She caught his elbow and tugged him back to the parlor—where they’d laid out poor Mr. Comfrey just two days ago. She supposed if she must learn to live in a village where so many people died, she must learn to deal with their memories. “Do you think Comfrey discovered them?”
He grudgingly lowered himself to the leather couch. His head must truly be pounding for him to give in so easily. “Or he was one of them,” he said crossly. “So far, his actions do not strike me as that of an honest man.”
“Mr. Bosworth is in a better position to determine that. Once we settle in, Andrew might ask about to see who else may have rented from Comfrey.”
“Settle in?” He turned to glare at her, winced, and rested his brow on his hand. “You mean to stay after discovering this may be a smuggler’s refuge?”
“You know perfectly well you wish to stay and solve the mystery. Is there a better accommodation?” El took the seat beside him and demurely crossed her hands in her lap, longing to clean his wound and bandage his poor head. He’d cut off her hands at the elbow if she tried. Or escape while she boiled water.
“The manor, and I’m not about to stay in that place. It’s worse than an inn, with people coming and going and dressing for dinner and all that.” He sank back against the seat, finally resting his head there.
“You are willing to sacrifice comfort for privacy? Or for the mystery?” She couldn’t help asking. She’d been his assistant for a year, but she knew nothing of his private life, just his often irrational propensities.
“There is a story here,” he admitted. “Irrelevant to my book. But I take objection to having my head stove in. I want the scoundrel caught.”
El bit back a snort at his lordship’s priorities. He didn’t show interest in a stranger’s demise, but let peril descend on his own head. . .
A rattle in the yard caused her to glance out the window. A farm cart drove up, driven by an elegantly-dressed African gentleman and the foreign-looking lady physician, carrying an infant. They made an intriguing pair. Eleanor hadn’t seen many foreigners and thought it fascinating this small village had two. “Dr. Walker is here. I’ll be right back.”
Handing her plump infant to the darker-skinned driver, Dr. Walker climbed down on her own. “We have to stop meeting like this,” she muttered, hurrying inside with her black bag.
Eleanor held out her arms for the kicking bundle creating difficulty for the driver’s hold on the reins. “Allow me, please. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Eleanor Leonard, assistant to Professor Greybourne. Thank you for coming so swiftly.”
“Daniel Walker. We live around the corner and were just on our way to the manor when your brother came by. We sent him after Rafe.” His accent sounded American as he handed over the sturdy babe. “I want to take a look at the path where the professor was hit. Our home is not far from the river, and I’ve occasionally noticed activity on that bridge on nights I come home late. I thought they were fishing. It may be time to investigate.”
A man with a purpose, he tied up his pony and hurried down the lane, leaving Eleanor with the burbling infant. Grinning at his one-toothed gibberish, she carried him inside.
Grey couldn’t shout at a lady doctor, El noted, hiding a smile. He meekly bent over so Dr. Walker could examine his head.
“I’ll need to shave around this a little, apply alcohol and a bandage.” The Hindu lady rummaged in her bag.
“Certainly not,” Grey objected, abruptly standing. “I will not go about like wounded infantry. I wish to examine the area where the deuced brigand hid.”
He stopped and stared as El blocked his exit, kicking infant in arms. “Mr. Walker has gone to examine the area,” she informed him politely, not removing herself from his path. “Sit down and let Dr. Walker at least clean the wound. I truly do not wish to find your corpse expired in the cellar. I do not even wish to enter said cellar.”
She stepped forward.
He stepped back, still staring at the happy babe.
“His name is Moses.” Dr. Walker removed alcohol and bandages from her bag and set them on the floor since there was no table. “He is learning to walk and can be dangerous. You may hold him while Miss Leonard makes you some nice hot tea.”
“We have no tea,” El said with regret. “We have not signed a lease, so have not stocked supplies.” She tickled the babe’s brown toes, making him giggle. She liked children. They were so easy-going and simple.
Of course, compared to Grey, grown men were easy-going and simple.
The miraculous physician produced a tin canister from her satchel. “I carry this for emergencies.”
“A magic bag,” El crowed in delight. She shoved Moses at her employer, forcing the grouch to extend his arms and sit down until he learned to grip the wriggling bundle.
Grey appeared to have been struck by lightning. He froze, finally letting the physician tend his wound, while he gingerly held his burden and studied the child as if he’d never seen one. Perhaps he hadn’t. El couldn’t remember him ever visiting family. He may have sprouted from under a cabbage leaf, fully grown, for all she knew.
El found a tin pan in which to boil water and had to use it as a tea pot as well. When the tea was sufficiently steeped, she poured it into a few cracked mugs. . . without comforting sugar or cream. Such a shame, but she was desperate for a cup.
She carried the mugs to the front room on a battered baking sheet. “I wonder if the people who last owned this house were so wealthy that when they moved, they left behind bits that were too ugly for use.”
“They weren’t wealthy if the bank repossessed the house.” Grey handed the infant back the instant El set down her makeshift tray. “A vagrant is likely to have been living here.” He hastily drank his tea, grimacing only a little. He preferred coffee.
El surrendered her bitter tea to hold the babe.
