Page 31 of A Winter Scandal

“I know. Fun, isn’t it?”

Thea closed her mouth on a gurgle of laughter. She would have liked to have retorted an unequivocal no, but she was not given to lying. In truth it was fun to be bandying words back and forth about such an illicit subject. It was exciting, even just a bit dangerous, and just beneath the surface bubbled the remembered heat and temptation of Gabriel’s kiss—that slow turn of heat and desire, the hunger and ache that opened within her, the messy, tumultuous mix of emotions.

He bent his head a little, craning to see her face. “Have I offended you, Miss Bainbridge?”

“Your words would offend any decent woman.”

“A curiously ambiguous reply.”

Thea could hear the smile in Gabriel’s tone. Try as she might, she could not keep from shooting a quick, challenging glance at him. “Well. Then I suppose you will just have to discover what I mean.”

Seven

The wife of the inn’s owner was a short, slender woman who looked as if she had never indulged in eating her own rich cooking. Possessed of a seemingly unending well of energy, she drove her family and staff to perform with the same tireless perfection she achieved. The quality of her meals and the cleanliness and comfort of the inn’s rooms were indisputable, and it was said that some went out of their way to spend a night at the Blue Boar.

She bustled forward to greet Thea, bobbing a curtsy and saying, “Miss Bainbridge, ’tis a pleasure to see you. Can I help you?” She cast a brief, curious glance toward Lord Morecombe. “My lord.”

“Mrs. Hornsby.” Gabriel nodded to her politely. “Perhaps we could have a cold collation in one of the private rooms. And if you would be so good as to join us …”

The woman’s brows rose with each statement, but she only nodded and led them to the best private dining room before hurrying off to see to their meal. Thea turned to face Gabriel, crossing her arms and regarding him coolly. “A cold collation? I thought we were here to ask questions, not eat.”

“I was feeling a mite peckish, and quite frankly, Mrs. Hornsby’s food surpasses my cook’s. Though pray don’t let that get back to Mrs. Cutledge or my bread will be soggier and the soup colder than ever. Besides, I have found that people are more apt to give one information if one has remunerated them in some way.”

A serving girl entered the room, bearing a tray of food, followed by Mrs. Hornsby with a smaller tray containing cups and pitchers. The first few minutes were occupied in arranging the collection of cold meats, cheeses, and breads on the table before them, with a tureen of soup as the centerpiece.

“Now, then, my lord, how can I help you?” Mrs. Hornsby asked, pouring wine.

“I am looking for someone who might have stayed here in the past few days. Probably a woman, maybe a man or a couple. They would have had a baby with them.”

“A baby?” The innkeeper’s wife set down her pitcher and looked sharply at Thea. “Are you talking about that babe you found in the manger, miss?”

“You know about him?” Lord Morecombe paused in lifting his glass. “Was he here?”

The middle-aged woman shook her head. “Oh, no, my lord, I just heard about it. A miracle, that’s what Liza Cooper says—little Lord Jesus himself appearing.”

“Well, I don’t think Matthew is our Lord and Savior,” Thea replied. “Just a baby abandoned in a place where they knew he would be warm and soon found.”

“That’s what I said.” Mrs. Hornsby nodded. “A miracle for the baby, though, you coming on it right away. Even inside like that, it can get powerful cold at night without a fire.”

“The thing is,” Thea went on, “we are trying to find out who left the baby there.”

“I see.” Mrs. Hornsby nodded, though she stole another curious glance at Lord Morecombe. “Well, there wasn’t anyone with a babe spending the night here, miss. I can’t remember last time someone came through with a wee one, must have been weeks.”

“Do you think it’s possible the child belongs to someone who lives around here?” Thea asked.

“I can’t see how. Hard to keep a secret like that in Chesley. There’s been a few babies born here the past year—how old is it, do you think?”

“Mrs. Brewster said she thought he was probably six or seven months old. So he would have been born in the late spring or early summer, I suppose.”

Mrs. Hornsby nodded. “The Johnsons’ wee one died right after it was born, you know. The Stouts’ baby passed on two months ago. And Dora Potts would cut off her right arm rather than give up that child of hers.”

“I have never seen the baby before. I can’t believe that he is from Chesley.”

“Another town maybe,” Mrs. Hornsby suggested. “Bynford or Nyebourne. Or it could have been a stranger just passing through—left the baby and kept on walking.”

“What if the person did not stay at your inn?” Morecombe asked. “Could they have rented a cottage? Or a room in someone’s home?”

“Not so as I’ve heard.” Mrs. Hornsby paused, considering. “I can ask around, get the mister to ask in the tavern. Mayhap somebody saw them on the road going or coming.”