“Man-milliners?” Hunt asked incredulously, finally understanding. “Jacques has invited a troupe of queer-street players to rehearse a show that will have everyone arrested if seen in public?”
Well, the captain might be American, but he wasn’t ignorant.
“There might be some women among them.” Rafe had tried hard not to stare, so he couldn’t be certain.
Upton began to chuckle. Jack stared at Rafe as if he’d blown off the top of his head. Hunt snorted and drank his ale.
“The women will want to watch them rehearse,” the curate warned, not trying to hide his amusement. “You know they will.”
“May the saints in heaven preserve us,” the captain muttered, evidently thinking about his ever-curious wife.
Minerva, the curate’s wife, was even nosier. Rafe wasn’t certain about Verity. She loved books and had a strong interest in everything. She’d lived in London, but she’d been very sheltered.
“I don’t have to arrest them, do I?” Rafe asked anxiously. That was his main concern. Homosexuality was illegal everywhere he knew. Damien’s valet dressed like a gentleman and was discreet. His friends. . . not so much.
“Men played all the female roles in Shakespeare’s time,” Jack observed with false gravity. “We’ll just call them historical actors.”
Hunt nearly choked on his ale. The curate lifted his mug in toast. “Amen. If they aren’t killing people, I see no harm.”
Right there and then, Rafe decided he’d settled in the right place at the right time, with people who knew what was important and what was not. What happened behind closed doors was no one’s business but their own—unless people were harmed. Men in pink hose hurt no one.
Brutes who threatened women or shoved them down stairs. . . Those were the villains Rafe wanted to hunt down and lock up.
“Well, if Hugh Morgan has been hiding in that great barn of a Hall, he won’t last long with half a dozen people running about, peering into everything.” Rafe poured himself a mug of ale. “He has to be stealing his food somewhere, but no one is admitting to it.”
“Elsa says there’s nothing missing in her kitchen,” Jack offered. “She has so many people in there these days, he’d never sneak past them.”
“No one has touched our pantry either.” Rafe sipped thoughtfully. “I’ll need to ask Oswald at the mercantile. He keeps cheeses and pickles and such. Although I’d think he’d come complaining to me if he suspected thieves.”
“His wife’s sickly,” Hunt said. “He’s home with her and has his young nephew at the desk. Better check his locks.”
Oswald was the postmaster as well as owner of the mercantile. The ladies at the manor wrote a lot of letters and visited him regularly. They knew the latest gossip better than Rafe.
“I’ll do that. I’m still trying to find out where the mules from the feed cart are, although I suppose wasp stings will be gone by now.” Rafe washed a mug and polished it. “I can’t see how Hugh could have sent those animals down the drive, but it seems mighty suspicious.”
Jack held up his mug for more. “The driver’s place is out near mine. I had one of my lads go over and offer to fix his wheel. He took a look at the animals while he was there. Said it wasn’t wasp stings, no welt. But there are two small nicks, he called them, as if they’d been hit by stones. Given how they dragged the cart, they might have thrown up stones while they were running.”
Maybe he should simply stand by his bar and collect information. Rafe liked that notion, if he could persuade everyone in town to stop by when he needed them.
Verity arrived bearing a tray of the captain’s American crackers topped with bits of ham and cheese, along with a jar of pickled beets. She had to have sent up to the manor kitchen for those crackers. Rafe hadn’t learned to bake them. Yet.
“One of you might run up to the manor to talk with the boys,” his wife said as she set down the tray. “It’s Mr. Birdwhistle’s day off and he has gone into town. Oliver and Davy have evidently taken this opportunity to make a pea-shooter. One of the stable lads told me they’re out behind the barn, practicing on fence posts.”
“What on earth gave them the notion to make a pea-shooter?” Hunt asked incredulously, getting up from the stool he’d appropriated to rest his leg. Oliver was his wife’s nephew. The captain departed in haste, carrying a handful of crackers.
“Inventive lads.” Upton wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose they read about such things?”
“Not in mathematical books. But boys will be boys, and that pair is inventive.” Jack sipped his ale with a frown.
Rafe might look big and dumb, but he followed their thoughts all too well. “I’d better go up and ask where they found pea-shooters.” With a sigh, he set down his mug. It had been enjoyable playing host for a little while.
Crossing the lobby, he met Henri Lavigne entering with a crate of old clothes. “Are you starting a shop in here too?”
Always cheerful, the tavern owner beamed. “I’m thinking of it. Do you have any spare rooms?”
Rafe snorted and deviated from his task to lead him down the hall to the ladies’ parlor. “Do I have spare rooms? I have almost nothing else but spare rooms. But the ladies and the pub have taken the best windows.”
He opened the door to a room next to the shop. “From the stink in here, this must have been the gentlemen’s smoking room. There’s a window, but the frame is swollen shut, so we can’t air it out.”
