The particular emphasis, delivered in that sensual voice, immediately made clear to Lucinda just what “sort had been the subject of her discussion. Torn between unaccustomed fluster, mortification and outrage, she hesitated, a light blush tinging her cheeks.
Harry noticed. “And now,” he suavely suggested, “if we could leave that loaded topic, perhaps we might proceed to the lady’s business? I’m sure you’re breathlessly waiting to discover what it is—as am I.”
Over her shoulder, Lucinda shot him a haughty glance. “Good morning, Mr Lester.” She gifted him with a restrained nod; he stood behind her right shoulder, large and reassuring in the dingy dimness. He inclined his head gracefully, his features hard-edged and severe, suggesting an impatience to have her business aired.
Inwardly grimacing, Lucinda turned back to the innkeeper. “I believe you were visited recently by a Mr Mabberly, acting for the owners of this inn?”
Jake Blount shifted. “Aye.”
“I believe Mr Mabberly warned you that an inspection of your premises would shortly take place?”
The big man nodded.
Lucinda nodded decisively back. “Very well—you may conduct me over the inn. We’ll start with the public rooms.” Without pause, she swept about. “I take it this is the tap.” She glided towards the door, her skirts stirring up dust eddies.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Blount stare, open-mouthed, then come hurrying around the counter. Harry Lester simply stood and watched her, an inscrutable expression on his face.
Lucinda swept on—into the gloomy, heavily shuttered room. “Perhaps, Blount, if we were to have those shutters wide I might be able to see well enough to form an opinion?”
Blount cast her a flustered glance, then lumbered to the windows. Seconds later, sunshine flooded the room, apparently to the discomfort of its two patrons, one an old codger wrapped in a rumpled cloak, hugging the inglenook, the other a younger man in the rough clothes of a traveller. They both seemed to shrink inwards, away from the light.
Lucinda cast a shrewd glance around the room. The interior of the inn matched its exterior, at least in the matter of neglect. The Green Goose was fast living up to Anthony Mabberly’s description as the very worst of the Babbacombe inns. Grimy walls and a ceiling that had seen neither brush nor mop for years combined with a general aura of dust and slow decay to render the tap a most unwelcoming place. “Hmm.” Lucinda grimaced. “So much for the tap.”
She slanted a glance at Harry, who had followed her in. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr Lester—but I’m perfectly capable of dealing with Mr Blount.”
The green gaze, which had been engaged in a survey of the unwholesome room, switched to her face. His eyes were less unreadable than his features, but other than distinct disapproval and a species of irritation, Lucinda couldn’t be sure what their expression portended.
“Indeed?” His brows lifted fractionally; his languid tone was barely polite. “But perhaps I should remain—just in case you and the good Blount run into any further…communication difficulties?”
Lucinda suppressed the urge to glare. Short of ordering him out of her inn, hardly supportive of her ploy to conceal her ownership, she could think of no way to dispense with his attentive presence. His green gaze was acute, perceptive; his tongue, as she already knew, could be decidedly sharp.
Accepting fate’s decree with a small shrug, Lucinda returned her attention to Blount, hovering uncertainly by the bar. “What’s through that door?”
“The kitchens.”
Blount looked shocked when she waved him on. “I’ll need to see those, too.”
The kitchen was not as bad as she had feared, a fact she attributed to the buxom but worn-down woman who bobbed respectfully when introduced as “the missus”. The Blounts’ private quarters gave off the large, square room; Lucinda disavowed any desire to inspect them. After closely examining the large open fireplace and engaging in a detailed discussion with Mrs Blount on the technicalities of the draw and the overall capacity of the kitchen, which, by their impatient expressions, passed over both Blount’s and Harry Lester’s heads, she consented to be shown the parlours.
Both parlours were shabby and dusty but, when the shutters were opened, proved to have pleasant aspects. Both contained old but serviceable furniture.
“Hmm, mmm,” was Lucinda’s verdict. Blount looked glum.
In the back parlour, which looked out over a wilderness that had once been a garden, she eyed a sturdy oak table and its attendant chairs. “Please ask Mrs Blount to dust in here immediately. Meanwhile, I’ll see the rooms above stairs.”
With a resigned shrug, Blount went to the door of the kitchen to deliver the order, then returned to lead the way up the stairs. Halfway up, Lucinda paused to test the rickety balustrade. Leaning against it, she was startled to hear it crack—and even more startled to feel an arm of steel wrap about her waist and haul her back to the centre of the treads. She was released immediately but heard the muttered comment, “Damned nosy woman!”
Lucinda grinned, then schooled her features to impassivity as they reached the upper corridor.
“All the rooms be the same.” Blount swung open the nearest door. Without waiting to be asked, he crossed to open the shutters.
The sunlight played on a dreary scene. Yellowing whitewash flaked from the walls; the ewer and basin were both cracked. The bedclothes Lucinda mentally consigned to the flames without further thought. The furniture, however, was solid—oak as far as she could tell. Both the bed and the chest of drawers could, with a little care, be restored to acceptable state.
Pursing her lips, Lucinda nodded. She turned and swept out of the door, past Harry Lester, lounging against the frame. He straightened and followed her along the corridor. Behind them, Blount shot out of the room and hurried to interpose himself between Lucinda and the next door.
“This room’s currently taken, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” Lucinda wondered what sort of patron would make do with the sad amenities of the Green Goose.
As if in answer, a distinctly feminine giggle percolated through the door.
Lucinda’s expression grew coldly severe. “I see.” She shot an accusing glance at Blount, then, head high, moved along the corridor. “I’ll see the room at the end, then we’ll return downstairs.”
There were no further revelations; it was as Mr Mabberly had said—the Green Goose was sound enough in structure but its management needed a complete overhaul.
Descending once more to the hall, Lucinda beckoned Sim forward and relieved the lad of the bound ledgers he’d been carrying. Leading the way into the back parlour, she was pleased to discover the table and chairs dusted and wiped. Setting her ledgers on the table before the chair at its head, she placed her reticule beside them and sat. “Now, Blount, I would like to examine the books.”
Blount blinked. “The books?”
Her gaze steady, Lucinda nodded. “The blue one for incomings and the red one for expenditures.”
Blount stared, then muttered something Lucinda chose to interpret as an assent and departed.
Harry, who had maintained his role of silent protector throughout, strolled across to shut the door after him. Then he turned to his aunt’s unexpected acquaintance. “And now, my dear Mrs Babbacombe, perhaps you would enlighten me as to what you’re about?”
Lucinda resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at him—he was, she could tell, going to be difficult. “I am doing as I said—inspecting this inn.”
“Ah, yes.” The steely note was back in his voice. “And I’m to believe that some proprietor has seen fit to engage you—employ you, no less—in such a capacity?”