Page 30 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Nose punching might be required, but Brydie had learned simpler tactics over the years. A young viscount wasn’t any more impressive than any other man who lacked respect for her person. And she was here to investigate, which gave her largess to act as needed.

After Henri performed the introductions, she smiled at the room past the viscount’s shoulder. “And who are your companions, my lord? Shouldn’t I be allowed introductions to all the interesting gentlemen?”

“I am far more interesting than they are. Shall we stroll around the room so I may prove my worth?”

He really was as shallow as Lavender had warned.

A viscount, imagine that. Perhaps there was more to him than he wished the world to see, but she could find that out right here.

“Decidedly not,” she told him. “I am a mere farmer’s daughter with no interest in titled gentlemen.

Who are your companions? Are you all related to the late earl? ”

Ignored by the suave gentleman, Henri and Patience stood guard in amusement.

“Both younger sons,” Chatham said dismissively. “You may forget them. We are here for the hunting and fishing. His Grace recommended us, said we might learn something. So far, we have learned the brandy is excellent and the unattached ladies are few.”

“Village life tends to be boring,” Henri said with false sympathy. “Everyone working to put food on the table. . .”

Displeased, the viscount dismissed the taunt. “Servants put food on the table.”

Apparently bored of each other’s company, the other two Town gentlemen approached. The viscount was forced to make introductions. They ogled too. Brydie considered going fishing. The river was swift this time of year. Did gentlemen swim?

“Lord Chatham was telling us servants put food on the table,” she told the thin-faced, rather mean-looking one called Watson.

He had a sharp nose. Could that be described as Roman?

“Our local baker died recently, so the rest of us are having difficulty putting bread on the table. Do you like toast with your morning tea?”

Patience uttered a muffled choke that might be laughter or a warning. Brydie didn’t care.

“Find a new baker,” Mr. Watson said callously. “The city is full of them.”

“But this is not a city. Villages have only one bakery and the locals rely on it for their bread. Can you imagine going off to work with no breakfast? And no sandwich to tide one over at noon?” Brydie hid her spite with a smile. “Or can you even imagine going off to work?”

The one introduced as Shaw sputtered. Shorter and sturdier than his companions, his russet hair less fashionably styled, he appeared on the verge of apoplexy. “I cannot think this a proper discussion. I understand the poor woman murdered in her bed was not the sort a lady should even acknowledge.”

“And that should not be mentioned now,” Henri cut him off curtly. “If any of you are from around here, you should appreciate that every village has a bakery. Most people do not have ovens. We are all in mourning.”

“Are you from around here?” Patience asked sweetly, re-directing the topic.

Having taken a dislike to the privileged trio, Brydie would have preferred to hammer toes and knuckles.

“London, Stratford, and all parts in between.” Watson bowed. “Can you not send to Birmingham for a baker?”

“The bakery belongs to a family in the Americas. We’re not likely to hear from them for weeks.

Or even if we did, Birmingham is currently inaccessible, and it would be impossible to find a baker there.

” Brydie could tell she was making no progress on the investigation, but these simpletons increased her confidence. “The bridge is out.”

The viscount blinked in surprise and looked concerned. “The bridge is out? We cannot go up with Villiers to his estate when we leave here?”

“You’ll have to return to Stratford and take the toll road,” Patience explained.

But that’s when Brydie realized— Hadn’t Rafe said the dead nanny had enough coins to take the toll road to the city?

He’d assumed she’d taken the cut through between the toll road and the highway to save the coins for herself.

Was this, perhaps, not all about Willa, but about greed and ignorance?

Should they be searching Birmingham for the children’s family?

But the highway also went south and Gravesyde would have been a less expensive route. . . to Bath.

The butler announced dinner was served. As Damien arrived to escort her, Brydie leaned past him to the young gentlemen. “Do any of you come from Bath?”

The shorter, russet-haired gentleman shrugged while eyeing Damien warily. “Chatham’s family has a place in Bath, but they generally reside in London.”

Chatham, the suave viscount. Viscounts had money and estates and wouldn’t lower themselves to stealing from a parsonage or killing nannies. But perhaps he had a servant. . .

“What was that about?” Damien murmured as the young men fled his glower.

“The Birmingham highway also runs south to Bath, does it not?” she asked, fretting her bottom lip. She was better at action than puzzle piecing.

“Eventually, not directly, why?”

“What if. . .” She closed her eyes but couldn’t work it out in her head. She needed to talk it through. “What if the nanny, or Mr. Elton’s sister, or whoever the cart driver was. . . meant only to spend the night with Willa. What if she knew about family in Bath and meant to take them there?”

“And someone killed her to prevent that? And killed Willa for the same reason? It doesn’t change much, does it?”

“I suppose not,” she said slowly, still thinking. “Only, whoever may have sent her down this road must not have known the bridge was closed.”

“And given that letter Willa received, whoever waits on the other end evidently has no idea why the children have been delayed. Even the post must go the long way around, so that letter she received could have been written before we found the children. And if anyone is actually looking for them, it will take a while before they come searching. That does not put us any closer to discovering a villain.”

Brydie sighed. “I suppose, it’s just nice to believe they have decent family somewhere. It would relieve Verity’s mind.”

In the enormous dining room, with places set for a veritable army, Damien hesitated at the place holder for Brydie, then checked the names of her companions.

“Does the killer know that the children did not arrive?” She glanced at the cards too. Mean-faced Mr. Watson and smarmy Viscount Chatham, ugh. “Our trio of young guests came from London, but they are familiar with Stratford and Bath and did not know the bridge was closed.”

Damien appeared puzzled. “You do not think our London fellows are killers?”

Brydie glanced down the glittering, candlelit table at the fashionably elegant guests milling about, conversing civilly.

“If we assume Willa’s death wasn’t a crime of passion, that her killer was a rough criminal sort like Parsons or Elton, doesn’t it seem sensible that they did it for money?

Except she had little and none seemed to be missing.

And if we believe the opium was intended to kill, the nanny and children had nothing any more valuable than a few coins, which the killer did not take.

In which case, isn’t it more likely their killer was paid to remove them? ”

Damien stared at her, considering the implications with obvious dismay.

Which was when Brydie murmured the fear that had bothered her all evening. “What if the person who hired the killer wasn’t local and has just learned that the children are still alive?”

Damien had already deduced the answer. “Then if that killer is still here, he might be rather desperate to finish his task if he wishes to be paid.”