Page 45 of The Villain’s Fatal Plot (Gravesyde Village Mystery #1)
FORTY-FIVE: RAFE
Terrified after learning of his employer’s death, Clement admitted to no more than the accident of killing Verity’s father and “accidentally” setting the cottage on fire. Neither man nor wife admitted to ransacking the cottage, but they were the only ones searching for the painting. The real villain was dead. Rafe left the gin-soaked lout in Hunt’s hands for transportation to assizes and better minds than his.
With the crimes solved, a far more important task lay ahead. He didn’t know if a rough military man could finesse his argument as nicely as Verity had done with her interrogation. He was a man of action, not charm. But he had an actual plan in place, which gave him some confidence.
He found Verity, as he’d feared, wistfully studying Miss Edgerton’s cottage. Since she hadn’t objected to his earlier reassurances, he tried the trick again, laying a hand on her shoulder and rubbing sympathetically. “Her heirs need the blunt. They authorized Mr. Culliver to sell everything, including the botanical plates. Mrs. Prescott had hoped the plates might help in finding her teacher’s killer, but when they’re printed, she’ll sell the book to her fellow students who remember their teacher with fondness. ”
“Good to know her memory will go on.” Sadly, she turned to stare down the empty village street. “It was lovely having a home, but I couldn’t keep up the garden. I hope the new owners will allow Patience to take what she needs before they destroy it.”
“Better,” he said, hiding his immense relief that she was as practical as he thought. “Captain Huntley is offering for it. Now that the manor has funds, he wants it to properly house their steward.”
She finally lifted her chin to study him, her thick velvet lashes sweeping upward in surprise. “He’s buying it for Meera and Walker? Oh, that is perfect! Meera knows everything about herbs, and Patience can have her gardeners take care of the flowers. Lavender will have lavender for her scents!”
Arm draped daringly over her shoulders, Rafe steered her down the street. “Better, Hunt will turn the cottage’s loft into a proper second floor, add servants’ quarters, and a real stove. I believe Mrs. Walker intends to open an apothecary office in back.”
“Where the women used to seeing Miss Edgerton will find her,” she said in excitement. “I love this village. Do you think you could put me up for a little while at the inn until I find a room of my own—if I can talk Mrs. Underhill into joining me?”
This was where his plan became delicate. Rafe had had time to plan and to know what he wanted. But he had to think of her and not just himself. It wasn’t quite the same as keeping his starving troop in provisions. She had choices. He had to acknowledge that.
“That’s one possibility,” he agreed, guiding her into the inn yard, where all signs of last night’s horror had been swept away. The curate had arranged for a quiet burial. A load of lumber now rested where her uncle’s conflagration had occurred. “Remember, you talked about creating a lending library?”
“We hardly have funds to...” She stopped herself as they entered the lobby. “I could, though, couldn’t I? I’m not poor anymore.”
“It’s worth talking about.” He’d had people in all morning, clearing up what he’d missed in the dark. Lighting lanterns while oil covered the floors had not been an option. The inn smelled of beeswax again. “Let me show you something, see what you think.”
“What I think?” she asked in amusement.
He wanted to hear her happy again. Planning required determining goals, and her happiness was the first one.
He led her down the bedchamber corridor and opened a door. He’d left a lantern burning, since this closet had no windows for light. “It’s only a small start, what I could do quickly, just to show you.”
Peering in the doorway, she gasped and stepped inside, head swiveling as she took in the shelves of books. “My father’s library! Where I can find a book without digging through crates. This is amazing! How did you...”
He pulled a book down and opened it on the battered table he’d dragged down from the attic. “Fletch helped me. We’ve discussed it. The curate and his intended want books available for the children, and adults, if possible. Fletch thinks we should have a gentleman’s library, where guests can relax and read and enjoy drinks from the pub.”
“No smoking,” she said tartly. “Women and children allowed. Perhaps you could set hours for different groups.”
“Excellent notion. I knew you’d be able to help. Upton thinks the church ladies might like a place to gather and sew and discuss fetes and such. Until he can raise funds for a chimney, the inn will be warmer than the chapel. If we use one of the larger rooms, added a few chairs?—”
She actually clapped her hands in excitement. “I can see that. The room definitely needs to be larger...” She broke off and narrowed her eyes. “But you must earn money off every room to make improvements. One cannot earn money off a library.”
He hid a smile. As he’d suspected, she had inherited her father’s business sense. “I should rent it for meetings?”
She wrinkled her brow, thinking. “You could keep the adult library locked and offer a key to guests for an additional cost, perhaps. That won’t be enough, but it’s a start. Perhaps a small charge to reserve the room at certain hours? So you might earn off it all day. A lending library can charge subscription fees. I hate charging people, but until you’re profitable...”
He loved watching her flush with excitement. This was the intelligent woman who had been abandoned in a cellar for too long, the one clever enough to accumulate a library, earn savings on nothing, and flee all alone.
She might be too smart for the likes of him, but if he struck while the iron was hot... He had his uses.
He tucked her hand into his elbow and led her to a much more spacious chamber, in the new addition, one with decent windows and level floors. He’d painted an old bedstead and a battered armoire in a pretty blue to match the print on the plain draperies Lavender had cut and hemmed for the mullioned panes. A braided carpet he’d bought from one of the cart women rested beside the bed. The washstand came from the manor attic. Ornately carved cherry, it had seen better days, but the chipped china washbasin with blue flowers fit on it. A matching chamber pot was visible beneath the still unadorned bed.
“I thought... Since you’re to teach...” What he wanted and what he ought to say differed and tied his tongue in knots.
“For me?” At his nod, she leaned into him, resting her head trustingly against his shoulder and gazing about in awe. “It’s beautiful. Will you do the cooking? I can keep the ledgers and learn to order the maids and maybe even help with the garden, but I don’t think I’ll ever cook as well as you do.”
He swelled with pride, then reminded himself that she was an heiress. He was an impoverished ex-soldier. She could do better.
No, she couldn’t. No one would cherish her more than he.
She glanced up at him, and this time, she had a wicked glint in her eyes. “I do not mind offering Mrs. Underhill a place as my companion. But you would soon fill the inn with family and servants and leave no room for guests. Did you want me to share your best chamber with Mrs. Underhill? And where would you sleep?”
And there it was, the opening he needed. And she’d deliberately offered it. They were practical people. She read books on geography, not romance. He issued orders, not pretty phrases. From the way she leaned into him, he hoped they had more than a meeting of minds.
“Clever puss,” he murmured, lowering his head to brush his mouth against plush lips. “I’d like to sleep with you, if you will allow. Do you think you might consider a rufus-haired old soldier as husband if he promises to cook for you forever?”
In reply, she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and bring his head closer.
Her kiss was everything he’d imagined and more.