Page 92 of Make Mine a Marquess

“So I can go, then?” Cawley’s voice was hopeful.

“No.” Landon and Aram spoke in unison.

They went back to the village square and headed for the coffeehouse, located next to the shoemakers. Passersby going to and from shops eyed the unlikely trio. Landon and Aram were well dressed. Cawley, on the other hand, looked as if he’d spent the night in a gutter.

Landon nodded in acknowledgment as they passed a couple walking arm-in-arm down the street, his grip never leaving Cawley’s arm. The woman nearly tripped as she glanced behind.

At last, they spotted the coffeehouse. With a firm hand on Cawley’s back, he urged the man to the door. As soon as they stepped inside, the aroma of roasting coffee beans, mingled with cigar smoke, wafted to them. The constable, a robust man with a balding pate of curly dark hair, sat at a table with a half-eaten mutton and a pipe clamped between his lips. A thick plume of smoke rose to the ceiling.

Landon spoke first. “Good morning, Constable Heron. We were told to find you here. I’m—”

“Lord Landon,” the constable finished for him. “I’m aware of your survival. As is most of the village.”

He should be accustomed to the attention. The return of the dead marquess was still novel. Landon motioned to his right. “This is Mr. Aram Adian, visiting from Egypt.”

The constable reached out a hand to both. “I’ve never been to the Middle East. How is the sea journey?”

“Long and arduous, especially if you have a tendency for seasickness,” Aram said.

The constable guffawed and another plume of smoke puffed out of his pipe. “I’m sure it is.” His eyes turned to Cawley. “And your other—” The constable eyed the man up and down. “Acquaintance?”

“Aiden Cawley,” Landon said.

“Now, what can I help you with, my lord?” the constable asked.

“I have evidence of multiple murders. As well as an attempted one.”

The constable removed his pipe, his eyes narrowing. “Multiple, you say? And who’s the attempted murder victim?”

Landon leaned forward and placed his hand flat on the table. “Myself.”

“And the killer?”

“My cousin, the baron, Lord Willard.”

The constable’s lips thinned, and his bushy eyebrows snapped together like angry caterpillars. “I see. And you have proof of these allegations?”

“I do. First, Cawley here was hired by the baron and will testify to all of it.”

The constable’s gaze pinned the man. “Is it true?”

Aram nudged Cawley and he spoke up. “It is.”

“Second, there is written evidence.” Landon removed the letters from his coat pocket and placed them in front of the constable. He added the saltpeter purchase order beside it.

The constable opened the first letter. He read it to himself. Then he opened the second. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chest as if he was about to suffer serious indigestion.

“Well, hell,” he muttered. “A good morning and a fine piece of mutton are ruined.”

…

By the time Landon and Aram returned to the manor, the drive was crowded with a line of coaches. Footmen hurried to carry baggage and strap it to the top of various conveyances. Drivers directed traffic and the house guests dressed in traveling clothes streamed outside in a beehive of activity. A gray sky threatened rain, and as a result, everyone hurried to load their belongings and be on their way back to town. The house party had officially come to an end.

“We arrived home just in time.” He’d known today was the day his guests would depart. He’d expected to be home sooner. What he hadn’t expected was to have to run around the village with Cawley in tow, in search of the constable.

“I see Miss Stanwell,” Aram said. “Pardon, my friend.” He was off in a flash.

Landon immediately scanned the crowd for Phoebe but didn’t see her or her parents. He stopped one of his footmen, a young red-haired man bent under the weight of the heavy trunk on his shoulder. “Where are Mr. and Mrs. Dawson and their daughter?”