“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.
She ladled two generous goblets of wine from the bowl and pushed one toward Fosbury. The tavern-keeper took a long draught.
At the opposite end of the table, she set the other plate and goblet before her companion. The mystery. Time to see which of them would unravel first.
Again, she spoke to him in French. “You must be hungry.”
He stared at the plate, shrugging his shoulders to draw attention to the fact that his hands remained bound behind his back. “Am I to eat like a dog?”
“You know I can’t release you. Much less let you anywhere near a fork and knife.”
“Then perhaps you’d be so kind as to feed me.”
The stark look of hunger crossed his face. Hunger for what, she didn’t dare guess.
She folded a thin slice of ham and, holding it by the slightest edge of her fingertips, offered it to him.
“Closer,” he urged.
With a sigh, she obeyed. She stretched her arm just an inch further.
He ducked his head and kissed the underside her wrist. A little spark of heat scalded the delicate flesh, and she pulled back as if burnt.