The twins exchanged glances—never a good sign—but then they looked at Em and dutifully nodded. “All right,” they chorused, “we’ll try them and see.”
There would be no “seeing,” but Em left that battle for later. Issy, with whom she’d spent many hours discussing the twins’ lack, nodded in quietly determined agreement.
Although they were all Colytons, all children of their father, the twins were the product of Reginald Colyton’s second marriage. While Susan, the twins’ mother, had been a lovely person, one Em, Issy, and Henry had taken to their hearts, her background hadn’t been the equivalent of theirs. That hadn’t mattered while their father had been alive, but after he died, when the twins were just two years old, the family had been separated. Harold Potheridge had been named Em’s, Issy’s, and Henry’s principal guardian, and had taken them to his home, Runcorn Manor in Leicestershire, while the twins, naturally, had remained with Susan in York.
Although Em and Issy had corresponded regularly with Susan, and her letters in reply had always been cheery, after she’d died and the twins, orphans at nine, had appeared unannounced on Harold’s doorstep, Em and Issy had learned enough from the innocent pair to realize that all had not gone as they’d thought—been led to believe—with Susan.
Certainly the marriage she’d told them of hadn’t occurred.
And the twins had received no education whatever.
Em was determined to rectify that last, and luckily the twins were Colytons—they were quick and bright and learned quite well, when they could be convinced to apply themselves.
Unfortunately, as they were also Colytons in the sense of preferring exploring to all else, getting them to concentrate on lessons wasn’t an easy task.
Em looked at Henry. He was never such a trial. He loved learning; it was his way of exploring far beyond his physical bounds. “We’ll ask around and find a tutor for you. We mustn’t let your lessons slide.”
In his serious way, Henry nodded. “I’ll still help with the inn, though. That’s only fair.”
Em acquiesced with a nod, but exchanged another glance with Issy. They would ensure Henry’s studies had first call on his time. Part of the agreement Em had long ago struck with Harold—an agreement Henry had never been privy to—was that in return for hers and Issy’s services in running his house, Harold would arrange lessons for Henry with the local vicar, who had studied at Oxford and was a keen scholar.
That was one bargain Harold had kept, knowing it would keep Em and Issy where he’d wanted them—willingly managing his house and seeing to his comforts, otherwise for free. So Henry was now well on the way to being the scholar he’d always wanted to be; he needed to start preparing for his entry to university, even though that was still some years away.
“Tell us about the treasure again.” Gert bounced up and down in one of the armchairs, sending up a cloud of dust.
Bea immediately did the same in the other, with the same result.
“If
you sit still,” Em quickly said. As the story of the family treasure was one all her siblings never tired of hearing, the twins dutifully froze, eyes trained on her. Em glanced at Issy.
Who waved her on. “We’ve plenty of time. I’ve put a pot in the oven—it’s taking care of itself.”
Issy and Henry perched on the sofa. Making a mental note to dust thoroughly before she retired that night, Em glanced around at her siblings, then commenced, “Long ago, in the days of Sir Walter Raleigh and the Spanish conquistadors, one of the Colytons—he was a buccaneer and the captain of his own ship—captured a Spanish galleon filled with treasure.”
She continued, describing the captain, his command, the voyage and the battle, concluding with the thrilling victory their ancestor had wrought. “As his share of the spoils, he brought home a chest brimming with gold and jewels. His wife, keeping house here in Colyton, pointed out that the family was already wealthy enough—she knew that if her husband and his brothers, adventurers all, as all Colytons are, kept the treasure, it would be frittered away on more ships and wild ventures. Instead, she suggested that most of the treasure be hidden in a place only Colytons could find, against the need of future generations who found themselves in difficulties. The intention was to keep the Colyton name alive, and the family financially secure, and with
that
all the Colyton men heartily agreed.”
Pausing, Em smiled at the four rapt faces before her. “So the treasure was hidden in the village, and the location passed down in a rhyme from mother to child, and especially to the first son’s wife, and so on down the generations.”
“To us!” Gert beamed.
Em nodded. “Yes, to us. We’re the last Colytons, and we need the treasure, and that’s why we’re here, back in Colyton village.”
“‘The treasure of the Colytons resides in Colyton
,’” Henry intoned, repeating the rhyme they all knew by heart.
“‘In the highest house, the house of the highest, at the lowest level
,’” Issy continued.
“‘It lies in a box made for the purpose—one only a Colyton would open.
’” Em completed the directions to the twins’ delight.
“So now we’re here,” Bea stated, “and we’re going to find the treasure.”
“Indeed.” Em stood. “But first we’re going to have dinner, and then tomorrow we’ll arrange for Henry’s lessons, and you two will start your lessons with Issy while I start to get this inn in order.” Catching a hand of each, she drew the twins up from the chairs and herded them toward the door. “Now we’re here, now we have a place to stay—one we can be comfortable in for months—and we all have things to do, then it’s better we keep our search private, and only search in our spare time. Now we’re here, there’s no need to rush.”
“So we’ll keep the treasure a secret,” Gert said.
“And in between other things, we’ll
quietly
look.” Em stopped her half sisters at the door and looked into their bright eyes. “I want you to promise me you won’t go searching for the treasure—not even
quietly
—without telling me first.”
She waited, too wise to demand they leave all the searching to her.
Gert and Bea smiled identical smiles. “We promise,” they chorused.
“Good.” Em let them go. They clattered down the stairs as she turned to Issy. “Now all we need do is feed them and get them off to bed.”
B
y eight o’clock that evening, Em was satisfied that the twins, Henry, and Issy were comfortable and settled in their rooms, and that she’d removed sufficient dust from her own rooms to later allow a restful slumber.
After making up her bed with fresh linens, she left her rooms; she’d warned Edgar that she’d be down to assess the inn’s patrons, to learn what type of clientele they presently had the better to decide what sort of snacks and meals would best suit.
Quietly descending the main stairs, she paused halfway down the last flight, using the vantage point to swiftly scan the common room, noting the smattering of men propped along the bar, and the two pairs of older men sitting at tables about the tap’s empty hearth.
The weather had been mild, but a fire would, she thought, add to the ambience. Continuing down the stairs, she added firewood to her mental list.
Stepping off the last stair, she was aware of the surreptitious attention of the inn’s patrons, although none met her eye as she glanced around. They would, doubtless, have heard of her new appointment; sensing interest and expectation in their gazes, she flicked her shawl more definitely about her shoulders, then turned and went into the kitchen.
Circling through the empty kitchen, she stepped into the short hallway that lay between the end of Edgar’s bar and the tiny innkeeper’s office. She’d already investigated the office; other than a collection of aging receipts, she’d uncovered no records of any sort, no ledgers or accounts—nothing to identify the suppliers of goods Juggs had presumably dealt with.
How the inn had been run in the past was shrouded in mystery, but lifting the veil was a task she’d consigned to the following day. For tonight, she’d be content with getting some notion of the inn’s current patrons.
Pausing before the office door, screened by the heavy shadows in the hall, she again scanned the drinkers, mentally creating lists of foods such men would pay for, and mulling over how many were married, specifically to women who might be tempted to patronize a clean and well-tended inn.
She duly added a large jar of beeswax, preferably scented with lemon or lavender, to her list.
She was studying one of the seated pairs when she sensed a large presence behind her—simultaneously felt a peculiar tingle slither down her spine.
“Hector Crabbe. He lives in a little cottage just south of the village.”
She recognized the deep voice instantly, even though it was seductively lowered to whisper past her ear. Sheer pride had her folding her arms tightly beneath her breasts, all but physically holding back the impulse to whirl around. She fought to keep her voice light. “Which one is Crabbe?”
An instant’s silence followed—no doubt while he waited for her to acknowledge his presence more appropriately. When she moved not a muscle, he replied, “The one with the beard.”
“Is he married?”
“I believe so.” She could almost hear him debating before he asked, “Why do you want to know?”
“Because,” she said, finally driven by some benighted compulsion to cast a glance over her shoulder, “I was wondering if I might tempt Mrs. Crabbe and others like her to come to the inn on occasion, to use the common room as their communal gathering place, so to speak.”
She turned back to the common room, fighting to ignore the sudden thudding of her pulse. His eyes at close quarters, even in the dimness, were so rich, their depths so alluring. “Do you happen to know where the women presently gather to chat?”
This time when he answered, she sensed arrested interest in his voice. “I don’t know that they do.”
She smiled, once again glancing up over her shoulder. “All the better for us, then.”
Jonas met her eyes, felt again the power of her devastating smile.
He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved when, after briefly holding his gaze, she turned back to the room.
“Who’s the man Crabbe’s speaking with?”
He told her. She progressed through the inn’s customers, asking him to supply names, directions, and marital status for each. He could, and did, somewhat taken aback—faintly perturbed—that she could so easily not dismiss but brush aside the attraction between them. He might have wondered if she’d even felt it if he hadn’t detected that initial breathlessness. Hadn’t noticed how tightly she was clutching her elbows, as if holding on to them would anchor her.
He could appreciate the impulse; standing so close to her, close enough, in the dim shadows, to breathe in the scent that rose from her skin, from her gleaming hair, he felt a trifle giddy himself.
Which was…unusual. He’d never met a woman, let alone a lady, who so effortlessly drew him, who so easily captured his interest and held it.
And effortlessly was the appropriate word. He was perfectly aware that she hadn’t intended to, still didn’t intend to, affect him at all.
To attract him.
Heaven knew she was currently doing her damnedest to do anything but encourage him.
A pity that he was…even more stubborn than he sensed she was.
Their survey of the inn’s current patrons completed, she half turned, in the gloom cast a swift glance up at his face. “I looked in the office, but couldn’t find the inn’s accounts. No records of any kind, in fact. Do you have them?”
He didn’t immediately reply. His brain didn’t immediately take in the question, too busy considering the scintillating possibilities of their current position. The hall was short, narrow, and relatively dark. He’d been standing quite close behind her. Now she’d turned…the top of her head barely reached his collarbone. To look into his face, she had to tilt her head back and look up…all the while standing so close that if he took a deep breath his coat would brush her breasts.
He looked into her eyes, even in the dimness saw her battle the urge to take a large step back—but he’d been right in thinking her stubborn. She all but swayed with the impulse to put distance between them, but held her ground.
The moment stretched, stretched—was on the verge of growing awkward when he capitulated, took a step back, and smoothly waved her into the office.
She went past him a touch quickly, crossing the tiny room to slip behind the desk, leaving its scarred expanse between them. She didn’t sit, but looked up at him as he filled the doorway.
When he said nothing, simply stood there, watching her, a faint frown formed in her eyes.
He remembered her question. Propping one shoulder against the door frame, he answered, “There are no accounts or records—at least not for the last decade. Juggs didn’t believe in writing anything down.”
Her frown materialized. “How did he keep track of the profits, then?”
“He didn’t. The arrangement he had with my father was a fixed rent per month, and he paid that, and kept whatever excess profit he made.” He hesitated, then admitted, “In retrospect that wasn’t the wisest arrangement to have made. Juggs didn’t really care if the inn was successful or not, just as long as he made enough to meet the rent.” He smiled. “The deal you and I struck was distinctly more sensible.”
She uttered a small humph and deigned to sit, subsiding into the rickety chair behind the desk. Her gaze grew abstracted.
He watched her pretend to ignore him, but she knew very well he was there.
“Supplies,” she eventually said. She looked up at him. “Is there somewhere the inn has an account?”
“There’s a merchant in Seaton the estate uses for all supplies. You should deal with him on the Grange account.”
She nodded, then opened the desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil. She set the paper on the desk, held the pencil poised. “I intend to concentrate on building up the inn’s culinary offerings first. Once people have reason to think of eating here, we’re more likely to see them become regular customers.” She made several notes, then paused, making a show of reading over what she’d written. “I believe,” she said without looking up, “that we can make the inn the communal center for the village, not just for those who want a pint at the end of the day, but all through the day—a place where the women can come to chat over a pot of tea, and couples can stop in for a meal. All of which will greatly improve the inn’s income, and thus its profits. As for the accommodation, I’ll see to improving the rooms and amenities once we have something better—something more than just beer and ale—to offer paying guests.”
She’d been steadily scribbling, making a list as she spoke. Now she looked up at him, faint but definite challenge in her eyes. “Does that meet with your approval, Mr. Tallent?”
Jonas
, he wanted to say. He looked into her bright eyes, knew her challenge had a broader scope than just the inn.
But he hadn’t missed her use of the royal “we.” Whether she’d intended it or not, the word had reminded him that he needed her there, as the innkeeper of the Red Bells—that if he wanted her to remain and take the inn in hand, something he was increasingly confident she could in fact do, then he couldn’t afford to rattle her to the extent she decided to leave.
She was defensive rather than skittish, putting up barriers, refusing to acknowledge the attraction between them.
He could break through her barriers easily enough; all he had to do was take one step further into the room, shut the door, and…but now was not the time to risk such a move. Quite aside from running the inn, he didn’t yet know what had brought her there, brought her to this—to being his innkeeper. Until he did…
Straightening from the doorjamb, he inclined his head. “Indeed, Miss Beauregard. Your plan sounds…eminently practical.” Lips curving, he swept her a bow. “I’ll leave you to it. Good night, Miss Beauregard.”
She inclined her head regally. “Good night, Mr. Tallent.”
Without glancing back, he turned and left the office.