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we keep our search private, and only search in our spare time. Now we’re here, there’s no need to rush.”
    “So we’ll keep the treasure a secret,” Gert said.
    “And in between other things, we’ll quietly look.” Em stopped her half sisters at the door and looked into their bright eyes. “I want you to promise me you won’t go searching for the treasure—not even quietly —without telling me first.”
    She waited, too wise to demand they leave all the searching to her.
    Gert and Bea smiled identical smiles. “We promise,” they chorused.
    “Good.” Em let them go. They clattered down the stairs as she turned to Issy. “Now all we need do is feed them and get them off to bed.”
     
    B y eight o’clock that evening, Em was satisfied that the twins, Henry, and Issy were comfortable and settled in their rooms, and that she’d removed sufficient dust from her own rooms to later allow a restful slumber.
    After making up her bed with fresh linens, she left her rooms; she’d warned Edgar that she’d be down to assess the inn’s patrons, to learn what type of clientele they presently had the better to decide what sort of snacks and meals would best suit.
    Quietly descending the main stairs, she paused halfway down the last flight, using the vantage point to swiftly scan the common room, noting the smattering of men propped along the bar, and the two pairs of older men sitting at tables about the tap’s empty hearth.
    The weather had been mild, but a fire would, she thought, add to the ambience. Continuing down the stairs, she added firewood to her mental list.
    Stepping off the last stair, she was aware of the surreptitious attention of the inn’s patrons, although none met her eye as she glanced around. They would, doubtless, have heard of her new appointment; sensing interest and expectation in their gazes, she flicked her shawl more definitely about her shoulders, then turned and went into the kitchen.
    Circling through the empty kitchen, she stepped into the short hallway that lay between the end of Edgar’s bar and the tiny innkeeper’s office. She’d already investigated the office; other than a collection of aging receipts, she’d uncovered no records of any sort, no ledgers or accounts—nothing to identify the suppliers of goods Juggs had presumably dealt with.
    How the inn had been run in the past was shrouded in mystery, but lifting the veil was a task she’d consigned to the following day. For tonight, she’d be content with getting some notion of the inn’s current patrons.
    Pausing before the office door, screened by the heavy shadows in the hall, she again scanned the drinkers, mentally creating lists of foods such men would pay for, and mulling over how many were married, specifically to women who might be tempted to patronize a clean and well-tended inn.
    She duly added a large jar of beeswax, preferably scented with lemon or lavender, to her list.
    She was studying one of the seated pairs when she sensed a large presence behind her—simultaneously felt a peculiar tingle slither down her spine.
    “Hector Crabbe. He lives in a little cottage just south of the village.”
    She recognized the deep voice instantly, even though it was seductively lowered to whisper past her ear. Sheer pride had her folding her arms tightly beneath her breasts, all but physically holding back the impulse to whirl around. She fought to keep her voice light. “Which one is Crabbe?”
    An instant’s silence followed—no doubt while he waited for her to acknowledge his presence more appropriately. When she moved not a muscle, he replied, “The one with the beard.”
    “Is he married?”
    “I believe so.” She could almost hear him debating before he asked, “Why do you want to know?”
    “Because,” she said, finally driven by some benighted compulsion to cast a glance over her shoulder, “I was wondering if I might tempt Mrs. Crabbe and others like her to come to the inn on occasion, to use the