“My guests pay, but I want them to enjoy their stay, as one does,” he added with a hint of sarcasm.
“Rafe's the innkeeper, not me. I wouldn’t know. Anything else?” Fletch had a feeling Kate would have been politer, but he wanted to return to his clock.
“You need new boots,” Jacques retorted in the same tone. “And Rafe wanted to know if we had any intruders. You can tell him my. . . tenants. . . noticed someone has used the stable recently. I don't own a horse.”
That dragged his mind back from the clock. “Can you tell if anyone has stolen food?”
Rob returned with a small basket of soap and some jars of jam. “Mama said she wanted to take some jam over to you.”
“Hug your mother for me, please.” Jacques reached in his pocket for his coin purse. “My larder is the next best thing to bare. My guests arrived early, and I am unprepared. We'll have to take the cart into the village and forage. So, no, I've not noticed food theft.”
“We have some greens and baby onions in the garden,” Rob offered. “The market carts start leaving at noon, but Mr. Oswald has dried apples and pickled vegetables. Aunt Brydie may have some leftover bread. Mrs. Young will have mushrooms.”
Grudgingly, Fletch added, “I told Rafe to make a steak and kidney pie. Damien will bring that when he brings Kate home. They’re usually large enough for two meals. How many guests do you have?” He’d been in Rafe’s company far too long if he hated to see even this milksop go hungry.
An excited gleam lit Jacques’ eyes. “We could have a dinner party! We'll go into the village and see what we can find. One of my tenants is an excellent cook. You bring what you have. . . The Hall is large enough for a king's entourage! My friends can sing for us after dinner. The piano is out of tune, but they're working on it now.”
Rob shook his head. “Mama won't go over there. Aunt Brydie asked, but she says it's haunted.”
Fletch had known Kate was a sensible woman. Any excuse not to socialize with Jacques and his singing, piano-playing friends. . . “It would be a rare treat,” Fletch lied. “I'll talk to her.”
Hearing the lie, Jacques arched his eyebrows. “Living out here, it's good to know the neighbors, if we are to avoid shooting each other.” He glanced to where Fletch hid his pistol, handed over his coin, and took the basket. “Ask about the greens. We can use them.”
He sashayed out, a deliberate sashay, Fletch knew. Jacques was polite but not meek. Or stupid.
“Your mother believes in ghosts?” Fletch asked as they returned to the dining room. If Kate liked dinner parties, he shouldn't be destroying her table. Her year of mourning was well over and he shouldn’t set himself in her way. Well, Hugh Morgan was doing that for now.
“Only at the Hall.” Rob returned to polishing, “Aunt Brydie cleaned it all up and had it painted and papered and everything, and Mama won't even look at it.”
That was a shame, not to mention odd. Kate was sensibly cautious, not fearful.
They ate bread and cheese at mid-day, but by evening, Fletch's stomach got the better of him. With Rob’s help, he had aging, wrinkled potatoes and pickled onions frying in a skillet by the time Damien's carriage rolled into the yard. Until Morgan was found, Kate wouldn't be walking or riding alone.
“Oh, that smells delicious,” she cried, entering with her sewing basket.
Lynly followed carrying bread, while Damien held the meat pie.
“Jacques invited us to a dinner party!” Rob cried. “He bought soap and I gave him jam, like you said.”
Kate set her basket on a cabinet and tousled Rob's hair. “Thank you. You didn't annoy Mr. Fletcher too much, did you?”
“I'll finish the clock twice as fast with his help.” Fletch remembered being a child, eager for praise. That was easy enough to do and Rob grinned.
Then, leaving Kate to her children, Fletch followed Kate’s fancified brother-in-law outside. “Jacques' guests report someone using your old stable, but he has no food to steal.”
Damien climbed into his carriage, looking vaguely bemused. “I cannot say his report will be taken seriously. His . . . friends. . . came in to buy food. There was a bit of awkwardness when Oswald's clerk tried to lock them out. The situation did not improve after Rafe arrived and told the clerk he couldn't refuse. At that point, he learned half the jars in the stockroom had been misplaced. Accusations flew. Strangers are always blamed.”
“Misplaced?”
“Storeroom door unlocked. I doubt Jacques’ friends had aught to do with it, but they’re very visible and Morgan is not. He may be living on dried peas and pickled pig's feet now, for all we know. And possibly using a pea-shooter to catch rabbits.”
Fletch mulled that over as Damien drove off. Hermithood was so much easier. He didn’t want to be responsible for protecting women and children. How the hell did one know friend from foe when they weren’t wearing uniforms? He’ do better searching empty cottages for the bounder.
Pea-shooter?
But with one bad arm, Fletch wasn't exactly in prime condition to stop a madman. Hell, he was in this predicament for trying to bring down the lunatic. Maybe he'd just grab his potatoes and some cheese and sit on the doorstep, waiting for Morgan to show up. He didn't have to cut cheese.
Unfortunately, he had to go inside that cheery family kitchen to acquire food of any sort. Besides, one of Rafe’s meat pies sounded better than his onions and potatoes.
