“Xenia noticed as well,” Ethan said.
His middle brother’s assertion ended the battle, giving mortification a decided victory. As an artist, Ethan had a habit of focusing on his music to the exclusion of all else. The fact that he was now willfully—nay, cheerfully—sticking his nose where it did not belong was a blow to James’s pride. Was his relationship with Evie so obviously strained that everyone had noticed?
“There is naught for anyone to be concerned about,” James said stiffly. “All is well.”
“You can talk to us, you know.”
Oh, for bloody sake. Now my youngest brother thinks I cannot manage my own affairs?
Looking into Owen’s earnest grey gaze, James sighed.
“I know,” he said. “There is, however, naught to discuss.”
“Xenia thinks your troubles could be related to the prophecy,” Ethan said.
“I don’t have any troubles,” James said testily.
“If you did, Xenia has a theory as to why. She thinks that all four of us—you, me, Gigi, and Owen—were destined to come to Chuddums to find love. When we do, we unravel a piece of the mystery regarding Bloody Thom.”
James was about to express his opinion that the theory was absurd, but Godwin spoke first.
“Gigi agrees with her, and so do I.” The magnate, whom James had formerly thought of as a sensible sort, stroked his chin as he addressed Ethan. “When you met your wife, you discovered that Thomas Mulligan wasn’t killed by a witch. Indeed, the ‘witch’ was a beautiful traveling woman named Rosalinda whom he fell in love with. During our courtship, Gigi and I uncovered more of the story, including the fact that the pair had wed before Thomas was murdered by some bastard who was after Rosalinda.”
“You think I am going to fall in love?”
This came from Owen, whose face showed both unease and wistfulness.
“You’re a Harrington. Of course you will,” Ethan said. “But I don’t think it is quite your turn, lad.”
All attention turned to James, and he fought the rising heat in his face. He wasn’t about to share the intricacies of his marriage: that after nearly four years, he and Evie remained on shaky ground when it came to love. As the eldest, he had always handled his own affairs—set a good example. There was no reason to reveal his shortcomings.
Luckily, the curtain parted, saving him from further interrogation. It was not the serving maid but the innkeeper’s wife who brought in their supper. Mrs. Thornton, a pug-nosed lady with frizzy ginger hair barely restrained by her cap, thumped platters of food onto the table. Mouth-watering aromas came from the massive golden brown pie and the bowl of spring peas and carrots swimming in butter and herbs.
“Supper smells delicious, Mrs. Thornton.” Ethan’s voice was reverent.
“It is delicious,” she said matter-of-factly.
With an expert hand, she cut a generous slab of pie, plating it along with a scoop of vegetables. Over this, she ladled a spoonful of rich, thyme-scented gravy. She repeated the process, plunking dishes in front of James, Ethan, and Godwin. As she was working on the final serving, Owen peered at Ethan’s plate.
“What kind of pie is that—ouch.” Owen glowered at Ethan, rubbing his side. “Mind your bloody elbow.”
It was too late, however. Mrs. Thornton pinned Owen with a gimlet stare.
“What did you say?”
Ethan shook his head in obvious warning, but Owen answered anyway.
“I was wondering what kind of meat is in the pie, ma’am.”
His polite inquiry had a remarkable effect on Mrs. Thornton, whose complexion went from ruddy to florid. She dropped the serving spoon with a loud clatter. Bracing her hands on her hips, she glared at him.
“Are you questioning my cooking, sir?”
“Um, no.” Owen looked confused. “I just wanted to know the ingredients.”
“The ingredients in this pie,” she said in a dangerous tone, “are what I chose to put in there.”
“I didn’t mean?—”
