“Yes, if you'll set the table there, the glass case can go on top of it. Vivien, help Mr. Upton and quit gawking out the window.”
Fletch almost laughed at her modulated irritation. Heavens forfend that she raise her voice.
He strode in, and using his uninjured arm, grabbed the end of the heavy oak table the curate was moving, hefting it to where Kate pointed.
The young vixen had turned from the window and now studiously worked on a button display, while watching him from under her lashes. Fletch didn't mind being examined like a stud horse, but he was too old to enjoy fillies.
“Major Fletcher, thank you. What may we do for you today?” Kate examined the new display case with the delight he’d like bestowed on him.
Which was ridiculous. He preferred seeing her happy and didn't want to remind her a killer lurked. Capturing Morgan was his task. “I'm looking for Rafe but finding you is beneficial.”
“Beneficial? “A gleam leaped to her eye, but she refrained from teasing him. At least now, she was looking at him.
Was that the reason he was dusting off words he'd never used in his life? He refused to rise to the bait. “Your new neighbors have lost their hen and require eggs. I thought perhaps Brydie might sell them both and Damien bring them home with you tonight.”
“Lost their hen?” She looked skeptical, as she should.
Picturing that group of clowns raising poultry took more imagination than he possessed. “I'll tell you later. Have you seen Rafe?”
“He's studying books and hunting mushrooms,” Upton said. “Meera thinks the only kind toxic enough to kill isn't in season yet. Our good bailiff could be anywhere.”
Books were in a library. He’d start there—after he spoke with Upton. He had to find someone to aid in his scheme, meager as it was. The curate was clever. “Fine. If you're finished here, Upton, I'll walk you out.”
“If whatever you're not saying in front of me involves my house or family, I want to hear it.” Understanding him too well, Kate slammed the display case closed. “Vivien, you're done here. Go back and finish that hem.”
“And walk up the hill?” the girl whined. “Let me stay here and work. It's late.”
“No, it's not late. And you should have thought of that when you insisted on walking down in Odila’s place.” Kate pointed at the door.
When the chit huffed off, Kate turned on Fletch. For a female nearly half his size, she fluffed her ruffled feathers wide. “Brydie will be happy to sell a few eggs and a hen. It's spring. There are chicks popping out all over. Now what are you plotting?”
Like an enraged banty hen, she’d fly straight into the boughs if he told her.
Twenty-six
Rafe
Unsatisfied with learning that the stable lad who had delivered Mrs. Young’s composted straw had left for a position elsewhere, Rafe cleaned off his boots to the best of his ability and took the service entrance into the manor’s cellar kitchen.
He purely despised questioning the aristocratic—eccentric—family inhabiting Priory Manor. He’d been raised the son of an obsequious innkeeper who did everything possible to please his important guests, until they’d stabbed him in the back by arranging to build a highway far from the inn. And now here he was, practically in the same position as his father, catering to the needs of the wealthy.
Except the manor’s cook was the immensely wealthy daughter of an earl, which made his noggin hurt. As a mess sergeant, he’d known where he stood. He knew how to deal with aristocratic military officers, but not an earl’s daughter who wore aprons and cooked, just like him.
He found Lady Elsa directing the kitchen’s usual anarchy, wearing a cap over her fair hair and a splattered apron over her plump form. She shook a wooden spoon at one of the scullery maids, then turned on Rafe with a smile so glorious it might have rivaled the sun.
“Mr. Russell! Have you stolen Brydie’s recipe for hot cross buns yet? Or must I buy them from her for our Easter dinner?”
How did he respond? As his superior, she’d expect him to comply. But Brydie worked hard and selling bread was how she made a living. “Buy them?” he suggested, since she’d said it first.
Lady Elsa laughed. “Or figure it out for myself, fair enough. What can I do for you, sir? You do not often dare my lair.”
Relieved that she wasn’t angry, he twisted his hat brim while he formed his questions. “Do you preserve mushrooms? Have you bought any from Mrs. Young?”
“I don’t bother preserving them. If Mrs. Young has a fresh crop, I’ll find a use for them, but that’s not often. And yes, I bought a basket of her latest crop because she needed the funds, but I’m thinking I’ll toss them on the compost heap. I have to consider the health of everyone from infants to the elderly.”
“Will you let Dr. Walker look at them first? We are trying to determine what poison mushrooms she might have accidentally picked.” Rafe clung to the notion it had been an accident. Anything else. . . he didn’t want to consider.
“I’ll leave them in Meera’s laboratory. They look perfectly harmless to me, but. . .” She gestured helplessly. “This is Gravesyde. I prefer to take no chances.”
