FRIDAY
April 5, 1816
Eleven
Rafe
Leaving his kitchen staff to clean up after breakfast, Rafe lifted five-year-old Daphne to his shoulder and rested a hand on Daniel's small back. “Come along. It's a bonny day for walking. You can tell me what you're learning as we go.”
The children usually rode up to school in the carriage with Kate and her two, but the carriage hadn’t arrived. If Fletch and Kate hadn't shown up by the time Rafe returned to the inn, he'd have to ride out to see what was wrong. Fletch was quite capable of burying bodies in a potato patch if required. Rafe preferred to believe the break in domestic routine had simply slowed them down.
Or Kate had shot the grouch and was dithering over how to dispose of his corpse.
“Oliver wants to dissect a bunny, but Mama says we are to give them to a lady who feeds them.” Daniel recited his grisly report with the matter-of-factness of any eight-year-old with no concept of dissect.
Rafe smiled proudly that the orphans had learned to call them Papa and Mama after only a few months. They’d never really known their soldier father. Their mother had been bed-ridden, and they’d mostly been raised by a careless nanny. So perhaps it was easier for them to adjust than most.
“You’re giving the bunnies to Mrs. Ross?” he asked his wife, admiring her efficiency in dealing with the problem.
Walking beside them, Verity straightened Daniel's curls. She hid her love of fashion and color under a schoolteacher’s black, but she wore a colorful blue shawl and her frilled cap sported matching ribbons. “We are.”
Rafe recalled that Mrs. Ross raised conies—for fur and meat. The children didn't need to know that. They’d just had a horrid experience of the world as a cruel place. They needed time to feel safe.
The carriage bearing the Morgan family and Fletch finally rolled up the drive and stopped at the tower entrance just as Verity ushered Daphne and Daniel inside. While the younger pair ran upstairs, she waited for Kate's two, blew Rafe a kiss, then followed them up to her schoolroom.
Kate clambered down without Fletch’s help, nodded curtly at Rafe, and, without a word, marched up to the portico and into the manor, carrying her sewing basket.
Rafe snorted and watched Fletch attempt to turn the carriage around, one-handed. “Worn out your welcome already?” he called when his friend didn’t bother greeting him.
“Look for a man with buckshot in his boots.” Fletch continued torturing himself by making a too-tight circle.
“Hugh showed up last night?” That was alarming.
“Someone took his valise.” With the carriage finally turned in the right direction, he drove off.
Damn. Rafe went in search of Captain Huntley. The village wasn’t an official anything and probably had no legal right to even elect Hunt as magistrate, but they had. For all Rafe knew, Hunt could appoint himself as he’d appointed Rafe as bailiff. It wasn’t as if anyone would naysay the man with money and means. The good people of Gravesyde were eager for the return of law and order after years of abandonment.
He caught the one-eyed captain before Hunt had retreated to the roof cistern.
“Does that partner of yours intend to leave that clock disemboweled on the stairs much longer?” Hunt asked, changing course and leading Rafe to the old study.
“Fletch was out at the Morgans last night, apparently shooting up Hugh’s boots, if I am translating correctly.” Rafe waved off the offer of tea and paced rather than take a seat. “I’d like to interview Miss Jameson more thoroughly, if one of the ladies might accompany me. Has she returned to work?”
“That’s Lavender’s purview. Talk to her. Do I need to set the hounds tracking this lunatic?” Hunt was a big man, not much older than Rafe, but he wasn’t shy about taking a chair. He’d been badly injured over two years ago during the American war with British invaders and had learned to rest when he had the chance.
“Not if he’s using well-traveled roads. The hounds would never find a scent. The countryside is littered with vacant hovels. He could be in any of them. I’ve had men patrolling the lane and keeping an eye on Kate’s tenant house, but no one has reported seeing him. I should have sent more than Fletch last night, but I didn’t think Kate would accept armed guards.” And Fletch would have been insulted.
“I can’t imagine this Morgan person returning to the manor, but I don’t think like a Bedlamite. I’ll step up patrols around the perimeter. Anything else I can do?” Leaning back in his chair, Hunt waited, not necessarily patiently.
“The patrols are a sound idea. I’ll have to figure out how to deal with Kate. She’s unlikely to let Fletch stay another night.” Rafe bowed briefly and lumbered off for the sewing workshop.
The plethora of women made him uneasy. They were spread out at tables across the ballroom, taking advantage of the light from the two-story medieval windows for the close work, using the middle of the room for cutting, mending, and button making, and the inside wall for fabrics and racks of old clothes. Lavender had created a factory without machines.
One of the older women hobbled over to greet him. “I need to speak with Miss Jameson. Is she about?”
“Miss Vivien, you mean? Her older sister has joined us. I thought her a widow, but she goes by Jameson too.” The woman’s pudgy chins folded up in disapproval.
“The one who fell down the stairs.” Rafe wasn’t about to sort proper titles and names. The women could pick nits all they liked. He needed to find a madman.
