Free A Wicked Way to Burn by Margaret Miles

suppose not. I wonder where Lydia is now? I would guess she’s in your kitchen, making life difficult for your excellent cook. I only hope it doesn’t affect the pudding, or the pie, or whatever you were planning to enjoy for your dinner this afternoon.”
    “That’s probably what she is doing,” admitted Pratt, after sucking in his breath. Then, he began to work his lips with annoyance at the thought.
    Ponderously, he lifted himself from his squeaking chair, reflecting uneasily that here was a woman who enjoyed dangerous entertainment. From such a person, no one was safe—not even an innkeeper with the best of intentions.

Chapter 7

    F URTIVELY, JONATHAN PRATT led Charlotte over a path of polished boards and dark Turkish runners, up the whitewashed back stairway and along the hall to a highly lacquered door.
    “The Jamaica Room,” the innkeeper whispered, while he turned the brass knob.
    A glow of reflected light, along with a scent of beeswax and lemon polish, seeped out of the room as they entered. Pratt quickly closed the door. The morning sun that had warmed the air inside played on a multicolored quilt spread between the bed’s four turned maple posts.
    The overall effect of the room was soothing. Late roses stood in a blown glass vase, sprigs of lavender peeped from beneath the pillows, and a watercolor of a bright Caribbean scene hung on one wall. There were several things that might have told someone somethingabout the inn’s owners and its staff. But there was very little of a personal nature to help explain the room’s most recent occupant.
    A traveling valise made of the best quality leather stood on a painted chest across from the bed. Charlotte at once crossed a figured carpet, and paused over the bag for only an instant before reaching down and undoing its clasp. Little inside surprised her. As Jonathan cleared his throat and modestly looked away, she lifted out a shirt, a pair of white silk hose and some undergarments, equipment for shaving, a box of peppermints, and a shoehorn. Duncan Middleton had apparently been a man careful of his things. Not many took the trouble to travel with a shoehorn.
    “That’s all,” Pratt concluded nervously, “that, and his horse. By the way, one of my other guests told me the man is a merchant and a shipowner. This same guest took my message to Middleton’s household this morning. Now, as I believe that’s all that could interest you …” But before she could take his offered arm, Jonathan flinched at a footstep in the hall, though it soon passed away harmlessly.
    In that brief moment Charlotte, too, was shocked by something unexpected—a bright flash of light from a place she thought odd. It had come from behind a small cabinet that stood between the chest and a corner. The cabinet held a large china wash set on its marble top. She moved closer, and pulled one edge away from the wall.
    The innkeeper moaned softly when he saw the broken mirror. A few splinters reflected the daylight, while its thin wood backing showed through in spots where the glass was missing. More lay on the floor.
    Charlotte bent and picked up a large shard with an edge of her skirt. An accident, hidden quietly away? Shestraightened as the innkeeper continued to voice his dismay.
    “I’ve
told
her not to cover mistakes, but to just come and tell me when something goes wrong, so that it can be fixed! You’d think I made a practice of beating my household daily, when you see the lengths some of them go to. Some day, I pray she learns to trust someone, somewhere.”
    “Mary?” guessed Charlotte, setting down the jagged fragment.
    “She’s had difficulties learning her duties here, coming from a house where everything ends up on the floor. It’s certainly not the first thing she’s broken. And that’s not all. What, in your opinion, is to be done with young women who are in love?”
    Knowing no good answer, Charlotte simply smiled, and changed the subject.
    “Jonathan, did