Sheri Cobb South Read Free

pains before returning his gaze to the passing scenery— the duke’s feelings were betrayed only by a small sigh of relief when the stagecoach stopped at the Red Lion in Littledean.
    But alas, no comfort was to be found within. For here the stout woman discovered to her displeasure that there was no milk to be had for her wailing child.
    “What?” she demanded of the landlord. “None at all?”
    “None for the stagecoach passengers, any gates,” this worthy amended.
    “Then who, pray, are you saving it for?” challenged the offended parent.
    “The Quality,” she was informed roundly. “A fine thing it would be, if they had no milk for their coffee or tea!”
    The woman swept a disdainful glance about the taproom, dismissing James and the rest of his fellow passengers with a glance. “ I see no Quality here! They patronize better establishments than yours, I trow!”
    “Not if they stop in Littledean, they don’t, for it has but the one posting-house.”
    “Hmph! Next you will tell me that Littledean boasts but one cow!”
    “Nay, there are at least two, for I’m speaking to one of ‘em now,” replied the landlord, not without satisfaction.
    The woman’s face turned purple with rage. “Why, you—” she sputtered. “I ought to—”
    “Pardon me, but may I be of some assistance?”
    James never raised his voice, but something about his quiet, well-modulated tones had the effect of disarming the combatants, at least for the moment. The woman gestured angrily toward the landlord, who stood with his arms crossed over his apron, glaring back at her.
    “It’s not enough for this monster to starve my poor darling, now he must needs insult me, as well!”
    “The mail-coach will be here within the hour,” protested the landlord. “How will it look if I can’t offer the passengers milk for their coffee or tea, all on account of this woman’s mewling brat?”
    “Perhaps if the child were fed, he would cease, er, mewling,” James suggested reasonably. “Surely a lad his age will not require much.”
    The landlord’s gaze fell ever so briefly, and James, recognizing that a truce was within reach, was emboldened to withdraw from his coat pocket the purse bestowed upon him some days earlier by the solicitor. Spilling its contents into the palm of his hand, he was slightly embarrassed to discover that the pouch contained no coin smaller than a crown. This, however, he did not hesitate to press into the landlord’s hand, requesting him to bring the child a cup of milk along with whatever victuals he might have on hand suitable for a child of, James hazarded, four years.
    “Three,” corrected the child’s mother, adding proudly, “But he is a fine, strapping lad for his age, is he not?”
    To this James readily agreed. The landlord, looking from the crown piece in his hand to his patron’s worn and travel-stained coat, bit the silver coin and, apparently satisfied as to its authenticity, betook himself to the kitchen.
    Unbeknownst to James, this exchange had an interested observer in the person of one of his fellow passengers. The wiry little man who had so recently occupied the rear-facing seat watched with interest as James reached for his purse, and as a quantity of gold and silver coins spilled into James’s hand, the watcher’s eyes could have been seen to gleam. Unobtrusively, he slipped from the taproom and into the yard, where he met the erstwhile slumberer bearing down upon the hostelry carrying a bulging portmanteau under each beefy arm.
    “Wait,” he commanded this individual, then hailed the coachman. He put a number of questions to this worthy, to which (after a few copper coins exchanged hands) he received satisfactory answers. The stout man with the bags was summoned, and the portmanteaux were returned to the boot.
    “But I thought we was stopping in Littledean!” protested the stout man.
    “There’s been a change of plans,” stated his wiry fellow in a voice that brooked no