet you said nothing about the tracks?”

  George stared at his boot. “I tried, but the men with me was too busy loading the passenger into a wagon – we still hoped he’d live then. When we reached the White Hart, folks here was already claiming accident, and I’d had time to think. With both men dead, what purpose would it serve? Rankin would destroy me if I said anyth
ing.”

  Jasper would attack whether he was guilty or not. George’s story carried no weight, for he was only a groom, but suggesting Jasper was guilty of wrongdoing would be an insult. The tracks might have contained evidence, but no one else had heeded them – unless the man who found the wreckage had noticed them.

  “Who found the accident?” he asked. “Perhaps he can tell me more.”

  “He’s gone, my lord. That’s all he said at the time.”

  He would track down the traveler later, if necessary. Someone must recall the man’s name. “Is there anyone else who might have heard Rankin’s threats that night?”

  “Squire Hawkins and Colonel Bangor, maybe. They followed him out of the inn. Then there was the passenger’s story, though nobody heeded it. He was out of his head.”

  “The passenger?” It took every bit of control he could muster to hide his shock.

  “Afore he passed out, he told the gent what found him about an attack by a horseman. But he was raving from fever and pain by then. Those who heeded him blame the ghost – that bit of road is haunted.”

  “But you believe him.” He dropped his voice to a whisper as a man stepped out of the inn and crossed the road toward the cathedral.

  “Maybe I hate Rankin too much.” His eyes also followed the departing gentleman.

  “I doubt it. What did the fellow say?”

  “He swore a horseman swooped down and jerked the ribbons from the driver’s hands. Then he whipped the horses into a frenzy, slicing into their forelegs – it’s true the horses’ legs was cut up, but those rocks was sharp. The horseman laughed when they bolted. Whenever the horses slowed, he whipped them again.”

  “Did he name the culprit?”

  George shook his head. “His words weren’t clear, and the tale was jumbled up with ramblings about Judgment Day and greenery and cats, or maybe it was cravats. He mighta mentioned names – Jack, Nigel, Shar – or mayhap they was groans. He was clearly out of his head. It is easier to believe the ghost spooked the team than to connect his words to Rankin. And easiest of all to suspect the driver lost control of a spirited team after drinking too much.”