Page 20 of Snapdragons
He passed two men conversing outside a shop.
“Heard Martin might be arriving to fight for t’ purse,” one of them said to the other, who whistled in response, impressed.
Fight for the purse?Was there to be a pugilistic bout? Niles hadn’t heard as much.
A woman with a little one in tow passed by. “I know you’re jiggered, love, but we can’t move slow. We’ve laundry to see to.”
Niles reached the end of the road without finding a dairy or a shop that looked like it might carry cheese. He’d apparently remembered wrong. That was unfortunate.
“Mr. Greenberry?”
He spun about at the subtly Irish voice speaking his name, knowing even before he looked that Miss Seymour had spoken.
She smiled softly. “The food hampers are ready. I’d not wanted you to be left behind.”
“The Gents rarely forget to bring along their Puppy.”
Her confusion reminded him that she didn’t have the necessary information to recognize the jest he was attempting.
“All the Gents have nicknames we use among ourselves. Mine is—” He’d never before been embarrassed by his moniker but was more reluctant to share it in that moment than he could have anticipated.
“Is it Puppy, by chance?” she guessed.
He nodded. “It’s not ill meant.”
“I’d not have assumed it was.”
They walked beside each other back in the direction of the Green Badger.
“I had a nickname when I was a little girl, given to me by a neighboring family, and itwasill meant.”
She didn’t look hurt by the recollection, so he felt he could continue the thread without causing her pain. “May I ask what the nickname was?”
“They called me the Little Banshee.”
He wasn’t familiar with that term.
Miss Seymour smiled once more. “I can see that doesn’t have the impact it would if told to an Irishman, so allow me to explain. A banshee is an Irish folk creature: female, unbearably loud, fearful, and an omen of horrific things, up to and including death. To be called a banshee is not a compliment.”
“Were you particularly loud as a child?” he asked.
She laughed lightly. “That part of the name was merited, I’m afraid. But the rest was simply unkind.”
“You were not a harbinger of death, then?”
“I’ve killed very few people.” Her extremely serious declaration was quickly countered by the tug of merriment in her features.
“If the neighboring family wasn’t included in your short list ofvictims, then I would say you missed an opportunity.”
She laughed out loud at that. Niles was not the humorous Gent—that designation was Lucas’s. There was something rather nice about inspiring a sincere laugh in that moment.
“In what little I’ve learned of you over the past months,” she said, “nowhere did anyone mention that you were bloodthirsty.”
“And no one told meyouwere a murderer,” Niles countered.
Again, she laughed, and he didn’t think it sounded insincere or forced. Did she legitimately find him funny? He certainly had a sense of humor, and he did sometimes make the Gents laugh but not many people beyond them. He didn’t know quite what to think of Miss Seymour doing so, not only easily but also more than once in quick succession. It was... confusing.
They caught up with the rest of the party just outside the inn. Two hampers had been prepared, and Lucas and Kes now held them. Their coachmen carried wool blankets and cushions, as did a couple of stableboys. Digby guided the group around the inn and down the gravel walkway in back, which led all the way to the banks of the lake, where they would be spending that afternoon.
