“Greybourne, just the man we wished to see.” Thea took a seat at their table without being asked. Arnaud, her constant companion, went to the bar to place orders.
Their followers all settled on benches like a Greek chorus.
Grey debated walking out, but Thea was speaking to Andrew and gesturing over the tavern owner to discuss a clothing shop, as if the granddaughter of earls and heiress to a fortune was a mere merchant.
Wait a minute, Andrew was a tailor? Of course, someone had to tailor Leonard’s clothes. Grey refrained from rubbing his aching head or his assistant would be dragging him off to bed.
Not a bad idea, actually, but she would slap him for his lewd thoughts.
Arnaud dropped a fresh mug of cider—the innkeeper already knew his preference—in front of Grey and pulled up a chair. “I looked at that cellar with Upton—our curate carpenter. We can easily bar the door from further use, unless you’re planning on staying long enough to need a root cellar.”
Grey was barely cognizant of the use of a root cellar. He thought his estate might have one. He hadn’t been there. . . in too long to think about. “You should tell Bosworth. It’s his property. I am not leasing a thieves’ den.”
Thea turned to him, beaming. “The captain persuaded our recalcitrant banker that it is in the best interest of the community for vacant houses to be occupied. He threatened to have Bradford House condemned unless Bosworth allowed you a decent price and paid for repairs. The bank can pay Arnaud and dear Mr. Upton for barring the cellar door.”
Which most likely meant the artist and the curate could use the blunt. Of course, they needed blunt. The entire village was nigh penniless. The banker had the means to provide income for many if he repaired all those vacant properties.
The undaunted Miss Leonard practically crowed in delight. “Your Captain Huntley is a brilliant man. That is just the ticket. And perhaps he can persuade Mr. Bosworth to let the other vacant cottages in the neighborhood for reasonable amounts, so the area is well occupied! That will cause thieves to reconsider settling here.”
Grey sympathized with the poor beleaguered banker. Confronted by opposition from every corner, what choice did he have except to agree?
Or burn the bloody place down.
“Lady Elsa recommends one of her young cooks for your service,” Thea blithely continued. “The girl needs experience in preparing meals on her own and hopes for references when you leave, so she might better her position. The manor only needs one head cook.”
“And the widows who make the bedding, they need the income. They keep a supply of ticking and cotton batting and have begun the gathering of feathers and down.” The damnable French comte sipped his ale with what almost appeared to be a smile of satisfaction. “Their matelas are excellent.”
While Miss Leonard and her twin exclaimed and discussed tedious household details, Grey sat back and glared at the lot of them. They were using him. Or more properly, they were using his money. He wasn’t an endless pit, but now that they had forced him to pay attention, he recognized that he had gilt and many in this abandoned village barely had a shilling.
This was why his bedeviled cousin had lured him here. Along with. . .
He didn’t even have to glance at the table of Thea’s artists to know they listened. Grey had the connections they badly needed to sell their talents—which would bring more coins to the village. He had the potential to be their pot of gold, damn Thea’s conniving mind.
He’d always lived in a civilized society where he might find intellectual company. He’d never been considered more than a scholar. His wealth and title were mostly unknown and irrelevant. His books were more important than a title and estate he’d never earned, and that’s the way he preferred it. Displaying wealth invited notoriety and danger.
So, he had utterly no desire to play lord of the manor, which was why his estate was in the hands of those more qualified than he. He required peace and solitude for finishing this difficult book.
Thea’s machinations had destroyed any hope of finding them here. She knew he would not turn away people in need. He would not have put it past her to have arranged for the gallery opening the instant she’d learned of the date of his visit. She was his favorite cousin and he wanted to throttle her.
Reading him as if he were one of his papers, Miss Leonard leaned over to murmur, “Andrew and I will handle the details. You need do nothing but write.”
Grey wanted to believe that, but he knew himself better than she did. “One more thief or killer, and we’re gone,” he announced to the table in general. “Write that into any lease. And if anyone disturbs me while I’m working, I want permission to heave them out a window.”
Disgruntled and outnumbered, head still pounding, he sat back and drank his cider.
Grey had the most unsettling notion he would lose his valuable Miss Leonard if he abandoned this damnable thieves’ den. That would not suit—not until the book was done.
“Define disturb, my lord,” Rafe called from the bar. “I need to know when your assault is justified and when I can arrest you.”
Grey sighed. An educated bailiff who argued with his superiors. . . might just have an interest in protecting Grey and his book. He gestured at the table of artists. “If any of that lot come anywhere near me? Defenestration justified.”
“You’re welcome to throw thieves through windows,” Rafe suggested. Whether or not he recognized the word was hard to say given the discussion.
“Well there you are, any malfeasants shall be legally defenestrated.” Almost enjoying playing lord of the. . . tavern. . . Grey drained his mug.
“Then we’re staying?” Miss Leonard inquired eagerly.
Over dead bodies and pirates?
