Once Upon a Winter's Eve (Spindle Cove #1.5)(11)

“If you get us alone,” he whispered, “I will tell you everything.”

Chapter Four

Alone?

Her pulse thumping, Violet sat back in her chair and regarded the bound man. His eyes glittered with challenge. He asked her to risk her own safety and that of her friends, even though he’d given her no reason to trust him.

Well, then. If she could not trust him, Violet had no choice but to trust herself. She must follow her own instincts.

The decision made, she stood and turned. “Mr. Fosbury? Finn? I’ve made an important discovery. Our man speaks French. Quite well, in fact.”

She shot a glance at their captive. His eyes didn’t glitter now. Did he feel betrayed, perhaps? Very well. It might do him good to learn that feeling.

“Cor,” Finn made an ungainly slide from the windowsill. “I knew it. Good for you, Miss Winterbottom.”

“As a matter of fact,” Violet said, “the man has expressed a wish to confess everything. But he’ll only speak directly to the commander.”

Finn straightened. “We must inform Lord Rycliff straightaway.”

“We’ll send a pair of footmen to the castle,” Fosbury said.

“Footmen?” Finn echoed. “Bollocks to that.” Leaning on his crutch, the youth buttoned the front of his coat. “I’m going myself.”

“Now, Finn,” Violet said in a motherly tone, “I know you’re frustrated with your limitations after your injury, but this isn’t the job for you. You can’t—”

“I can. And I will. If you’ll pardon me, Miss Winterbottom, the only thing frustrating me is the whole village treating me like a child.” He lifted his crutch and pointed it at Sir Lewis’s ornate clock. “I’ll be back here, Lord Rycliff in tow, in less than hour. You mark me.”

And with a hasty bow, the youth was gone, leaving Violet and Mr. Fosbury to shrug at each other.

“He’ll be fine, Miss Winterbottom,” the tavern-keeper said. “The boy’s got pluck.”

“Oh, I know he does.”

She turned to the window, watching Finn’s retreating form and hoping to conceal her satisfaction. That had gone even better than she’d hoped.

One down. One to go.

She had an hour. During that time, she would do her best to contrive a few minutes alone with Christian, or Corentin, or whoever he was. She wanted to hear what he had to say. She needed to learn the truth. But she would not be his fool.

Now, what to do with Fosbury?

She turned to the tavern-keeper. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Fosbury, but I could do with a bit of refreshment.”

The big man stretched and rubbed his belly. “Now that you mention it, I am rather hungry.”

“I hate to wake the maids at this hour. Why don’t you fetch us something from the kitchen?”

Fosbury’s hand ceased circling his gut. Violet stood very still and held her breath.

“But what if he”—Fosbury jerked his head at the bound man—”tries something while I’m gone? I’m charged with your protection.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. He’s tied to the chair.”

He considered, but ultimately shook his head. “No. I can’t leave you alone with him, Miss Winterbottom.”

“Damn,” Violet muttered.

“Beg pardon?”

“Er… Ham. I said ham. You know. I only mean, I keep thinking of all that food that must have been left after the ball, you see. The…”

“Ham,” he finished for her.

“Yes. The ham.” Lord, she felt inexpressibly stupid. “And the roasted beef. And goose. The glacéed fruits, the freshly baked breads. All those lovely cakes you brought up from the tea shop, all iced and sugared…” She sighed. “What a shame it is, to think of them going to waste.”

“Well…” Fosbury regarded the bound man hunched in the chair. “I reckon we could take him along.”

The tavern-keeper unwound the rope lashing their captive to the chair. The man’s hands remained tied tight behind his back.

Fosbury prodded him forward. “Go on, you.”

Violet lifted a candleholder and guided their way to the Summerfield kitchen. Just as she’d suspected, the center worktable was laden with covered dishes of uneaten food, left over from the interrupted ball.

There were no proper chairs in the kitchen, only three-legged stools. Fosbury shoved the captive onto a stool near one end of the table and lashed his human calves to the stool’s wooden legs. If the man leaned too far to the side, he’d tip and crash to the floor. If he fell forward, he’d drown in the bowl of mulled wine.

Violet said, “Please have a seat, Mr. Fosbury. You’re always serving others at the Bull and Blossom. Tonight, I’ll make you a plate.”

“That’s very kind of you, Miss Winterbottom. Don’t mind if I do.” The tavern-keeper plunked down on a stool toward the far end of the table.

Violet found a few plates and moved down the row of saved dishes, heaping the plates with lobster patties, sliced meats, and sugar-dusted cakes. When she’d piled the delicacies high, she laid one plate before Mr. Fosbury. He muttered his thanks, reaching for a roll with one hand and spearing a lobster patty with the other.