15
Muttering to himself, Conner stalked down the dark hallway and into the kitchen.
The innkeeper’s wife gasped on seeing him, while the yellow-haired maid eyed him as if he were a rasher of bacon and she a starving wolf.
“Law!” Mrs. Landry dipped a curtsy. “Are you lost, perchance?”
“Nae. I merely wished to go to the stables, and it seemed shorter to travel through here.”
“It is shorter,” the apple-cheeked maid agreed, her lashes fluttering in an odd fashion.
He wondered if she had something in her eye, but decided it would be rude to mention it.
Mrs. Landry pointed to a large wooden door. “Go through that door and down the garden path, then to the left.”
“I’ll take you, if you’d like,” the maid offered, smoothing her hands over her skirt in a suggestive way.
“Alice!” Mrs. Landry hissed, her face red.
“What? I can’t be kind to the gentleman? He doesn’t mind, do you, sir?”
Conner wondered if the poor lass was having a fit of some type, the way her lashes quivered. “Thank you, but I’ll find my own way.” He strode to the door.
The scent of dried leaves and winter dampness met Conner as he entered the garden, the gravel pathway crunching under his boots. As he turned the corner, he caught sight of Lance down the lane that curled around the back of the house, speaking earnestly to a rough-dressed farmer.
Neither of them noticed Conner as he reached the end of the path and made his way to the stables. Inside, Ferguson and Spencer polished the trace links, arguing about the coming weather.
“Cap’n!” Spencer tossed his rag over the edge of a nearby bucket and wiped his hands on his breeches. “You’re oop early.”
“So I am,” Conner bit out.
The men exchanged glances and Ferguson hung the traces on a hook before saying in a cautious voice, “Did you have breakfast? Should I fetch you a bite from the kitchen?”
“I’ve nae wish to eat. Nae now.” He scowled. “Our plan to rescue Miss Cumberbatch-Snowe has hit some shoals. This morning I found the squire making improper advances to her.”
“That lout!” Ferguson lifted his fists. “I should give him a lesson in how to treat a lady.”
“Miss Cumberbatch-Snowe must be furious,” Spencer added.
Conner scowled, remembering how Thea had leaned into that damned idiot’s embrace, a smile on her face. His chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe.
The silence grew.
Spencer’s fists lowered. “That improper advance . . . it dinnae make her furious?”
“Bloody hell, nae,” Conner snapped. “Which is why ’tis a problem.” He paced up and down the straw-covered floor, raking his hand through his hair. “I may have made an error in thinking that the squire and Miss Cumberbatch-Snowe should spend more time together. I’d hoped she would come to see it isn’t a guid match, but that has nae happened.” Scowling, he turned and tromped back the way he’d come. “My rigging is in a right knot over this.”
“Women!” Ferguson blew out a sigh. “They’re hurricanes in the making, the lot of them. You cannae predict them, and when they come your way they’re bound to flounder you, if nae worse.”
“Aye,” Conner said glumly.
Spencer said, “What do you suggest, Cap’n? If the miss has taken a liking to the squire, it dinnae seem as if there’s aught as can be done.”
“She has nae taken a liking to him.” Conner spat the words. “She likes him, aye, but she’s nae in love. She needs to get to know him better, but withoot the bloody kissing. She needs a better chaperone.”
“Nae to be disrespecting Miss Simmons,” Ferguson said, “but she’s a wee bit young to be a chaperone.”
“At her best, she’s but half a chaperone,” Conner agreed. “And when she’s indisposed or just late coming doon to breakfast, she’s nae a chaperone at all.”
Spencer rubbed his chin. “ ’Tis a pity Miss Cumberbatch-Snowe dinnae have a lady’s maid.”
Ferguson snorted. “What guid would a lady’s maid do?”
“Think on it: if Miss Simmons is half of a chaperone, then a lady’s maid might be the other half.”
Conner considered this. “That’s nae a bad thought.” Two chaperones might keep Thea free of the squire. But would it be enough to curb his own ever-growing desires? It would have to. “Ferguson, bring me the itinerary. I’ve a mind to set a new course that slips to the west before heading north. That will add a few more days.”
“Ah! Setting a kedge, are you, Cap’n? Verrah guid. I’ll fetch the maps.” Ferguson hurried out of the stables to the coach, and soon returned with a small leather packet.
“Excellent.” Conner tucked the packet under his arm. “Get the coach and horses ready. The squire cannae continue his seduction crammed between a sneezing Miss Simmons and a lady’s maid. Now, to find a maid willing to—” He blinked. “Bloody hell, I think I’ve an answer. Thank you, men. You’ve been a great help.”
Deep in thought, Conner retraced his steps through the garden, stopping short when he saw the squire walking back to the inn. Perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . this was the answer to his problem.
He strode swiftly forward and called out, “Lance! So tell me, what did you find oot aboot your amazing turnips?”