Page 13 of Reforming Lord Neil

“I must go, Miss Caroline. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

She dipped a curtsy and responded politely. “It was our pleasure to host you, Mr. Duncan.”

He did not chuckle at the charming picture she made, but bowed to her as he would any lady, then mounted his horse. “Good day to you, Miss Caroline.”

She waved as he rode out of the yard, back the way he had come the day before.

Neil did not look behind him to see if the girl watched him retreat down the road. He had little energy to spare her another thought. His mind must bend to his own predicament.

When he arrived before the longest building in Dunwich, Neil saw the shingle hanging from it proclaiming it the Lost Mermaid. Strange name for a pub, but it would do.

He tethered his horse outside, then went through the door. A long, dark room with tables scattered about greeted his sight. He looked to an open doorway and caught sight of a trim man, wearing a clean apron and graying hair.

“Good morning to you, sir.” The man came out into the main room with a welcoming green, and he made haste to bow. “Welcome to the Lost Mermaid. Need you something to slake your thirst?”

Neil was soon at a table holding a mug of ale, and then a large metal plate full of eggs, sausages, and fried potatoes was placed before him. A few other people ambled inside, some for drinks, some to buy meat pastries. Everyone seemed to know each other, given how casually they spoke to one another.

The owner of the pub, a man who had introduced himself as Mr. Jones, came to check that all was to Neil’s liking. Then, with an overly friendly manner, the publican said, “It’s a might early for anyone to be on the road, coming from the south. Might you be from the north, sir? Walberswick is not far.”

A man with more wrinkles than hair on his head, seated nearer the kitchen, scoffed. “He might’ve come from Westleton.”

“And not had breakfast there?” an equally aged man with white whiskers croaked. “Mrs. Jones is a fair cook, but none would pass up a Westleton breakfast from the Gray Horse.”

Neil only raised his eyebrows as the argument continued between the old men.

The wrinkled man huffed. “Who’s to say he was at the Gray Horse? Might be he didn’t stay there.”

“Then how would he have come from Westleton?”

“Look at his clothes. He’s a gent. Maybe stayed at a fine house.”

“And then rode out come dawn to sit amongst us folk?”

Neil bit the inside of his cheek, irritated with the discussion of his business. “I did not come from Walberswick, nor any other village. I found myself in a barn last night, and here for my breakfast. Does that answer to your curiosity?”

The man with the white whiskers twitched his nose, then folded his arms and sat back in his chair. “Never heard of a gentleman sleeping in a barn. You steal those clothes?”

Neil sat up straighter, but before he could react with offence the more wrinkled of the two gasped out a laugh. “Blind, are you, Billy Higgins? Those clothes fit him better’n your teeth fit in your head. Man’s wearing his own clothes.”

Having never been subjected to such scrutiny, nor the open curiosity and gossip of men so far beneath his station, it took Neil several moments to determine how best to react. He looked to the owner of the establishment, not for any sort of aid, really, but for direction.

The man shrugged. “Don’t pay them any mind, sir.” Then he raised his voice to carry to the local men. “They’re too old to be of any use to anyone, so they sit about and gossip like old cats all day.”

“Old cats? Jones, I’ve known you since you were in your cradle. Respect your elders.” The one called Billy Higgins sniffed, as though he had right to be insulted. “Man comes in here, dressed like that, wrong time of day, slept in a barn, and you aren’t the least curious?”

Mr. Jones shrugged. “So long as people pay their bills, I take no interest in their business.”

A man came in, shouting about a delivery before disappearing out the door again. Mr. Jones sighed and bowed to Neil. “Pardon me, sir.” He followed after the delivery man.

The two old men exchanged a look, then both rose and ambled over to Neil’s table. They stood there, looking down at him with twin gleams in their eyes.

“What barn did you sleep in, sir?” the wrinkled man asked.

Neil sat back and folded his arms over his chest. “What business is it of yours?”

The man chuckled, then jabbed at his own chest with his thumb. “I’m Robert Putnam. This here is Billy Higgins. We’re old codgers, but we still have our wits. Billy was a butler for Baron Marsham, and I used to be the magistrate’s right hand. Your story is—”

“Odd,” Billy Higgins put in with a shrug. “Worth noticing.”