Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,266

no one would be looking for a pint at this hour. “A word if you don’t mind, George?”

“Of course.”

If Rhys had learned anything from his misstep of accusing Wister of having been incompetent, it was to choose his words carefully. The last thing he wished to do was to go throwing accusations of mail theft at one of the locals. “How did you used to handle the mail from Kington House when Lord Kington was still alive? Did everything in and out go via his lordship?”

George Weld’s face turned ashen. Rhys held his gaze, determined that he would get the truth. The innkeeper slowly shook his head, then sighed.

He headed to the front door and turned the key in the lock, then flipped the Open sign to Closed. His shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath and turned back to face Rhys.

“Does Miss York know?”

Bloody hell.

Now was not the time for a long, drawn out conversation. Rhys was barely keeping his temper under control. He slapped his hat against the side of his coat several times, all the while wishing desperately to take the innkeeper firmly by the throat. “Just tell me the truth. All of it,” he demanded.

“On Lord Kington’s instructions, all letters which I received from Miss York for mailing were to be handed over to him for inspection. He would then give me another letter which I had to send with the next mail coach. Her letter, meanwhile, would sit here for a week and then be sent on.”

Rhys clenched his fists, crumpling the edge of his hat. “And, of course, both letters were always to the same person on each occasion?”

George’s gaze shifted from Rhys’s hand to his face and he nodded.

Any wonder Wister had never been able to escape her life in Kington. By ensuring that her applications had been sent, Lord Kington made certain Wister would receive letters of rejection. She would then think herself to blame for her lack of success.

“If it is of any comfort, I am sorry. I like Miss York. She has always been kind to me and my son. But Lord Kington was the local squire. I couldn’t defy him,” said George.

Rhys knew the power that being a noble or even a minor lord held in both Wales and here in England. The villagers of Kington would have been hard pressed to say no to him. It still didn’t make what George Weld had done anything close to being right. “I hope you are able to sleep at night knowing that you were party to keeping a young, vulnerable woman captive.”

George’s head dropped. “Lord Carno, I have sat up many a night wondering what I could do. In the end, when I face my maker, that is when I will be held accountable.”

Rhys’s ire rose. “Yes, you will be judged on what you did. But you are wrong about it only being when you die, because this lord is determined to also wield his power. I am going to tell you what you are going to do, and it will be before this very day is out.” He shook his fist in the tavern keeper’s face and George flinched.

“And what’s that?” he replied, a tremble in his voice.

“Get on your bloody knees and beg Wister for mercy. Lord knows you don’t have the right to ask for forgiveness!”

Chapter Fourteen

Wister wandered in from the nearby Kington Wood a little before eleven. She would gladly have stayed away all morning, but there was too much work to be done around the house. As she made her way between the apple trees in the orchard, she tapped the side of her skirts with the long, thin twig she had picked up earlier under a silver birch tree. There was an almost calming beat to the swish and flick. Almost.

She had slept little last night, her mind in too much of a whirl over the events of the evening. How could any woman be expected to sleep after having been kissed so thoroughly by her employer?

The sight of a travel coach standing in the drive did little to lift her mood.

“Oh, wonderful. Baron Ruthin is here. Just what I need—another bloody Welsh baron,” she muttered.

She slowed her steps. Delaying the inevitable meeting with Rhys was a tad childish, and perhaps even petulant, but Wister was still in two minds as to what she should say to him when they did eventually cross paths. As her pace reduced to a mere