Page 70 of Any Rogue Will Do
“Have you any of the soft outer casing left from the walnuts?”
Mrs. Mitchell nodded. “I have plenty.”
“Perfect. We’ll mash some of that pulp into a paste. With the tincture of herbs and poppy syrup in his food, whatever he’s eating has to have a strong enough flavor to mask the mixture. But that should do the trick. Black walnut will make him want to be near the outhouse for a while.”
Mrs. Mitchell’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ll gather what we need. Then let’s see what we can do about poisoning your husband.”
When the woman served them herself, Lottie sent up a prayer that everything had gone smoothly in the kitchen. “We have a hearty beef stew for you to warm your bones after a long day’s travel. I hope the flavor isn’t too strong for you, Mr. Montague. I use a nice dark ale in my stew. Mr. Mitchell loves it.” She gave them each a bowl, handing Lottie one with two chunks of bread on top. “Mrs. Montague, I included some extra bread for you. Eve’s curse is miserable, isn’t it? The bread may make you feel better.” She winked at Lottie on her way out of the room. The bowl with two slices of bread clearly hadn’t been tampered with, plus it came with the bonus of extra bread. Bless the woman.
Lottie took a tentative sip of the stew. “This is delicious. The bread is perfect. Somehow, it’s the small inns that have the best bread. Have you noticed?” Nerves made her chatter.
When he took a bite, he wrinkled his nose. “Whatever ale she used must be ghastly.” He pushed the bowl aside, but Lottie stayed his hand.
“I would hate to offend her. She has been such a lovely hostess. She didn’t even raise a fuss when you asked to have our meal in the room. It’s been a long day of travel, and this is all we have to eat.”
Montague sighed, then finished the bowl and took her second slice of bread with a petulant look. Lottie held her tongue about the bread theft and made idle conversation with her captor in front of the fire while she waited.
It wasn’t long before Montague’s gurgling stomach interrupted the conversation. He frowned, placing a hand to his belly. “I told you that stew was off.”
Feigning concern, Lottie frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. I thought it delicious. Strange that I am suffering no ill effects.”
Montague’s face contorted in pain. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “Oh dear. You don’t look well. Perhaps you should find the privy.”
Montague shot a glance to his bag with the gag and ropes. The desire to bind her while he was indisposed was so obvious, she almost made a grab for the bag herself. In the end, his bowels made the decision.
The heavy footfalls of his boots on the stairs rattled a small framed painting on the wall as he ran from the inn to find the outhouse. Although their room had a lovely floral-painted chamber pot, he must have decided that whatever was happening didn’t need witnesses.
If she could thank him for that, she would. Instead, Lottie smiled into her teacup and enjoyed the crackling fire.
Mrs. Mitchell poked her head in the room through the open door. “Are you well, Mrs. Montague?”
“All is as it should be.” The women exchanged a grin, and Lottie sat back to stare at the flames and wait.
The peace did not last long. Montague stumbled into the room, leaning heavily on the doorway. Using the wall for balance while one hand held his stomach, he groaned, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Maybe you should lie down until you feel better.”
Montague whimpered as she tucked him into bed like a small child. When he closed his eyes on a pained moan and rolled to face the wall, Lottie moved the chamber pot across the room, slipping it behind the curtains.
It would be a long night for some of them in this inn.
***
Dusk came and went. For the past half hour Lady Agatha’s coachman had carefully picked his way through darkness, with only the moon and a hanging lantern to guide the way. No one spoke of stopping for the night, all of them acutely aware that Lottie and Montague were preparing to spend their second night on the road.
“We found them!” The outrider’s cry pierced the repetitious clamor of hooves and carriage wheels.
Ethan sagged in the saddle. “Thank God.”
They came to a stop and waited for the grinning footman to bring his mount alongside them. “The Wild Dove, just at the edge of Doncaster. I’ve left Georgie to watch their coach, but it seems they’re stopped for the night.”
When their party arrived at the inn, they didn’t try to be quiet about it. No doubt Ethan looked a formidable sight, storming across the yard, with the many capes of his coat fanning out behind him. Theatrics weren’t usually his style, but if Montague happened to be watching, Ethan hoped the worm quaked in his boots. The innkeeper’s eyes widened when Ethan burst through the front door and skipped formalities. “A man and a woman arrived in the red carriage that now sits in your stables. Where are they now?” Ethan slapped a coin down on the bar. The innkeeper eyed the coin.
A squat little woman sidled up beside the innkeeper, beaming at Ethan. “Goodness, you are a big one, aren’t ya? She’s in the parlor through here.” She came around the bar and led Ethan to a door. “Safe and sound, she is. If you’re wanting to dispose of the man, he’s upstairs wishing he were already dead.”
Wishing he were dead, was he? Curious. “I’ll deal with him later. Thank you for your help.”
Calling the tiny room a parlor was generous. After two days of imagining worst-case scenarios, Ethan thought himself prepared for anything. He’d never considered this.
