“Start buying supplies,” he agreed gruffly.
Cheers went up around the room and his assistant leaped up to kiss his aching head.
Fifteen
Rafe
Rafe had intended to start his Friday morning by riding out to Bradford House to have another look around before the cellar door was barred. He’d stored the stolen parts in his stable and the captain had written to the magistrate in Birmingham inquiring about river theft. It was possible the owners hadn’t realized at what point along the river that the cargo had disappeared.
But, eager to begin their move, the twins came downstairs before Rafe could set out.
“I understand today is market day, and I’m eager to stock supplies.” Miss Leonard took the seat at the good table Greybourne had appropriated as his own since the day of their arrival. “Will the mercantile allow us to establish an account or must we disturb Lord Greybourne to do so?”
“Old Oswald knows who you are, but most of the farmers will need to see your coin first. Some of them allow Mr. Oswald to handle their accounts, once they know you.”
“I have Grey’s purse, but I dislike emptying it the first day. I know he’s cranky occasionally because he thinks we’re all after his coin, but under that gruff exterior, he’s a kind, generous man.” Miss Leonard sighed in delight as Rafe set a pot of fresh tea on the table.
Rafe would take her word for his lordship’s temperament. Before he could summon a suitable reply, his partner banged in from the kitchen, waving an odd metal piece.
“Some damnable—” Fletch halted at sight of the beaming twins. Rafe’s partner was finally getting the hang of civilization again, after years of war. Of course, now he just looked uncomfortable.
“Major Ferguson, isn’t it?” Andrew asked.
The lad stood and bowed as if a foul-mouthed, half-shaven mongrel was a gentleman. Once married, Kate would polish him up, Rafe knew. Fletch had simply lived alone too long.
One of the kitchen staff followed him out, bearing their platter of eggs, rashers, and beans. Andrew gestured at the table. “Have you broken your fast? Would you care to join us?”
Rafe pointed at a chair. “After that entrance, you may as well sit and explain yourself.”
Fletch grimaced, straddled a chair, and pushed away an offer of tea. “I dislike being the bearer of bad tidings before you’ve eaten.”
“Bad news is more digestible on an empty stomach, so please say it before my eggs are cold.” Miss Leonard serenely sipped her tea, then buttered toast.
Fletch grabbed a slice of bacon and crunched it, delaying until he found his words, Rafe knew. The major was a clockmaker, not a talker, although Fletch’s betrothed was gradually teaching him to speak civilly.
“I tried to move your curricle. It rattled when it shouldn’t, so I took a look under it.” Fletch set a metal part on the table. “One pin missing, another loose. That’s a new rig. That shouldn’t happen—unless you’ve been driving at breakneck speed over really bad road for days.”
“Grey is a careful driver. He takes care of his animals.” Andrew picked up the piece. “This was on the curricle, not on the ground where we might have noticed it?”
Rafe thought bad thoughts as he caught on. “It was meant to fall off while his lordship was driving? What would have happened?”
Fletch shrugged. “If he’s a careful driver, the worst would be losing a wheel in the middle of nowhere. If he raced—depends on the road.”
The twins were quick. Rafe could see in their faces that they understood. A wheel rolling off on a curve at high speed. . . Necks broke easily.
“While we’re staying here, I would be the one driving.” Andrew tried to be reassuring. “There are too many people walking through the village for me to go fast. If a wheel rolled off, it might cause a pedestrian to dodge. The horses wouldn’t be happy but they’re well-trained and would stop instantly. I’d be fine.”
Rafe wasn’t fine. He was a cook and an innkeeper. Even in the army, foraging food had been his main military duty. He had no notion how to catch a scoundrel apparently intent on harming Grey or driving him off. The decent citizens of Gravesyde would have Rafe’s head if he let the baron leave.
“The mischief maker presumably knew little of carriages, but even a minor accident might cause Grey to have a fit and abandon the village.” Miss Leonard said what Rafe had just deduced.
And since a carriage wasn’t a disturbance to Grey’s writing—one of his requirements for renting—he’d break any lease he signed by leaving. Interesting.
Before anyone could come up with a better theory, half a dozen of the artists tumbled in, shouting for ale and all the rashers and potatoes available.
“You have coin?” Rafe asked skeptically. “I can’t afford to wait until you sell a painting to pay my bills.”
The squat one waved a purse. “We have coin. Ale all around!”
