Page 119 of Counting on a Countess
They reached the boardwalk, where dozens of villagers who had been standing and watching now scattered in different directions and busied themselves with menial tasks. Even Nessa pretended to vigorously sweep her front steps.
“For those who want an oceangoing adventure,” Kit went on, pointing to several moored vessels, “they’ll hire a boat to take them out on the water. Luncheons will be provided, of course.”
“Of course,” the junior officer seconded.
“Quickly, please,” Kit directed, moving from the pier to the high street. Here again, more villagers gathered in curious groups, then hastened in various directions, like fish startled by the approach of a shark.
“We’ll have a tea parlor,” Kit continued as he walked, gesturing toward the shops that fronted the high street. “There will also be a shop selling toys, one offering local handicrafts for sale. The women make excellent baskets and corn dollies that anyone with taste will demand for their home. You see the public house,” he went on, pointing toward the Tipsy Flea, “but there will also be a dining room that will be open to both sexes. Traditional fare such as stargazy pie and pasties will be served, as well as Continental dishes for our more sophisticated visitors.”
Kit stopped their procession in front of the all things shop, and he beamed at the customs officers.
Tamsyn held her breath. Would they believe him?
Slowly, the men nodded.
Tamsyn risked a look at Gwen and Jory, who gaped at Kit. Suddenly, they turned their furious attention to her.
Her back stiff and her mouth tight, Gwen stalked to Tamsyn. Red spots of anger stained her cheeks.
“Nonsense, all of it!” she snarled. “There’s no scheme. This is nothing but glib obfuscation.”
Tamsyn drew herself up. “I assure you, aunt, this plan is real. We haven’t even gotten to the part about the musical pavilion.”
Gwen sputtered. “Musical...?”
“Indeed,” Kit added smoothly. “Plans are already being drawn up in London by one of England’s top architects. The pavilion will go there.” He pointed to a rise at the end of the high street, now home to a chicken coop and a pair of goats. “The animals will be relocated, naturally.”
“It will house a stage with an orchestra pit,” Tamsyn went on, shaping the imaginary space with her hands. “There will be music of all varieties performed, and during the peak season, theatrical works will be staged. Classics and modern pieces, including premieres of the Viscountess Marwood’s work. She and her husband are close friends,” Tamsyn added, hoping the viscountess would forgive her for shamelessly name-dropping.
“Where will all the visitors sleep?” the senior officer wondered.
“Two hotels in the French style are currently being designed,” Kit answered. “One on the high street, there.” He indicated a series of sheds housing boats that needed repair. “The other will be a short walk from the center of the village, for visitors who want a bit more seclusion. Should demand outpace supply, we’ll build more.”
His face purple, Jory barreled toward the customs men. “They’re making this up! There are no plans to turn this waterlogged blight into a seaside resort. It’s all twaddle to hide their real purpose.” He glowered at Tamsyn. “Smuggling.”
She met her uncle’s anger with her own, squaring her jaw in defiance.
“Wrong, Shawe,” Kit replied frostily.
Edwards looked pensively around at the high street. Villagers crept out in groups of two and three, anxiously watching the riding officers.
“You,” the chief inspector said, pointing toward Sam Franks, who stood on the step of his shop. “Come here.”
Slowly, cautiously, Sam approached, casting worried looks over his shoulder at the other villagers watching the unfolding events.
“Sir?” Sam asked warily.
“Tell me about the scheme to transform this place into a holiday destination,” the officer commanded.
“Mr. Franks isn’t part of the planning committee,” Tamsyn said quickly.
Edwards lifted a brow. “Surely he knowssomethingabout it.”
Wide-eyed, Sam looked at Tamsyn. She gave one tiny nod, praying her gesture wouldn’t be seen by the customs men.
“It’s, uh, a substantial alteration,” Sam improvised. “Many changes. There’s talk of... a... music festival during June and July. Yes,” he said, warming to his subject, “and a singing competition.”
“The winner gets ten pounds,” Kit threw in, “and a silver cup with their name engraved on it.”
