Page 8 of Hastings (Brothers in Arms #15)
CHAPTER 8
A s soon as they stopped in front of the door to the little parsonage— quaint, like the village —the front door opened, and another man came out. This must be the parson. Tall, but not too tall, solid, with strawberry-blond hair blowing in the slight breeze, ruddy cheeks, freckles, and a large smile on his handsome face. Just the way Maddy liked them. Nothing had ever harmed this one.
Homespun . Maddy liked that word. It suited him perfectly. He was exactly as Sir Barnabas had described. Now, if he could only be as clueless as Sir Barnabas had indicated, it would all be too perfect.
The parson turned to watch Mr. Hastings walking up to the door. His smile became one of welcome rather than inquiry, the difference subtle but obvious to Maddy. Before the two could greet each other, Essie threw open the door and vaulted from the coach, swinging down with one hand on the door frame.
“And who have we here?” the parson called out in a friendly voice. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said with a little bow of his head. There was no shock or disapproval in his tone at Essie’s appearance. He spared a glance for Maddy, where she still sat in the coach, observing him. His smile encompassed her, urging her out into the open.
“That’s Essie,” Mr. Hastings said, waving a hand at Maddy’s traveling companion. “Don’t know who that is in the coach. They won’t tell me.” He stopped next to the parson and faced the coach, his arms crossed. They were exact opposites, one light, the other dark, one gloomy, the other genial and open. Yet, somehow, they seemed to present a united front against her.
Essie stuck her hand out to the parson and he shook it. “Reverend Mr. Stephen Matthews,” he said by way of introduction. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Hastings has mentioned your name in passing.”
“Did he?” Essie said suspiciously. “All lies, most likely.”
“I have?” Mr. Hastings asked, frowning at the parson.
“It was all positive,” he assured Essie. He turned to Mr. Hastings. “When you were drunk,” the parson said, no censure in his voice.
“Ah,” Mr. Hastings said. “That explains it.”
Maddy chuckled at their word play and the parson’s gaze found her in the gloom of the coach. He looked sharp as a nail, despite Sir Barnabas’s belief to the contrary. That was trouble.
“Come out,” he urged her, beckoning with one hand as if she were a shy kitten. “We won’t bite.”
“Speak for yourself,” Mr. Hastings said, and then he growled and snapped at her like a dog. That made her smooth her hair up under her bonnet and move to the door.
“I’m afraid I’m not as adept as Essie at getting out of the coach without a step,” she said, sticking her head out the door with a self-deprecating smile that took all her meager acting skills to produce.
“Jump,” Mr. Hastings suggested.
“Hastings,” the parson admonished, scandalized. “Of course, ma’am,” he told her. He grabbed a stool from beside the door, set it down in front of the coach and held his hand out to her. “May I assist?” he asked politely.
Maddy put her hand in his and descended from the coach. “Thank you,” she said demurely.
“I am the Reverend Mr. Stephen Matthews,” he said with a bow after he helped her down. “The parson here.” He looked at her inquiringly.
“I have been sent by Sir Barnabas James,” Maddy whispered to him, looking around furtively. There didn’t seem to be anyone close enough to hear other than the coachman, and he was an agent according to Essie. And Mr. Hastings, of course, but he was the sheriff and an agent, after all.
“Have you?” Stephen said, his smile intact. “That seems more like Hastings’s department than mine.” He turned to the other man. “Do you know what it’s about? It’s all very mysterious, I’m sure.”
“That usually means he’s got some ulterior motive at work,” Hastings said. “And we won’t know what it is until it’s too late to avoid his scheming.”
“Invite us in and I’ll tell you all about it,” Essie said. “Oy, you,” she said to the coachman, who turned and glared at her. “Play footman and get our bags, eh?”
Maddy watched the parson bite his lip to hide a smile at the exchange. The coachman got down and stomped to the back of the coach.
“Yes, yes,” the parson said, “come in, won’t you?” He ushered them to the door and called out, “Mrs. Tulane, we’ve guests. Might we have a spot of tea, please?”
Hastings watched the strange woman glide into the parsonage on Stephen’s arm and he wanted to snatch her away from him and lock the door against her. Every instinct he possessed was telling him she was bringing trouble, and he didn’t want Stephen caught up in the middle of it. Damn Sir Barnabas and his mysterious, conniving ways.
He’d just learned the business of this sheriffing. It was the easiest job he’d ever had and didn’t require him to kill anyone. Not yet, at least. Good food, a nice roof over his head, excellent company—of course it was too good to be true. His old life had to reappear at some point, he supposed. He just wished he’d had more warning.
He watched Essie taking the parsonage in. After a thorough inspection of the cozy rooms and Stephen, she turned to Hastings with a confused, questioning look on her face. She reminded Hastings so much of himself when Sir Barnabas had first brought him into the fold. Very rough around the edges, even more so than he was now, and unable to comprehend a life outside of London. Hell, he hadn’t been able to comprehend it a month ago. But London seemed long ago and far away.
Mrs. Tulane bustled in with the tea tray, a plate of cakes enticing him farther into the room. She left, but Hastings knew she was lurking in the hallway just outside the door, her curiosity piqued. Mrs. Tulane loved a good piece of gossip. He closed the door before he moved to sit beside Stephen. It was probably safer if she didn’t know their business in here.
The stranger had taken a chair opposite them, while Essie remained standing in the far corner, where she could see the whole room, the exit and the windows. He didn’t bother telling her there was no reason. No one in Ashton on the Green was going to try to break in here. But he didn’t know what their business was or what danger this woman might represent. Maybe he should be more on guard, as well. He hadn’t worried about taking a seat with his back to the door since he’d arrived here. Now, the back of his neck was tingling in warning. He pushed the ridiculous fears aside and reached for a cake.
“Shall I play mother?” the stranger asked, causing him to freeze in midmotion.
“Please,” Stephen replied politely. He looked pointedly at Hastings’s arm, and the devil inside made him grab the cake from the plate despite Stephen’s obvious signal.
“We don’t stand on ceremony here,” he said. Then he took a bite while she tipped her head to the side to observe him, like a specimen.
“So I see,” she murmured. She reached for a cup and saucer with one hand and the teapot with the other. “Tea?” she asked Stephen. She sounded like the damned duchess. Looked like her, too, in that flouncy confection of a pink dress, her dark blonde hair tucked up in some complicated knot at the back of her head. Her full bottom lip was made for temptation. She was far too beautiful and that usually meant trouble for everyone involved.
“Yes, please,” Stephen answered.
“Sugar and milk?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Stephen said again.
“This is painful,” Hastings said in a burst of nervous energy. He stood abruptly and confronted her. “Who are you? Why are you here? What have you to do with Sir Barnabas? What does any of it have to do with us?”
“Easy there,” Essie told him, standing to attention as she watched him—as if he were the danger in the room.
“I don’t like being kept in the dark,” Hastings told her. “First, he tells me to cool my heels here in the country with no further explanation, and then he sends you two, without advance warning. What happened to your arm?”
“Completely different case,” Essie told him, waving her hand negligently.
“She told me a bloke stabbed her in the arm and broke her fingers before she slit his throat,” the other woman said calmly before she handed Stephen his cup. Her use of cant and lack of distress as she imparted that information had Hastings reassessing how much of a lady she was.
The cup rattled at Stephen’s start of alarm. “Good heavens,” he murmured. “Did you really?”
Essie got a mulish look on her face. “’e deserved it,” she claimed. “And that’s what Sir B sent me there for.” She pointed at Hastings. “’e was ‘ere, so somebody ‘ad to do it.”
Hastings couldn’t stop the laughter that burst out of him at the silly name she used for Sir Barnabas. “You call him that to his face?” he asked.
“What do you mean, ‘he was here’?” Stephen asked frowning. He turned to Hastings. “Is that the sort of thing he makes you do?”
Hastings shrugged. “That’s my job.”
Stephen sighed deeply as he sat up straight with a fierce frown and put his cup on the table in front of him. “Well, that is not your job anymore. Now you are sheriff. Here.”
“That’s temporary,” Hastings told him, his gut churning. “You all knew I had another job.”
“Yes, well, you do work for Sir Barnabas,” the stranger said. “If what he said about you is true, I understand why he sent me here. I wondered how he expected a parson to protect me, or even a rustic sheriff, but you’ll do.” She took a sip of her tea.
“Protect you from what?” Hastings asked, glad to finally be getting to the heart of the matter.
“My father,” she said, setting her cup down. She didn’t look at either him or Stephen. “He and his gang are trying to kill me.”