Page 41 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
FORTY-ONE: PAUL
“I feel like an utter imbecile because I am one, correct?” Paul muttered, taking Rafe’s arm as if he were a weak female. Of course, with the long hem tangling around his boots, he could understand why women might need support to walk. And the insane, long-brimmed bonnet was worse than blinders on a horse. He couldn’t see anyone coming at him from the side. How did women manage to walk?
“You are a soldier in the war on evil,” Rafe muttered back, strolling slowly so he could pretend he was adjusting his stride to Verity’s.
Daylight had fled by the time they descended the manor drive into the village. In the sliver of lamplight, if anyone watched, they’d only catch a glimpse of Rafe’s bright curls and large form, and a figure in skirts wearing Verity’s bonnet and carrying a cane.
“You need to buy Verity one of those walking sticks concealing a knife,” Paul retorted. “I daresay she’d stab her uncle quick enough if she were adequately armed.”
“But snatching the stick from her hand would be an attacker’s first move. You have the strength to hang onto it. Verity isn’t trained to throw a punch, pull a knife, or shoot.”
When they reached the village street, Rafe slowed down to greet the church’s deacon, who merely nodded and wandered on, not recognizing Paul. “Although I fear she’s furious enough to kick the man downstairs if offered the opportunity. And I’m surmising you won’t.”
“You’re surmising correctly. I will defend myself and you, but I will not attack,” Paul declared firmly.
“Which is how I want it. If the scoundrel is here, I want explanations, and then we can send him off to hang, as it should be. All you’re to do is draw him out. He’s a city man. He has to be tired of sleeping with fleas or whatever he’s doing to hide himself. The soldiers are keeping an eye on the caravan, so he’s probably not bunking there.” Rafe opened his lantern wider as they approached the inn.
“You’re assuming he’s not only here but inside the inn, aren’t you? Perhaps he’s been hiding in the attic all along. The place is large enough to hide an army.” Paul studied the dark facade of the sprawling old inn with its myriad of hiding places. “Where’s Wolfie?”
“I had the blacksmith take him in. I didn’t want Wolf scaring off our target.” Rafe swung the lantern casually, illuminating different parts of the yard.
Paul memorized the layout. Henri had left his cart parked by the back door. Lumber, stones, and brick were stacked about, but none made for much concealment. He tried to surreptitiously study the inn windows, but he didn’t dare allow light to fall on his face.
“You don’t look much like Verity,” Rafe said in amusement as they approached the front door. “Pull the shawl around you and hide what you don’t have.”
Paul felt for the hilt of his knife through the purse slit in his mother’s skirt. Reassured it was where he could reach it, he pulled the shawl tighter with a black-gloved hand. He ought to resent that he was the only one slight enough to play a female role, but he wore robes every Sunday. Wardrobe didn’t make the man .
“Do you think there has been time for everyone to be stationed?” Paul murmured as they stepped into the dark lobby.
“Time, yes, opportunity, unknown. It’s not easy to slip unseen into a place most likely being watched. Henri may or may not be inside his cart. He may be lying in wait outside after pretending to head up the hill. We don’t know where the enemy is. Our scouts aren’t very useful.” Wryness tinted Rafe’s whisper as he set the lantern on the lobby desk.
“It’s pretty hard to conceal Arnaud and Hunt,” Paul admitted. He didn’t want to consider where Jack and Fletcher were stationed. The ex-soldiers had carried rifles when they headed for the trees.
Rafe kept his voice low as he stomped around the lobby, shoving crates about. “They’re about somewhere. Your mother will hack off heads if anything happens to you.”
“The place smells vaguely of oil,” Paul whispered. “Did you fill the lamps?”
“The women probably did while they were cleaning. I think I smell some sort of cleaning fluid... or they had a drunken party up there.” Rafe spoke louder. “I’ll go up and make sure it’s safe. Heat some water, if you will.”
Paul didn’t reply. He concentrated on sounding like a woman walking. Instead of going to the kitchen, however, he hid behind the bar in the pub and stripped off the bonnet and damned skirt. If he had to fight, it would be in trousers. Let Palmer come looking for him.
With that thought, he set the straw bonnet on a large bottle, wrapped the shawl around a stool, and draped the skirt over a chair. Having created a tower of clothing, he carried it into the kitchen. In the dark, all that could be seen was a vague outline.
Now all they could do was wait—and pray.