Rafe took his wife’s elbow. “Not without me, you won’t. Come along, let us see what the clowns look like today.”
In the lobby, flowers, ribbons, and welcome signs fluttered in the breeze of the opening door. With all the bouquets and perfumes, the lobby smelled more like a whorehouse than a public inn, but Rafe refrained from mentioning that.
He counted half a dozen in the troupe entering. Did anyone know how many there were? He should have asked Damien.
An effeminate young man in tail coat and top hat bowed over Verity’s hand. “My immense gratitude for allowing us this pleasure, madam.” He bowed at Rafe. “And sir.” He glanced around at the decorations with wide eyes. “We have never received quite so. . . enthusiastic. . . a welcome.”
A big man in full skirts and a large woman in a man’s pantaloons entered carrying a trunk.
It took Rafe a moment to regain his usual affability and remember these were guests and not suspects, until proven otherwise.
He directed them toward the pub and hoped he could keep track of the array of silk and feathers and. . . if he did not mistake. . . a donkey’s ass.
Thirty-four
Fletch
Fletch despised becoming a soldier again. After loading his pistol and rifle, he realized he disliked carrying weapons that killed. He’d hoped civilian life would allow him to peacefully tinker with clocks and his automatons. He could fix machinery. He couldn’t fix dead people.
Which was why he was bristling with weapons—he couldn’t fix women and children after monsters broke them. Which meant he had to stop the monsters, while risking becoming a monster himself. How was that even possible?
Leaning against the bar, halfway between the stage and Kate and her children, Fletch studied the crowd. The village wasn’t large. He recognized almost everyone, from Lavender’s sewing crew to the manor’s residents and staff. Even Jacques, Damien’s former valet, avidly followed the silly performance. The manor gentlemen stood at the back, keeping an eye on the performance and the audience.
Two skinny urchins had been given floppy hats to pass through the crowd for donations. Fletch hadn’t met all the village children, but he’d been told these two belonged to Mrs. Jameson.
Why had the actors chosen the Jameson children to collect funds if the family were known thieves? Unless they were working together. . .
The question was—who wasn’t here? And the answer seemed to be—not the Jameson women. Or Parsons, the inn’s criminal clerk. Certainly not Hugh Morgan.
And he’d never got a good head count on all the actors. Damien had said he’d met half a dozen. On stage, Fletch recognized the three who had come to dinner, plus Jacques’ friend, Reynard. Someone was manipulating the donkey’s ass. That made five. They had what appeared to be a sturdy child or a dwarf plucking a lute. Six present. Didn’t mean there weren’t more.
His gaze drifted back to Kate and her family. They were laughing and whispering as they worked out the plot of the skit. For a brief moment of weakness, he wished he could sit with them, carefree and smiling. But that part of him had died and what was left wasn’t fit for company.
He tore his gaze away and followed the urchins again, catching one sliding a large coin into his pocket. He’d have to tell the actors to shake the pair down at the end of the performance.
The curate joined him. “I’ve seen worse,” he commented in a low voice. “Only rude minds will interpret the gestures.”
“Minds like ours? I’m not sure referring to tax collectors as asses is exactly polite. The troupe needs to look to their coin collectors. They’re thieves. I take it they belong to Mrs. Jameson?” Fletch noted movement at the kitchen door, but he suspected that was the disapproving staff sneaking a peek.
“Yes. Verity says they’re not eager to learn.” Upton refilled his mug at the cask and dropped a coin in the coin box on the bar.
With Rafe guarding the lobby, Fletch had to keep an eye on the bar’s cash—a better target than the farthings the audience donated. “Have you seen their mother or aunt?”
“Not the mother. She’s not a sociable sort, I take it. Miss Vivien was busy rearranging the dress shop when I saw her last.” The curate chuckled.
If the Jameson women were thieves, who would they rob? Fletch hadn’t left anything valuable in his room. The few inn inhabitants didn’t have much worth stealing. The manor really was the only place with valuables.
If only he could figure out how Hugh Morgan fit into this. . .
If Vivien was minding the shop. . . Fletch glanced around for Miss Marlowe. He thought he’d seen her fair hair over by Clare Huntley. The manor ladies were all laughing and putting their heads together. As the earl’s descendants, they all had the peculiar Reid family attributes, fair hair being most visible.
Now that he studied the group, Miss Marlowe wasn’t among them. He straightened abruptly. “Was Miss Marlowe with Miss Vivien?”
“Yes, and the little seamstress, Maryann, I believe?” Upton studied the crowd as well. “They had eager customers for their ribbons. I expect to see many fanciful hats in the morning.”
Fletch didn’t see anyone resembling the modiste or the young seamstress in the pub. Had they not closed the shop for the performance? Damn the women. . .
But Jasper was in the room next to the shop and Rafe guarded the only unlocked door. No one could enter or leave without being noticed. They should be fine.
