She sat, leaving even Dottie Dorothea stunned.
Peering up at Grey from beneath long dark lashes, Eleanor asked coolly, “Shall we ask Mr. Russell to clear the brambles in hopes of finding buried treasure or bodies?”
“If it pries Dottie off my back, let’s invite the entire village and tell them they can divide whatever riches they find.” Grey collapsed in his chair and snatched a sandwich off the plate before the cook even set it down.
“My thought, precisely,” she said demurely, sipping her tea.
The look Miss. . . Eleanor. . . sent him sliced right through his core, waking parts Grey had thought long dead.
In that minute, Grey understood the word love. Or at least, adoration. The blasted female had removed his insane relation from his back and spread the calumny far and wide, without so much as raising her little finger. She’d even left Thea speechless.
He’d seriously underestimated his brilliant assistant’s capacity to smooth troubled waters—while advancing her own interests at the same time.
Twenty-four
Rafe
“I swear, this place will make me old before my time,” Rafe complained as he watched a motley collection of village folk and artists gather in the undergrowth to dig and whack and tear up the weed-infested Bradford House yard. “Should I bring in a mule and team while we’re at it? Plant corn?”
The lion-maned baron paced, growling at anyone who approached. Rafe liked his style. He’d just stay back here by the house and let Greybourne terrify anyone with questions.
“Open a new burial ground?” Greybourne suggested sardonically. “And your prospective mayor wants to change the village name why?”
“They haven’t found any human graves yet,” Rafe remonstrated. “The cellar has you looking for bones everywhere. The rest of those uneven hills of dirt might be animal burrows. Maybe that’s why the trap was set.”
“Giant badgers, mayhap? A lonely bear? I’m sure that’s it.” Grey glowered at the lad, Andrew, approaching. “They kept a circus bear and left it here when they moved out.”
“That would explain a bear trap,” Andrew said complacently, hearing this last. “There is a good stone wall under the thicket. El is bemoaning the loss of blackberries, but we’d have to take out the trees for them to receive enough light. If anything is buried, it may be lost under tree roots. How much do you want removed?”
“If you haven’t found any people bones, I say leave any sleeping dead lie,” Rafe said roughly. “Have Upton say a few words, sprinkle holy water, just in case.”
“Thea can dance a little spirit dance and the local witches can burn sage.” Greybourne’s biting sarcasm almost had Rafe smiling, until the baron stalked off to investigate the plundering himself.
Miss Leonard had warned Rafe about the baron’s heir. He didn’t see anyone who might be a lord or an assassin but he wasn’t an imaginative man. He just did what he had to do. He stalked after Greybourne.
The lazy artists were getting in the way more than anything, peering over shoulders, admiring blooming bushes, scraping around in empty holes. On a mild Sunday afternoon, there were plenty of folk eager to join in a hunt for buried treasure. So far, all that had been found beneath the mounds young Andrew had discovered were the skeletons of dead pets and a horse. The Bradfords had liked burying things. That didn’t mean there weren’t victims of piracy or abuse or anything else the women could dream up. It just meant no one had dug deep enough. Dead pets might be subterfuge. If one wanted pirate loot, one had to work for it, presumably.
Rafe recognized most of the people hacking at the ground, even if they never came into his pub. He didn’t know all the names. He stopped near Henri Lavigne, the owner of Monk’s tavern, a working man’s establishment. “What’s the name of the burly fellow with graying black hair under that ugly cap? I’ve seen him with the other artists.”
“The artists call him Mort. Don’t know his full name. He’s usually with Tiny, that ragged thin fellow doing all the work.”
“Recognize that one. He knew how to fix Grey’s carriage wheel.” Rafe watched the artists elbow each other, swipe at thorns, and occasionally stick a shovel in loose dirt, as if they might find diamonds under the weeds. “Arnaud responsible for bringing them out to dig?”
“Thea, mostly. She had hysterics all over the gallery and ordered them all to work.” Henri grinned. “She may look like porcelain, but our heiress cracks verbal whips.”
Rafe grunted. He’d once seen his lady wife carrying a torch, prepared to set a killer on fire. Women were as dangerous as men, more so, because men had no notion of what the ladies were thinking. You knew what to expect of a man and could prepare accordingly.
The baron stalked along the newly uncovered stone wall, speaking to the diggers, examining holes, gesturing toward the house. A couple of the artists ignored him. Grey grabbed one by the back of his coat and pitched him from the wall. Rafe stepped forward to prevent a brawl, but the fellow scrambled to his feet and headed toward town.
“Percival,” Henri explained. “Journalist. He holds a grudge against Grey, curses him every chance he has. Slippery sort, hard to pin down.”
“But a puny London gentleman unlikely to kill Comfrey or bury a horse. Or saw a tree branch, for all that matters. Their sort prefer knives in the back. I’ll talk to the ones with more muscle than brains.” Rafe sauntered over to the part of the wall the baron hadn’t reached.
“Getting dark soon,” he said to the burly fellow called Mort. “Might as well pack it in. If pirates buried anything out here, it’s under those tree roots.”
The fellow removed his cap, revealing a balding spot, and wiped his sweaty brow with his shirtsleeve. “Reckon any coin goes to the bank even if they find anything. Them’s that have, always gets.”
“Sadly, you might be right there. I’m buying a round for everyone at the pub tomorrow. Stop by.” Rafe made his way down the row, passing on his goodwill message. He kept the pub closed on Sundays so he and Verity could rest—as if such a luxury existed. Tomorrow would be busier than usual.
