Kate had come to his rescue last night. If he pushed past his humiliation—he realized she'd not only placed him above capturing the man endangering her but had grasped the madness battering at his brainbox and acted on it.
Fletch hadn't known how to accept her kindness, so he'd insulted her. He wasn't fit for civilization. Besides, he didn’t need a woman feeling sorry for him. Or understanding him.
Whiskey silenced the demons, but he didn’t want to fall back on drink and ruin his chance to work on this clock.
He clenched his jaw, found a crate, and stopped in the ballroom to ask if they had any batting or rags he might have. Those pendulums were ridiculously heavy. He wanted them well-padded to prevent them bouncing about.
Obviously fuming, Kate ignored his entrance. “Where are Miss Vivien and Mrs. Jameson?” Her tone was more firm than cross. “They were supposed to have these hems finished.”
“They took them gowns up to the ladies, ma'am. For a fitting, mayhap?” one of the older women replied uncertainly.
“Only Miss Marlowe is allowed to do that! Was she with them?”
The fact that she didn’t acknowledge Fletch’s existence said she had sails set for battle. The impassive lady hid volatility well, but that icy exterior was growing thin. Fletch enjoyed watching too much.
The seamstress she questioned glanced at him, apparently hoping for deliverance.
“Two women with armloads of gowns flounced up the front stairs like royal princesses,” he said helpfully, to see if the volcano would ignite—because he was a bastard that way.
Kate’s lips compressed on whatever censure burned her tongue. Restraining herself far better than he did, she raised an eyebrow at his crate rather than chase down the miscreants. “Did you require something, Mr. Fletcher?”
The beleaguered seamstress bobbed a curtsy, shot him a look of gratitude, and fled.
He explained his dilemma, and Kate transformed into an efficient paragon again. Clucking over the clock, she sought what he needed without ado.
Watching her gather his materials while answering workers’ questions and directing the flow of labor around the enormous ballroom, Fletch wondered if he could invite himself back to her farm again. He’d most likely worn out his welcome, but he had a niggling instinct that this composed female wouldn’t harass him and make annoying demands he couldn’t handle. And she needed someone to protect her from lunatics.
Probably another example of his damaged upper story.
He told himself Kate was as matronly as Miss Vivien’s dour sister, except on Kate, maturity and innate kindness bestowed comfortable femininity. He’d seen the auburn glory she hid beneath that frilly cap. She was so far above him that he had to close his eyes and remember his lapse into insanity last night.
“Major Fletcher?” The scent of her lavender soap wafted beneath his nose, too close for comfort.
He opened his eyes and focused his attention on the box of cloth she presented. “Excellent, thank you.”
“We don’t have much need for batting here, but I have some at home. Those pendulums have to be ancient.” Brusquely, she handed him the box, as if she were one of his automatons.
“I have an old blanket that might work. Thank you.” He fled, kicking himself all the way.
He truly wasn’t civilized. He’d left home for the army at eighteen and wasted nearly twenty years of his life killing men just like him. Rafe had rescued him from spiraling madness by requesting his transfer from field to depot squadron, where they oversaw supplies instead of killing people.
Fletch would give his life for Rafe. And Rafe would slay him if he insulted Kate.
So Fletch took himself and his pieces of metal down to the inn’s workshop where he wouldn’t find trouble. Entering the inn yard, he could hear Rob and Lynly laughing with Rafe’s young wards. School must be out for the day.
Judging by Damien’s old barouche waiting in the yard, Kate’s family had apparently retired their aging pony cart for good. The carriage was excessive for the few miles to the farm, but the hood kept little Lynly out of the elements. He didn’t see Damien anywhere. Were they trusting Rob to drive?
A demented bastard might easily attack a carriage on the road. The boy wasn’t large enough or experienced enough to handle two horses.
Knowing he was asking for trouble—he wasn’t totally mad if he knew what he was doing—Fletch set his box of parts on the carriage floorboard.
He still had the enormous pendulums to carry down. He found a couple of old blankets in the stable and threw them over his shoulder. He should have just enough time to pack up the final pieces before it was time for Kate to leave work.
Striding down from the manor, Rafe ran into Fletch on his way up the hill. “Are you going back with Kate tonight? We’ve scoured the grounds and can’t find any sign of the lunatic.”
“She’ll most likely stab me if I try,” Fletch admitted. “Put together a supper and I’ll attempt bribery. Is anyone patrolling her grounds?”
“I have a couple of men taking shifts during the day, but the captain’s troops are limited. We have no one reliable in the evening.” Rafe removed his hat to run his hand through his carrot curls. “I’ve talked to everyone twice and can’t find anyone who saw Morgan in the manor. The footman was off on an errand Wednesday, when the maid fell. The lunatic might have sneaked in the portico entrance then—searching for the captain, maybe? But yesterday. . . The tower is open to all. He might have slipped up there—but why? Did he know how to reach the sewing room? I have lists upon lists of who was where and when, but no one saw a stranger.”
