be no more than eight years old.
“The next time I tell you to stay home, you will follow orders, Otter.”
“Like hell I will. Your sword has gone missing. We’ve a sneak thief in the camp, and you’re too busy making sheep’s eyes at Miss Ann.”
Rye had done far more than make sheep’s eyes at the woman, but Otter was being delicate. “It might have escaped your notice, but I am of age and have independent means. Calling on the occasional lady should be part of the blessings attendant thereto.”
“You’re sweet on her,” Otter said, dancing ahead on the walkway. “We all are. You could marry her, and we’d be fat as lords in a month. Something is off about the warehouse inventory.”
Marry her. Rye hadn’t stumbled across those words in his mental peregrinations, and they were fine words in the right circumstances. Ann deserved commitment and devotion, despite her fierce independence. Becoming her ally, much less her spouse, would be a challenge.
She loved her cookery, had fought hard for it, and shouldn’t have to give it up. But marriage generally meant babies, and…
Rye’s steps slowed, though he wasn’t approaching any street corners.
Babies, with Ann. He’d been dutiful toward his various properties and toward the business he’d inherited, but to have a family with Ann… to build something for that family…
“We going to the warehouse?” Otter asked, shoving his hair out of his eyes.
“Why would we do that?”
“Because the tally is off by four hundred cases.”
“What?”
“The tally is off by four hundred cases, guv, as in cases missing. Somebody helped themselves to half your goods.”
Not half of Rye’s goods, not even half the goods he had on hand in London, but certainly a good portion of his profit. “Did Dorning take his order from the warehouse rather than the dock?”
“Bertie says not. He kept an eye on the unloading, lest somebody get light-fingered between the dock and the wagon.”
Bertie had doubtless kept an eye from some rooftop when he should have been practicing his penmanship.
“Why did Bertie take it upon himself to oversee the transfer of goods?”
Otter glanced about, and it occurred to Rye that the boy had purposely raised this topic on the street, away from home, and away from the others.
“Somebody has it in for you, guv. We all know that. Dorning seems like a good ’un, but we hear things.”
Rye resumed walking. “What things?”
“Whispers. The Coventry has its problems.”
Ann worked at the Coventry, and thus Rye knew some of those problems. “The chef is an idiot. What else?”
“How did you know that?”
“You aren’t the only person with eyes and ears, Otter. Jules Delacourt is probably skimming from the pantries, if not the pantries and the wine cellar.” Would he steal from Rye in an attempt to protect Fournier’s interests? Vive la France and all that?
Somebody had certainly stolen from Rye. The warehouse, usually stacked to the ceiling with cases of champagne and other wines, showed a gaping emptiness near the sliding doors that opened into the yard.
“The thieves weren’t subtle,” Rye said. “They didn’t even try to hide what they’d done.” Warehouses were all too easy to steal from, and artfully rearranging the contents could hide the theft for a considerable period. These thieves had wanted Rye to notice the missing inventory immediately.
“Only the champagne was stolen?” he asked.
“Aye.” Otter ambled off between rows of wooden cases, his voice floating through the gloom. “The other vintages weren’t touched. Louis and I checked twice.”
“When did you check?” The warehouse was a cavernous structure, the better to keep the inventory cool. Rye had chosen a building distant from the wharves because wine preferred dry air and because the risk of theft was less.
Or should have been.
“We came here at first light, and no, your watchman didn’t see us. He were fast asleep, and anybody with a decent set of picks could have got past the lock on your barn door.”
“Fast asleep?”
“He’s old,” Otter said. “Older than you.”
Nicolas was one of Lucille’s many relatives and connections. His instructions were to sound an alarm if he detected intruders, not to put himself at risk over a few bottles of champagne.
“Fetch Dorning to me,” Rye said. “And fetch him now.”
Otter emerged from between stacked cases halfway down the row, something in his hands. “Found your sword, guv. Was lying atop a case of the merlot. Scabbard and all.”
Rye unsheathed the sword far enough to see the Goddard family motto. Cervus non servus, which translated to something like a stag forever free.
Unease uncurled in