Page 19 of Much Ado about a Widow

“What’s goin’ on, Bill?” The second man looked suspiciously at both Rob and Bill.

“This cove got his purse snatched.”

“Both of you, stop talking and follow that thief. I will send my servant for the watch, and they will deal with this urchin, if you will move your arses and go find the little rotter. You’re letting him get away.” Taking the men by the arms, Rob shoved both in the direction the lad had gone.

With reluctant glares at Rob, the men finally trotted down the street in the direction the lad had gone, but Rob had no fear he’d be caught.

Immediately, Chapman and Ayers scrambled toward the carriage and grabbed the trunk stowed beneath while Barnes and Cartwright removed the straps that secured the chest to the rear. To cover this activity, Rob sauntered over to the innkeeper of The Ship’s Arms, who stood in the doorway shaking his head, a tankard he was polishing in his hand.

“Have you ever seen the like, sir?” Rob scowled at the man and gestured to the vanishing guards. “A thief takes my purse, and no one will assist me. What has Portsmouth come to, I say.”

“It’s a real shame, my lord. I never would have pegged Jim Carpenter’s boy for a thief. Jim’s been a carpenter for nigh on twenty years. Crews with the Nantucket and keeps a good eye on his lad. Had him waiting at the captain’s table this past year.” The innkeeper shook his head. “Jim’ll tan his hide proper, make no mistake of that. Be lucky if the lad don’t lose his job.”

Gritting his teeth, Rob clenched his fist. This wouldn’t do. Not by half. “Mr. Harriman, I believe it is?”

The innkeeper nodded, though his eyebrows rose just a fraction.

“I’ve been in your tavern a time or two. I’m asking you not to tell the lad’s father he stole my purse. He didn’t steal it.”

Confusion crept over the man’s face. “But, beggin’ your pardon, milord, you just said—”

“I know.” Rob blew out a breath. Dash it, he was no good at subterfuge. He glanced back at the carriage, but his men had gone, thank goodness. “I must confess, I was playing a jest on the servants of a friend of mine. So I told the lad to take my purse and gave him the money in it. So he absolutely did not steal anything.”

“You did, my lord?” Harriman gave Rob a wary look, but returned to polishing the pewter tankard.

“I’m of a fanciful nature, Mr. Harriman. Pray don’t mention it to Mr. Carpenter. I wouldn’t want to get the lad in trouble.” Rob fished out another half crown and pressed it into the innkeeper’s palm.

“Thank you, my lord.” The coin disappeared, and the innkeeper’s face lit with a smile. “No, my lord, I’ll say nothing of it to Jim Carpenter. You have my word. Can I do anything else for your lordship?”

“No, thank you. I’m meeting my friend in a short while. I’ll let you know if we require anything then.”

Mr. Harriman turned away, still smiling, and Rob heaved a sigh of relief. If he could just get back to the ship without running into Bill or his chum, they’d be sailing in no time, and the danger would finally be past.

* * *

An inch of brandy remained in the bottle when Travers sank his chin onto his chest and drifted into an uneasy doze. His men should have caught Lady Georgina and her maid by this time. Tanner might not be the brightest star in the sky, nor Norris—not Norris, it was Morris—but they were like hounds to the scent when they were set to pursue a quarry. Shouldn’t have taken them this long, though. Should’ve sent Cole. A human bloodhound that one.

“My lord.” Crawford gripped his shoulder, and Travers came upright with a snort.

“What’s the news? Where’s Lady Georgina?” He peered around the dimming room. Sun must be going down. How long had he slept? Shaking his head to brush away the brandy’s fog, and failing, he instead grabbed the cup and downed the bit of spirits left in it. Not enough by far. “Where is the lady, Crawford? Has Tanner not returned with her yet?”

The valet shrunk back toward the door. “He returned some time ago, but had no one with him.”

“Damnation!” Travers slammed the glass down on the table, and it shattered into a spray of fine shards. “They’ve done nothing right the whole blasted day.” He shook his hand, glass fragments and blood flying. “Serve them right if I gave them all the sack.”

Crawford ran for the bedchamber and returned with a wet washing cloth and began to sweep the shards together.

“Did you speak to Cole?”

The valet looked up, eyes wide and wary. “Who, me, my lord?”

“No, the blasted Lord Mayor of London,” Travers roared. Why did he only employ imbeciles? He dropped his gaze to the cut on his hand, blood welling up in a bright red bead that grew larger. Fishing in his pocket, he put his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood in, then spat it into his handkerchief.

“Should I fetch a surgeon, my lord?” Careful not to cut himself, Crawford gathered the sharp glass into the wet cloth and shook the contents into the fireplace.

Travers gazed at his hand. One piece of the glass had slashed it rather deeply, and the cut ached. He nodded and waved Crawford toward the door. “Did you speak to Cole? Did the woman or her maid attempt to retrieve their belongings?”

Crawford stopped as if stabbed in the back. Slowly he turned toward his master, his face unusually pasty. “Mr. Cole wasn’t sure, my lord. If it was the lady or her maid . . . or someone else.”