A Duke in the Night(50)
The interior of the kitchens was in shambles, much like the stable yard. Pots and pans had been left in haphazard piles, and a handful of soldiers were still hauling items from the depths of the cupboards. Crates of produce had been opened and emptied, the contents of the pantry shelves scattered across the surface of the large wooden table that had been dragged to the side amid broken crockery. Where the table should have been, covertly hinged pieces of floorboards had been thrown wide, exposing a deep, gaping hole that August hadn’t known existed.
Charleaux, usually unflappable, was standing on the far side, snatching items from soldiers and cursing loudly in French. His customarily dapper appearance was disheveled, his trim frame almost vibrating with anger. In the center of the disaster, a bulldog of an officer stood, his meaty fist wrapped around the nape of a familiar threadbare coat. The man was sweating profusely, but an unpleasant smile of satisfaction had crept across his broad face. The boy in his grip struggled, much as he had once done in August’s grasp in a shadowed hedgerow before he had darted away. But all of that was not what had August gaping.
Between the officer and August, two women inexplicably stood, blocking the officer’s exit. The one with the dark hair so like his had her hands on her hips, her posture stiff with ire in a way he had seen many times before. The woman closest to him, with the mahogany hair, had her hand extended as if she could stop him from leaving with his prize.
He strode forward, coming to a stop beside her.
“What seems to be the problem here, Miss Hayward?”
*
Clara froze at the sound of August’s voice, her nape prickling in sudden awareness. Anne’s head whipped around, and her eyes widened slightly. The officer restraining the boy turned, an unpleasant sneer on his face. Across the room Charleaux fell silent, his face flushed in ire. The soldiers who were still pillaging the kitchens paused in their mission, their attention transferred to the commanding newcomer who stood utterly still in their midst.
The tavern and Anne had been Clara’s last stop for the afternoon, as she’d checked in with her other students already. She hadn’t been at the Silver Swan long enough for Anne and Charleaux to pull out the accounting ledgers before all hell had broken loose. Soldiers had streamed in as patrons had scrambled out. And Clara and Anne had been left trying to slow the carnage.
“There seems to be some confusion,” Clara replied with a coolness she wasn’t feeling. She and Anne could talk and plead and beg all they wanted, but if this red-coated officer and his troops wanted to destroy the Silver Swan and then leave with a terrified child, there was little they could do to stop them. If ever there was a time for August Faulkner to be an unyielding, entitled, power-hungry duke, now would be it.
“I’ve noticed.” August’s voice was hard enough to cut diamonds, and never had he sounded so perfectly ducal. “And I must say that I take great umbrage at the manner in which this property is being treated.”
He didn’t acknowledge Anne or let on that their presence was anything but expected. A measure of relief flooded through Clara. Clearly there would be a time of reckoning for her and Anne, but it was not now. Not given the scene before them.
The captain’s eyes narrowed. “You cheat the king, you don’t deserve any other sort of treatment.”
“And what, exactly, makes you believe that anyone here is cheating the king?”
“I have information that says so.”
“From where?” August inquired pleasantly.
“What?”
“From where or from whom did you receive your information? Because I fear that your source is badly in error.”
“The cavity concealed in the floor begs to disagree. Big enough to store at least five dozen tubs smuggled ashore.”
“I don’t see any tubs.”
“Doesn’t mean there weren’t any before we arrived.”
“I’m sure there were hundreds.”
The captain’s mouth dropped open slightly. “I beg your pardon?”
“This tavern has been here for generations, Captain. It’s not unreasonable to think that it has, at some point in the past, been used to store ill-gotten gains. However, this establishment is now under new ownership.” August paused. “You may want to take that into consideration when flinging about accusations.”
The captain’s sneer faltered slightly. “And who might you be, exactly?” he demanded, his close-set eyes traveling the length of August, taking in his somewhat dusty, unassuming appearance.
“Ah. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Duke of Holloway. The current owner of this establishment and, curiously enough, a friend of the king.” He paused. “May I have the courtesy of your name?”
Clara took a moment to enjoy the sight of the color leaching from the captain’s face, as petty as it was.
The officer cleared his throat. “Captain Buhler.”
“Then I would appreciate it, Captain Buhler, if you would remove your men from my property before they do any more damage.” August paused and Clara saw him eye the collar of the boy’s ragged coat, still twisted mercilessly in the officer’s hand.
Clara didn’t know who the painfully thin, disheveled child was, but she had her suspicions. And the duke was once again in the right place at the right time.
“Additionally, I insist that you release the child.” August’s pretense of civility had been lost.