Page 31 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
A shop? What kind of shop would anyone open in a dead-end town?
“Well, actually, Ihavebeen here this past week,” Mr. Sullivan admitted, almost apologetically. “I have done business with Lady Elsa’s family for years, and she has suggested that I might expand. I sell hardware, everything from pots and pans to ironware made by the local blacksmith. My family was originally from here.”
Then he and his family presumably knew Miss Edgerton. She really needed to learn more about the neighbors, didn’t she?Whatever papers her teacher may have hidden would most likely pertain to people she knew. And who knew her.
She rested her hand on Wolfie’s head, uncertain if the dog would allow her to leave without Rafe. “Very pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Verity Porter. Do you think Sgt. Russell will be very long settling matters? He was escorting me home.”
As if in answer, another man flew out the doorway, skidding shoulders first in the dust. Verity thought he looked vaguely familiar, but faces out of their accustomed setting were often unidentifiable. In church, perhaps?
He scrambled up just as Rafe emerged from the tavern.
“Beat it, Clement. You’re a sot. I’ve told Henri if you ever cross his threshold again, I’ll fling you out of town.” Rafe loomed like a giant over the smaller man.
Ah, yes, she remembered that name from church.
“I got a wife works here,” the worker whined, picking himself out of the dirt. “You can’t do that.”
Taking Verity’s arm, while shoving a long-handled knife into his trouser band, Rafe stepped aside to allow the French tavern keeper to emerge, glowering.
“You are not welcome here or elsewhere, Clement. Walker will give you your last wages. I’ll not have the likes of you anywhere near my wife.” Henri spun around and returned to the lessening noise in the tavern.
Cursing, the maligned Clement glared at the two gentlemen, spat at their feet, and rounded on Rafe. “That’s my knife.”
Wolfie growled. Rafe placed a threatening hand on the knife. Disgruntled, Clement staggered off toward the path to the manor.
In the dark, Verity heard echoes of the curses her uncle’s coachman had thrown at her the night he’d run over her foot. What set men off like that? She had never ridden in her uncle’s carriage. He’d no reason to notice her existence, as she’d barely noticed his. He had merely been a small, grumpy figure on a seat above her head, wearing a shapeless coat, while he waited for her uncle in the evening fog. She had no idea why he’d been angrywith her and no idea why she heard echoes of his anger in an apple picker.
Ugly suspicion had made her fearful. That wasn’t like her.
“Well, that was enlightening,” she said brightly, to cover her nerves. “Shall I see myself home while you gentlemen discuss the evening’s excitement?”
The gentlemen raised their hats and the merchant replied, “We’ll see ourselves back to the manor. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Porter.” They strolled in the direction of the footpath up the hill.
Rafe was silent as they traversed the village, Wolfie protectively at their heels. Verity used Rafe’s arm to support her more than the cane. She couldn’t keep up otherwise. She hated slowing him down.
“Can a bailiff really throw people out of town?” she inquired to break his unusual silence.
“Probably only from manor land, which isn’t the tavern. But if I can, I will.” He retreated into silence again, scanning the houses as they passed.
She hesitated as they neared the cottage. He’d been expecting a killer to search after they left. Had the brawl at the tavern been a distraction?
Rafe opened the gate and gestured at his enormous wolfhound. “Search, Wolf.” The dog trotted inside, sniffing the ground.
“Original name,” she said dryly, hiding her nervousness.
“Like Marmie for a marmalade cat,” he retorted. “I am not well read or imaginative. I should think you would be more so.”
“I didn’t think I could keep him, at the time.” She’d lost so much in her life, that she’d seen little purpose in more than a nickname until the kitten fled and was never seen again.
Wolfie yipped, then howled, from the back of the cottage. Rafe handed her the knife. “Stab first, ask questions later.” He dashed off into the darkness, leaving her with the lantern.
She hastily closed the lamp, hoping to be less of a target. Thedog howled again. Shouts. Pounding footsteps. How long did she stand here, shivering in terror?
She felt like a fool, holding a knife as if she knew how to use one. Or could. The very notion of sticking it into flesh... She shuddered. Rafe had no doubt used bayonets and rifles these past years.He’d killed people.The genial innkeeper who baked delicious apple cake was a killer.
What in the name of heaven had she done by leaving the city she knew to come here, where she was a fish out of water?
A cat in water. A frog in a desert. A lady without a home.
