Page 71 of Miss Delectable
Rye loathed the idea that his citadel had been breached. Children slept in his house, for God’s sake. “Do you trust Victor?”
Otter surveyed the warehouse, his gaze unnervingly adult. “You recruited him. He didn’t come begging to us. He has nobody else, and he’s not stupid.”
“That’s not a yes, Otter.”
“I don’t trust nobody. I could do with a slice of that gingerbread if I’m to hare after Sycamore Dorning.”
Rye unwrapped the loaf, used a folding knife to cut off a thick serving, and passed it to Otter. “Tell Dorning there’s a problem at the warehouse, and mind Mrs. Dorning doesn’t overhear you. I’ll wait here.”
“Wait carefully, guv. Whoever did this knows you’ll be poking about looking for answers.”
“Go,” Rye said, “and then find Nicolas, wake him up, and send him here as well.”
Otter scampered off, gingerbread in hand, while Rye made a circuit of the entire warehouse, counting cases and mentally consulting a map of goods in his head. The thieves had taken the good wine, but unbeknownst to them, the very best of the champagne, the vintage Rye would have proudly served to the monarch himself, sat in a dim corner stacked in unremarkable crates.
Rye opened a case in an abundance of caution and reassured himself the bottles were undisturbed. When he’d counted each case and opened several more, he restored the corner to order and went to the door to wait for Dorning.
Try though he might to assemble only the facts, he could not stop thinking of a new boy who refused to sleep in the house and who frequently skipped lessons.
* * *
Sycamore Dorning kepthis peace when he wanted instead to shout and curse.
“You were drugged, Nicolas,” Goddard said to the aging Frenchman pacing before the warehouse door. “Somebody stood you to a pint or a dram down at the Coq et Poule and slipped something into your drink. Half an hour later, you’re dozing at your post.”
Goddard was patient with the old fellow, offering sweet reason instead of profanity.
“Easy enough to do,” Sycamore observed. “Most émigrés favor a few specific pubs, and you apparently prefer the Coq et Poule. If the Coq has recently switched to winter ale, then a little bitterness in your pint wouldn’t be noticeable.”
Nicolas, who had the dimensions of a wizened jockey, shook his head. “Not a pint. I drink the brandy before I come to work, to keep away the cold.”
“Brandy is even easier to doctor,” Sycamore said. “My sister-in-law is something of an expert on medicinal herbs. She could mix up a brew that would knock you flat before you could sayvive l’empereur.”
The little man still looked unconvinced, while Sycamore could not read any reaction at all from Goddard. The colonel’s calm was unnerving, though Jeannette had that same vast composure in the face of monumental provocation.
“To unload four hundred cases of champagne,” Goddard said, “even with a half-dozen men on the job, would take time, Nicolas. You might doze off for a few minutes or even half an hour, but not for half the night.”
“I do not doze off, Monsieur Goddard. You pay me to keep the wine safe, and I am awake at all times.”
“What of the lock?” Sycamore asked, rather than allow Gallic pride to continue denying the obvious.
“Picked,” Goddard replied, “though not very competently. The tumblers were damaged. Nicolas, you are excused, and because the job has become more dangerous, I will find somebody to watch through the night with you.”
“I have a cousin,” Nicolas began. “Very trustworthy, very—”
Goddard waved a hand in a gesture that managed to look French. “I’m sure he is, but if you work with somebody you don’t know well, you will be more wary than if I employ your trustworthy cousin. This was not a casual purloining of a few bottles, my friend. This theft was carefully planned and executed mischief.”
Nicolas rubbed his chin, peered around the warehouse, and took a muttering, shuffling leave of his employer.
“That was brilliant,” Sycamore said, “that bit about being more wary. Spared everybody’s pride. I do hope the next warehouseman you hire won’t be on nodding terms with Methuselah.”
Goddard retrieved a cavalry sword from atop some crates and headed for the door. “I’m cold, furious, and hungry. Come along.”
And yet, he’d been the soul of civility and patience with the old watchman. “Where are we going?”
“To my house, where Jeanette will not see me in a temper and hear me using profanity.”
Sycamore had seen the inside of Rye Goddard’s house exactly once, and then only a foyer, hallway, and back garden.
