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Chapter Eleven
ALFRED SPEENHAM GLANCED down his narrow nose and found that his pewter of ale was nearly empty. He brought his languid gaze up and surveyed the tavern galley of the Cock Pit with a show of ennui.
There was no one worth conversing with and no sport to be had, except the wench washing down the oak tables. He’d had her many times and she certainly was a lively one in bed. He smiled as he called out to her.
“Come here, sweetheart,” he invited and patted his thigh. “Can’t you see I’m fair stalled? Come sit on my knee and sing me a song.”
“Go on wit ye, darlin’ man. He’ll have m’head, he will. We are short a gal tonight and I have got to do double m’work.” She gave him a saucy smile and added, “But there is no telling what will happen later when no one is lookin’.”
The tavernkeeper stepped out and pointed at her, “Here now, Dee…cook needs ye.” He glanced between her and Alfred but said nothing more as he turned away.
Speenham called Bailey, the innkeeper back, “Eh, my man. I hear tell there is a runner putting up here.”
Bailey eyed Speenham speculatively for a moment before he answered, “Do they say so? Don’t know of any runner. Have but the one guest this week, a Mr. Fowler and he don’t call ‘imself a runner.”
Alfred shrugged. He knew the tavernkeeper liked Ned and didn’t like him. He had always known that. Fact was that most of the locals had always liked the Sherborne twins. There was no understanding that, but he pursued. “So then, you don’t think this Fowler person has come to Harrowgate to search out my cousins?”
“I don’t know naught about it. ‘Ceptin the young lord did no more kill that poor girl than he would his own sister!” snapped the tavernkeeper.
“There are those who think he did,” returned Alfred carefully, playing with his fork and not meeting the tavernkeeper’s eyes.
“And there’s more that know otherwise,” retorted the man sharply.
This conversation was doomed to failure. It was at that moment interrupted as a shadow filled the tavern entrance and Speenham looked up to find an imposing figure
standing in its large opening.
* * *
“Your Grace,” Alfred hailed with a welcoming smile and an overdone flourish, as though pleased to exhibit a friendship with such an imposing figure.
“Ah,” returned the duke, going toward him leisurely, “Mr. Speenham.”
“May I invite you to join me in a bumper of ale?” Speenham asked.
The duke didn’t hesitate, but nodded and took up a chair. Speenham put up two fingers and motioned to the waitress.
“May I ask what news you have regarding my cousins?” Speenham inquired lightly, before taking a long pull on his tankard.
“I am afraid I have nothing to report. They have hidden themselves well. In fact, I have reason to believe they are being put up by some loyal friends of young Sherborne’s, some distance from Harrowgate.”
“I would have thought the viscount would have housed them…as he has been their friend a lifetime,” Speenham remarked. “But you are staying with Skippendon yourself, are you not?”
“They are too smart to stay where they might be found. The viscount’s residence would have been too obvious,” answered the duke. “Servants…talk.” The duke said this last with meaning and was gratified to find Speenham regard him curiously. However, at that moment, a newcomer entered the galley and the duke’s gaze shifted to him.
The duke noted that the man was short and wearing a low-crowned felt hat, an old-fashioned coat buttoned across the breast, and open over a large belly. He was hailed by the tavernkeeper as Mr. Fowler, but the duke felt that he would have recognized him anyway.
“Excuse me a moment,” the duke said, pushing his chair back and getting to his feet.
“What the deuce are you doing?” Speenham asked.
“Why, I am going to have a word with Mr. Fowler. I understand he is new to Yorkshire and is looking to buy property,” said the duke, raising his brow as though challenging any interference.
“But, Your Grace,” murmured Speenham, “I…I think the fellow is a runner…”
“Indeed? I, on the other hand, am quite certain of it,” the duke smiled and gave Alfred his back as he strode across the main galley and approached the man with cat-sticks for legs.
“Mr. Fowler,” the duke said with an utterly charming smile. “Won’t you join Mr. Speenham and me at our table?”
