Page 30 of Make Mine a Marquess

Then why do I keep reliving that kiss?

…

A tavern was a good source for local gossip. The Cock and Bull was no exception. Landon’s goal was to find Aiden Cawley and discover what the man knew. The ledgers showed that Willard had paid Cawley for services. Landon’s gut told him that those services were an assassination.

Specifically, his.

As Aram had pointed out, it was most likely that more than one person had been involved. The sinking of a ship was a complex business. The perpetrators would have had to ensure both the captain and the second mate were incapacitated and that the crew would be slow to react so that by the time anyone realized the fire below deck had gotten out of control, it would be too late.

Landon was dressed in a simple shirt and trousers, and wore dusty boots borrowed from one of the stable workers. He chose a table with an empty seat, joining two men who were workers at the local mill with callused hands and dirt beneath their fingernails. They acknowledged him with a brief nod. The barmaid carried a tray with tankards of ale.

“Is that all ye’ll be having, luv?” She set a tankard before Landon, then leaned across the table, her ample bosom nearly spilling from her low bodice.

A heavyset man with sagging jowls sitting next to Landon spoke up. “What about me, Rosy? I’d like some of what yer offerin’.”

“Not today ye won’t, Jon.” Rosy pursed her lips, then sashayed off.

Landon sipped his ale then glanced at the table’s occupants over the rim of his tankard. “Anyone see Cawley today?”

“Why’re ye looking for him?” the older man with brown teeth and a sprinkling of gray hair asked.

Landon shrugged. “He owes me.”

“Ha! Cawley owes a lot of people,” the man said.

“Rumor has it he ’as a rich patron in the fancy house at the top of the hill,” the heavyset one said.

Landon knew the “fancy house” he referred to was Landon Manor and the patron was Willard. He shifted in his seat. “Has he been in here lately?”

“Not for weeks. Said he had business to attend to.”

Bloody hell. He’d missed the man.

What type of business was he involved in now? Was it with Willard again? Instinct told Landon that Willard might try to kill him again now that he was back from the “dead.”

Cawley might not be here, but Landon had learned something. Aiden Cawley was a local. And he’d return.

Landon would be waiting for him.

…

The London dressmaker that sewed Phoebe’s gowns had always sent the bills to her father. Even her mother never knew the cost. Father had always paid for whatever Phoebe and her mother had fancied. Morning dresses, walking dresses, ball gowns. They could afford every luxury.

When Phoebe had confided in the dressmaker, Madame Annette—a Frenchwoman whose parents were executed near the end of Robespierre’s reign of terror and understood hardship—they’d secretly made an arrangement. Phoebe would receive one dress fewer and, in exchange, Madame Annette would sew half a dozen simple dresses for Phoebe, who would then take them to the Society of Unwed Mothers. The extra dresses could be put to good use, and the women were thrilled at the donation.

Their arrangement had worked out marvelously. Her father had never realized the extra expense, and her mother had never noticed one fewer day dress in Phoebe’s ridiculously large wardrobe.

Without the help of Madame Annette here in Hertfordshire, there was no way to continue the dress conspiracy, but Phoebe had pin money saved and she was more than willing to donate it for a good cause. As for Sarah Smith, she’d written her a letter and, without an address, she hoped to find someone in the village who could give it to her.

Phoebe waited until the other ladies were resting in their bedchambers one afternoon to slip out the back door to the garden gate.

The late afternoon sun warmed her cheeks as she made her way down the gravel drive and headed for the village on foot. After a brisk twenty-minute walk, the village square came into view. A stone church with a spire and a large wooden cross was located at the far end of the square. But it was the quaint row of shops that drew her attention—a modiste, a milliner, a blacksmith with its anvil and forge, and an apothecary. Shoppers with packages wrapped in brown paper departed the milliner as she passed. The last establishment was the Cock and Bull Tavern.

Phoebe stopped a mother holding a rosy-cheeked toddler.

“Pardon,” Phoebe spoke to the mother. “I’m looking for the home of Sarah Smith?”

The woman’s eyebrows knit. The toddler smiled and reached out. Phoebe covered her eyes with her hands then removed them in a game of peek-a-boo. The child giggled with glee.