Mortimer?”
Mortimer Babbacombe swallowed—and forced himself to nod.
“So what do we do now?” Scrugthorpe drained his tankard.
Joliffe considered, then pronounced, “We sit tight and watch. If we get a chance to lay hands on the lady, we will—just like we planned.”
“Aye—far as I’m concerned, that’s how we should do it—no sense in leaving anything to chance.”
Joliffe’s lip curled. “Your animosity is showing, Scrugthorpe. Please remember that our primary aim here is to discredit Mrs Babbacombe—not satisfy your lust for revenge.”
Scrugthorpe snorted.
“As I was saying,” Joliffe went on. “We watch and wait. If Harry Lester succeeds—he’ll have done our work for us. If not, we’ll continue to pursue the lady—and Scrugthorpe here will have his chance.”
At that, Scrugthorpe smiled. Lecherously.
Chapter Four
When Lucinda drove into the yard of the Barbican Arms the next morning, Harry was waiting, shoulders against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his boot against the wall for balance. He had plenty of time to admire the artless picture of mature womanhood seated beside Grimms in his aunt’s gig. Elegantly gowned in a cornflower blue carriage dress, her dark hair restrained in a severe chignon thus revealing the delicate bones of her face, Lucinda Babbacombe predictably turned the heads of those still dawdling in the yard. Thankfully, the thoroughbred races were to commence that morning; most of Harry’s contemporaries were already at the track.
Grimms brought Em’s gig to a neat halt in the centre of the yard. With an inward snort, Harry pushed away from the wall.
Lucinda watched him approach—his graceful stride forcefully reminded her of a prowling tiger. A very definite thrill coursed through her; she avoided smiling her delight, contenting herself with a mild expression of polite surprise. “Mr Lester.” Calmly, she extended her hand. “I hadn’t expected to see you this morning—I thought you were here for the races.”
His brows had risen sceptically at her first remark; on her second, his green eyes glittered. He grasped her hand—for an instant, as his eyes held hers, Lucinda wondered why she was playing with fire.
“Indeed,” Harry replied, his habitual drawl in abeyance. He helped her from the carriage, steadying her on the cobbles. “I own to surprise on that score myself. However, as you are my aunt’s guest, and at my instigation, I feel honour-bound to ensure you come to no harm.”
Lucinda’s eyes narrowed but Harry, distracted by the absence of groom or maid—Grimms had already disappeared into the stables—did not notice.
“Speaking of which, where’s your groom?”
Lucinda allowed herself a small smile. “Riding with your brother and Heather. I have to thank you for sending Gerald to us—he’s entertaining company for Heather—I dare say she would otherwise grow bored. And, of course, that leaves me free to tend to business without having to worry my head over her.”
Harry didn’t share her confidence—but he wasn’t, at this point, concerned with her stepdaughter. His expression hardened as he looked down at her. He was still holding her hand; tucking it into his arm, he turned her towards the inn door. “You should at least have a groom with you.”
“Nonsense, Mr Lester.” Lucinda slanted him a curious glance. “Surely you aren’t suggesting that at my age I need a chaperon?”
Looking into her eyes, softly blue, their expression openly independent, challenging yet oddly innocent, Harry inwardly cursed. The damned woman didn’t need a chaperon—she needed an armed guard. Just why he had elected himself to the post was not a point he was willing to pursue. He contented himself with repressively stating, “In my opinion, Mrs Babbacombe, women like you should not be allowed out alone.”
Her eyes twinkled; two tiny dimples appeared in her cheeks. “Actually, I’d like to see the stables.” She turned to the archway leading from the main yard.
“The stables?”
Her gaze ranging their surroundings, Lucinda nodded. “The state of the stableyard frequently reflects the quality of the inn’s management.”
The state of the stables suggested the innkeeper of the Barbican Arms was a perfectionist; everything was neat, clean and in its place. Horses turned their heads to stare as Lucinda picked her way over the cobbles, still wet with dew, forced more than once to lean heavily on Harry’s arm.
When they reached the earthen floor of the stables, she determinedly straightened. Regretfully withdrawing her fingers from the warmth of his sleeve, she strolled along the row of loose boxes, stopping here and there to acknowledge their curious occupants. She eventually reached the tack room and peered in.
“Excuse me, ma’am—but you shouldn’t be in here.” An elderly groom hurried out.
Harry stepped out of the shadows. “It’s all right, Johnson. I’ll see the lady safe,”
“Oh!—it’s you, Mr Lester.” The groom touched his cap. “That’s all right and tight, then. Ma’am.” With another tug of his cap, the groom retreated into the tack room.
Lucinda blinked, then shot a glance at Harry. “Is it always so ordered? So…” She waved at the loose boxes, each with their half-doors shut. “So exact?”
“Yes.” Harry looked down at her as she stopped beside him. “I stable my carriage horses here—you may rest assured of the quality in that respect.”
“I see.” Deeming all queries on the equine side of business satisfied, Lucinda turned her attention to the inn proper.
Ushered through the main door, she looked with approval on half-panelled walls, well-polished and glowing mellowly. Sunshine reflected from crisply whitewashed walls; stray beams danced across the flagged floor.
Mr Jenkins, the innkeeper, a neat, rotund person of genial mien, bustled up. Harry performed the introductions, then stood patiently by while Lucinda explained her purpose. Unlike Blount, Mr Jenkins was all gratified helpfulness.
Lucinda turned to Harry. “My business with Mr Jenkins will keep me busy for at least an hour. I wouldn’t for the world impose on your kindness, Mr Lester—you’ve already done so much. And I can hardly come to harm within the inn.”
Harry didn’t blink. For her, the Arms played host to a panapoly of dangers—namely his peers. Meeting her innocent gaze with an impenetrable blandness, he waved a languid hand. “Indeed—but my horses don’t run until later.”
Which comment, he noted, brought a flash to her eyes. She hesitated, then, somewhat stiffly, acquiesced, inclining her head before turning back to Mr Jenkins.
Wearing patience like a halo, Harry followed his host and his aunt’s guest about the old inn, through rambling passageways and storerooms, to bedchambers and even to the garrets. They were returning down an upper corridor when a man came blundering out of a room.
Lucinda, opposite the door, started; glimpsing the man from the corner of her eye, she
