wine. But rather than ridding his body of the poison, he kept bending forward slowly until he’d finally toppled to the ground headfirst.
Hunter curled his lip in disgust and wondered if it would be worth the effort to drag the sot up again. Probably not. From what he knew of Mr. Potsbottom, and what little—what very little—the drunken fool had been able to make clear, it was fairly obvious the young man had been drunk, clumsy, and stupid when he’d turned his attentions on Kate, but hadn’t intended to harm.
He’d have another talk with him in London, a sober one, about limiting his drink. And to make certain he kept his tongue in his head.
Mr. Potsbottom snorted, gurgled, and began to snore.
“Waste of good air,” Hunter grumbled.
A soft snicker sounded from overhead and he looked up to discover a large pair of brown eyes in a young face peeking out from over a bale of hay in the loft.
Hunter jerked his head in acknowledgment. “Evening, lad. You have a name?”
“Simon, sir.”
“Well, Simon.” He dug a few coins out and held one up for the stable boy to see. “Care to earn a bit of this?”
The boy crawled out from behind the hay to crouch on his heels at the edge of the loft. At least twelve, Hunter guessed. Old enough to hear a spot of rough language. He tossed him the coin. “Inform Mr. Potsbottom upon his rising that he is to get on his horse and go home. He can send for his things. If he takes one step inside Pallton House, I’ll personally hack off the offending foot.”
Simon nodded.
Hunter tossed him another coin. “Also inform him that if he speaks one word of what took place this night I’ll personally hack off his head.”
Simon nodded again.
“If he gives you any trouble, come for me. Understood?”
“Aye.”
“Good lad.”
“You hack off mine? If I talk?”
“Won’t need to, will I? That’s what this is for.” He tossed him a wink to let him know the jest, and tossed him the final coin, a sovereign. “You’re in no danger from me, Simon. But I expect you to earn that and be mindful of what you say.”
“Aye,” the boy breathed, he turned the coin over in his hand, his eyes wide. “That I will.”
Though he would have preferred to go straight to his room for a drink, and the privacy in which to savor it and his foul mood, Hunter made himself stop by the library on his return from the stable. Cracking the door open, he looked inside to discover Lord Martin passed out on a settee, Mr. Kepford snoring loudly on the floor in front of the settee, and Mr. Woodruff slumped over in a high back chair, a thin line of drool seeping from his mouth.
He briefly considered picking each of their pockets for the keys to their chambers before deciding it would be easier and safer to simply pick the locks on their doors. He’d been a fine pickpocket in his youth, but he’d been a better thief.
He let himself into Lord Martin’s room first, using the tools from a small leather satchel he rarely went anywhere without. He’d not had the benefit of those tools the first time he’d gone thieving. There’d been only one of his mother’s hairpins, a small knife, and a very rudimentary understanding of how a lock worked.
He could still remember that night as if it had been only yesterday—the fear as he stood in the darkened hallway of the workhouse, the desperation for what was on the other side of the locked kitchen door, and the determination to acquire what was needed. But most vivid in his memory was what came after he’d found success and left the kitchen with his pockets stuffed with bread. He’d felt useful, confident, even powerful. There was something he could do to help, to make a difference. It was a heady experience for a boy—one he’d sought out time and again, even after the sense of power had proved to be false. He’d been able to keep what he’d stolen, but not who he’d stolen for.
Hunter shoved the memory aside. He was no longer a helpless young boy. And there was work to be done. He searched the room quickly but thoroughly, opening every drawer, turning over every scrap of paper, and delving his hand into every pocket. His search was met with success in the form of simple note in a desk drawer.
My dearest Martin,
As you are