Free A Scandalous Plan by Donna Lea Simpson Page A

breath.
    The bell over the shop door rang loudly and an old man stumped in.
    “Mr. Gudge,” Mrs. Greavely said with a gasp. “I thought you were still laid up with a broken leg?”
    “I was until just a day ago.”
    The tiny shop was getting crowded, and James was just about to turn to leave when the old man caught his arm.
    “Say, you. You Mr. James Martindale?”
    “Mr. Gudge,” Lady Theresa said. “I was just about to introduce you. Mr. Martindale, this is Albert Gudge; he used to be my father’s game master, but Papa pensioned him when his . . . uh, heart began to give him trouble.”
    “You mean I began to drink too much and became a danger carrying a gun,” the old man said.
    The lady’s eyes widened and she fell silent.
    Gudge turned to James. “Sir, milady visited me with that boy o’ yourn. I broke m’leg and had no will to get up outta my chair afore that, but that boy o’ yourn . . . he’s a special lad. We sat an’ we carved, an’ he . . .” He broke off and swiped a hint of moisture out of his eye. “I like ’im,” he said loudly, looking around the shop as if daring anyone to contradict him. “He be a special lad.”
    Stunned and touched, James took the old man’s outstretched hand. “Are you responsible for that interesting carving he gave me last night, then, the tree with the woodland creatures?”
    “Not responsible. Just handed him a knife an’ a block o’ wood, and he done it.”
    “He did that himself?”
    “He did. Natural genius with a block o’ wood is that boy. If I might, I would like Lady Theresa to bring him again. Or . . . if you had a mind to visit an old man . . .” He trailed off and looked embarrassed. He ducked his head and touched his cap, then scuttled out, throwing one last glance and word over his shoulder. “Lady T., you bring that there boy any time you’re of a mind.”
    Babbling conversation broke out in the clean, white-painted shop.
    “He was sober. I don’t think I’ve seen Albert Gudge sober in . . .”
    “His leg was just fine. He limped, but it has healed, and I thought he was an invalid for life . . .”
    “It’s that boy, it’s that Jacob Martindale. I heard this morning that Harriet Parsifal has just inherited over two hundred pounds—can you imagine?—and she didn’t even know it was coming! And that after a visit from the boy!”
    Lady Theresa took James’s arm and bustled him out of the shop while his brain whirled with the things he had heard, the babbling gossip, some of it involving his son, it seemed.
    “Lady Theresa, what is going on? What was that all about?”
    “Just village gossip,” she said feverishly, guiding him toward Mr. Dartelle’s office.
    He grasped her arm, stopping her. “What is going on?”
    She stopped then and drew herself up. She was tall, eye to eye with him. “Why, nothing at all, Mr. Martindale. Folks are just surprised to see Mr. Gudge looking so good. He broke his leg in a fall some time ago and has not been able to walk since.” She shrugged and repeated, “People are just surprised.”
    He had to be satisfied with that and allowed her to guide him to Dartelle’s office, where he had business to conduct.
    “I will meet you at the livery stable, sir. I think we have done enough . . . uh . . . well, I think you have met enough of the villagers for now.”
    Her color was high and he was suspicious, but he could not imagine what she would be hiding.
    Dartelle was a portly, prosperous-looking man in his late forties. His hair was thinning on top and his chins were multiplying, but for all that he was pleasant-looking. He greeted James with a vigorous handshake and they got down to business. When it was accomplished, James frowned and sat back in his chair.
    “Mr. Dartelle, I have just come from meeting some of the villagers.”
    “May I hope that you will be thinking of offering for Meadowlark Mansion? Did they make you feel welcome in our village?”
    “Yees,” James said, drawing it out,