Page 22 of An Uncommon Earl

The little boy raised his head and squinted at the cloudy sky. “But the sun’s not there.” A fat raindrop landed on his cheek, and he swiped at it.

It was hard to argue when the sky was weeping in agreement. “Not today, perhaps. But I daresay the flowers are hoping to see it tomorrow.”

“Oy! Asher!”

The young boy blanched, swiveling around at the harsh shout. On the other side of the road, a heavy-set, redheaded youth stood with his hands on his ample girth, glaring at the waif. “Get over ’ere right now.”

The child took off running even as Jane’s thought process stuttered. Asher. Had the rude young man called the child she’d been speaking to Asher? Surely the name was unusual enough that there could not be more than one in a village of this size.

“Wait,” she called, but the little boy was already crossing the street. She took a couple of unsteady steps after him, but he was too fleet of foot for her to catch. She watched with dismay as the redheaded young man soundly cuffed the child’s ear before seizing him by the arm and marching him through the nearby open door.

“Come with me, Alice,” Jane said.

Refusing to be deterred by her uneven gait, Jane followed in the young boy’s wake. Alice stayed beside her, matching her pace as they hurried across the road. A row of whitewashed buildings faced the village green. The first appeared to be the milliner’s shop and boasted a large window display of hats. According to the boot etched onto the metal sign swinging above the following door, the next shop belonged to a cobbler. Then came the door through which the child had disappeared. A pig hung suspended from a large hook in the adjacent window. Beside it were three chickens. An oval platter displayed a dozen sausages and a large pork pie. Flies swarmed in buzzing circles around each piece of meat, and Jane tore her eyes away from the sight to read the sign above the window: Mr. George Stanley, Butcher. Finest Quality Pork Sausage.

A rumble sounded in the distance, and the isolated drops of rain became a faint memory. As if someone in the heavens had opened a tap, rain cascaded down, hissing against the thatched roofs above and soaking into the hard-packed ground below. Jane straightened her bonnet and hobbled into the butcher’s shop.

An older, heftier version of the young man she’d seen standing outside looked up from the counter, where he was slicing rashers of bacon. Setting down the knife, he wiped his blood-stained fingers on his apron. “Afternoon, miss. How can I help you?”

Jane clasped her hands, her damp gloves suddenly feeling clammy. All coherent thought seemed to have fled. What could she possibly say to the man?

“Is Mrs. Stanley available?”

The butcher’s eyes narrowed. Her request was obviously not what he had expected. “She’s gone to Newford today to visit her sister.” He folded his arms over his broad chest. “Should be back tomorrow.”

Jane’s heart sank. The conversation ahead of her would be difficult enough with another woman. She refused to have it with the unapproachable butcher. Perhaps she did not need to speak to either of them. She had seen a boy who answered to the name of Asher. Spoken to him, even. She could write and tell Lord Bloxley that the boy was, in fact, in High Brodmore. The earl would be far better able to extract any further information on him from the wet nurse or her husband. And he could ask to speak to the boy with no questions asked.

“I am sorry to have missed her,” Jane said. “But I am glad to see that you still have some of your fine sausages for sale.” She offered him a bland smile. “I shall take one pound, if you please.”

Her change of course caught the butcher off guard. “Sausages?”

“Yes. Your sign does say that they are of the finest quality.”

He stepped over to the platter and waved his fat hand over it to displace the flies. “Make them meself,” he said, digging a handful out of the pile. “One pound, you said?”

Jane had absolutely no idea how many sausages were in a pound, but she hoped that Cook could make use of them regardless. “If you please.”

He slapped the meat onto one side of the scale and switched out the weight on the other side. The matching dishes swayed, and he added another sausage. “Anything else?”

Jane’s fingers tightened around her reticule. She knew exactly what was inside—and it did not include any coins. “That will be all for now,” she said, feigning a confidence she did not feel. “Please send the bill to Charwell Park.”

Mr. Stanley raised his eyebrows and dropped the sausages onto a piece of paper with a little more force than necessary. “Glad for yer business, Miss Hadford. Welcome to Berkshire.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stanley,” Jane said.

He extended the tightly wrapped sausages, and Alice took them from him. Jane offered him a polite nod and limped out of the shop as quickly as she could manage.

Standing beneath the overhanging thatch, she looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Asher or the youth who had hauled him inside. Indeed, the only person outside, defying the pouring rain, was her carriage driver. If she and Alice left the protection of the shop front now, they would soon be equally wet. But she refused to delay. Although she could not put her finger on what it was precisely, there was something about Mr. Stanley that set her on edge.

Chapter 8

Charwell Park

25th April 1788

Dear Lord Bloxley,

I am writing to inform you that I have visited the village of High Brodmore and spoken with a boy whom I believe was Asher.