“Bloody blasted Duke of Rydell. May ’e damn well rot in ’ell,” they all chanted in unison, lifting their mugs and glowering at a portrait hung behind the bar, which, upon closer inspection, was identical to one of the portraits hanging in the gallery at Rydell House in London.
Dane shifted lower in his seat, hoping they didn’t notice the resemblance between him and the portrait. He was getting the distinct feeling that he, and all his kin, weren’t very welcome here.
“What’s the Duke of Rydell done to you?” hehad to ask. Probably should have kept his mouth shut, but he’d never been much good at that.
“It’s not what ’e’s done, it’s what ’e hasn’t. Left this town to rot. Don’t care if the manor house falls into a pile of rubble, nor if there’s rain dripping into our ale.” The man with the patched pants glanced up at the ceiling through which daylight could be seen. “He’s too high-and-mighty to give a damn about the likes of us.”
Sounded like his father hadn’t been the most solicitous of landlords.
“Poor, sweet Miss Oliver,” said the barkeep. “Always writing ’im letters, and ’e never replies. The pretty little thing thinks she can melt a duke’s cold, cold heart, but of course, ’e don’t care about her precious historical society and all that muck about preservation and enrichment she’s always going on about.”
“I can’t say as I understand her historical lectures, though I do love to watch her talk,” said a younger man with work-roughened hands and a wind-chapped nose.
“Aye,” agreed the barkeep. “She’s lovely, she is. She could sell sand at the beach, and we’d all line up to buy it.”
Good thing he wasn’t staying overnight. If no one found out he was brother to the Duke of Rydell, and their new landlord, he might escape being chased out of town by a mob of pitchfork-wielding villagers.
The groom from the stables approached him at the bar. “Sir, I’m sorry to tell you, but your horseneeds to be reshod. There’s a stone lodged between the shoe and the frog.”
“I didn’t notice any limp.”
“Just happened, most like. But he’s limping now, and he’ll be lame if you don’t attend to it.”
“Fetch a new shoe, then. I’ll do it myself.”
“We don’t have any extra.”
“You’ve a farrier in this town?”
“Aye. Big Harold is both smithy and farrier.”
“And can he make me a new shoe?”
“Oh, aye.”
“In the next few hours?”
The barkeep doubled over with laughter, slapping his hand on his thigh as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“’Ere, Big Harold,” the barkeep shouted when he was able to talk, “can you make this fellow a new horseshoe within the hour?”
A huge giant of a man who’d been snoring with his head resting on his elbows grunted and raised his head. “Wassat?”
“This fine gentleman wants a horseshoe.”
The farrier rose unsteadily, propping himself up by one enormous hand on the table. “I’m not feeling well,” he announced and lurched from the room.
“Don’t think you’ll be getting that shoe within the hour, my fine fellow.” The barkeep smirked. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Splendid. Stuck in Squalton overnight. “Is there a hotel around here?”
That made the barkeep laugh even harder. “Ahotel?” He wiped his eyes with his apron. “This ain’t bleedin’ Brighton. I let a few rooms upstairs. You can have one for the night. What’s your name, then?”
Lord Dane Walker, second in line to the dukedom of Rydell and leaseholder of this grubby, ill-favored public house.That would go over swimmingly.
He tossed a few coins onto the bar. “Danny... Smith.” He couldn’t admit to being the bloody Duke of Rydell’s brother, also known as the town villain. He’d be made to answer for his sins, even if those sins were not of his making.
The sight of the coins made the barkeep stand up straighter. “Right, then, Mr. Smith. We’ll sober up old Harold under the pump, and you’ll have your horseshoe by tomorrow morning.”