“Did Comfrey have family in the area?” Rafe asked. The financial aspects flew over his head, but people, he knew how to hunt.
“Not in Gravesyde, that I am aware of.” Bosworth tapped his nails on the table. “I had best investigate his accounts in the morning.”
“Might I make a suggestion, sir?” Andrew spoke up. The slender lad did not look much stronger than his sister, but he spoke with firmness and an unexpected degree of authority.
Greybourne nodded. “Go ahead. You likely have more experience at leases and renters than I do.”
“I have been speaking with some of the folk at the gallery. They claim to be staying in deteriorating cottages for outrageous sums. I cannot say they are truthful, but just in case, you might wish to check your books, Mr. Bosworth, to see what sums Mr. Comfrey recorded. In my experience, some landlords overcharge, give the property owners a lesser rent, and pocket the difference.”
“He could then have taken the profit on those rents to pay workers on Bradford House, hoping to earn even more?” Miss Leonard suggested. “Men are desperate for employment these days, I understand. He may not have paid much for their labor.”
“None of that is a reason to kill him,” Rafe protested, despite himself. “One just refuses to work, or to pay the exorbitant rent. . . The pitfalls of such a scheme are multitudinous.”
Greybourne sent him a surprised look, but Rafe wasn’t uneducated. He’d spent half his life working with aristocratic officers who had learned less in school than he had. He simply preferred playing host to any other profession.
Bosworth was too lost in thought to acknowledge his contribution.
“We’d still like to lease Bradford House, if the sum is reasonable.” Greybourne finished his cider. “But we’d rather not be hit over the head if there are disgruntled, unpaid workers about.”
“And how am I to discover who said workers might be?” Bosworth asked, as disgruntled as any unpaid employee.
“I can’t see that much work has actually been done, but I’ll ask about,” Andrew suggested. “I understand your curate has a carpentry shop. He might know people too. People feeling cheated aren’t shy about their complaints.”
“And if we are staying at the house in question, then won’t the workers come to us with their hands out?” Miss Leonard spoke in a low, pleasant tone, although Rafe thought he heard a hint of steel in the inflection. He’d learned better than to dismiss the ladies.
Bosworth foolishly paid her no notice. He addressed Greybourne. “I’ll be at the manor making arrangements to have Comfrey taken to his family. While I’m there, I’ll consult with Captain Huntley about rents and have a lease drawn up. You will understand that the lease will not be broken should any more dead men show up on the property. Apparently, death stalks Gravesyde.”
He shoved away from the table and strode out.
“How rude,” Miss Leonard murmured. “Let us start writing amendments for that lease.”
Rafe almost snorted up his drink.
Twelve
Grey
Thursday morning, Grey stomped through the ground floor of the grandiosely named Bradford House—it was little better than a cottage—growling to himself and anyone who dared cross his path. He’d hired the local lawyer, a Damien Sutter, to deal with Bosworth and his deuced lease. The banker was a bloodsucker and Grey lacked the patience to deal with insects.
“The floors are adequate.” His boots echoed hollow on the old boards, so there was a cellar below. “Four downstairs rooms are not. The service room must serve as my study.”
“Then unless you wish me to work in the parlor, I must set up my writing area on the dining table.” Miss Leonard took notes as he paced. “If we do not hire a cook, that will be adequate.”
He shot her a glare at the mockery in her tone. “I cannot have you spending the day baking bread and making soups. We need a cook.” Grey headed for the stairs in the passage between the front rooms. “The lease is for six months. The book must be done by then.”
He pounded up the stairs and glared at the sitting room at the top. “We could place a writing table for you here,” he called down, studying the narrow stairs continuing upward. “Is there sufficient space in the attic for your maid?”
“Peg will sleep on the trundle in my room.” Miss Leonard followed him up and now perched in the window seat for her perpetual note-taking. “If you insist on a cook, she will need the service room. It cannot be your study. You will need to work on this floor or the next, unless you want the dining parlor.”
“I need to leave my papers undisturbed and cannot work in the open. That windowless closet next to my bedchamber will not serve as a study.” He started up the narrow attic stairs. “It’s meant for a valet.”
“I doubt that,” she said dryly, not following him this time. “This is little better than a farmhouse. It was most likely the nursery.”
He’d lived in worse pits. It was just arranging his quarters to suit others that was new to him. At the top, Grey studied the barely finished attic. It had enormous dormer windows overlooking the river on one side. Interesting. He wandered over to check the view.
A window seat with shelves below indicated a former owner had used it for a library or study, not servants’ quarters. He could not, in all good conscience, put Andrew with his bad foot up two flights of stairs. If only for the sake of propriety, the twins should sleep on the same floor.
The attic window was tree height, but no tree blocked his view of the water or the picturesque medieval stone bridge crossing it. He’d been told the bridge had recently been improved. He’d hate to see what it had been before. It appeared to have been built for a meandering brook, not a river. No mast would fit under the arch. Barges, perhaps. . .
