Dead After Dark (Companion #6.5)(56)

He bore their scrutiny and stepped to the bar. “A pint of ale and a beefsteak,” he ordered. He didn’t ask for a private parlor. The little inn didn’t have one. He’d have to eat his dinner in the taproom with everyone else. So be it. He was famished and the risk had to be faced sooner or later.

“Yes, milord,” the owner said, eyeing the cut of his coat and the polish on his boots. Barton didn’t recognize him. That was good. Drew would have known Barton anywhere. The long fringe around his head never had made up for the bald pate that shone above it.

“Just plain Mr. Carlowe,” he corrected.

“Carlowe, is it?” old Mr. Henley wheezed, sidling up to him. “Rumor ’as it ye mean to buy Ashland.”

“Signed the papers this afternoon.” The keys against his heart felt like a triumph.

The attention of the room was riveted on him now. Barton slapped down a tankard of foaming ale in front of him. “Too bad,” he muttered.

Drew frowned. He had expected them to be impressed. Ashland was second only to The Maples in grandeur hereabouts. It must be big news that it was purchased at last after standing empty for so many years. “I’ll renovate of course.” It had been half-ruined even when he was nineteen. “And I’ll need a staff.” That would be good for the neighborhood.

“Don’t think nobody will work up at Ashland,” old Mr. Henley observed, looking pointedly at his empty glass with a rheumy eye.

Did they know he was an imposter? Was that why no one would work for him? He’d studied carefully to remove all traces of the stable in his accent and avoid any lapse in his taste and style. “Why not?” he challenged.

“Th’ place is ’aunted,” Old Henley said, cackling.

Drew relaxed. Those rumors had been rampant even when he was a boy. “Every empty house has ghosts according to the locals.” He motioned to Barton to give Henley a pint.

“This house ’as just got th’ one,” Barton said as he turned the spigot on the barrel. “A beautiful young woman.”

“Perhaps I’ll enjoy having a beautiful ghost.” Drew grinned. He hadn’t had a woman in a long time. Once he’d cashed out, he’d saved himself for Emily.

“Not when ye run screaming from th’ ’ouse because th’ ghost ’as sucked yer blood,” a farmer guffawed. There were nods around the room and chuckles.

Drew smiled. “Vampires suck blood, not ghosts.”

“I’ll wager ye won’t spend a full night in th’ place,” Barton said. He wasn’t smiling.

A little game of “intimidate the stranger.” Every village played it.

“I intend to go up there later tonight. Shall we stake a pint of beer then?”

Barton set a pint down in front of Old Henley. “Ye’re on.”

There were things he wanted to know that the house agent hadn’t been able to tell him. What better place for information than the Goose and Gander? “I’m sure my ghost can’t compete with Sir Melaphont’s daughter for beauty. The agent, Bromley, was singing her praises.” Actually the agent for Ashland didn’t know Emily, which could be thought strange since he worked for Melaphont. Melaphont acted for the family that owned Ashland, since they lived in some obscure corner of world. The Carpathian Mountains, wasn’t it?

Old Henley cackled. “Pretty much th’ same, they are, I’d say.”

That brought knowing chuckles along the length of the bar.

A thought occurred. He was shocked he hadn’t thought of it before. “Is Miss Emily Melaphont married?”

“Not any more,” Henley remarked, pulling on his ale.

“Is . . . is she resident here abouts?”

“Why, Mr. Carlowe? Lookin’ for a ’eiress?” A man to his left smirked over his tankard.

“No need.” Drew smiled. “Made my fortune in shipping.” True. Technically. “Always good to have young ladies of birth in the neighborhood, though. Gentles the place.”

Old Henley looked thoughtful. “She’s still ’ere. Ain’t never left.”

His heart expanded. He had known she’d wait for him. The years away had been painful. But he couldn’t come back until he could hold his head high. Until he could look her in the eye and ask her to come away with him, knowing he could provide for her in the fashion to which she was accustomed. It was a terrible risk he took now. But he was tired of living a half-life of regret, the victim of another man’s spite. He didn’t want to be a victim any more.

“Barton,” he called then cursed himself. The man had never introduced himself. But no, it was all right. He might have heard the tapster’s name from a customer. “Can you deliver supplies up there?” He’d have to make do for himself until he could find servants.

Barton looked uncertain.

“Surely someone has the courage to leave a package in the kitchen if they go in the bright light of day?” These superstitious villagers were far more annoying now than when he had been one of them. “I pay quite handsomely.”

“I can get a boy to leave a box by th’ door, I guess, though we’re short’anded because of th’ influenza.” He motioned to a table where the serving girl was setting a sizzling beefsteak. “I’ll send one up tomorrow, if ye’re still ’ere.”