“A maniac killed two ladies at Easter,” the first speaker—Tiny—insisted. “Just ask Mr. Rousseau.”
“That pouf? I should hope not. Come along, Miss Leonard, and let me show you my work. They’ve hidden it at the very back.” The gentle young man with the overlong russet hair tugged her arm. She tried to remember his name, but it had been something unremarkable. . . Jones?
Having learned as much from these self-absorbed artists as she could, El chose to see how Greybourne was handling Mr. Percival and removed her hand from the opportunistic Mr. Jones. He asked a lot of impertinent questions she did not feel compelled to answer.
To her amusement, when she returned to the front, the professor and the count stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Miss Talbot rap Percival with her fan while tugging him by the ear to the door. Interesting that they let the lady take charge.
One of the women from the crafts’ table hurried to open the door and help boot out the rude journalist.
El boldly took the professor’s arm, forcing Jones to slink away. “I think I like your cousin, sir, but I am uncertain about your other acquaintances. That is two men within minutes of our arrival who needed to be removed. Perhaps we should find Andrew and the banker before you disrupt the company further?”
“I was not the cause of Gustav’s removal,” he protested, strolling to the large, mullioned window to peer out.
The rude Percival was stalking toward the tavern.
“Well, actually, you were,” Arnaud said, exhibiting the first humor El had seen in him. “Thea mentioned you were expected and a disagreement leading to insulting Thea ensued. I had to remove him.” The artist shrugged. “We are a temperamental lot.”
“In Gustav’s case, it is drink more than temperament. He must be starting earlier than usual. And Percival is a scandalmonger, not an artist, no matter what he pretends.” Grey bowed to his cousin as she returned. “I hope to see you later under more amiable circumstances.”
“You will join us at the manor after you settle in,” Thea ordered. “You will find that most of us are more than amiable.”
They made their courtesies and strolled out. Ellie glanced around, fearing attack by murderous strangers. Or drunken artists or scandalmongers. Did scandalmongers do more than gossip?
At her look of concern, Grey gestured at the departing pair. “The tavern just opened. You will not see the louts again until noon tomorrow. My apologies. I had not realized my cousin had lured half London here in interest of promoting her lover’s work.”
“They are lovers?” El tried to hide her shock. Heiresses did not take lovers, did they? But artists did. She wasn’t entirely naïve. She was simply being barraged with too much information at once.
“It’s only a matter of time and money before they marry. His vineyards in France will produce. He’ll find more of the missing jewels. His paintings will sell for a fortune. I am not worried about Thea. She may talk to ghosts, but she’s one of my more sensible relations.”
“Jewels? Ghosts?” Intrigued despite her fears, El listened to a tale of pirate treasure discovered by ghosts as they strolled past lovely, thatched cottages with gardens spilling over in roses and more humble ones containing goats. The village square appeared to be a chicken yard. She hoped the hens had homes in winter.
“I’ll admit, I had hoped for a quieter place to write, but I suppose we need not venture out often once we’ve done our duty by our hosts.” Grey turned left on a dirt road running beside a lazy river.
“You may work quietly, but someone must shop for food. And Andrew and I must both look for places for ourselves after you leave. That requires meeting people.” She and her brother had hunted homes and positions often enough to know the routine.
“You cook?” he asked in surprise. “I’ll have to double your salary.”
“One does not wish to eat raw fish or potatoes,” she acknowledged. “How did you think to eat if we had not accompanied you?”
“The inn has excellent food, but enduring the company of Thea’s miscreants might test my patience. I can always hire a cook, I suppose.” He halted at a newly carved sign indicating they had reached Bradford House. “A trifle pretentious but useful.”
The sign was the only improvement she noticed. They entered an overgrown, rutted drive hemmed in by brambles showing signs of producing blackberries, should the sun ever emerge.
Their curricle waited in front of a modest, two-story, stone cottage—with tile roof, thank all the heavens. Thatch was charming but not what she was accustomed to. Stone did appear to be the material of choice, other than the ancient timber and wattle of the older homes.
Andrew appeared in the doorway as soon as they neared the curricle. “The door was open, but I’ve not seen Mr. Comfrey. The structure appears sound. A bare minimum of beds, old mattresses. The stove is a trifle crude but will heat a skillet and a kettle. The pump doesn’t appear to be working properly, though. I was just about to investigate the well.”
El wanted to see the interior, but there was no point in raising her hopes if the house had no water. Hauling from the village well. . . simply not done. She followed the men down a nearly concealed path leading to a small stone well house barely visible among the brambles.
“You can make a pump work?” the professor asked with skepticism.
“It’s not as if we can hire someone every time a pump clogs.” Andrew shrugged. “And landlords refuse.”
“I trust the bank will not be so rude,” Ellie suggested. “But if Mr. Comfrey has already abandoned us, it is not promising. Perhaps your cousin could direct us to a better property?” Living at a public inn did not appeal either.
“It sounds as if the bank owns most of the village, unless the lawsuit is settled.” Grey watched with interest as Andrew ducked under the well house door’s low lintel, into the no-doubt spider-infested interior.
A moment later, he hurriedly limped out, his freckles against his pale skin more visible than usual. “I think we should return to the inn.”
