Page 25 of Lyon on the Lam (The Lyon’s Den)

He found Will in his usual corner, close enough to see the grain and judge the quality, yet hidden in the shadows to hear what passed for gossip.

“You look like death’s breakfast,” Will mumbled around a mouthful of pastry. Flakes dotted the front of his coat, and dark smudges beneath his eyes hinted he’d had a late night as well.

“So do you.” Hopefully, he had spent the night doing something more entertaining than plotting revenge. He was a newlywed, after all.

“Matthew—”

“In all the commotion since our return, I forgot to tell you that I’ve come to a decision about the Millers’ farm.”

Will grinned. “You liked it, then?”

“It’s a fine property, it’s been managed well, and the repair of the mill will add to the profit.”

“I’ll draw up the contract.” Will flicked bits of pastry from one lapel. “And I’ll advertise for a manager. But Matthew—”

“No need. I hired one while I was there.” Matthew checked to make sure no one was listening. They might consider him mad. Will might as well. “Mrs. Miller.”

His man of business blinked for a moment and then nodded. “It’s a logical decision. She’s done very well with the property since her husband’s death.” His second nod was more decisive. “Very wise.”

“It was Tavie’s idea,” Matthew confessed. “She didn’t want to see them evicted.” And neither had he.

“Very bright, your Tavie.” Will pulled him out of the path and away from prying ears. “Which brings me to her figures.”

“What did you find?”

“The deposits all matched market dates. They’re for sales of grain.” But the gleam in his eye hinted that there was more to it than trade.

Matthew was usually keen to humor Will’s sense of drama. Today he was too tired, and too worried, to bandy about words. “Out with it, man.”

“Very well.” Will sighed. “We were right, mostly. The sales are short based on the prices for those days.” He tapped the notebook that he carried every day. “If he sold the number of bushels he indicated, he sold them for much less than the prevailing rate.”

Albert had never grown anything that he could sell. His profits were based on his connections as a broker and negotiator. Landholders and gentleman farmers paid him well for his services.

Men like Rupert Fowler, who had bargained away his daughter’s life in exchange for those connections, seeing only figures and not questioning the source.

“He sold it here and then delivered it to France?”

Will nodded. “Tavie noted his dates of travel next to each deposit. He went to Abbeville after each sale. He likely brokered it with an agent to keep the money in pounds.”

So Albert had noted the sales to keep his family and their man of business from growing suspicious, counting on them not to check prices. And they hadn’t. Just like they hadn’t wondered—or cared—why he was spending so much time across the channel.

“For all the world, it looks like he’s selling grain to France at a discounted rate, and Boney is using it to feed his new army,” Will whispered, a gleam in his eye. “It’s not spy craft, but I can’t imagine the prime minister overlooking it.”

Albert had given Napoleon a way to feed his army. He’d made Tavie’s father, and any of his other suppliers, party to treason.

Despite everything, Matthew had always liked Rupert. However, he couldn’t help but wonder if the man didn’t deserve a bit of bad luck.

Someone bumped into Matthew, jarring his shoulder. He checked his surroundings while ensuring his purse was still safely in his pocket. A few curious traders stared back.

One of them was Tavie’s father. Today he was dressed in a well-tailored suit, and his gold watch chain caught the midmorning sun. His shoes were polished to a high sheen, and even his hat was perfectly brushed. He was also standing alone.

Matthew couldn’t help but remember him in his shirt sleeves, covered in sweat, a scythe in his hand as he worked his fields alongside his men. His reddened cheeks were always dented by a smile.

As they were now as he crossed the room.

Rupert may have earned his fate, but he didn’t deserve to have his life be the subject of gossip any more than it already was. He didn’t need to hear about Albert from anyone else.

Matthew ignored Will’s sharp inhale and stepped to the middle of the floor. “It’s good to see you, Rupert.” His eyes were the same green as Tavie’s.

“And you, Matthew. And you.” He clapped Matthew on the shoulder. “Have you heard the news? My daughter has returned to London. She stopped by yesterday to reassure her mother that she was well.”

Dorinda had likely used the visit to send the gossip in a new direction. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“She was quite concerned, as you might imagine. Especially given the mess about Albert.”

The mess ? It was a bloody disaster.

“Mother told me when I returned to town.” Matthew realized a moment too late what those words could imply. “I was home in Suffolk, scouting new fields.”

“Are there any left to have?” Rupert asked.

Matthew could like the man but still consider him competition. He gave Rupert the smile he saved for business. “Here and there, if you look hard.”

Whispers began at the door and spread backward, men bending their heads together to hear their companions’ words. It reminded Matthew of wind through a wheat field.

Albert parted the meager crowd like a plow, nodding to each man as though he were a king rather than only a baron.

“Stay calm, Matthew.” Will’s whisper echoed Matthew’s own thoughts. It would do no good to lose his temper.

“Baron Burridge. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Though Rupert’s words were pleasant, Matthew thought his expression more of a mask.

Perhaps that was wishful thinking.

“I had business to attend to nearby.” Albert’s blue eyes narrowed only slightly, but enough for Matthew to realize he hadn’t imagined the tension. “How is Dorinda?”

“Fine. Fine.” Rupert rocked back on his heels, forward to his toes, and back again. “She’s relieved to have Tavie back in London. We both are.”

“As am I.” Albert’s gaze flicked to Matthew, icy blue like a cold ocean. Then he looked back to Rupert. “Have you seen her?”

“No, no. Not yet. She visited while I was at the club.”

The chilling stare hit Matthew again. “She’s not returning home?”

Matthew put his hand behind his back to hide his fist. She was home if he had anything to say about it.

“She came for clothes,” Rupert said. He was no longer jovial.

“She has clothes in her wardrobe in Mayfair. Dorinda should have sent her there.”

“I think you can understand why she might not wish to do that.” Now Rupert’s hand was a fist at his side.

“She is my wife.” Albert stepped toward the older man. Younger, broader, fitter—he would embarrass Rupert in front of his business associates and then make him a traitor. And then, to add insult to injury, he would kill his only daughter.

The daughter who had ridden on the oxen when Rupert plowed his own fields.

Matthew stepped between them. “How many do you have, exactly?”

“And why is it your business, Foster?” Albert sneered. “She’s nothing to—”

Matthew didn’t decide to swing—he wasn’t even aware he’d done it until his knuckles cracked against Albert’s jaw, and his other landed on the baron’s nose. Blood ran down the man’s chin and neck, threatening to stain his cravat.

“Because they took her from me and gave her to you, you worthless arse.”

The crowd surrounding them stood with their mouths open. Albert was too busy trying to right himself to speak, and Rupert was doing nothing to help him.

He might have been smiling.