PRAISE FOR THE INNKEEPER’S DAUGHTER “More than a breathless romance, The Innkeeper’s Daughter is an intriguing mystery that will keep you riveted until the very end. Well-written and well-researched, the plot had more twists and turns than a mouse’s maze, but it was the cast of fascinating characters that drew me in, along with a romance that made me sigh and left me wanting more. I can’t say enough good things about this book. Read it. You won’t be disappointed.” –MaryLu Tyndall, award-winning author of the Legacy of the King’s Pirates series “Griep creates characters that haunt my dreams, even my waking moments. She is a master craftsman, creating characters that feel like living, breathing beings who deserve a happy ending.” –Elizabeth Ludwig, author of Tide and Tempest “A beautiful tale of God’s provision and grace in the middle of dire circumstances, woven through with a ribbon of romance. With the usual Griep mix of quirky characters, lyrical turns of phrase, heart-stopping adventure, and soul-gripping insight, this story will not disappoint!” –Shannon McNear, author of RITA® nominee Defending Truth, a novella from A Pioneer Christmas Collection “Michelle Griep populates her books with enticing characters, and The Innkeeper’s Daughter has some of her best. Johanna, beleaguered by debts and deadbeat lodgers like Nutbrown. Alex, an undercover Bow Street Runner, who is hunky and swoon-worthy. Throw them together with smugglers and you have the perfect read that should come with a warning: Will keep you up turning pages!” –Ane Mulligan, award-winning author of the Chapel Springs series
“Once again Michelle Griep brings us a stirring Regency novel with just the right blend of suspense, romance, and redemption. Johanna’s desperate situation captured me from the opening scene, and I was equally intrigued by Alex’s mission to go undercover and capture a traitor to the Crown. Readers who are looking for an English historical romance with pageturning intrigue will enjoy The Innkeeper’s Daughter.” –Carrie Turansky, award-winning author of Across the Blue and Shine Like the Dawn “Every character in this romantic Regency suspense comes alive immediately upon introduction, drawing us into nineteenth-century England from the very first page. The well-crafted writing is a repast for the mind and spirit with sweet and savory turns of plot and phrases. The Innkeeper’s Daughter confirms what other history-loving readers and I already knew: Michelle Griep is a master of the ensemble cast.” –Sandra Byrd, author of A Lady in Disguise “The Innkeeper’s Daughter is a meticulously researched, can’t-turn-thepages-fast-enough tale of well-written intrigue—and the love story. . .ah, the love story! You won’t want to miss Johanna and Alex’s complicated road to happiness, and revisiting the wonderful characters of Brentwood’s Ward is a delightful bonus. Michelle Griep is a gifted force in the world of cloak-and-dagger Regency romance.” –Erica Vetsch, award-winning author of My Heart Belongs in Fort Bliss, Texas “Full of intrigue and romance, The Innkeeper’s Daughter is a fresh and captivating Regency novel. With witty dialogue, colorful characters, and pulse-hammering suspense, Michelle Griep keeps the reader guessing until the very end.” –Sarah E. Ladd, bestselling author of A Stranger at Fellsworth
The
INNKEEPER’S DAUGHTER a novel
MICHELLE GRIEP
A n Impr int of B ar bour P ublishing, Inc.
Š 2018 by Michelle Griep Print ISBN 978-1-68322-435-8 eBook Editions: Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-68322-437-2 Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-68322-436-5 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental. Cover Design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible. Member of the
Evangelical Christian Publishers Association
Printed in the United States of America.
DEDICATION Jennifer Pérez Díaz, a beautiful friend and aspiring writer, and to all the other hopeful novelists out there yearning to be published. Keep writing—your day will come. And as always, to the Keeper of my soul. I shall keep believing—for my day will come, as it will for us all.
CHAPTER ONE Dover, England, 1808
N
umbers would be the death of Johanna Langley. Three hours of sleep after a night of endless—or more like hopeless—bookkeeping. Two days to pay the miller before he cut off their flour supply. And only one week remained until the Blue Hedge Inn would be forced to close its doors forever. Numbers, indeed. Horrid little things. A frown etched deep into Johanna’s face as she descended the last stair into the taproom. Stifling a yawn, she scanned the inn’s public room, counting on collaring their lone boarder, Lucius Nutbrown. His payment would at least stave off the miller. Six empty tables and twelve unoccupied benches stared back. Must all the odds be stacked against her? To her right, through the kitchen door, an ear-shattering crash assaulted the silence, followed by a mournful “Oh no!” Johanna dashed toward the sound, heart pounding. Dear God, not another accident! She sailed through the door and skidded to a stop just before her skirt hem swished into a pool of navy beans and water. Across from her, Mam eyed the flagstone floor, one hand pressed against her mouth, the other holding the table edge. Johanna sidestepped the mess. “You all right, Mam?” Smoothing her palms along her apron, her mother nodded. “Aye. That crock were a mite heavier than I credited.” “As long as you’re not hurt. You’re not, are you?” She studied her mother’s face for a giveaway twitch in her poor eye. Unlike her father—God rest his soul—her mother would make a lacking card shark. “I’m fine. Truly.” A weak smile lifted the right side of Mam’s mouth. With no accompanying twitch. Johanna let out a breath and grabbed a broom from the corner. First, she’d 7
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tackle scooping up the beans and earthenware shards, then mop the water. “Where is Cook?” Johanna asked while she worked. “Why did you not let her carry such a load?” “Ana’s gone, child. I let her go this morning.” The words were as vexing a sound as the bits of stoneware scraping across the floor. Though her mother’s declaration was not a surprise, that didn’t make it any easier to accept. A sigh welled in her throat. She swept it down with as much force as she wielded on the broom. Sighing, wishing, hoping. . . none of it would bring Ana back. She reached for the dustpan. “I suppose we’ll have to forego the plum pudding this year then, too, eh?” “Pish! Oak Apple Day without plum pudding?” Mam snatched the dustpan from her hands, then bent in front of the crockery pile. “You might as well hang a Closed shingle on the front door right now. What’s next. . .leaving off the garland and missing the prayer service as well?” “Of course not.” Setting the broom aside, Johanna grabbed Mam’s hands in both of hers and pulled her to her feet. “God’s seen us through worse, has He not?” “Aye, child. That He has.” For an instant, the lines on her mother’s face softened, then just as quickly, reknit themselves into knots. “Still—” “No still about it. If we fail to trust in His provision, what kind of faith is that?” “Aah, my sweet girl. . .you are a rare one, you are.” The look of love shining in Mam’s good eye squeezed Jo’s heart. She’d smile, if she could remember how, but she didn’t have to. Boyish laughter from outside the kitchen window cut into the tender moment. Thomas! Johanna flew out the back door and raced around the corner of the inn. Boys scattered like startled chickens, leaving only one to face her in the settling dust. Folding her arms, she tried to remember that Thomas’s wide eyes and spray of freckles made him appear more innocent than he really was. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “You should’ve been down to the docks long ago. If Mr. Baggett or the Peacock’s Inn boy beat you to it, and we miss out on new guests—” “Aww, Jo.” His toe scuffed a circle in the dirt. “You know I’m faster ’an 8
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them. ’Sides, the ferry’s not due in for at least another hour.” “Even so, if you’re not the first to persuade those arrivals to stay at our inn, I fear we won’t. . .” She paused and craned her neck one way then another to see behind the boy’s back. Her brother shifted with her movement—a crazy dance, and a guilty one at that. “What are you hiding? Let’s see those hands.” His shoulders stiffened. Times like this broke her heart afresh with longing for her father. As much as she needed him, how much more did the young boy in front of her? She popped her hands onto her hips and stared him down. “Now, young man.” A sigh lifted his chest. Slowly—any slower and she’d wonder if it physically pained him—one arm stretched out, then the other. When his fingers unfolded, crude wooden dice and several coins sat atop his palms. “Thomas Elliot Langley!” “Well I won, din’t I?” He cocked his head at a rakish angle, his freckles riding the crest of a wicked smirk. “And against Wiley Hawk and his band, no less. Pretty good, eh Sis?” “You were gambling?” The word filled her mouth like a rancid bit of meat. Sickened, she pressed a hand to her stomach. “Oh, Thomas, how could you? You, of all people, know the evils of such a pastime.” “We were just playing. That’s not gambling.” A scowl darkened his face, matching the low-lying blanket of grey clouds overhead. “It’s fun. Something you wouldn’t know anything about.” “What I know is that gamblers are never to be trusted. And worse, you lied about it. Is that the sort of reputation you want spread from one end of Dover to the other? Thomas Langley, the liar? What will Mam say? What do you think this will do to her?” His toe scrubbed the dirt once again. What had been a scowl morphed into a grimace. “Don’t tell Mam, Jo. Please don’t.” Was that glistening in his eyes authentic? Hard to say—and even harder to remain cross with his quivering lip and thin shoulders slumping like an old man’s. “Very well.” She stretched out her palm. “Hand over that ill-gotten gain, and we’ll keep this between ourselves.” With a sly grin, he sprinted off, bits of gravel spraying up from his feet. 9
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As he raced, he yelled over his shoulder, “Sorry, Jo! I’ve a ferry to meet.” Picking up her skirts, she dashed after him, then lessened her pace as she neared the main road. What would people think of her, chasing her scamp of a brother? She’d never catch him anyway. Oh, what a day this was turning out to be. She slowed, then stopped, her eyes narrowing. Was that a flash of yellow-stockinged legs dangling over the inn’s front-door awning? She flattened against the wall and watched. A loosened shingle smacked onto the ground ahead of her, followed by the thunk of two feet. So that’s how Lucius Nutbrown snuck in and out without her knowing. Girding herself mentally for a conversation that was sure to be ridiculous, Johanna pushed from the wall. “Mr. Nutbrown, a word, if you please.” For an instant, his body stiffened into a ramrod. Then he turned, the creases around his mouth settling into a smug line. For a man so lean, how he managed to gather such extra skin on his face was a wonder. When he reached into an inner pocket of his dress coat, Johanna rolled her eyes. Indeed. This would be ridiculous. Nutbrown’s hand emerged, covered with a raggedy court-jester puppet, which he promptly held out front and center. “Sorry, Miss Langley.” The puppet’s head bobbed side to side, the man’s falsetto voice as crazed as the movement. “Mr. Nutbrown is late to an appointment. He shall attend you later this evening. Good day.” Nutbrown pivoted, the tails of his coat swinging wide. Did he seriously think she’d let him off that easily? Heedless of who might be watching, she darted ahead and stopped directly in his path. “I’m afraid not, sir. This cannot wait.” His brows pulled together, drawing a dark streak above his eyes, yet he shoved the jester forward. “Very well, miss. But make it quick.” “Please, put away your puppet, sir. It gains you nothing.” She extended her hand. “Pay up your room and board for the past fortnight, and I shall have nothing more to say.” The jester’s head plummeted, his plaster nose pecking her palm. She yanked back her hand. “Mr. Nutbrown! Really! I should hate to bring the magistrate in on this, but if I must—” “No.” Nutbrown’s hands shot up as if she’d aimed a Brown Bess at his 10
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chest, the crazy puppet waving like a banner overhead. In three long-legged strides, he sidestepped her, lowering the puppet out at arm’s length. “By week’s end, Miss Langley, you shall be paid in full. You have Mr. Nutbrown’s word on it.” The puppet disappeared into his coat, and Nutbrown scurried down the street. Wonderful. The word of a jester made of cloth and papier-mâché, and the clown who wore it upon his hand. Yet he was their sole source of income unless she could pry those coins from Thomas’s fingers, which wasn’t likely. Bending, she gathered up the dry-rotted chunks of broken shingle and frowned. Her world was falling apart as tangibly as the inn—the place she loved most. The home she and Thomas and Mam must leave if they didn’t come up with the rent payment by the end of next month. Holding tightly to the shingle remnant, she closed her eyes. At the moment, her faith felt as crumbly as the wood—which was always the best time to pray. “Please God, provide a way. Fill the inn. . .and soon.”
•
London Knuckles hovering to strike, Officer Alexander Moore slid his gaze once more to the left. It paid to think before pounding away, be it in a street brawl or—as in this case—on a door. A tarnished brass relief of the number seven hung at an angle, as if no one had given the slightest thought before nailing up the house number. Considering the man who supposedly lived here, the haphazard detail stayed his hand a second more. Had he written down the magistrate’s address incorrectly? Only one way to find out. He pounded thrice, then stepped back, ready for anything. Behind him, hackney wheels ground over cobbles, grating a layer off his already thin nerves. Magistrate Ford never—ever—invited guests over for dinner. So why him? Why now? Hinges screeched an angry welcome as the door opened. Lantern light spilled over the pinched face of a tall man shrouded in a dark dress coat, dark waistcoat, and darker pants. Rounding out the theme was a single-looped 11
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cravat, black as a crypt, choking the fellow’s neck. A ghoul could not have been garbed more effectively. The man didn’t say a thing, but even without words, Alex got the distinct impression he read, condensed, and filed away every possible facet of him in a glance—from shoe size to propensity for warmed sherry. And Alex didn’t like it one bit. That kind of intelligence gathering was supposed to be his specialty. “My apologies. I must have the wrong address.” Alex nodded a valediction, careful to keep a wary eye on the figure from the dead. “Good evening.” “Step this way, Officer Moore.” The fellow set off without looking to see that Alex complied, nor even that the door was shut or locked. The magistrate would never abide such ineptitude down at Bow Street. Surely this was a ploy, or perhaps some kind of test of his wit. Aah. A test? A slow smile lifted half his mouth. With a grip on the hilt of his dagger, he unsheathed the blade and withdrew it from inside his great coat. Crossing the threshold, he left the door wide should a quick escape become necessary and trailed the disappearing lantern down a hall as lean as the man he followed. At the end of the corridor, the grim reaper tapped twice on a closed door, then pushed it open without waiting for a response. The brilliance of the room reached out and pulled Alex forward. He entered a grand dining hall, incongruous in size and opulence with the street view of the ramshackle building. Crystal wall sconces and an overhead chandelier glittered light from one mirrored panel to another. A thick Turkish rug sank beneath his steps. The place was fit to house a peer of the realm, not a law keeper who served out gritty justice to the malefactors of London. Directly across from him stood Bow Street Magistrate, Sir Richard Ford, stationed at the farther end of a polished table. Ford snapped shut a pocket watch and tucked it inside his waistcoat, then skewered him with a piercing gaze. “Prompt as always, eh Moore?” “I try, sir.” Flipping out his coattails, Ford sat, then shook out a folded linen napkin and covered his lap. “Put that weapon away and have a seat. I invited you to dinner, not a skirmish.” The butler stepped forward, offering his arm to collect Alex’s coat. Alex sheathed his knife, then shrugged out of his woolen cloak and handed 12
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it over with a whispered warning. “You might want to shut that front door.” Across the long table, Ford chuckled. “Your concern for Underhill is admirable, but quite unnecessary. Though my butler’s appearance leaves much to be desired, his service is impeccable. As for the door, by now it’s not only sealed but would take a two-ton battering ram to break it in.” Sinking into the chair, Alex cocked a brow. “You doubt me?” Ford’s question dangled like a noose. “Never, sir. Just curious, is all. Seemed a simple enough slab of oak.” “Oak, yes. Well, mostly. As for simple?” Ford shook his head. “Pulleys, gears, a generous portion of iron reinforcement. Try putting in a monstrosity like that without attracting attention from one end of the neighborhood to the other.” The magistrate paused to ring a small silver bell sitting next to his plate. Before the last of the short chime cleared the air, a housemaid entered with a tray. Ford ignored her as she set a steaming bowl in front him. “I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you here.” Only a thousand times. The retort lay dormant on his tongue. To admit he’d anguished over this meeting would show weakness—a trait he’d vowed never again to embrace. He followed the sleek movement of the girl as she placed his bouillon on the table, then returned his gaze to the magistrate. “The thought crossed my mind that, perhaps, I was to be the main course.” A thin smile stretched the magistrate’s lips. “Not that you don’t deserve to be after your unorthodox capture of Ned Dooley.” And there it was. What this entire charade was about. Alex leaned forward, bumping the table and rippling the wine in his glass. “Regardless of how it was accomplished, sir, Dooley’s conviction ended that smuggling ring, saving countless lives, not to mention the expense spared to the Crown. How you can possibly say—” Ford’s hand shot up, cutting off further comment. “You already know my thoughts on the matter. I daresay neither of us will sway the other’s opinion, so let us officially consider this topic closed to discussion. There is a much larger scheme prompting this meeting.” “Must be spectacular.” Alex sank back in his chair. “Inviting me here is a singular event. As far as I know, not a runner has ever uncovered where you live, and though I begged you time and again as a lad, you never relented.” “Indeed. Sometimes extreme measures are necessary.” Ford shooed away 13
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the serving girl with a flick of his fingers, then sat motionless until she disappeared through a hidden panel in the wall. He took a moment to sample his soup. “I would like you to go incognito for a while.” Taking the magistrate’s lead, Alex picked up his spoon and downed several mouthfuls of his broth, tasting nothing. Something was not right about the magistrate’s request. Ford could’ve asked him the same thing in his office without the pretense of dinner. In fact, he could’ve asked any number of other officers or—suddenly understanding dawned bright and clear. He shoved back his chair. “With all due respect, I’ve hardly forgotten the assignment you handed Brentwood last year. Am I the only available officer for you to proposition?” The more he thought of Nicholas Brentwood’s previous mission, the hotter his blood ran. He’d sooner quit than be saddled with the care of a spoiled rich girl, as had his friend—even though it turned out well in the end. Rising, he frowned at the napkin as it fell to the carpet. Let the impeccable butler pick it up. In fact, let Underhill have the assignment. “My thanks for your hospitality, sir, but if that is the case, my answer is no. A firm and emphatic no.” “Alexander, wait.” Ford’s tone—or was it the use of his Christian name?—slid over his shoulders like a straight-coat, pinning him in place. Suddenly he was ten years old again, compelled to do his guardian’s bidding. “You,” the magistrate continued, “are my first and only choice for this position. This assignment is nothing like Brentwood’s. Anyone can be a guardian, but only someone with specialized training may fill the role I’m looking for. All I ask is that you hear me out. You owe me at least that after keeping your hind end out of trouble the past decade and a half.” The few sips of soup, the glittery sparkle of the room, the pleading in Ford’s voice combined into a wave of nausea that sank to the pit of his gut. He was indebted to Ford, more than he could ever pay back. Had not the man taken him in as a ten-year-old orphan, he’d have perished on the streets. . .or become like the criminals he hauled in. He sagged into the chair like a rheumy old man and locked eyes with his benefactor and superior. “All right. Let’s hear it then.” Sconce light glimmered in Ford’s eyes. “You will pose as a gambling rogue to ferret out a suspected traitor. A dangerous, highly connected traitor.” “Traitors instead of smugglers, eh?” He chewed on that for a moment. 14
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“Might be a nice change of pace.” “Nice? Hardly.” Ford downed another mouthful of soup, then pushed the bowl away and stood, his gaze unwavering. “You should know that once I’ve told you the details of this particular mission, I will deny ever having said anything about it. And if this operation fails, I shall refute any knowledge of this conversation, to the point of watching you swing from a gibbet if necessary.” Denial? This was new. The danger in the magistrate’s proposal crept down Alex’s backbone. He straightened his shoulders, counteracting the eerie feeling. “Then, as always, I shall make it a point not to fail. Go on.” Ford grunted as he strolled to a narrow trestle table. He pounded twice on the top then twisted a knob on the middle drawer. Below the table, about knee height, a hidden panel in the wall slid open. Bending, the magistrate retrieved a leather pouch. By the time he crossed over to Alex, the wall looked as solid as ever. The bag thwunked onto the table with a crashing jingle. By the sound, he didn’t have to open the drawstring to know it wasn’t a bag of measly farthings sitting next to his plate. “As you can see, you are now a wealthy man, Mr. Morton.” Alex’s gaze shot from the bag to the magistrate. “Mor. . .ton?” “You heard correctly. From now on, you are no longer a Moore, but a Morton, less chance of a slip up if your alias is a close cousin to your true surname. You are a dealer in fine wines, a buyer and seller for your father.” Ford reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a sealed envelope, the new pseudonym engraved in gold on the front. “This coming Saturday, you shall attend the finest Oak Apple Day soiree Dover has to offer.” “Dover? I can’t possibly go back there. My face is known.” “True. A detriment, that. Yet you shall travel in a higher echelon of society this time. This invitation”—he handed over the envelope—“is your ticket into the estate of the Viscount Lord Coburn. How you maintain connection afterwards is your affair, which I am sure will be no problem for you. Nor do I want to know how you operate. In truth, until you discover who is involved in this mess, I give you full and free rein.” Alex’s brows lifted. Free rein? This was some scheme, and an enticing one at that, even though he’d left behind a few enemies in that part of the country—enemies whose anger likely still festered. Returning to Dover now might be a death warrant. 15
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He slugged back a drink of claret, the challenge of it all leaving a bittersweet aftertaste. Setting down the glass, he gazed at the magistrate. “What exactly is this mess, sir?” Ford’s mouth hardened into a grim line. “Someone’s been communicating with the French. I’m not at liberty to say how I know. Merely that I know is enough. To what extent military intelligence has been shared, and for what purpose, is up to you to find out. There is a traitor in our midst, and I want him brought to me at any cost. The MP funding this mission has deep pockets. Survive this assignment and you’ll be able to retire from the force—in style.” Alex blew out a long, low breath. He’d purposely distanced himself from anything smacking of French intrigue or the military. The London streets were what he knew best. But how could he refuse Ford’s earnest gaze bearing down on him? If it weren’t for the magistrate, he’d most likely be moldering in a pauper’s grave by now. And retirement at his age? Other than his life, what did he have to lose? He raked a hand through his hair. “Very well, but what if I should need backup?” “Officer Thatcher will be your only means of communication with me, though he, too, will be under strict instruction to deny you should your true identity become discovered. You’ll both be under a vow of secrecy, sharing information between yourselves and me alone. No one else. Do you swear it?” A queer chill shivered across his shoulders. This was quite an affair, for he’d never been asked to pledge such a vow before. He shoved down the foreboding quaver and lifted his chin. “Yes, I swear it.” “Good. Then Thatcher will check in with you regularly.” “What does that mean?” “Whatever you want it to.” Ford walked the length of the table and reclaimed his seat, leaving his cryptic answer floating on the air. But gnawing upon a bone was a trait Alex had perfected. “Where shall I connect with Thatcher, or rather, he with me?” Amusement lifted one side of Ford’s mouth. “You will station yourself at the Blue Hedge Inn.” A groan ripped from his throat. “You’re jesting.” Ford quirked a brow. “I take it you are familiar with the establishment?” Alex pressed his lips tight before harsh words escaped. No longer hungry, he pushed away his bowl of soup. The Blue Hedge Inn. He’d rather sleep in a pig wallow than that dilapidated hovel. 16
CHAPTER TWO
T
he driver tossed down Alexander’s bag from the roof of the coach. With a grunt, Alex caught it before the canvas hit the cobblestones, then turned to face the Rose Inn—the last stop on the London-to-Dover run. Sunlight glinted off two banks of windows draped with oak leaf bunting. Deep red bricks, too new to be coated over with soot, contrasted with the green foliage. The building stood like a proud soldier, pinned with honorary banners for the upcoming Oak Apple festivities. A patron exited the front door, patting his belly with a smile and a sigh, the aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet cider wafting out with him. Alex’s mouth pulled into a scowl. Was it too much to ask for lodging such as this if his life was to be on the line? Apparently, yes, though he’d done his best to talk Ford into changing his mind through the remainder of last Monday’s dinner. Turning, he stalked down New Street, then headed south on Canon. As he travelled from city center toward the outskirts, buildings cowered in the shadow of the old castle on Tower Hill. But even here, sporadic vendors had already set up their wares for the upcoming holiday. Across the road, one hawker claimed his oils and tinctures cured everything from gout to gluttony. To his side, cinnamon-spiced nuts roasted over an open fire. Ahead, a gamer ran a coconut shell scam, promising a cash prize for anyone who could pick out the shell with a pea hidden beneath. In front of that booth, a scrawny-limbed lad jammed his hands into his pockets, then turned and began shuffling away. Behind the boy, a wicked grin slashed the face of the gamer. Alex clenched his jaw. It didn’t take a Bow Street officer to figure out the low-life had stolen the boy’s last farthing. “You, boy!” Alex waited until the lad cast a glance over his shoulder. “I’m looking for a strong arm to carry my bag.” The boy’s steps slowed, not completely, but enough that he turned and 17
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faced him, walking backward. “Ye willing to pay?” Alex paused in front of the gamer’s booth. “Aye.” The boy stopped. The gamer leaned forward. Alex smirked. With one word, he’d purchased their attention. A few more, and he’d own them. “I’ve a coin or two I can part with.” Immediately, the gamer threw his shells into the air, juggling them into a merry circle. “Step right up! Try yer luck! Are you smarter than a coconut?” It was hard not to groan at the poor verse, nor smile at the boy as he ran back and tugged his sleeve. “I’m your lad, sir. Thomas is me name. Where we going?” The gamer shouted louder, adding the pea into his juggling mix. Shrugging the bag off his shoulder, Alex handed it to Thomas, then nodded sideways toward the gamer. “First stop is right here.” The boy’s face paled. “I don’t recommend that, sir.” “While I appreciate your advice, the truth is,” he squatted nose-to-nose with the lad, “I am smarter than a coconut.” Thomas shook his head, the gravity of his puckered brow adding years to his youth. “That’s what I thought, too, sir. But I were sure wrong.” Righteous anger curled Alex’s fingers into a tight fist. Vengeance is the Lord’s he reminded himself, but it still took a conscious effort to keep the grin fixed to his face. “Perhaps, boy, it wasn’t the coconut you were competing against.” The lad’s nose scrunched, bunching his spray of freckles into a clump. Resisting the urge to laugh, Alex rose and stepped up to the booth. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a penny, and slapped it down on the plank separating him from the gamer. “I’ll give it a go.” “Very good, sir. Very good.” One by one the coconuts collected onto the gamer’s open palms, the pea being the last to land. Above his bony wrists, the hems of the man’s sleeves were threadbare, more so than the rest of his dress coat. If nothing else, the gamer knew his trade. Given the chance, Alex had no doubt the fellow could hide an entire pianoforte up that sleeve, and by the appearance of it, perhaps he had a time or two. “Let’s see if ol’ fate smiles on you, eh sir?” With much swirling and swooping, the man made a great show of arranging the shells into a neat row in front of Alex. He lifted the middle coconut, then set the pea beneath it. “All ye gots to do, sir, is watch carefully.” 18
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Thomas planted his feet beside him, pleading with wide eyes. “Ye won’t win, sir. He’s good, he is. It’s not too late to take yer coin back.” Before Alex could yield to the boy’s warning, the gamer snapped into action, sliding shells one way and another, even tapping and clacking their edges now and then. Thomas leaned closer, his gaze fixed on the man’s hands. Alex ignored the showman’s flourishing fingers and instead studied his eyes. The content of a man’s soul could be summed up in a blink—or lack of one. Snakes never blinked. Neither did the gamer. “There you have it.” The man swept one hand back and forth over the top of the shells. “Which one hides the pea? Say the word, and if ye’re right, you’ll walk away with a jingle in yer pocket.” Alex looked down at Thomas and cocked a brow. The boy bit his lip then edged one finger up to point at the farthest coconut. “Are you certain?” he asked. “Aye, sir. This time I know I’m right.” “Well then, I choose. . .” Alex slanted his gaze back to the gamer, whose hand hovered over the far shell. “This one.” He shot his arm across the plank and grabbed the gamer’s other wrist. The man screeched like a little girl, but to his credit, he didn’t open his hand. Alex squeezed harder, grinding the man’s bones to within a hair’s breadth of snapping. Tears leaked out the gamer’s eyes, and finally, his fingers sprung wide. There sat the pea. Thomas flipped open each of the shells. All were empty. “Dash it! You’re a flamin’ cheater! Gimme back my money!” “It’s the way of the game, that’s all.” The gamer plied and pried and tried to wriggle free of Alex’s death grip. “Let me go!” “Be a shame to break these delicate bones. Why, you’d be out of commission for all of the Oak Apple Day festivities. Yes, sir”—Alex dug his fingers in deeper and leaned closer—“a shame too, if we spread word about how your little game is played, hmm?” The gamer’s face turned an ugly shade of purple. “All right! All right. I’ll give the street-rat back his money.” Alex let go. The gamer recoiled, rubbing his wrist and whimpering on the exhale. Alex folded his arms, waiting until the fellow handed over not 19
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only Thomas’s farthing, but his own coin as well. Snubbing the man behind the booth, Thomas flashed Alex a smile, wide with teeth he’d not yet grown into. “Thank ye, sir.” Alex couldn’t help but mirror the boy’s grin. “My pleasure, lad. Shall we?” He nodded down Canon Street, then waited for Thomas to tuck away his money and heft the canvas bag over his shoulder. The boy fell into step beside him, two paces to his one. His words flew just as fast as his legs. “That were something. That’s what. Why, ye needn’t pay me nothin’ fer carryin’ yer bag, sir. Ye got me my coin back and all. Oh, and you must stay at the inn my family runs. Ye’ll be treated like a king. Leastwise by me. Don’t know ’bout my sister. I stay out of her way, mostly.” “Oh?” Alex continued at the intersection, though his feet itched to turn southward. The Maiden’s Head was halfway down that street—the last of the reputable inns on this side of town. Blowing out a long breath, he glanced down at the boy. “Why is that, I wonder? Is your sister such a shrew?” “She’s all right, I guess. It’s just that, well. . .” The boy’s toe hit a rock and sent it skipping ahead. “She’s such a girl, sir. Makes big to-do’s outta nothin’. It’s no wonder she’s not married.” An undertaker’s tone couldn’t have been more solemn. Alex bit back a laugh. “Can your father not manage her?” “Father’s dead and gone, sir.” “Sorry to hear that.” He studied the boy out of the corner of his eye. Honest emotion rarely met a full-faced stare. “It’s not bad as all that, sir. Never knowed him. He died a’fore I was born.” Catching up to the rock, the boy kicked it again, displaying no grief whatsoever. “About this sister of yours,” Alex paused as the boy veered around a corner. How on earth could the lad know he’d wanted to turn here? “She runs the inn herself ?” “Nah.” Thomas shook his head and skipped ahead of him—quite the feat for lugging a bag Alex knew weighed at least a stone. Why would the boy speed up when he didn’t know how much farther would be required of him? “She and Mam run the inn. Well, and me too,” the boy continued. “Mam can’t get along without us, with her bad eye and all. Oh, this way, sir. Shortcut.” Thomas cut into an alley carved into the space between two warehouses. Looking past the lad, Alex squinted. At the far end, the shortcut spilled out 20
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onto Blue Lane. “Hold up a minute, Thomas. How is it you know exactly where I’m going?” The boy pivoted, facing him. “Why I told ye, sir. You must stay with us. Ye’ll be treated like a—” “Yes, I know. A king. Let me venture a guess, hmm?” He closed the distance between them and once again squatted nose-to-nose with the boy. “Are you taking me to the Blue Hedge Inn?” Thomas’s mouth dropped. Awe sparked in the depths of his dark blue eyes. “How’d ye know, sir? I ne’er said the name.” An easy enough guess when that was the only remaining lodging this far from the center of town, but if the lad wanted to credit him with hero status, who was he to deny him? Reaching out a hand, Alex tussled the boy’s hair and stood. “Let’s be about it, then, aye?” “Aye, sir. Only. . .” Thomas’s mouth scrunched one way then the other, as if the words on his tongue tasted sour. “Only what?” Alex prodded. “Just that we do have one other boarder ye should know about.” “Why’s that?” Thomas kicked his toe in the dirt, averting his gaze. “Ye’ll be sharing a bed with him.” Sharing a—blast! Alex’s toe itched to kick more than the dirt. A dilapidated inn. A shrewish spinster running it. And now he’d be rooming with a stranger. Could anything else possibly go wrong with his stay in Dover? Setting his boots into motion, he headed down the alley and considered pulling his knife as he turned the corner. The way this mission was beginning, who knew what he’d encounter next?
•
Johanna frowned at the pathetic green-and-brown pile that was supposed to be a garland. It looked like a heap of ratty leaves raked atop a mound of twine scraps. Bending, she picked up one end of the garland, then stood, pressing her lips tight to keep from mumbling about her brother. If she hadn’t had to do that rascal’s chores, she could’ve created a proper swag, every bit as stunning as the one on the Hound’s Tooth Inn. Yet there was nothing more to be done for the sorry-leafed trimming draped over her fingers. With the parade scheduled for tomorrow, she could ill afford to wait any longer to adorn the Blue 21
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Hedge’s facade—leastwise not if she hoped to attract holiday lodgers. Casting a last glance up one side of Blue Lane and down the other, she gave up expecting Thomas to climb the ladder and hang the bunting. No smudge-faced boy darted about anywhere. But neither did anyone else. The street was empty, save for a horse hitched to a cart halfway down the lane. If she acted quickly, she wouldn’t be caught mounting a ladder like a hired man. Grabbing the rail in one hand and holding tight to the garland with the other, she worked her way upward, rung to rung, then stopped at eye-level with the shingled overhang. No sense going all the way up to the roof. The awning would do just as well. She poked the end of the bunting into a gap between the wooden shingles, then tugged it a bit to make sure it was caught snugly. Satisfied a good wind wouldn’t coax it loose—though there was no telling if Lucius Nutbrown’s foot might not snag it if he made another escape through the front window—she pulled up slack from the coil on the ground, then searched for another gap, and. . .there. To her right. A bit farther than she’d like, still, she might be able to reach it if she leaned far enough. Or she might fall and crack her skull. Narrowing her eyes, she gauged the distance. Moving the ladder each time she wanted to secure the garland would only add extra effort and take more time. The lane was empty now, but that didn’t mean it would stay that way. Nothing to be done for it, then. Wrapping her fingers tight around the ladder, she stretched her arm toward the crevice. So close! But not enough to wedge the garland into the crack. She sucked in a breath, held it, and leaned a little farther. Her fingertips brushed the breach this time. Barely. Perhaps if she stretched just a hair closer, like so, and shifted her weight the tiniest bit, then— Wood cracked. The world tipped. Johanna flailed, fingers seeking something—anything—to grab on to. A splinter pierced her skin as wood scraped her palms. She tumbled headlong, a scream to wake the dead ripping out of her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut, tightening every muscle for impact, and— Landed on a pair of outstretched arms that scooped her up against a solid chest. 22
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“Careful there, missy.” A deep voice rumbled against her ear, reminding her of an autumn day, all golden and warm. Her eyes flew open. The man holding her matched the voice perfectly. Shoulder-length hair, the color of spent leaves fallen to the ground, framed a face kissed by the sun, browned yet fair. His coat, rough against her cheek, smelled of bergamot and wood smoke, spicy but sweet. If September were flesh and blood, it would look exactly like the man holding her. She blinked, speechless, breathless—and totally drawn in by his brilliant blue gaze. “Miss? Are you all right?” he asked. “I. . .” Her voice squeaked, stuck somewhere between mortified and mesmerized. She swallowed, then tried again. “I am fine. Thank you.” “Well then, let’s see if your legs work better than that ladder.” He bent and set her down. Released from the safety of his arms, she wobbled, and he grabbed her elbow. La! She must look like a newborn foal. Behind her, laughter rang out. “What a catch! You should’ve seen the look on your face, Jo.” A slow burn started somewhere low, her toes maybe, or her tummy, melting her embarrassment and stoking up a hot rage. She reeled about and planted her fists on her hips. “This was your chore to finish, Brother. Had you been here, I’d not have fallen.” The man stepped between them. “Don’t be too hard on him, miss. The boy had his own fall from grace.” “Really?” She took the time to fold her arms and dissected her brother’s wide eyes. He directed a don’t-say-it sort of gaze at the man. “What have you been up to this time, Brother?” “Filling the inn, that’s what.” Thomas’s chest puffed out a full inch as he lifted his chin. “I got us another guest, and good thing too, or you’d have smashed your head like a—” “Alexander Morton, at your service, miss.” The man cut Thomas off with a bow, chivalrous to a degree that nearly made her smile. Her brother could learn a thing or two from this fellow. Stuffing down her irritation, she dipped her head toward Mr. Morton. “Thank you, sir, for indeed, your service was welcome. I am grateful you stopped me from breaking any bones, though I own my pride is a little 23
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scuffed.” She straightened her shoulders, physically relegating the humiliating incident to the past and resuming her role as hostess. “Welcome to the Blue Hedge Inn. My name is Johanna Langley, one of the proprietors.” “I grant this was an unconventional meeting, Miss Langley, but pleasurable, nonetheless.” A rogue wink accompanied his words. “I am happy to make your acquaintance.” His smile scorched through her. Truly, she ought to be offended. So why the sudden heat warming her cheeks? She turned her face to her brother, hoping the fellow hadn’t noticed. “See Mr. Morton to the south-side room, would you, Thomas?” Her brother shook his head. “Can’t.” “Why not?” “Got us some more boarders too.” How had the boy managed to attract more lodgers in one morning than she had in a month? And why was he scrubbing his toe in the dirt? Something smelled more putrid in this than a leftover bit of limburger. She narrowed her eyes. “How many more? When do they arrive?” Craning his neck, he looked past her. “Right about now.” She and Mr. Morton turned in unison. He snorted. She sighed. Coming up Blue Lane was a rickety wagon, painted red and gold, with tassels and banners and more riders than could fit inside. Two dogs played chase around the horses, and even from where she stood, Johanna cringed at the ribald singing and bawdy laughter traveling along with them. “Oh, Thomas.” She shook her head. Desperate times called for desperate measures. . .but gypsies?
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CHAPTER THREE
T
he closer the gaudy wagon drew to the Blue Hedge, the deeper Johanna’s heart sank. From where she stood, she counted at least five adults and three children, and who knew how many more were in back. Unless this ragtag bunch of travellers paid up front, Mam would never be able to feed so many with Cook gone. What had Thomas been thinking? Filling the inn was one thing. Making it the laughingstock of Dover, quite another—and with boarders such as these, they’d scare off any prospect of respectable lodgers. “No, not them.” Her brother stepped past Mr. Morton and stretched out his arm, pointing beyond the monstrosity on wheels. “Behind ’em.” As the wagon closed in, more of the street came into view. Her gaze skimmed past the brilliant colors and landed on black and white. Beyond, six men travelled on foot, garbed in varying shades of dirt and producing the racket she’d accredited the gypsies. The scruffy fellows possessed instruments, haversacks, and—judging by the lyrics of their songs—no morals whatsoever. Her gaze shot back to the gypsy wagon rolling by. Except for the rattle of tack and harness, and the cry of a babe from within, it was quiet. The driver tipped his head toward her then snapped the reins, moving their cart along without pretense. As it passed, a dark-haired pixy popped her head out the back, merry curtains framing the little girl’s face. When her gaze met Johanna’s, the girl smiled. Johanna suppressed a frown and forced a polite nod. Compared to the ragged men behind them, singing of ale and women and something about a dog, the gypsies didn’t seem so bad. The wagon lumbered off, replaced by the six itinerant musicians. One fellow took the lead. Striding away from the group with a jaunty step, he planted himself in front of her brother, overshadowing him but not Mr. 25