She looked at him, an arrested expression in her eyes. “Yes…perhaps I misspoke to call her a witch.”
James shrugged. “She sounds to me like an intelligent, willful, and spoiled young woman who lacked proper guidance.”
Mrs. Hopkins sighed. “True.” She shook her head, then went around the side of the bar to pick up the empty bowls and plates of others in the pub.
“I’ve heard you set a man to making repairs at the church,” Mr. Hopkins said, leaning on the bar.
Sir James swallowed and took a sip of ale before answering. “Yes.”
The innkeeper shook his head. “I would have thought Mortlake would see to repairs.”
“If he knew of the need, I’m sure he would,” Sir James said, taking another bite of the pastie and washing it down with more ale.
They were veering away from the subjects that interested James the most. He tried another tack.
“Is young Mr. Inglewood like his sister, Georgia?” James asked, curious to know more about the Inglewood family. He and Cecilia had exchanged greetings with the Squire and his family after Sunday church services; however, they did not know the family beyond that time.
Mr. Hopkins shook his head. “Like night and day—in looks and temperament,” he said. “A steady young man, for the mostpart, though his sister rattled him. He stays away from home as much as he can.”
Sir James nodded his understanding, but privately wondered if he stayed away because of his sister or his father. Or both. “I was wondering why he wasn’t at the inquest. He must be away now.”
“Aye, that he be. In Folkestone, or wherever Captain Horsley be.”
“Mortlake’s yacht captain?”
Mr. Hopkins nodded. “The same. Young Inglewood is sailing mad, and the captain has been teaching him navigation—with the earl’s permission.”
James nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, then he is likely on his way back. Mortlake sent the captain to fetch Miss Faith Jones back to Mertonhaugh.” Sir James finished the last of his pastie and pushed his platter forward.
“Where might that be from?”
Sir James merely smiled and shook his head.
Mr. Hopkins chuffed good-naturedly. “Another ale?”
James started to say no until a dark shadow blocked the light streaming in the open front door. Every head in the bar turned to see the newcomer. The dark shadow resolved into the figure of Viscount Kendell.
“Lord Kendell!” the innkeeper said heartily.
Kendell crossed the room to the bar to slouch on a stool next to James with all the insouciance common among young men. Mr. Hopkins placed a mug of beer in front of him without the viscount asking. “What has you looking so down, my lord?” he asked.
The viscount huffed, then straightened to pick up his beer, then slouched. “My oh so lovely half-sister arrived yesterday,” he said morosely. He wrapped his hand around the beer mug andraised it to his lips, downing half the contents. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“I assume this is the half-sister who’s been in London?” James said as he motioned to Mr. Hopkins to pour him another ale. He settled back on his stool.
Kendell nodded. “Hope. Father—and even Mother!—are fawning all over her.” He shook his head. “I had to get out of the house.”
He straightened slightly and burped. James didn’t imagine this was his first beer of the day.
“You said two nights ago you wanted to meet your half-sisters,” James reminded him.
He swigged his beer, his lips compressed in a flat line. “I did,” he admitted. “…Tell me, Sir James, you’re a gentleman of parts, are all females the same? Giggly and squealy,” he asked, imitating the sounds, “like Gussie and Marty and Georgia?”
Mr. Hopkins laughed, and the viscount glowered at him. Mr. Hopkins went to the other end of the bar to refill some drinks.
The viscount stared down into his mug. “I need to get out of this God-forsaken village. I wonder if father will finance a grand tour for me,” he groused to James.
James frowned. “You say Miss Jones was giggly? I’m surprised given the sad circumstances for her visit.”
