The Deserted Heart: Unmarriageable Series (Unmarriagable Series Book 1) Page 7

  She curled her lip. “To attract a husband with my one accomplishment?”

  “If you wish,” he said peaceably. “But there are other, more mundane reasons. For instance, when you sing, you do not stammer.”

  With that, he stood and strolled away, pausing to talk to Henrietta and Almeria. Charlotte gazed after him, baffled. Not because he had told her something she did not know, but because he had noticed.

  Chapter Seven

  Alexander Moore, the seventh Duke of Alvan, woke the following morning, impatient to be off. Not just to the Hart Inn, but, thereafter, away from Audley Park and home. He did not like Dunstan being in the neighborhood and suspected the man of fomenting some kind of trouble. He didn’t want it to involve Lord Overton’s family, so the best thing Alvan could do for them was to leave and end this feud with Dunstan at a safe distance from the Mayburys.

  In fact, as he let Hanson shave him by candlelight, he knew that what he should be doing today was speaking to Overton about Thomasina, not pursuing his curiosity about the Hart. Of course, it was a matter of form. Everyone knew why he was here, and he didn’t doubt his success. He could leave this afternoon.

  But then he would never know the secret of the Hart Inn.

  All the young Mayburys were breakfasting when he went downstairs, although only those going on the expedition were in riding dress. Thomasina wore a very fetching habit in bottle-green, with a matching hat from which a magnificent feather waved cheerily whenever she moved. Charlotte had on a well-worn fawn habit that had seen better days, probably when she was fifteen-years-old and it had been passed down to her. Not the first time Alvan was irritated by this favoritism that both neglected and insulted this most intriguing of Overton’s daughters.

  “What I wonder now,” Charlotte was saying, “is if the Laceys’ missing guest is not also involved in this? Oh, good morning, sir. Let me… pour you coffee.”

  “Thank you.” Alvan sat and buttered himself some toast.

  “Do you know this Mr. Cornell?” Charlotte asked him. “Is he the sort of man to let his hosts down because something better came up?”

  “Charlie, of course he is not,” Thomasina exclaimed.

  “I would say it depended on the hosts and on the rest of the company expected,” Alvan said frankly. “In this case, I am surprised he has not kept his word. It’s certainly something else to ask the innkeeper.”

  “Mr. Villin,” Charlotte said, her eyes dancing.

  He couldn’t help the quirk of his lips in response. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Well that settles his guilt. I am almost tempted to take a magistrate with us.”

  Charlotte laughed. She had a delightful laugh, low and infectious, and it lit up her face with an animation that went beyond beauty to sheer fun. Not that she wasn’t beautiful, for she was, despite the dowdy clothes and un-styled hair. It wasn’t, perhaps, the beauty of perfection such as that enjoyed by her sisters. He was sure people would say her eyebrows were too thick and dramatic, her mouth a little too wide, her nose a little too large, her skin a shade too pale, with just a hint of remaining childish freckles. But there was something about her…

  Hastily, he turned his attention back to his breakfast. It was one thing to take a friendly interest in the amusing sister of his prospective bride, but this…

  “Can I fetch you more breakfast, sir?” Richard asked with a hint of urgency, clearly anxious to get everyone fed and outside.

  “No, I shall be ready directly.” He swallowed the last of his coffee and stood. “Ladies?”

  His mount, borrowed from Lord Overton, turned out to be a fine animal, no doubt one that his lordship had been unable to part with when he had sold the rest of his string. And Lord Overton’s children all rode as if they had been born in the saddle. Clearly, they had ridden a great deal while abroad and were all glad of today’s opportunity. Even Thomasina, who had seemed almost too ladylike and frail to ride a horse at higher speed than a slow trot, took the gallops with relish.

  It was a fine spring day, and with the wind in his short hair and the sun on his face, Alvan could appreciate the gentle glory of the changing scenery from fields and woods to rocky shoreline. More than that, he enjoyed the company, amused by the banter between the siblings. He liked Thomasina better like this. She seemed much more natural, falling into some trivial argument with Richard as they fell a little behind Charlotte and Alvan on the coastal road.

  “You don’t like Lord Dunstan,” Charlotte observed without warning.

  Alvan glanced at her. “We are not friends.”

  “Why not?” Perhaps his expression gave away too much, for she flushed. “Forgive me. It is none of my business. I’m afraid I just say whatever comes into my head, and I am insatiably curious. May I ask something else instead?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you tell me anything about your quarrel that has bearing on the disappearance of Mr. Cornell and our mysterious inn?”

  He felt the smile return to his eyes unbidden. “Of course. Cornell is largely Dunstan’s creature, a toady if you like.”

  Charlotte wrinkled her nose, a rather endearing gesture. “He does not sound a very pleasant person. Or a worthy suitor for Almeria.”

  Alvan, who rather suspected courting Almeria to be an excuse for both men to be in the neighborhood, made a noncommittal noise.

  “But that does not seem a good reason for his disappearance,” Charlotte observed. “You have not abducted him, have you?”

  Alvan stared at her. “What would I want with Frank Cornell?”

  “To spite Lord Dunstan who is now without his toady.”

  Rare laughter rose up his throat, trying to get out. “I’m afraid that is beneath me. Not beneath my ability, if I chose,” he acknowledged. “But far beneath my interest and the importance I accord the quarrel with Dunstan. Acquit me, if you please.”

  “Very well. I expect he has other enemies.”

  “Perhaps.” He regarded her thoughtfully, several rumors passing through his head.

  “Here’s the path up to the inn,” Charlotte said brightly, reining in to wait for her brother and sister.

  Approaching the inn that morning couldn’t have been more different from his last arrival in the shrouding mist to silence and emptiness. This time, an ostler appeared as soon as they rode into the yard, and by the time he had dismounted and turned to help Thomasina, the innkeeper’s wife was at the door, smiling and curtseying as she wiped her hands on her apron and asked what was their pleasure.

  Charlotte slid out of the saddle unaided and hurried to meet the woman. “I’m Charlotte May… bury,” she said bluntly. “This is the Duke of Alvan. We both owe you money for our stay here on Monday night.”

  “Also, we’d like a private parlor and luncheon,” Alvan added.

  Gazing at him with awe, the woman stood aside, allowing him to usher Charlotte and Thomasina inside in front of him. “I’ll fetch Villin,” she promised.

  Charlotte glanced at him, her eyes gleaming, and the laughter she inspired rose close to the surface once more.

  Mrs. Villin sent a maid scampering to fetch the landlord while she showed them into the same parlor Alvan had briefly occupied on their previous visit.

  “We were surprised to find the house quite unattended on Monday,” Alvan remarked.

  “Indeed, sir, I was appalled to hear of it myself. Villin and me, we’re quite mortified, been let down… awful mistake. I’m only glad you managed to make yourself comfortable.”

  “The stew was delicious,” Richard told her, and she beamed.

  “What can I get for you today? Got some nice fresh mackerel and a newly baked chicken pie? And some good soup on the boil, if you like.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Charlotte said warmly.

  “In the meantime, some wine and small beer, if you please,” Alvan added.

  Mrs. Villin bustled away.

  Thomasina wandered around the parlor, running her gloved fin
ger over the spotlessly clean table and window sill. “Did you really stay here with no staff at all?” she asked Charlotte. “And no one with you but John Coachman?”

  “Nurse was with us.”

  “We managed very well,” Richard insisted. “Or at least Charlie did.”

  After a discreet knock, a tall, untidy man of middle years came in. He wore the beginnings of a beard, a leather waistcoat, and an apron. Mr. Villin, Alvan presumed. He looked as if he’d come to give them a piece of his mind, as if he didn’t believe Alvan was who he said he was. Which delighted the duke on many levels. But when Alvan met his gaze with the practiced twitch of one eyebrow, the innkeeper immediately bowed low.

  “Your grace, ladies, young master. How can I serve you?”

  Alvan leaned his hip against a chair arm. “Well, before we come to the account you sent to Lord Overton and, presumably to me, though I have not been home to discover, I would be obliged to learn why we were left in an empty house that professes to be an inn?”

  Unexpectedly, he was aware of Charlotte’s gaze, not on the innkeeper, but on him.

  The innkeeper spread his hands. “I can only apologize most humbly, your grace. We weren’t expecting anyone, so we went to visit the wife’s family in Finsborough. Left Marty in charge of the taproom, but seems he went home when the mist came down. That road’s treacherous in the fog, so we stayed in Finsborough, thinking no one would venture near us. And here we missed the noblest guests it’s been our pleasure to entertain for years.”

  “I knew it would be something like that,” Thomasina said. “I told you so, Charlotte.”

  “Yes, but that does not explain the intruders in the taproom,” Charlotte argued.

  That got the innkeeper’s attention. “Intruders?” he repeated, staring from her to Alvan. “What intruders? When? Where?”

  “In the taproom on Monday night,” Alvan replied, watching him. “Two or three of them.”

  “Brandishing pistols!” Richard said indignantly.

  Charlotte glared at him, for Thomasina slumped back in her chair, her face white.

  “They disturbed our servants who were eating in the taproom,” Alvan said matter-of-factly. “We chased them, and one was desperate enough to shoot as we struggled for the pistol. But they ran off.”

  Mr. Villin, by then, was looking as white as Thomasina. “Dear God, that such a thing should happen to a noble duke, to a noble lady, in my house. Rest assured, I will do all in my power to have those responsible apprehended. Did you report this to the authorities, sir?”

  “Not yet,” Alvan drawled. He had not wished to involve Charlotte in any scandal or worry her family. Watching Villin’s grim countenance, he doubted it was the law of the land the innkeeper meant to invoke either.

  Alvan dug into his pocket and removed a note, which he held out to Villin. “I believe this will cover my account and that of Lord Overton’s family.” He glanced at Charlotte’s surprised face. “Your father and I have agreed to settle up later.”

  “Thank you kindly, your grace,” Villin said, palming the note. “I’ll get my daughter to mark it up in the book.”

  “Yes, but who were these intruders?” Charlotte demanded single-mindedly.

  “No idea, Miss,” Villin replied. “But they won’t get away with it. Attacking my customers! What is the world coming to?”

  Alvan nodded dismissal, and the man bowed again and backed to the door.

  “One more question,” Charlotte said, causing him to halt with reluctant patience. “Why did you leave the inn unlocked?”

  “That will have been Marty, Miss. Stupid lad. Won’t be trusting him with such a task again.” And Villin ducked out of the door.

  “He’s got an answer for everything,” Charlotte said in clear frustration.

  Alvan straightened and caught her gaze. “Yes, but you may cheer up, for he’s also lying.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Do you think so? About what?”

  “About why they left the inn to begin with. And I think he knows quite well who the intruders are.”

  Further talk was interrupted by the maid, smiling brightly as she brought in a tray of refreshments.

  As lunch was served, Alvan turned the talk to other subjects, discovering a little of the Overtons’ chaotic lives abroad, often in somewhat dangerous circumstances.

  “Did your mother not object to living so close to war?” he asked once.

  “I don’t believe she did,” Thomasina replied. “I once overheard one of Papa’s assistants asking her if she would not rather go home. Oh no, she replied, if he has to look after us, he will take less risks with himself. She had perfect faith in him.”

  Alvan rather envied them such an adventurous life. His own childhood had been so hemmed in with rules of safety enforced by a positive army of guardians, tutors, and servants that he had often felt he could not breathe. The kind of family life that the Overtons had enjoyed abroad, and that Alvan was now witnessing here in Sussex, was a revelation to him. Even the somewhat mercenary “selling” of the daughters in marriage—an arrangement in which they all seemed to cooperate with perfect understanding—could not dull his fascination. Besides, who was he to judge? He, too, was entering a business negotiation, financial settlements made to “buy” a well-born and suitable bride. He didn’t like himself much for it, but it was a civilized way to do what had to be done. On both sides.

  “Are you the innkeeper’s daughter?” Charlotte asked the maid unexpectedly as the girl gathered up used plates and cutlery.

  “Yes, Miss. I’m Lily.”

  “I thought I could see the family resemblance,” Charlotte crowed, apparently pleased with herself. “Lily, by any chance, has a Mr. Cornell stayed at the inn recently?”

  “Not that I recall, Miss,” Lily said at once.

  “Do you think she was lying?” Charlotte asked him when the door closed behind the maid.

  “Not obviously,” Alvan said regretfully. “Though it would have been much tidier if we could only tie both puzzles together.” He rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I will just stretch my legs before we start back to Audley Park.”

  He sauntered out of the parlor, only too aware of Charlotte’s suspicious gaze on the back of his head. From the taproom, came the sound of conversation and laughter, and the clink of glass and crockery. Alvan turned toward the front door.

  Lily Villin sat at a table there, busily writing in a large book. It seemed she kept the accounts for the inn. Seeing him, she sprang up and bobbed a curtsey as he passed.

  After a stroll around the inn yard, where he observed the ostler changing horses for a waiting stagecoach, he wandered back inside, waving Lily back into her seat before she could properly rise.

  In the taproom, he discovered Villin seated apart from his customers, leaning gloomily over a newspaper.

  The innkeeper leapt to his feet. “Your grace! What can I get for you?”

  “Oh nothing. I’m just stretching my legs and thinking.” Waving Villin back onto his bench, he sat opposite him.

  “Oh yes?” Villin said dubiously.

  “I’m thinking, you have a pleasant house here. A respectable house, too, from all I hear… despite brandy that is far too good not to come from France.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Villin said with dignity.

  “Of course, you don’t. I suspect smuggling is endemic in this part of Sussex, and I doubt it is any concern of mine.”

  Villin offered a small smile.

  Alvan searched his face, which gave little away. “However, I am most definitely concerned about the men who threatened my friend’s family as well as myself. Am I right in assuming they are no friends of yours?”

  Villin gave a single nod.

  “They didn’t come in the back door,” Alvan said bluntly. “It was locked.”

  “I know how they got in,” Villin said grimly. “And believe me, I will be taking steps this very day to ensure it never happens again.”<
br />
  Alvan nodded, thoughtfully, holding the man’s gaze. “It would also set my mind at rest to know who the devil they are and what they wanted with you.”

  Villin’s gaze fell to the table, then slowly lifted once more. “We’ve had a bit of trouble in these parts,” he said reluctantly. “Bad company—thieves, highwayman, robbers who’ve been chased out of London, trying to organize themselves dens and security down here. Can’t tell the magistrates or word’ll get around that the Hart isn’t safe. So, we keep quiet and deal with it ourselves.”

  “How? By paying them off?”

  Villin’s eyelid twitched but he didn’t look away. “What makes you say so?”

  Alvan shrugged. “You have a prosperous inn with few servants but your family, and the mysterious Marty. The money must be going somewhere.”

  Villin gave a lopsided smile. “You’re a knowing one, ain’t you?”

  “I’m a guessing one,” Alvan admitted. “But my guesses are usually close. And your absence on Monday—could that have been anything to do with the disappearance of an acquaintance of mine? Mr. Frank Cornell?”

  “Never heard of him,” Villin said flatly. “If you must know, the varmints turned up here again and I’d had enough. Despite all they’ve had of me, they robbed one of my guests and insulted my daughter. We got everyone in the inn together and chased the varmints out of the inn and all the way to Finsborough before we lost them.”

  “All of you?” Alvan asked incredulously.

  A proud smile flickered in Villin’s eyes. “Have you ever seen my missus when her dander’s up?”

  “Not yet, but I trust I will never be the cause,” Alvan said. “I suppose a couple of them doubled back and entered your inn secretly, hoping to rob you or otherwise make you pay while you were out.”

  Beyond the open door, Charlotte wandered into view. She spoke to someone in the hallway, presumably Lily, for the girl rose and hurried at once toward the parlor. Alvan returned his attention to the innkeeper. “Do you know where these varmints of yours are now?” he asked bluntly.