“The stables?”
Her gaze ranging their surroundings, Lucinda nodded. “The state of the stableyard frequently reflects the quality of the inn’s management.”
The state of the stables suggested the innkeeper of the Barbican Arms was a perfectionist; everything was neat, clean and in its place. Horses turned their heads to stare as Lucinda picked her way over the cobbles, still wet with dew, forced more than once to lean heavily on Harry’s arm.
When they reached the earthen floor of the stables, she determinedly straightened. Regretfully withdrawing her fingers from the warmth of his sleeve, she strolled along the row of loose boxes, stopping here and there to acknowledge their curious occupants. She eventually reached the tack room and peered in.
“Excuse me, ma’am—but you shouldn’t be in here.” An elderly groom hurried out.
Harry stepped out of the shadows. “It’s all right, Johnson. I’ll see the lady safe,”
“Oh!—it’s you, Mr Lester.” The groom touched his cap. “That’s all right and tight, then. Ma’am.” With another tug of his cap, the groom retreated into the tack room.
Lucinda blinked, then shot a glance at Harry. “Is it always so ordered? So…” She waved at the loose boxes, each with their half-doors shut. “So exact?”
“Yes.” Harry looked down at her as she stopped beside him. “I stable my carriage horses here—you may rest assured of the quality in that respect.”
“I see.” Deeming all queries on the equine side of business satisfied, Lucinda turned her attention to the inn proper.
Ushered through the main door, she looked with approval on half-panelled walls, well-polished and glowing mellowly. Sunshine reflected from crisply whitewashed walls; stray beams danced across the flagged floor.
Mr Jenkins, the innkeeper, a neat, rotund person of genial mien, bustled up. Harry performed the introductions, then stood patiently by while Lucinda explained her purpose. Unlike Blount, Mr Jenkins was all gratified helpfulness.
Lucinda turned to Harry. “My business with Mr Jenkins will keep me busy for at least an hour. I wouldn’t for the world impose on your kindness, Mr Lester—you’ve already done so much. And I can hardly come to harm within the inn.”
Harry didn’t blink. For her, the Arms played host to a panapoly of dangers—namely his peers. Meeting her innocent gaze with an impenetrable blandness, he waved a languid hand. “Indeed—but my horses don’t run until later.”
Which comment, he noted, brought a flash to her eyes. She hesitated, then, somewhat stiffly, acquiesced, inclining her head before turning back to Mr Jenkins.
Wearing patience like a halo, Harry followed his host and his aunt’s guest about the old inn, through rambling passageways and storerooms, to bedchambers and even to the garrets. They were returning down an upper corridor when a man came blundering out of a room.
Lucinda, opposite the door, started; glimpsing the man from the corner of her eye, she braced herself for a collision. Instead
, she was bodily set aside; the chubby young gentleman ran full tilt into a hard shoulder. He bounced off, crumpling against the door frame.
“Ouf!” Straightening, the man blinked. “Oh—hello, Lester. Slept in, don’t y’know. Can’t miss the first race.” He blinked again, a puzzled frown forming in his eyes. “Thought you’d be at the track by now.”
“Later.” Harry stepped back, revealing Lucinda.
The young man blinked again. “Oh—ah, yes. Terribly sorry, ma’am—always being told I should look where I’m going. No harm done, I hope?”
Lucinda smiled at the ingenuous apology. “No—none.” Thanks to her protector.
“Good—oh! I’d best be on my way, then. See you at the track, Lester.” With an awkward bow and a cheery wave, the youthful sprig hurried off.
Harry snorted.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr Lester.” Lucinda slanted him a smile. “I’m really most grateful.”
Harry took full note of the quality of her smile. Coolly, he inclined his head and waved her on in Jenkins’s wake.
By the end of her tour, Lucinda was impressed. The Barbican Arms, and Mr Jenkins, were a far cry from the Green Goose and Jake Blount. The inn was spick and span throughout; she had found nothing remotely amiss. Her inspection of the books was a mere formality; Mr Mabberly had already declared the Arms a model of good finance.
She and her host spent a few minutes going over the plans for an extension to the inn. “For we’re full to overflowing during race-meets and more than half full at other times.”
Lucinda gave her general approval and left the details for Mr Mabberly.
“Thank you, Mr Jenkins,” she declared, pulling on her gloves as they headed for the door. “I must tell you that, having visited all but four of the fifty-four inns owned by Babbacombe and Company, I would rank the Barbican Arms as one of the best.”