Page 50 of The Consolation Prize

“Yes sir, right away,” she answered cheerily and bounced up from her seat to run through to the kitchen.

At least this one didn’t stare at him blankly after every order. He turned to Rose. “What was her name again?”

“Janet,” she mumbled and returned to polishing a silver tankard with fervor.

Armand carried on to the kitchen and surprised Janet staring out of the window at Peter who was weeding the overgrown vegetable patch.

“I’ve just put the water on to boil,” she muttered guiltily, and unhooked the bathtub from where it hung against the wall.

Armand refrained from comment, helped himself to bread and butter out of the pantry and let himself out of the kitchen door, wandering down to the stables. He leaned against Arturo’s stall as he finished his snack, contemplating what to do with himself for the day. He thought he’d take his horse out for a ride over the countryside and stretch his legs.

He was looking over the indifferent nags they had helped themselves to from The Merry Wayfarer, all ensconced in stalls of their own, when Otho entered the stables with a sack of fodder over his shoulder, which he set down in one corner. He gave a start on seeing Armand, then recovered, straightening up and growling something that could have been a greeting.

Armand decided to interpret it as such. “Good morning to you, too,” he responded affably.

“Did you know there are three tenant farmers on your estate?” Otho demanded abruptly.

Armand brushed the crumbs from his tunic. “Three?” he frowned. “I knew there were one or two farms outlying on the edge of the grounds,” he said vaguely.

“There’s three,” Otho corrected him heavily. “And I have seen nothing to indicate they have paid you any dues for the past four years.”

Armand shrugged. “I daresay they haven’t, after all, who would have collected it?”

Otho regarded him thunderously. “You should have appointed a steward in your absence,” he said cuttingly. “That is what a responsible landowner would have done.”

“I daresay,” Armand agreed. “But I didn’t, and I’m not, so that’s neither here nor there at this point.”

Otho stared at him. “What happened to Sir Adrian’s steward?” he asked in exasperation.

“Old Haines? He dropped dead about three months before my godfather. By all accounts, he simply keeled over, face-first into the account books.”

Otho’s expression darkened. “I can well believe someone died between the pages of that book,” he said damningly. “It’s a messy scrawl and barely legible.”

Armand pulled a face. “Well, he was very old,” he muttered.

“We’ll ride over and visit with them later,” Otho said decisively. “You and I.”

“Visit with whom?” Armand asked, still thinking of Haines, who had been an old bachelor and left neither kith nor kin behind him.

“Your tenant farmers,” gritted out Otho, with narrowed eyes. “And you’re not weaseling out of it.”

Armand sighed. His new brother-in-law while useful in his own way, was also something of a despot. “What do you do for pleasure, Otho?” he asked suddenly curious.

“What?”

“Wine, women, or song? Which do you favor?”

Otho glared at him. “None of them. I’ve better things to occupy my time with.”

“Better things?” Armand repeated, but just then, Peter appeared framed in the stable doorway. “Sir Armand, you’ve visitors in the house,” he puffed. “Janet bade me fetch you.”

“Visitors?” His heart quailed. “Not the same ones as last night?” he asked with sudden misgiving.

Peter shook his head. “They’m new ones, Janet said.”

“Oh, very well,” Armand said, straightening up. “Hold that thought, Otho,” he said sternly. “We will revisit that topic again. Oh, and now I come to think of it, make sure you hire that drunken baker. What’s his name?”

“Beverley,” Otho ground out. “But I don’t think—”