He was still recovering from last night’s excess of frivolity. The drunken neighbors had pounded the badly-tuned piano and sung songs well past Fletch’s ability to tolerate company. They had been amusing, but he’d been relieved when Kate firmly ushered them out, saying the children had to go to bed and inviting them to church.
If he wanted entertainment, he ought to attend church just to see if they showed up.
“Are you sure you will not go with us, Major?” Kate asked, tying her own bonnet now that she had Lynly in order.
He was back to Major. Had he said something reprehensible last night? Was she offended that he’d slept down here instead of in the cozy intimacy of her father’s bedroom? He’d never understand women and didn’t intend to try, not if he wished to avoid drinking.
“I am staying to guard your house from lunatics,” he replied curtly. She didn’t deserve his harshness. It was aimed more at himself than her. Or maybe at Hugh Morgan, who needed to be eliminated from the population.
“Well, perhaps you’d like to ride guard on the carriage and shoot anyone who leaps out at us?” she asked courteously.
He should start listening for the biting sarcasm beneath her civility. He should start listening, period, but he was out of practice.
“I reckon Damien has that covered.” He set the pendulum gently on the sheet he’d used to protect the table.
Giving up on him with a slight huff, she picked up her prayer book. “Patience and Henri are having their son christened this morning. There will be food and celebrations. We won’t be home early.”
That thought almost made him smile. Hours to himself, heaven.
The moment everyone left, the children arguing, Kate hushing them, silence settled. And the familiar loneliness immediately blanketed him. Ah, right, there had been one of many reasons for drinking himself into a stupor.
Not today. He arranged the parts he’d already cleaned on the felt wrap and started wiping down the remaining ones. He would save the giant brass pendulums for last, because they intrigued him. They would be his reward for completing the rest.
Angry neighs from his gelding startled him from his work an hour later. Very little bothered the old war horse. Grabbing the shotgun, Fletch peered out the kitchen window. Rob had let the gelding into the paddock with the pony. The ancient pony continued nibbling the grass but Cantherius was shaking his mane and behaving as if he were still a stallion.
Which most likely meant there must be a mare nearby.
If that bastard Morgan thought the family had all gone to church. . . Where would he lurk?
He studied the yard from the window as he’d once studied potential battlefields. A stand of evergreens formed a windbreak behind the barn at the back of the yard. A neat row of beeches and oak separated the farmhouse lawn from pastures on the south side, where they’d found the tenant cottage. Blackberries and hawthorns had grown up around the edges. The brambles weren’t so neat but probably the source of the jams he’d been enjoying.
If the lunatic was riding a mare in heat. . . he most likely hid behind the barn, under cover of the pines.
Locking the back door, Fletch shoved his pistol into his trouser band, picked up the shotgun, then checked out the parlor windows. Verifying all seemed in order, he eased open the front door, and stole around to the side of the house, keeping the barn in sight. If he brought this bugger down, he could return to the inn and leave Kate her privacy.
The paddock divided the yard between house and barn. He had no cover. Was Morgan already inside the barn? The structure was old but solid, built in better times and maintained until recently. The big carriage doors in front were closed, but there was a normal door on the side near the house. The stall windows were closed.
Fletch inched along the paddock fence, stopping to stroke Cantherius to settle him. The gelding went back to munching breakfast. There may be naught more out here than a passing scent, but he had to look.
He couldn’t aim well with one arm. To work on the clock, he’d given up the bandage holding his upper arm to his chest, so all he had to do was slip his left arm from the sling. The muscles were sore but functional. He heard nothing, saw nothing as he slid along the blank side of the barn to the rear. Holding the shotgun ready to fire, he peered around the back corner.
Morgan was stuffing a handful of leeks and greens from Kate’s garden into his saddlebag. His mare snorted. The thief glanced up, saw Fletch, and scrambled hastily into the saddle.
Fletch shot off one round but Morgan had flattened himself against the horse’s neck. He didn’t want to shoot the damned mare. He pulled out his pistol, but the bugger didn’t sit up until he was out of pistol range.
Saddling Cant and racing after the thief with a damaged shoulder wouldn’t happen in the immediate future. Cursing, Fletch noted the direction Morgan took and stalked back to the house.
He reloaded pistol and shotgun but was there any point in chasing after the lunatic? He’d be leaving the house unguarded. Greens! The wretch was stealing greens.
A pounding at the front door jarred him from any decision making. Carrying both weapons, Fletch peered out the partially open shutters. A peacock in ostrich feathers and a massive gloved fist stepped up to beat at the door again.
With a sigh—did he have to answer the door?—Fletch tucked the pistol back in his trousers and answered the door with shotgun at his side, just because. “What?”
The peacock stepped backward. Wearing a turquoise turban with a pink ostrich feather and a fake jewel in the center, along with what might possibly be a Sunday silk gown of indefinable colors, the thespian Fletch recalled as Miss Kitty shuddered and peered anxiously past Fletch’s shoulder.
“We heard shots,” they peeped in a high-pitched voice, revealing a small sword hidden in her skirts.
Fletch figured if this person dressed as a woman, he was supposed to think of her a woman. Who was he to judge? “Were you planning on stabbing me with that pig poker or coming to my rescue?” Fletch lowered his weapon.
