It Takes a Hero (5 page)

She glanced him over again. "No, I suppose you aren't."

Rafe bristled. Well, she needn't say it like he was some aged high-stickler. Why he'd have her know…

"Here we are," she was saying, interrupting his silent outrage at being so summarily dismissed. "Though, I think you will agree, 'tis hardly a laughing matter."

And when he glanced down, he realized that she hadn't been joking with him—just leading him to a dead end, quite literally. For at his feet was the very lady he sought.

Mary Briggs, Spinster

1732-1784

Forgotten in life

Forgotten no more

And by the time he'd regained his composure, he discovered his escort was already out the gate and walking back into town, whistling a most unbecoming tune, and swinging her basket as if she hadn't a care in the world.

"Now wait just a damn minute," he said, crossing the yard and not caring two farthings if he disturbed Mrs. Roundsfield's sacred dreams.

It didn't take him long to catch up with Miss Tate. "That wasn't funny," he said, pointing back at the graveyard.

She paused and glanced over her shoulder at him. "No, I suppose not," she said, before continuing down the road.

"Miss Tate," he ground out. "You offered to help me."

"Yes, I suppose I did. But did it ever occur to you that Miss Briggs doesn't want to be found?" She folded her arms over her chest again. "And if you are truly doing a favor for her solicitor then I think you would have her
complete
directions instead of having to ask around like some cheaply had Bow Street runner."

Bow Street?
This is what she thought of him? Obviously his town charm didn't translate very well to the countryside.

Then to his further chagrin, Miss Tate didn't wait breathlessly for his reply, instead she left him standing in the road, like one might say… a cheaply had runner.

At this point, Cochrane came walking up to the churchyard, leading their horses. He glanced at the departing Miss Tate and then at Rafe.

"No luck, sir?"

"In a manner of speaking," Rafe told him, as he pointed at the lonely plot in the corner. One that was now decorated with a small bouquet of blue flowers.

Cochrane tied up the horses and crossed the graveyard, tiptoeing through the grass as if he feared someone was going to reach up and grab his offending toes. When he reached Miss Briggs' headstone, he pulled off his cap and bowed his head in respectful observation.

But Cochrane's good graces for the pegged out spinster ended quickly. He heaved a sigh and then settled his cap back on. "So are we bound for London?" Hope filled his question.

"Not yet," Rafe said, grabbing up his horse's reins. The road where Miss Tate had been ambling along moments earlier was now empty. He couldn't very well go about town banging on doors to find the infuriating
little minx or to find the elusive
Miss Darby
author either.

Oh, she was nearby, there was no doubt in his mind and Miss Tate knew exactly who she was.

If it wasn't the lady herself.

He hadn't survived all those years behind enemy lines, dodging French piquets by not listening to his instincts, and right now they were clamoring that this seemingly innocent spinster needed closer inspection.

He let out a low growl and swung up into his saddle in one effortless movement.

"The way I see it," Cochrane began, having scrambled out of the graveyard, then up onto his horse. "If this gel is dead, then we can tell Lady Tottley that we've done our work and collect your house. Just because the reaper beat us to the business doesn't mean we shouldn't get something for coming all the way out here. Especially since there doesn't appear to be any pies about."

It wasn't a bad plan, but Rafe preferred to earn his money by doing what he'd been hired to do.

And that was stopping the publication of any more
Miss Darby
novels. Suddenly his earlier promise to Cochrane that they weren't here to break any limbs seemed rather empty.

Especially after meeting Miss Tate.

"Seems our work is done," Cochrane said, turning his horse toward the road north.

"No," Rafe told him. "We aren't finished yet." Not by a long shot.

Bribing clerks with drinks was one way to find someone. The other was to use one's connections.

Connections…

Demmit, why hadn't he thought of that earlier?

While Bramley Hollow may boast one of England's most infamous matchmakers, it also could claim one of England's greatest busybodies.

"Time we pay a social call," Rafe said.

"Will there be food?" Cochrane asked.

"Most likely," he told his relieved assistant. And hopefully a serving of Miss Briggs' address.

Miss Rebecca Tate returned home whistling a ditty she probably shouldn't know, and not caring if anyone heard her. She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled at the glowering figure of Mr. Danvers standing beside the graveyard.

Pompous fellow. But weren't they all? These London dandies and scatterbrained misses, making the trip to Bramley Hollow like it was some great pilgrimage and seeking out their own bit of fame by trying to find the mysterious author of the
Miss Darby
novels.

Why, if the stories continued to grow in popularity, Bramley Hollow would be overrun with these nitwits.

She had to give Mr. Danvers credit. He was quite the most inventive of the lot. All dark and dangerous like some infamous Bow Street Runner, carrying on as if he held the very fate of the world and Miss Briggs was the key.

"Bah!" she muttered under her breath. His packet of papers was probably nothing more than his tailor's bill.

No, she thought, changing her mind. He didn't look the sort who spent a great deal of time fussing about his looks. His coat and neckerchief, tied in a very hasty knot, spoke of a man who didn't like to be held to fashion's fastidious rules.

In truth, he most likely didn't need a commanding suit of clothes to get his way—his charm and disarming smile probably had the female population of London falling at his feet offering their aid in whatever he sought.

She could see why. It would be easy to believe the lies that tumbled from his lips like honey, trust that the unfathomable depths of his dark eyes could be navigated without peril to one's heart.

Poor Mr. Danvers
, she thought remembering the shock on his face as he stared down at Miss Briggs' grave and realized he hadn't gotten his way.

Most likely it was the first time he'd ever had a woman deny him. Served him right. Really, it wasn't as if she were the type of lady worth all his flattery and gawking. Yet in the glow of his charm and smile, he'd made her feel like one of those Originals in town who kept all the men at sixes and sevens. He'd gazed at her like she was some daring Incognita, a wicked lady in heart and deed.

Perhaps, Rebecca mused, she was as wicked as Mrs. Wortling, their housekeeper, liked to tell her uncle. And while she considered herself a practical lady, since most poor ones were by necessity, she had no delusions about who or what she was. A plain, country spinster.

As Rebecca drew up to her gate, the shrill voice of their resident harridan rang out with a discordant trill.

"Colonel, sir, come down off the roof. I have it on good authority your watch is over and there ain't a bit of them Benjali blokes lurking about."

Rebecca cringed. Her uncle was on the roof again.

She glanced around to see if the neighbors had noticed. If they had, they would be giving the cottage a wide berth. Especially after the colonel had shot at John Benton a few months back, mistaking him for a Punjab scout.

"Who goes there?" the colonel bellowed from behind the chimney.

Rebecca stopped at the gate and glanced up at the roof. Lord, there he was again, Brown Bess in hand. She swore she'd locked it and the powder up after the last incident.

" 'Tis me, Colonel. Rebecca," she called to him. "I've been to town." She held up her basket for him to see.

"Lieutenant Bex. Good man," he said, cautiously poking his nose around the brick and mortar. "Thinking of provisions when we are all but surrounded."

"Only by Englishmen, sir. Now come down and I'll see if I can get Mrs. Wortling to serve us an early tea."

"Tea? At a time like this? Never, my good man. Besides, we seem to be out of shot and powder."

Good
, she thought. He hadn't managed to find where she'd hidden it. She'd told him time and time again not to shoot at the neighbors. Even if it was only to keep up appearances.

Around her feet a large mangy ginger colored cat wove and purred. Rebecca set her basket down and snatched up the animal. "What if I were to send up Ajax?" she offered.

"Corporal Ajax, you say? He's on report. Should be in stocks. If it weren't for his connections, I'd have seen him drummed out months ago."

"Been in the cream again, eh, fellow?" Rebecca whispered to the ill-mannered cat. She'd found Ajax aboard the ship that had brought them home from India. While Rebecca made it a rule to avoid stray, handsome men, she hadn't been able to resist the ragged tomcat—though in hindsight, perhaps she should have tried a little harder.

Ajax was a beast of a feline—always breaking into the larder and spilling the cream, scratching up the furniture or any human leg or limb that happened to be nearby. And while she might outwardly agree with Mrs. Wortling and the colonel that the cat was a menace, secretly Rebecca rather admired her fiendish and independent companion.

As she continued to scratch behind his ragged ears, Ajax purred in contentment, looking deceptively amiable though most likely plotting his next raid on the pantry.

Rebecca glanced up at the roof once more. "Come down, Colonel. The baker had those raisin buns you like and I was able to commandeer a nice tin of pekoe that Mr. McGraw assures me is very fresh."

"Harrumph," he snorted. "Sounds like bribery."

"Can't keep a sharp mind when your stomach isn't full," she said, quoting one of his favorite bits of advice.

"Right you are, Bex," he said. Taking one last look through his spyglass, he surveyed the empty road and the surrounding countryside. "Seems clear for now," he muttered. He pushed it closed and stuffed it into his belt. "Suppose a spot of tea and a bit of food wouldn't be out of the question. Tell Ensign Trotter I'll expect his report on the perimeter lines before tea."

Mrs. Wortling huffed. "Miss Tate, that man should be in Bedlam. Ensign Trotter, indeed!" She stomped off toward the house.

Her uncle's imaginary aide-de-camp, Ensign Trotter, kept Mrs. Wortling in a fine state. She didn't like the idea that she was supposed to care for someone she couldn't see, let alone provide the extra service that wasn't included in her wages.

Rebecca held her breath as her uncle ambled across the stone roof. One day these lofty rambles were going to leave him with a broken neck. She rushed over to the ladder that he'd leaned against the house—most likely after she'd left to do her shopping—and held it steady as he climbed down.

Now she had to add the garden shed to her list of places to keep locked. Right along with the shot and powder.

When he got to the bottom, he looked into her eyes and smiled. "Ah, Bex, my girl," he said, reaching out to touch her cheek. "You take good care of me. What would I do without you?"

"What would Richard and I have done if you and Aunt Dorie hadn't taken us in all those years ago?" She wove her arm into the crook of his, guiding him toward the cottage door. As they passed her market basket, she swooped down and picked it up.

"You two scamps gave Dorothea someone other than me to worry about," he told her. "But what would she say if she could see you now? Five and twenty and still not married, stuck here taking care of me in my dotage." He let out a long sigh, as if her lack of matrimonial state was all his fault. "She always wanted you to marry that Lieutenant… Lieutenant… oh the devil take him, what was his name?"

"Habersham," Rebecca supplied, having heard this lecture a thousand times before. "Lieutenant Habersham."

"Ah, yes. Habersham. Good man, that Habersham. Danced with you enough. Brought you loads of posies. Should have married him before he shipped home, Bex. Would have seen you properly settled."

She smiled at her dear protector. "There is one simple reason why I didn't marry Lieutenant Habersham. He didn't ask me."

Colonel Posthill snorted. "Then I take back what I said. He's a demmed fool, I tell you. A fool."

That and other things
, she thought as she caught up the latch and opened the front door.

Immediately there was an onslaught from Mrs. Wortling.

"I'm glad to see you've got him off the roof, Miss Rebecca. Gone mad as a hatter this time. Called me an ugly old toss-pot when I wouldn't give him the shot." She pulled a large grayed square of linen from her apron pocket and sniffed loudly into it.

Rebecca would bet that Mrs. Wortling had been called a lot worse than a drunkard in her spotty career as a housekeeper. Still, at the very least she needed to keep the peace and tried to smile sympathetically at the woman.

She was, after all, their fifth housekeeper in as many years, and had lasted twice as long as any of the others.

"A woman has her character, her reputation to maintain," Mrs. Wortling was wailing. "It wouldn't do my name any good for the neighbors to be hearing me called a 'toss-pot.' " She blew another loud, wet snort into her handkerchief.

"I am sure no one heard him, Mrs. Wortling." And if they had, they would probably have agreed. Rebecca doubted there was anyone in the village who didn't know their housekeeper was prone to tip the bottle.

"I should hope not," the housekeeper said, reaching for the shopping basket and then taking a peek under the cloth. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. You forgot to get the colonel's Madeira. He's almost out," she chastened.

Almost out because you've gone and drunk it
, Rebecca wanted to counter. They'd taken to locking up the liquor cabinet, but that hadn't deterred the illustrious Mrs. Wortling. Rebecca suspected the woman picked the lock.