Petals on the River (99 page)

filth with a passion, and it was obvious the inn needed a thorough

cleaning.

Edith paused to dab the perspiration from her face with a lace

handkerchief.
 
Her black silk gown seemed to collect the heat from the

sun, and though her costly bonnet shaded her face, its black hue made

the heat nearly unbearable.
 
Indeed, if she had had her grandson

anywhere within speaking distance right at that moment, she'd have given

him a severe dressing-down for putting her to such bother, all for that

winsome miss she had attempted to get rid of.

Obviously the promise of great reward to the one who could provide proof

of the chit's demise had gained her nothing more than frustration.

Countless appointments with her barrister, clandestine carriage rides to

Newgate in the dark of night, and veiled meetings on the street outside

the prison with that foul-smelling turnkey had proven utterly futile.

Even after news of the convict ship's departure, she had continued to

hope the man had been right about the prisoner whose aid he had enlisted

after he had failed to strangle the Irish wench.
 
But then came news

that Maurice was voyaging off to Virginia, and Edith had realized how

imperative it was for her to do the same.
 
She just couldn't take the

chance that her grandson would find his beloved alive and bring her back

to England.
 
All of her efforts would have been for naught!

It had served her purposes well that favorable winds had filled the

sails of the hIoonraker, bringing them into port a mere day after

Maurice's ship had docked.
 
Her timely arrival rallied her expectations

that she could handle everything efficiently and on the sly before her

grandson ever became aware of her presence.

After questioning a local inhabitant near the wharf, Edith had learned

that Shemaine O'Hearn was not only alive but apparently in good health

and living with some backwoods colonial who had raked up enough coins to

buy her.
 
But the woman who had given her this news had seemed to

fluctuate drastically between eager spurts of information and, without

warning, a nervous reticence, as if fearful of being watched and saying

anything at all.
 
Mrs.
 
Pettycomb was certainly the oddest creature with

whom she had ever come in contact.
 
Most of.
 
her gibberish had been

just that, utterly useless.
 
Still, Edith had to remember this was a

land inhabited by convicts and the residue of whatever country could put

forth a ship to transport them to these climes, and she shouldn't expect

too much of the inhabitants.
 
She had never agreed with Maurice's

efforts to stem the export of felons, for the wilderness seemed the best

place to send the refuse of their society.

Ohhh, Edith moaned to herself, why couldn't the little slut have died

and eased her fretful worry about Maurice's objectives and his future as

a nobleman?
 
Any true lady would have succumbed to the hardships of

imprisonment and a sea voyage aboard a prison ship.
 
It had to be that

tainted Irish blood of hers that was too tenacious to succumb.

Edith mentally jeered.
 
Maurice certainly had no idea what he had caused

his only kin to suffer by bringing that creature into their ancestral

home and announcing in no uncertain terms that they would be married.

All that red hair should have warned him ere they met that she wasn't an

aristocrat.
 
But no!
 
He had to prove himself magnanimous in his liberal

impartiality.
 
No good had come from his tolerance, to be sure, for he

had forced his grandmother's hand until it was nigh bloody.

'' Twill be yet," Edith vowed beneath her breath.
 
"All I need do is

find the tart and set the hounds to eating her foul carcass."

Pausing on the boardwalk, Edith surveyed the facade of the tavern with a

distasteful grimace and shivered in disgust as she heard a roar of

laughter coming from within.
 
A bawdy comment from a hoarsevoiced woman

chilled her to the bone.
 
What in the world had her grandson reduced her

to?
 
she thought in a panic.
 
First the bribery of a conniving barrister

to arrange for Shemaine's arrest and sentencing, then a multitude of

other crimes no fainthearted aristocratic lady would have dared soil her

hands with.
 
And now this latest affront to her pride!
 
Inhabiting the

den of drunkards and harlots like a mere commoner!
 
Perhaps she had

sought to kill the wrong person, she thought testily.
 
Her distress and

troubles would certainly have ended promptly upon Maurice's demise.

Heaving a sigh heavily imbued with revulsion, Edith pushed open the door

of the tavern and stepped inside in her distinctive lofty manner.

The loud din nearly made her recoil and certainly made her shudder

inside, but in slow degrees it ebbed as every head turned to mark her

entrance.

Morrisa Hatcher leaned an elbow on the planks of a nearby table and

dropped her chin into her hand as she stared at the newcomer in awe. She

had never seen such a rich sheen to a fabric before, and though the hue

was as black as her own hair, it was certainly the richest, finest gown

she had ever admired in her whole life.

"An' such an ol' biddy wearin' it, too," she mumbled in envy. Pushing to

her feet, she winked down at the harlot sitting next to her.

"Maybe the liedy's come ta service some o' the lads, eh?"

The other strumpet giggled behind a hand and encouraged her.

"Why don't ye go an' ask her which one o' the beds she wants ta work

in."

Morrisa caught the madam's attention and jerked her thumb to indicate

the one standing just inside the door.
 
"Where'd ye get yer new girl

from, Freida?"

Freida's red lips curled in an amused smirk.
 
"Buckingham Palace.

I've got a whole shipment o' em comin' in."

Sauntering casually toward the entrance, Morrisa made a wide circuit

around the black-garbed lady, looking her up and down.
 
There wasn't one

stitch the woman wore that didn't look expensive.
 
"Are ye lost,

m'liedy?"

"My greatest fear is that I'm not," Edith quipped haughtily.
 
She

sniffed as she dabbed a lace handkerchief daintily to her nose.
 
The

tart had obviously bathed in fermented toilet water, for she reeked of

the nauseous scent.
 
"I assume this is the tavern, the one I've been

directed to, to inquire about a private chamber?"

"Ho-ho!" Morrisa crowed at the elder's elegant diction.
 
"Ain' ye the

hoity-toity one."

Edith swept the raven-haired strumpet with a derisive stare. "Haven't

you ever heard a lady speak before?"

"O' course," Morrisa answered readily.
 
"I've heared em afore.
 
I even

seen em now an' then.
 
But the ones here don't come in much unless they

be with a man.
 
Otherwise, they might be put ta work."

"To bed, you mean," Edith challenged dryly.
 
If the harlot thought her a

half-wit, then she was seriously mistaken.
 
She had not acquired

seventy-four years to her credit without learning a few things.
 
"I'm

sure I'm far too old to interest any of your friends, so I shall deem

myself quite safe here.
 
All I need is a private room where I might bide

the night, a hot bath and a tolerable meal.
 
Is that too much to ask?" I

Morrisa was impressed with the elder's spunk.
 
"Guess not, if'n ye can

pay for it."

"You needn't concern yourself about that," Edith retorted blandly.

"In fact, if you make the necessary arrangements and send someone to

fetch my baggage from the Moonraker, I shall pay you for your time.
 
Or

would you rather entertain the men?"

The pointed question drew a light scoff from Morrisa.
 
"I can do yer

errands for ye, alright, but I gots ta get enough ta satisfy the madam."

"You'll get enough," Edith promised.
 
"But I'll not suffer a delay.
 
I

haven't had a good night's sleep since I left England, and I want what

I've asked for posthaste.
 
Do you understand?"

Morrisa supposed it wasn't beneath her to serve as a maid for once l in

her life.
 
Besides, she was curious.
 
It was a rare thing indeed to find

a wealthy lady traveling alone, and she could only wonder at the elder's

purpose.
 
What dire circumstances had compelled an old woman to suffer

through an arduous voyage without benefit of servant or manly escort?

With a nod, Morrisa accepted the lady's conditions, but in return she

asked for double her usual earnings, planning on keeping Freida in the

dark about the extra.
 
Receiving a fine leather purse, she bustled off

to talk with the tavernkeeper and was back in a wink.
 
"Ye can have the

last room on the right upstairs.
 
The tavern maids' 11 be bringin' ye up

a bath whilst I send a fella ta fetch yer baggage from the ship. Though

the cap'n probably'll the'er mistake ye, ye'd better give me yer name

so's he'll know for sure twas ye what sent the bloke o'er for yer

things."

"Lady Edith du Mercer."

Morrisa set her head thoughtfully aslant.
 
'I figgered ye had breedin'

an' a title."

"I'm honored that you noticed," Edith rejoined loftily.

Morrisa opened her mouth to give a crisp retort but promptly decided

against it.
 
This old bird would not take kindly to a dressingdown,

Morrisa perceived, and if she grew snippish, it would seriously reduce

or even negate what she might otherwise gain by holding her tongue.

"And your name?" the lady inquired.

"Morrisa.
 
Morrisa Hatcher."

"Is Hatcher your real name or one you've taken on over the years?"

Morrisa squirmed uncomfortably.
 
Whoever this ancient biddy was, she was