Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (64 page)

She paused but Blount only blinked at her. “I take it you are interested in keeping your position here?”

“Oh—yes, ma'am. Definitely! But…where's the blunt coming from for all that?”

“Why, from the profits, Blount.” Lucinda eyed him straitly. “The profits before your wages are deducted—and before the return paid to the company. The company considers such matters as an investment in the inn's future; if you're wise, you'll consider my suggestions in light of an investment in your future.”

Blount met her gaze; slowly he nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Good!” Lucinda rose. “I will make a copy of the improvements I'll be suggesting to the company and have my groom drop it by tomorrow.” She glanced at Blount as he struggled to his feet; his expression suggested he was still reeling. “Mr Mabberly will look in on you in a month's time, to review your progress. And now, if there's nothing else, I will bid you good day, Blount.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Blount hurried to open the door. “Thank you, ma'am.” He was clearly sincere.

Lucinda regally nodded and sailed from the room.

Reluctantly impressed, Harry followed close behind. Still inwardly amazed, he waited until they were back on the pavement, she gliding along with her nose in the air as if she had not just taken on Goliath and won, before catching her hand, neatly trapping it on his sleeve. Her fingers fluttered, then stilled. She cast him a quick glance, then studiously looked ahead. Her groom followed two paces behind, her ledgers clutched in his arms.

The young traveller who had been slouching in the tap slipped out of the inn door in their wake.

“My dear Mrs Babbacombe,” Harry began in what he hoped was an even tone. “I do hope you're going to satisfy my curiosity as to why a gently reared female, however well-equipped for the task, goes about interrogating her company's employees?”

Unabashed, Lucinda met his gaze; aggravation showed clearly in the green. “Because there is no one else.”

Harry held her gaze. His lips thinned. “I find that hard to believe. What about this Mr Mabberly—your agent? Why can he not take on the challenge of such as Blount?”

Lucinda's lips quirked. “You must admit he was a definite challenge.” She slanted a deliberately provocative glance his way. “I feel quite chuffed.”

Harry snorted. “As you well know, you performed a minor miracle. That man will now work himself to the bone—which will be a distinct improvement in itself. But that,” he continued, his tone hardening, “is not the point.”

“But it is, you see.” Lucinda wondered why she was allowing him to put in his oar. Perhaps because it had been a long time since anyone had tried? “Mr Anthony Mabberly is all of twenty-three. He's an excellent man with the accounts and is scrupulously honest and fair—a far cry from Scrugthorpe.”

“Ah, yes. The undesirable Scrugthorpe.” Harry cast her a quick glance. “Why was he so undesirable?”

“Fraud. He was appointed by my husband just before his death—on one of his bad days, I'm afraid. After Charles's death, I by chance learned that the books as they were being presented to me did not reflect the actual figures generated by the inns.”

“What happened to Scrugthorpe?”

“I dismissed him, of course.”

Harry noted the righteous satisfaction that underlaid her tone. Clearly, Lucinda Babbacombe had not approved of Mr Scrugthorpe. “So until recently the agent took responsibility for negotiating with your tenants?”

Lucinda lifted a haughty brow. “Until I reorganised the company's procedures. Mr Mabberly would not know where to start with such as Blount—he's of a somewhat timid disposition. And I consider it appropriate that both Heather and myself are familiar with the inns that form our legacy.”

“Laudable though such sentiments might be, Mrs Babbacombe, I do hope—” Harry broke off as she stopped and looked consideringly across the street. “What is it?”

“Hmm?” Absent-mindedly, Lucinda glanced up. “Oh—I was just wondering if there was time left to do the Barbican Arms today.” She glanced back at the busy inn across the street. “But it looks rather crowded. Perhaps tomorrow morning would be better?”

Harry stared at her, an unwelcome suspicion slowly crystallising in his brain. “Very much better,” he averred. “But tell me, Mrs Babbacombe—how many inns do you and your step-daughter own?”

She looked up at him, an unlikely innocence in her powder-blue eyes. “Fifty-four,” she replied. Then added, as if in afterthought, “Up and down the country.”

Harry closed his eyes and struggled to suppress a groan. Then, without another word, with no more than a single speaking glance, he escorted her into the yard of the Barbican Arms and, with heartfelt relief, handed her up to Em's gig and watched her drive away.

 

“S
O SHE
'
S STAYING
in Newmarket?”

Mr Earle Joliffe drew a riding crop back and forth through his fingers. A thickset man of undistinguished mien, he sat back in his chair, his pale gaze, as pale as his pasty complexion, fixed on the young roughneck he'd sent into town to track their quarry down.

“As to that, I ain't sure.” The youngster took a swig from his tankard.

They were in a rundown cottage three miles from Newmarket, the best they'd been able to rent at short notice. Four men sat about the deal table—Joliffe, the youngster whose name was Brawn and two others—Mortimer Babbacombe and Ernest Scrugthorpe. The latter was a hulking man, rough despite the severe clothes of a clerk; he sat silently glowering into his beer. Mortimer Babbacombe, a slight figure in the attire of a would-be dandy, shifted restlessly; he clearly wished himself elsewhere.

“She got into a gig and drove out eastwards. I couldn't follow.”

Scrugthorpe grunted. “See? Told you she'd go to the Green Goose. Couldn't keep away, meddling witch.”

He spat contemptuously on the floor; the action made Mortimer even more uncomfortable.

“Ye-es, well.” Joliffe transferred his gaze to Scrugthorpe. “Might I remind you that she should, by now, have been in our hands? That but for your lack of foresight, she would be?”

Scrugthorpe scowled. “How was I to know it were a race-week? And that gentlemen would be using that road? Everything went perfect, elsewise.”

Joliffe sighed and raised his eyes heavenwards. Amateurs—they were all the same. How had he, who had spent his life thus far successfully extracting a living from the rich, descended to the company of such? Lowering his gaze, his glance fell on Mortimer Babbacombe. Joliffe's lips curled in a contemptuous sneer.

“Ought to mention,” Brawn put in, surfacing from his tankard. “She was walking the street with a swell today—right chummy—looked like the same swell as wot rescued them.”

Joliffe's eyes narrowed and he sat forward. “Describe this swell.”

“Fair hair—like gold. Tall, looked like he'd strip to advantage. One of them bloods with a fancy cape.” Brawn grimaced. “They all look the same to me.”

Not so to Joliffe. “This blood—was he staying at the Barbican Arms?”

“Seemed so—the ostlers and all seemed to know him.”

“Harry Lester.” Joliffe tapped a pensive nail on the table. “I wonder…”

“Wonder what?” Mortimer looked at his erstwhile friend and most urgent creditor, his expression that of a man well out of his depth. “Would this man Lester help us?”

Joliffe snorted. “Only to the hangman's noose. But his peculiar talents bear consideration.” Leaning forward, Joliffe placed both elbows on the table. “It occurs to me, my dear Mortimer, that we may be involving ourselves unnecessarily here.” Joliffe smiled, an empty gesture that made Mortimer shrink. “I'm sure you'd be most agreeable to any way of achieving our aim without direct involvement.”

Mortimer swallowed. “But how can Lester help us—if he won't?”

“Oh—I didn't say he won't—just that we needn't ask him. He'll help us entirely for the fun of it. Harry Lester, dear Mortimer, is the rake supreme—a practitioner extraordinaire in the gentle art of seduction. If, as seems possible, he's got your uncle's widow in his sights, then I wouldn't like to bet on her chances.” Joliffe's smile grew. “And, of course, once she's demonstrably no longer a virtuous widow, then you'll have all the reason you need to legally challenge her guardianship of your cousin.” Joliffe's gaze grew intent. “And once your pretty cousin's legacy's in your hands, you'll be in a position to pay me, won't you, Mortimer?”

Mortimer Babbacombe swallowed—and forced himself to nod.

“So what do we do now?” Scrugthorpe drained his tankard.

Joliffe considered, then pronounced, “We sit tight and watch. If we get a chance to lay hands on the lady, we will—just like we planned.”

“Aye—far as I'm concerned, that's how we should do it—no sense in leaving anything to chance.”

Joliffe's lip curled. “Your animosity is showing, Scrugthorpe. Please remember that our primary aim here is to discredit Mrs Babbacombe—not satisfy your lust for revenge.”

Scrugthorpe snorted.

“As I was saying,” Joliffe went on. “We watch and wait. If Harry Lester succeeds—he'll have done our work for us. If not, we'll continue to pursue the lady—and Scrugthorpe here will have his chance.”

At that, Scrugthorpe smiled. Lecherously.

W
HEN
L
UCINDA DROVE
into the yard of the Barbican Arms the next morning, Harry was waiting, shoulders against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his boot against the wall for balance. He had plenty of time to admire the artless picture of mature womanhood seated beside Grimms in his aunt's gig. Elegantly gowned in a cornflower blue carriage dress, her dark hair restrained in a severe chignon thus revealing the delicate bones of her face, Lucinda Babbacombe predictably turned the heads of those still dawdling in the yard. Thankfully, the thoroughbred races were to commence that morning; most of Harry's contemporaries were already at the track.

Grimms brought Em's gig to a neat halt in the centre of the yard. With an inward snort, Harry pushed away from the wall.

Lucinda watched him approach—his graceful stride forcefully reminded her of a prowling tiger. A very definite thrill coursed through her; she avoided smiling her delight, contenting herself with a mild expression of polite surprise. “Mr Lester.” Calmly, she extended her hand. “I hadn't expected to see you this morning—I thought you were here for the races.”

His brows had risen sceptically at her first remark; on her second, his green eyes glittered. He grasped her hand—for an instant, as his eyes held hers, Lucinda wondered why she was playing with fire.

“Indeed,” Harry replied, his habitual drawl in abeyance. He helped her from the carriage, steadying her on the cobbles. “I own to surprise on that score myself. However, as you are my aunt's guest, and at my instigation, I feel honour-bound to ensure you come to no harm.”

Lucinda's eyes narrowed but Harry, distracted by the absence of groom or maid—Grimms had already disappeared into the stables—did not notice.

“Speaking of which, where's your groom?”

Lucinda allowed herself a small smile. “Riding with your brother and Heather. I have to thank you for sending Gerald to us—he's entertaining company for Heather—I dare say she would otherwise grow bored. And, of course, that leaves me free to tend to business without having to worry my head over her.”

Harry didn't share her confidence—but he wasn't, at this point, concerned with her stepdaughter. His expression hardened as he looked down at her. He was still holding her hand; tucking it into his arm, he turned her towards the inn door. “You should at least have a groom with you.”

“Nonsense, Mr Lester.” Lucinda slanted him a curious glance. “Surely you aren't suggesting that at my age I need a chaperon?”

Looking into her eyes, softly blue, their expression openly independent, challenging yet oddly innocent, Harry inwardly cursed. The damned woman didn't need a chaperon—she needed an armed guard. Just why he had elected himself to the post was not a point he was willing to pursue. He contented himself with repressively stating, “In my opinion, Mrs Babbacombe, women like you should not be allowed out alone.”

Her eyes twinkled; two tiny dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Actually, I'd like to see the stables.” She turned to the archway leading from the main yard.

“The stables?”

Her gaze ranging their surroundings, Lucinda nodded. “The state of the stableyard frequently reflects the quality of the inn's management.”

The state of the stables suggested the innkeeper of the Barbican Arms was a perfectionist; everything was neat, clean and in its place. Horses turned their heads to stare as Lucinda picked her way over the cobbles, still wet with dew, forced more than once to lean heavily on Harry's arm.

When they reached the earthen floor of the stables, she determinedly straightened. Regretfully withdrawing her fingers from the warmth of his sleeve, she strolled along the row of loose boxes, stopping here and there to acknowledge their curious occupants. She eventually reached the tack room and peered in.

“Excuse me, ma'am—but you shouldn't be in here.” An elderly groom hurried out.

Harry stepped out of the shadows. “It's all right, Johnson. I'll see the lady safe,”

“Oh!—it's you, Mr Lester.” The groom touched his cap. “That's all right and tight, then. Ma'am.” With another tug of his cap, the groom retreated into the tack room.

Lucinda blinked, then shot a glance at Harry. “Is it always so ordered? So…” She waved at the loose boxes, each with their half-doors shut. “So exact?”

“Yes.” Harry looked down at her as she stopped beside him. “I stable my carriage horses here—you may rest assured of the quality in that respect.”

“I see.” Deeming all queries on the equine side of business satisfied, Lucinda turned her attention to the inn proper.

Ushered through the main door, she looked with approval on half-panelled walls, well-polished and glowing mellowly. Sunshine reflected from crisply whitewashed walls; stray beams danced across the flagged floor.

Mr Jenkins, the innkeeper, a neat, rotund person of genial mien, bustled up. Harry performed the introductions, then stood patiently by while Lucinda explained her purpose. Unlike Blount, Mr Jenkins was all gratified helpfulness.

Lucinda turned to Harry. “My business with Mr Jenkins will keep me busy for at least an hour. I wouldn't for the world impose on your kindness, Mr Lester—you've already done so much. And I can hardly come to harm within the inn.”

Harry didn't blink. For her, the Arms played host to a panapoly of dangers—namely his peers. Meeting her innocent gaze with an impenetrable blandness, he waved a languid hand. “Indeed—but my horses don't run until later.”

Which comment, he noted, brought a flash to her eyes. She hesitated, then, somewhat stiffly, acquiesced, inclining her head before turning back to Mr Jenkins.

Wearing patience like a halo, Harry followed his host and his aunt's guest about the old inn, through rambling passageways and storerooms, to bedchambers and even to the garrets. They were returning down an upper corridor when a man came blundering out of a room.

Lucinda, opposite the door, started; glimpsing the man from the corner of her eye, she braced herself for a collision. Instead, she was bodily set aside; the chubby young gentleman ran full tilt into a hard shoulder. He bounced off, crumpling against the door frame.

“Ouf!” Straightening, the man blinked. “Oh—hello, Lester. Slept in, don't y'know. Can't miss the first race.” He blinked again, a puzzled frown forming in his eyes. “Thought you'd be at the track by now.”

“Later.” Harry stepped back, revealing Lucinda.

The young man blinked again. “Oh—ah, yes. Terribly sorry, ma'am—always being told I should look where I'm going. No harm done, I hope?”

Lucinda smiled at the ingenuous apology. “No—none.” Thanks to her protector.

“Good-oh! I'd best be on my way, then. See you at the track, Lester.” With an awkward bow and a cheery wave, the youthful sprig hurried off.

Harry snorted.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Lester.” Lucinda slanted him a smile. “I'm really most grateful.”

Harry took full note of the quality of her smile. Coolly, he inclined his head and waved her on in Jenkins's wake.

By the end of her tour, Lucinda was impressed. The Barbican Arms, and Mr Jenkins, were a far cry from the Green Goose and Jake Blount. The inn was spick and span throughout; she had found nothing remotely amiss. Her inspection of the books was a mere formality; Mr Mabberly had already declared the Arms a model of good finance.

She and her host spent a few minutes going over the plans for an extension to the inn. “For we're full to overflowing during race-meets and more than half full at other times.”

Lucinda gave her general approval and left the details for Mr Mabberly.

“Thank you, Mr Jenkins,” she declared, pulling on her gloves as they headed for the door. “I must tell you that, having visited all but four of the fifty-four inns owned by Babbacombe and Company, I would rank the Barbican Arms as one of the best.”

Mr Jenkins preened. “Very kind of you to say so, ma'am. We do strive to please.”

With a gracious nod, Lucinda swept out. Once in the courtyard she paused. Harry stopped beside her; she looked up at his face. “Thank you for your escort, Mr Lester—I'm really most grateful considering the other demands on your time.”

Harry was too wise to attempt an answer to that.

Lucinda's lips twitched; she looked quickly away. “Actually,” she mused, “I was considering viewing this race-meet.” She brought her eyes back to his face. “I've never been to one before.”

Harry looked down at her ingenuous expression. His eyes narrowed. “Newmarket race-track is no place for you.”

She blinked, taken aback—Harry glimpsed real disappointment in her eyes. Then she looked away. “Oh.”

The single syllable hung in the air, a potent testimony to crushed anticipation. Fleetingly, Harry closed his eyes, then opened them. “However, if you give me your word you will not stray from my side—not to admire some view, some horse or a lady's bonnet—” He looked down at her, his jaw setting. “I will engage to escort you there.”

Her smile was triumphant. “Thank you. That would be very kind.”

Not kind—foolish. It was, Harry was already convinced, the most stupid move he'd ever made. An ostler came running in answer to his curt gesture. “I'll have my curricle. You can tell Grimms to take Lady Hallows's gig back; I'll see Mrs Babbacombe home.”

“Yessir.”

Lucinda busied herself with the fit of her gloves, then meekly allowed herself to be lifted to the curricle's seat. Settling her skirts, and her quivering senses, she smiled serenely as, with a deft flick of the reins, Harry took the greys onto the street.

The race-track lay west of the town on the flat, grassy, largely tree-less heath. Harry drove directly to the stables in which his string of racers were housed, a little way from the track proper, beyond the public precincts.

Lucinda, drinking in the sights, could not miss the glances thrown their way. Stableboy and gentleman alike seemed disposed to stare; she was unexpectedly grateful when the stable walls protected her from view.

The horses were a wonder. Lifted down from the curricle, Lucinda could not resist wandering down the row of loose boxes, patting the velvet noses that came out to greet her, admiring the sleek lines and rippling muscles of what, even to her untutored eyes, had to be some of the finest horses in England.

Engaged in a brisk discussion with Hamish, Harry followed her progress, insensibly buoyed by the awed appreciation he saw in her gaze. On reaching the end of the row, she turned and saw him watching her; her nose rose an inch but she came back, strolling towards him through the sunshine.

“So all's right with entering the mare, then?”

Reluctantly, Harry shifted his gaze to Hamish's face. His head-stableman was also watching Lucinda Babbacombe, not with the appreciation she deserved but with horrified fascination. As she drew nearer, Harry extended his arm; she placed her fingertips upon it without apparent thought. “Just as long as Thistledown's fetlock's fully healed.”

“Aye.” Hamish bobbed respectfully at Lucinda. “Seems to be. I told the boy to just let her run—no point marshalling her resources if it's still weak. A good run's the only way to tell.”

Harry nodded. “I'll stop by and speak to him myself.”

Hamish nodded and effaced himself with the alacrity of a man nervous around females, at least those not equine in nature.

Suppressing a grin, Harry lifted a brow at his companion. “I thought you agreed not to be distracted by horses?”

The look she bent on him was confidently assured. “You shouldn't have brought me to see yours, then. They are truly the most distractingly beautiful specimens I've ever seen.”

Harry couldn't suppress his smile. “But you haven't seen the best of them. Those on that side are two-and three-year-olds—for my money, the older ones are more gracious. Come, I'll show you.”

She seemed only too ready to be led down the opposite row of boxes, dutifully admiring the geldings and mares. At the end of the row, a bay stallion reached confidently over the half-door to investigate Harry's pockets.

“This is old Cribb—a persistent devil. Still runs with the best of them though he could retire gracefully on his accumulated winnings.” Leaving her patting the stallion's nose, Harry went to a barrel by the wall. “Here,” he said, turning back. “Feed him these.”

Lucinda took the three dried apples he offered her, giggling as Cribb delicately lipped them from her palm.

Harry glanced up—and saw Dawlish outside the tack-room, standing stock-still, staring at him. Leaving Lucinda communing with Cribb, Harry strolled over. “What's up?”

Now that he was beside him, it was clear Dawlish was staring at his companion, not him.

“
Gawd's truth
—it's happened.”

Harry frowned. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Dawlish turned a pitying eye on him. “Ridiculous, is it? You do realize, don't you, that that's the first female you've ever shown your horses?”

Harry lifted a supercilious brow. “She's the first female ever to have shown an interest.”

“Hah! Might as well hang up your gloves, gov'nor—you're a goner.”

Harry cast his eyes heavenwards. “If you must know, she's never been to a race-meet before and was curious—there's nothing more to it than that.”

“Ah-hah. So
you
says.” Dawlish cast a long, defeated look at the slight figure by Cribb's box. “All
I
says is that you can justify it any ways you want—the conclusions still come out the same.”

With a doleful shake of his head, Dawlish retreated, muttering, back into the tack-room.

Harry wasn't sure whether to laugh or frown. He glanced back at the woman, still chatting to his favourite stallion. If it wasn't for the fact they would shortly be surrounded by crowds, he might be inclined to share his henchman's pessimism. But the race-track, in full view of the multitudes, was surely safe enough.