Page 34 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Thirty

Verity

Having just taken everyone’s advice to go to bed, Verity had removed her wrapper when the unholy clatter startled Wolfie into howling.

Her first instinct was to shove the bed across the door as she’d planned, but anyone of size could shove that meager cot. The bed’s placement had only ever been meant to wake her up if someone tried.

Hastily donning her robe, she lit her lamp again. She found Rafe’s knife on the trunk she used as table, and clutching the key given to her earlier, slipped into the hall. She fastened the lock and placed the key into the pocket of her robe.

Mr. Birdwhistle popped out of his door, tugging on a rather rich-looking velvet banyan while trying to hold his lamp. Obedient Wolfie remained where placed, howling, probably in frustration.

The jangling had halted. No one lurked in the corridor. Verity whistled, calling the dog to her. “Guard, Wolf,” she ordered, posting the animal between the two bedrooms.

At Rafe’s shout, she hurried toward the storage area, heart thumping. And then she remembered—she was leaving the children protected by a dog.

Torn, she stopped abruptly. Nearly crashing into her, Mr. Birdwhistle staggered and grabbed a wall to prevent collision.

Alarmed at a new rattle of bells, she glanced behind them.

Relief flooded her as Brydie and Minerva raced down the hall in their evening attire.

Mr. Birdwhistle lingered, as well, torn between his charges and whatever was happening deeper in the enormous storage area.

“Give us the knife,” Brydie demanded, holding out her hand. “We’ll stand guard.”

Minerva seized the stick the tutor held and gestured with it. “Find Rafe. We won’t let anyone near the children without raising the dead.”

“You’ll have more difficulty keeping the boys in,” Birdwhistle said dryly, but he stood guard at the attic entrance with Verity. “They’re armed and creative.”

Verity didn’t linger for pleasantries while hearing Rafe’s shouts and what sounded like an almighty battle.

In her slippers, she opened the door into the storage attics.

She held up her hand to the tutor and pointed at the marble bust in the rocking chair on top of the three-legged washstand. One jostle and they’d be beaned.

He lifted his lamp high and she held hers low so they could find all the traps the boys had set. She triggered one by pushing aside what appeared to be a drapery with her foot. She should have known better. She jumped backwards as a broken dress form toppled in their path.

The noise at the far end disintegrated into shouting and cursing with the occasional thud and crash. Rafe sounded more angry than hurt but that meant little.

Swallowing huge lumps of fear, she stuck to the torturous path the boys had carved through centuries of detritus.

Most of the good furniture had been removed.

The rest of this jumble probably ought to be tossed.

Except, for all anyone knew, the eccentric earl had hidden more treasure maps in three centuries of rubbish.

An excess of caution prevented wholesale burning.

Opening a door into a second attic that might once have been servants’ quarters, Mr. Birdwhistle caught an oar swinging at their heads. Their lamps cast shadows on the interior and it took a moment to make out figures.

“Thank goodness,” Rafe said in disgust. “I thought I’d kill myself trying to drag this scoundrel into the light. He kicked my lamp and I had to stomp out flames. We need someone to clean up the oil.”

Verity nearly wept in relief at her innkeeper husband’s pragmatism. He hadn’t been getting killed. He’d been cleaning up, in the dark, in a maze of boyish snares.

Mr. Birdwhistle set his lamp on a wall shelf that might once have held a candle. The light shone on a large man bound and trussed in unraveling drapery roping. Her husband could capture intruders and truss them in the dark—a man of many talents.

Rafe crossed the room in two strides, sweeping Verity up and pressing kisses on her head. “I’m fine. The children?”

Clinging to his neck, she hadn’t realized she was weeping. She sniffed and tried to wipe her eyes. “Probably not sleeping anymore but Minerva and Brydie are with them.”

She wiggled so he’d put her down, then ran her hands over his face and arms, checking for blood.

She still had a clear memory of the time he’d come home with his arm running red.

Only after verifying that he was whole did she let him hold her again.

She’d spent half a lifetime without hugs and couldn’t ever have enough of his now.

“I’ve seen this chap in the kitchen,” Mr. Birdwhistle declared. “Valet, I believe?”

Verity glanced down at the angry man twisting against his ties. “Long nose, fat lips, that’s the one claimed he was hunting for a trunk.”

Rafe set her aside to haul his captive to his feet. The servant wasn’t small but Rafe had no difficulty shoving him toward the maze leading to the schoolroom attic. “I’ll haul him down to Hunt. He’s been warned to stay out of here.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” the culprit claimed. “You can’t arrest me for being lost.”

“Sure we can,” Rafe said with assurance. “We can arrest you for anything that makes us happy. You can plead your case before a judge.”

Apparently understanding the truth of that, he shut up.

Minerva and Brydie looked relieved when they approached, not because the intruder had been caught, but because Arthur could only hold two of the three boys at once.

Brydie had her younger nephew by the back of his nightshirt, which he was trying to wriggle out of.

Thank goodness Arthur had offered to stay tonight to help the tutor.

“We want to see how the traps worked,” Rob cried at sight of them. “Did we catch him?”

Verity noted the tutor’s students mostly stayed quiet but, imitating their older companion, they were also attempting to wriggle their arms out of their shirts.

She almost managed a grin, but she needed to see the orphans.

Unlocking the door and hurrying to the back room, she found them sound asleep, with the kitten prowling restlessly.

The events of this last week had overwhelmed the poor tykes.

Gently closing the door so as not to disturb them, she returned to the hall where everyone argued at once. Verity rapped her knuckles on Rob’s head to shut up the most vocal and gestured for silence from the adults. “Who is he?” she demanded. “Stand up, sir, give us your name.”

Hiding a smirk, Brydie lowered her nephew to his feet but kept her hold on him.

Minerva raised an icy eyebrow when the man refused to reply, even after Rafe shook him by his coat collar. “I was told his name is John, although the others call him Sean. He’s Lord Chatham’s valet.”

“Manservant, he calls me,” John muttered. “I ain’t. . . I’m not trained.”

“Evidently. I suggest you tell us the real reason you are in the attic, where you have been expressly forbidden to go.” Verity crossed her arms and used her best schoolteacher voice.

The manservant shifted uneasily beneath Rafe’s rough hold. “It’d cost me my position,” he complained. “I was promised I’d be raised up to a proper valet if I did as told.”

“And what were you told?” Minerva asked, looking sweetly innocent in her simple dinner gown, with her pale hair pinned up. In this light, with her petite size, the curate’s wife barely looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom.

John glanced uneasily at her, then at the angry crowd, and shook his head in defeat.

Instead of rattling his prisoner’s bones, Rafe released the prisoner to Verity and friends. “If you were only doing as your employer told you, you can’t be arrested.”

Verity thought that might be a lie, but it produced a result.

“Not Lord Chatham.” John shook his head vehemently. “His solicitor.”