“Oh, I will see it done.” Steckles scrambled to his feet, nodding. “I’d do anything for Lady Melissa. And for those poor coach horses she’s rescued.”
Lucian nodded. “Then you have my gratitude. She would be greatly troubled if harm came to them.”
“Oh, no, oh, no,” the farmer agreed. “We cannot allow that to happen.”
Lucian started for the door, but Steckles grabbed his arm before he could go but a few feet.
“Wait…” The farmer released him, but stood between Lucian and the door. “I am a man of honor, lord. That money bag holds more coin than I’ll need. Can I do anything else for you?”
Lucian considered.
There was something, but he feared he’d shock the farmer if he asked.
“Anything at all, sir.” Steckles glanced at his turf fire, then back to Lucian. “I owe a debt to the gel’s father,” he said. “‘Twas himself who bought me this cottage. He liked a carving I did of his favorite hound so much, he wanted me to have a place close to London where he would then encourage the gentry to purchase my carvings.”
“I see.” Lucian smiled, deciding he liked Melissa’s late father.
He also made another quick decision…
“Ah, well,” he began, “you know I stopped by the Spaniards Inn?”
The farmer bobbed his head.
Lucian leaned in to whisper his wish in the farmer’s ear.
Not surprisingly, when he straightened, he saw that Steckles’ cheeks had reddened.
“That would cause quite a stir, lord.” He pulled on his beard, uncomfortable.
Lucian set a hand on his shoulder, strove to reassure him. “Such a measure surely won’t be necessary. I’d just like your help if needed.”
“Then you shall have it,” the farmer agreed.
“You are a good man.” Lucian meant it.
He also smiled at the farmer when he opened the cottage door. Blessedly, the rain had dwindled to less than a drizzle and the wind was no longer as fierce. Lucian’s horse had kept dry beneath a lean-to and the beast trotted over to him now, ready for the ride back out of Hampstead Heath and on to London.
But just before Lucian mounted and rode away, another thought came to him and he turned, calling out to the farmer before he could nip back inside his cottage.
“Ho, Steckles,” he called. “I have one last favor.”
The farmer waited, clearly willing.
“There is a man in some trouble,” Lucian said, already swinging up into his saddle. “Mr. Bagley Crumb, a patron of Spaniards. Do you know him?”
“We all do, lord. He’s a fine man, though his luck is poor.”
“Aye, well, perhaps no more.” Lucian smiled. “Take whatever sum is needed from the money pouch and pay the man’s rent and any other debts. Better yet, after you’ve done that, tell him my solicitor will be in touch with his landlord to purchase his cottage for him.”
The farmer’s brows arced clear to his hairline. “You will do all that for Bagley?”
“Consider the gesture my thanks to you and whoever here helps you with Lady Melissa’s horses. Do you understand everything that needs to be done?”
“Right, sir, I do.” The farmer grinned.
“Then I bid you farewell,” Lucian said, and rode toward Bamber the Badger and the heath road.
He was also now quite certain that the English weren’t the only addled ones. Somewhere between Lyongate and London, he’d lost his own wits.
Or was it his heart?
