The information arrested him in mid-prowl. He turned a fascinated green gaze upon her. “Whose principals are?”
Folding her hands on her ledgers, Lucinda smiled at him. “Myself and Heather.”
She did not have time to savour his reaction; Blount entered with a pile of ledgers in his arms. Lucinda waved him to a seat beside her. While he sorted through his dog-eared tomes, she reached for her reticule. Withdrawing a pair of gold-rimmed half-glasses, she perched them on her nose. “Now then!”
Beneath Harry’s fascinated gaze, she proceeded to put Blount through his financial paces.
Appropriating a chair from the table—one that had been dusted—Harry sat by the window and studied Lucinda Babbacombe. She was, undoubtedly, the most unexpected, most surprising, most altogether intriguing woman he’d ever met.
He watched as she checked entry after entry, adding figures, frequently upside-down from Blount’s ledgers. The innkeeper had long since abandoned all resistance; out of his depth, faced with a totally unforeseen ordeal, he was now eager to gain approval.
As she worked through the ledgers, Lucinda came to the same somewhat reluctant conclusion. Blount wasn’t intentionally neglectful; he hadn’t meant to run the inn into the ground. He simply lacked direction and the experience to know what to do.
When, after an hour, she reached the end of her inquiries, Lucinda took off her glasses and fixed Blount with a shrewdly assessing glance. “Just so we are clear, Blount, it is up to me to make a recommendation on whether Babbacombe and Company should retain your services.” She tapped her closed ledger with one arm of her glasses. “While your figures are unimpressive, I will be reporting that I can find no evidence of malpractice—all seems entirely above board.”
The burly innkeeper looked so absurdly grateful Lucinda had to sternly suppress a reassuring smile. “I understand you were appointed to your present position on the death of the former landlord, Mr Harvey. From the books it’s clear that the inn had ceased to perform well long before your tenancy.”
Blount looked lost.
“Which means that you cannot be held to blame for its poor base performance.” Blount looked relieved. “However,” Lucinda continued, both tone and glance hardening, “I have to tell you that the current performance, for which you must bear responsibility, is less than adequate. Babbacombe and Company expect a reasonable return on their investment, Blount.”
The innkeeper’s brow furrowed. “But Mr Scrugthorpe—he’s the one as appointed me?”
“Ah, yes. Mr Scrugthorpe.”
Harry glanced at Lucinda’s face; her tone had turned distinctly chilly.
“Well, Mr Scrugthorpe said as how the profit didn’t matter so long as the inn paid its way.”
Lucinda blinked. “What was your previous position, Blount?”
“I used to keep the Blackbird’s Beak, up Fordham way.”
“The Blackbird’s Beak?”
“A hedge-tavern, I suspect,” Harry put in drily.
“Oh.” Lucinda met his gaze, then looked back at Blount. “Well, Blount, Mr Scrugthorpe is no longer Babbacombe and Company’s agent, largely because of the rather odd way he thought to do business. And, I fear, if you wish to remain an employee of the company, you’re going to have to learn to manage the Green Goose in a more commercial fashion. An inn in Newmarket cannot operate on the same principles as a hedge-tavern.”
Blount’s forehead was deeply creased. “I don’t know as how I rightly follow you, ma’am. Tap’s a tap, after all.”
“No, Blount. A tap is not a tap—it is the principal public room of the inn and as such should possess a clean and welcoming ambience. I do hope you won’t suggest that that,” she pointed in the direction of the tap, “is clean and welcoming?”
The big man shifted on his seat. “Dare say the missus could do a bit of a clean-up.”
“Indeed.” Lucilla nodded. “The missus and you, too, Blount. And whoever else you can get to help.” She folded her hands on her ledgers and looked Blount in the eye. “In my report, I am going to suggest that, rather than dismiss you, given you’ve not yet had an opportunity to show the company of what you’re capable, the company reserves judgement for three months and then reviews the situation.”
Blount swallowed. “What exactly does that mean, ma’am?”
“It means, Blount, that I will make a list of all the improvements that will need to be done to turn this inn into one rivalling the Barbican Arms, at least in profit. There’s no reason it shouldn’t. Improvements such as a thorough whitewashing inside and out, all the timber polished, present bedding discarded and fresh bought, all furniture polished and crockery replaced. And the kitchen needs a range.” Lucinda paused to meet Blount’s eye. “Ultimately, you will employ a good cook and serve wholesome meals continuously in the tap, which will be refurbished accordingly. I’ve noticed that there are few places at which travellers staying in this town can obtain a superior repast. By providing the best fare, the Green Goose will attract custom away from the coaching houses which, because of their preoccupation with coaching, supply only mediocre food.”
She paused but Blount only blinked at her. “I take it you are interested in keeping your position here?”
“Oh—yes, ma’am. Definitely! But…where’s the blunt coming from for all that?”
“Why, from the profits, Blount.” Lucinda eyed him straitly. “The profits before your wages are deducted—and before the return paid to the company. The company considers such matters as an investment in the inn’s future; if you’re wise, you’ll consider my suggestions in light of an investment in your future.”
Blount met her gaze; slowly he nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good!” Lucinda rose. “I will make a copy of the improvements I’ll be suggesting to the company and have my groom drop it by tomorrow.” She glanced at Blount as he struggled to his feet; his expression suggested he was still reeling. “Mr Mabberly will look in on you in a month’s time, to review your progress. And now, if there’s nothing else, I will bid you good day, Blount.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Blount hurried to open the door. “Thank you, ma’am.” He was clearly sincere.
Lucinda regally nodded and sailed from the room.
Reluctantly impressed, Harry followed close behind. Still inwardly amazed, he waited until they were back on the pavement, she gliding along with her nose in the air as if she had not just taken on Goliath and won, before catching her hand, neatly trapping it on his sleeve. Her fingers fluttered, then stilled. She cast him a quick glance, then studiously looked ahead. Her groom followed two paces behind, her ledgers clutched in his arms.
The young traveller who had been slouching in the tap slipped out of the inn door in their wake.
“My dear Mrs Babbacombe,” Harry began in what he hoped was an even tone. “I do hope you’re going to satisfy my curiosity as to why a gently reared female, however well-equipped for the task, goes about interrogating her company’s employees?”
Unabashed, Lucinda met his gaze; aggravation showed clearly in the green. “Because there is no one else.”
Harry held her gaze. His lips thinned. “I find that hard to believe. What about this Mr Mabberly—your agent? Why can he not take on the challenge of such as Blount?”
Lucinda’s lips quirked. “You must admit he was a definite challenge.” She slanted a deliberately provocative glance his way. “I feel quite chuffed.”
Harry snorted. “As you well know, you performed a minor miracle. That man will now work