Blount looked shocked when she waved him on. “I’ll need to see those, too.”
The kitchen was not as bad as she had feared, a fact she attributed to the buxom but worn-down woman who bobbed respectfully when introduced as “the missus.” The Blounts’ private quarters gave off the large, square room; Lucinda disavowed any desire to inspect them. After closely examining the large open fireplace and engaging in a detailed discussion with Mrs Blount on the technicalities of the draw and the overall capacity of the kitchen, which, by their impatient expressions, passed over both Blount’s and Harry Lester’s heads, she consented to be shown the parlours.
Both parlours were shabby and dusty but, when the shutters were opened, proved to have pleasant aspects. Both contained old but serviceable furniture.
“Hmm, mmm,” was Lucinda’s verdict. Blount looked glum.
In the back parlour, which looked out over a wilderness that had once been a garden, she eyed a sturdy oak table and its attendant chairs. “Please ask Mrs Blount to dust in here immediately. Meanwhile, I’ll see the rooms above stairs.”
With a resigned shrug, Blount went to the door of the kitchen to deliver the order, then returned to lead the way up the stairs. Halfway up, Lucinda paused to test the rickety balustrade. Leaning against it, she was startled to hear it crack—and even more startled to feel an arm of steel wrap about her waist and haul her back to the centre of the treads. She was released immediately but heard the muttered comment, “Damned nosy woman!”
Lucinda grinned, then schooled her features to impassivity as they reached the upper corridor.
“All the rooms be the same.” Blount swung open the nearest door. Without waiting to be asked, he crossed to open the shutters.
The sunlight played on a dreary scene. Yellowing whitewash flaked from the walls; the ewer and basin were both cracked. The bedclothes Lucinda mentally consigned to the flames without further thought. The furniture, however, was solid—oak as far as she could tell. Both the bed and the chest of drawers could, with a little care, be restored to acceptable state.
Pursing her lips, Lucinda nodded. She turned and swept out of the door, past Harry Lester, lounging against the frame. He straightened and followed her along the corridor. Behind them, Blount shot out of the room and hurried to interpose himself between Lucinda and the next door.
“This room’s currently taken, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” Lucinda wondered what sort of patron would make do with the sad amenities of the Green Goose.
As if in answer, a distinctly feminine giggle percolated through the door.
Lucinda’s expression grew coldly severe. “I see.” She shot an accusing glance at Blount, then, head high, moved along the corridor. “I’ll see the room at the end, then we’ll return downstairs.”
There were no further revelations; it was as Mr Mabberly had said—the Green Goose was sound enough in structure but its management needed a complete overhaul.
Descending once more to the hall, Lucinda beckoned Sim forward and relieved the lad of the bound ledgers he’d been carrying. Leading the way into the back parlour, she was pleased to discover the table and chairs dusted and wiped. Setting her ledgers on the table before the chair at its head, she placed her reticule beside them and sat. “Now, Blount, I would like to examine the books.”
Blount blinked. “The books?”
Her gaze steady, Lucinda nodded. “The blue one for incomings and the red one for expenditures.”
Blount stared, then muttered something Lucinda chose to interpret as an assent and departed.
Harry, who had maintained his role of silent protector throughout, strolled across to shut the door after him. Then he turned to his aunt’s unexpected acquaintance. “And now, my dear Mrs Babbacombe, perhaps you would enlighten me as to what you’re about?”
Lucinda resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at him—he was, she could tell, going to be difficult. “I am doing as I said—inspecting this inn.”
“Ah, yes.” The steely note was back in his voice. “And I’m to believe that some proprietor has seen fit to engage you—employ you, no less—in such a capacity?”
Lucinda met his gaze, her own lucidly candid. “Yes.”
The look he turned on her severely strained her composure.
With a wave, she put an end to his inquisition; Blount would soon be back. “If you must know, this inn is owned by Babbacombe and Company.”
The information arrested him in mid-prowl. He turned a fascinated green gaze upon her. “Whose principals are?”
Folding her hands on her ledgers, Lucinda smiled at him. “Myself and Heather.”
She did not have time to savour his reaction; Blount entered with a pile of ledgers in his arms. Lucinda waved him to a seat beside her. While he sorted through his dog-eared tomes, she reached for her reticule. Withdrawing a pair of gold-rimmed half-glasses, she perched them on her nose. “Now then!”
Beneath Harry’s fascinated gaze, she proceeded to put Blount through his financial paces.
Appropriating a chair from the table—one that had been dusted—Harry sat by the window and studied Lucinda Babbacombe. She was, undoubtedly, the most unexpected, most surprising, most altogether intriguing woman he’d ever met.