Page 33 of The Noble Smuggler

Elizabeth thought back on her years of working at the inn. She’d never had need to itemize her skills before. “I’ve been at the inn my whole life. My mother taught me to cook, so I’m quite useful in the kitchen. After she passed, I worked alone, making meals, serving guests their food and drink, and taking care of all the housekeeping.”

“Your responsibilities were significant.”

Elizabeth nodded. “There were times when the inn was so busy I scarcely had time to breathe. But once evening came and all the guests were abed, I could sometimes find a moment to listen to the night owls or read a page from my book or—”

“You can read?” The duchess interrupted.

“Yes, Your Grace. The late vicar, Mr. Crawford, taught me when I was young.”

For a few moments, the duchess remained silent, her expression contemplative. Elizabeth’s nervousness increased, and she would have taken up her teacup again—simply to have something to do with her hands—but the rattle of the small spoon against the cup and saucer would have instantly given her anxiety away.

“I shall get word to Reynard.” The duchess spoke decisively. “He came to Langton not so long ago. Perhaps he can be persuaded to return to meet with you.”

The duchess had seen Reynard. Did that mean he was fully recovered? “When you saw him, Your Grace, was he well?”

“He appeared in good health.”

Relief washed over her, bringing with it extra and unexpected emotion. “I am very glad. He was injured, you see, and I had not heard . . .” Elizabeth paused to collect herself. “I had hoped . . .” She had not realized how much she cared.

The duchess smiled kindly. “I believe he was held in the grasp of a raging fever for some time, but thanks to his strong constitution and Mrs. Beecham’s ministrations, he eventually rallied and is now well on the mend.” She rose to her feet, and Elizabeth immediately did the same. “I have a few things I must attend to this morning, Miss Doyle, but I will speak to Mrs. Beecham and ask that she make a poultice for your poor face. As I said, she is rather wonderful at those things.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but I hate to put Mrs. Beecham out any further.” Elizabeth glanced around the room, hoping to see her small bundle. “If someone would be so good as to return my clothing, perhaps I could be of help in the house until you hear back from Reynard.”

Already at the door, the duchess hesitated, a look of surprise on her face. “You feel well enough to leave your room?”

For a moment, Elizabeth had forgotten her reflection in the looking glass. “Would my appearance be too off-putting to others?”

“That is not what I asked, Miss Doyle.”

Appropriately set right, Elizabeth changed her response. “The swelling and bruising cause some discomfort, to be sure, but not so much as to make me incapable of some light work.”

“I get the feeling that you have never been accused of being lazy, Miss Doyle.”

Embarrassment heated Elizabeth’s cheeks. “No, Your Grace. Not that I can remember.”

The duchess smiled. “I will have some food sent up. A cup of tea is a nice way to start the day but not sufficient for very long. I imagine Mrs. Beecham knows what became of your clothes, and if not, she can probably round up something a little more substantial than a nightgown for you to wear. She can bring them when she comes with the poultice. In the meantime, I shall speak with my brother to see what can be done to keep you from boredom.”

Elizabeth bobbed a brief curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

***

Leaving his horse in James’s care, Jonas left the stable and walked briskly toward the house. He’d hoped an early-morning ride across the meadows would help clear his mind and set his course, but to his frustration, he felt no more clarity regarding the direction he should take now than he had before. His concern over his mother’s future weighed on him, along with discouragement over his lack of definitive answers in unearthing the Midnight Master. But it was Miss Doyle’s unexpected arrival at Langton Manor last night that was foremost in his thoughts.

After leaving the innkeeper’s daughter in the care of Mrs. Beecham, it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to return to his rooms rather than ride out to the inn to confront Doyle. That time would undoubtedly come. The vile man would answer for what he had done. But Jonas knew he must choose his time wisely. And in the meantime, he must determine how to respond to Miss Doyle’s request to contact Reynard.

When he reached the house, he entered by the front doors and marched across the tile floor.

“Jonas.”

Slowing his steps, he turned to see Rosalind hurrying down the stairs toward him.

“May I have a word?”

The urgency in his sister’s voice suggested that he had already failed in his attempt to reach his study before any additional crisis manifested itself. Upon seeing the purposeful look in her eyes, he became sure of it. He mustered a forbearing smile. “Of course.”

Waiting for her to join him in the hall, they walked together to his study. He invited her to enter ahead of him, then he shut the door and crossed the room to join her near the fire. The moment he was seated, she launched into her news.

“Miss Doyle can read.”