Page 30 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
THIRTY: RAFE
A ghost, damn . Rafe had never been a dupe for women—well, maybe the first time or two they’d sobbed until he gave them money and they’d disappeared. But whoever in hell the woman was in his lobby wasn’t... lost and forlorn any more, but scared and just a wee bit angry. That clenched jaw looked good on whoever in hell she was, as if she’d take a battleax to his head but politely refrained.
This was no delicate lady playing on his sympathies.
He’d lived with her this past week. She hadn’t taken his money or beat him with her cane for his presumptuousness. The fool woman had tried to make him comfortable, even attempted to mend him— She was furious with him for taking her books and still tried to stop him from hurting his arm! She’d been nothing but helpful, in her quiet, na?ve, stubborn way.
And no longer wearing ugly widow’s weeds, she turned out to be adorable in a perky bonnet and high-waisted gown. He ought to smack his head against a wall and be done.
Grudgingly, he ordered, “Come upstairs and tell me which rooms you think worth furnishing.” He didn’t know what else to do with a terrified female trying to be brave.
Was she saying Faith Palmer and Verity Porter were both her? Except Faith was dead. He could make no sense of it. But inheriting her parents’ library might be logical.
Did this mean she wasn’t a widow? That ought to send him into a panic. Widows knew what they were about in the bedroom. Virgins required marriage. He didn’t need complications, but he’d given up any expectations with this female, right?
“Come to the cottage and tell me if anything is worth saving,” she countered, just to prove his point. “I need my clothes. And I want Marmie back.”
The kitten, he could handle. “I have him patrolling the kitchen for mice. Don’t worry, the doors are shut, and he has food and water. I just let him out for a roam a bit ago. Wolfie is patrolling the yard. Choose a room, and we’ll haul your clothes back here.”
“I don’t want that little worm to drive me from my home!” she argued. “I can sleep on the floor. I want to learn herbs and vegetables and how to cook. I want my own home!”
That was the end of enough. “The cottage is not your home! You can’t fix up a place you may lose next week.”
He clattered down the stairs. He’d toss her clothes in her bag and carry it here. He already had her cat and books. True, he’d miss that garden... “If the worm left a basket or two, I’ll carry the pantry items here,” he decided. “We bought most of them.”
She’d bought most of them, with her account at the mercantile. She wasn’t poor, just... afraid? And it was his duty to protect, even if the obstinate female objected.
She cast him a sideways look and instead of marching back out the door, she headed for the kitchen. Rafe rolled his eyes and followed her. Why was he even trying? He’d never understand the weaker sex. They all seemed to think they were generals.
She opened the kitchen door and the marmalade kitten came running, practically climbing up her skirt. She lifted it into her arms and cooed over it, stroking its tiny head until it purred. “Let’s go see what our house looks like, shall we?”
And carrying the kitten, she glared at Rafe as if he were the thief, and set out for the street .
“So, I should keep calling you Verity, even if you’re someone else?” he asked conversationally as he surrendered and followed her through the village, waving to people they were coming to know.
“Yes, please.” She didn’t explain further.
The woman would make him utterly mad.
He hadn’t bothered locking the front gate last night. It wasn’t as if there was anything left to protect. He shoved it open for her and led the way into the cottage.
Her gasp of dismay nearly broke his heart. He told himself to toughen up. “I told you so.”
The neat satin sofas had been ripped down the middle, their insides scattered across the room. The cottage wouldn’t need a chimney cleaner after the crazed thief had run a perfectly good broom up it and strewn soot everywhere. Rafe hadn’t thought there’d be anything left in the fireplace after the last time.
The bookcase had been turned over and the walls broken into. Fortunately, the intruder must have decided ripping the legs off the wooden chairs would accomplish nothing, so they’d been left whole.
“I can fetch your clothes,” he suggested. “You really don’t want to see what he’s done up there. He must have started as soon as we left yesterday.”
Or when the woman in black had passed by the tavern?
The deacon couldn’t have expected her to be a thief, but wouldn’t he have noticed if it had been Clement in skirts? Ned had seen no one taking the footpath from the manor, but he didn’t have eyes in the back of his head. No one could have predicted anyone risking the rocky terrain on the far side of the hill as Clement had when he’d tried to escape.
Perhaps there had been two people? One who traipsed from the inn past the tavern, and Clement sneaking around the far side of the hill from the direction of the highway?
The fact that they’d actually caught Clement ought to be enough, but Rafe regretted it hadn’t been in time to prevent this destruction. They’d been after evidence of a thief and possible killer, not trying to stop one. He needed more manpower for that.
Verity’s eyes glistened, but she stuck out that determined jaw of hers, cuddled her kitten, and marched into the kitchen. The table and chairs were still good. What remained of the pantry contents were flung everywhere. It looked as if the bastard had even tried digging into the flour, although that was beyond foolish or just plain mean. Flour mixed with soot on all the surfaces.
Wordlessly, checking to be certain the back gate was closed, she let the kitten down, then picked up a laundry basket, and undaunted by his warnings, started up the stairs.
She stalked past the ripped mattresses and floorboards and began folding Mrs. Underhill’s clothes into the basket first.
“At least I didn’t leave my new shirts here.” With a sigh, Rafe folded quilts and sheets. Apparently Clement’s knife arm had grown tired by the time he climbed to the loft.
“Leave those there,” she ordered. “I will sleep on the floor until I find someone to sew a new mattress. But Mrs. Underhill may need her clothes. I can’t expect her to sleep in this.”
Rafe thought pounding his head against hard objects might become his new pastime.
“Do you believe that sot poisoned your governess?” he asked bluntly. He’d been tossing that notion around since he’d caught Clement and simply couldn’t see it.
That stopped her madness momentarily. She set down the garment she was folding to stare at him. “I thought we assumed the thief is also the killer?”
“You heard him this morning. He still claims he was out fishing, got wet, and put on his wife’s skirt to go home.”
“Why would he be walking around with his wife’s skirt and where is home? Didn’t the captain throw him off the estate?” In the dim light from the garret window, she presented an ethereal figure of tan and cream against the dust motes.
If she smiled at him, he’d probably roll over and ask her to rub his belly. Good thing she wasn’t smiling. He needed to reclaim his sanity. “He claims his wife has a place down the road by the river, which would explain how he got past Ned. Upton is asking around. The area is littered with abandoned hovels anyone could move into without being noticed.”
“You think the killer is still loose?” she asked cautiously. “And Clement was simply hired to hunt for those papers?”
“That’s one theory, yes.”
“The woman in black and Mrs. Prescott both know herbs. The woman was seen walking toward the cottage yesterday. I saw her plainly. I’m quite certain she wasn’t Clement in skirts. And Mrs. Prescott wants to buy sketches of poisonous plants.” She sat down on the window seat. “It’s possible they are seeking Miss Edgerton’s drawings and not the hidden painting and we’ve practically put the portfolios in their hands.”
“You can’t stay here,” he said as gently as he could. “They tried to burn the cottage.”
She nodded reluctantly. “You have an inn to build. I can’t sit idle. I’ll do what I can to clean up here. The heirs shouldn’t be left with a smelly mess. Tonight—I don’t know. I’ll think on it.”
Rafe kneaded his eyes, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and partially conceded. “We need what food is left in the larder and the garden. I’ll help clean the kitchen, come and go as needed, set Wolfie to guard the yard.”
“And watch out for strangers,” she agreed with a sigh. “It’s not as if I can mend furniture. I wish I knew how to catch a killer. I hate to see the cottage burn if we leave it unprotected.”
Devil take it, he should probably be setting guards around the perimeter. How much was the captain willing to pay to protect a cottage that didn’t belong to the estate?
“What if...?” She stared down at the front yard while pondering.
Rafe waited. It wasn’t as if he had any idea what to do beyond guard the premises. He needed a general to give him orders. There was a sad lack of generals in Gravesyde. Well, there were the women, as previously noted. He didn’t know about taking orders from women who had never seen combat.
“Comte Lavigne is an artist, isn’t he? Do you think, if I paid him, he might duplicate the coach painting? I’d ask for a few of the plant sketches, too, but I cannot fathom how they are worth killing over, so don’t know which to copy.”
“Arnaud?” Rafe wouldn’t approach the nobility in a thousand years. “We almost got the cottage burned with our last trap. Are you planning another so you can get yourself killed ?”
He couldn’t see much of her expression in the loft’s shadows, but he thought he heard desperation in her reply. “What if we hung the duplicate in your inn where everyone could see it?”