The Ravenstone Heir

Chapter Three

Nightfall and Gordon's insistence that he wait delayed Fletch's pursuit until the following morning. "Mr. Hale runs a respectable business. You can't go blundering in like an ox and waking the entire village," the boy had insisted.

Fletch remained skeptical how "respectable" the Hales might be, in spite of the assurances of their butler and housekeeper that "Miss Anna" would never do something as horrid as steal. The image Gordon conjured of him "blundering in like an ox," caught his attention, however.

"I am not an ox," he ground out in response.

"Of course not. I didn't say you were. I said you oughtn't to act like one." Fletch let go of the old anger that had seized him. Gordon couldn't know boys in public school had taunted him as "Graham's Great Ox," because of his size when they weren't going on about his birth. His brother meant nothing by his comment other than a call to treat the village with respect. He had waited until morning.

The delay and the ride to Little Ilderdale cooled the white heat of his outrage, but did little to soften his determination to confront the woman he believed had his cousin's signet ring. He found the place easily enough. A building in the center of the village's commercial street had a finely painted sign that proclaimed Hale Family Fine Baked Goods. The sign and the line of people stringing out the door and down the street were enough to draw anyone's attention.

While Fletch secured his horse, he took in the façade. The building and sign appeared well-kept and gave every sign of a prosperous enterprise. Prosperity comes easy enough when you supplement your trade with thievery, he grumbled to himself, striding to the door.

"You can't just barge to the front! Who do—" A man near the door stopped his complaint when he took a good look at Fletcher who couldn't be certain whether the fellow recognized him as the earl's son or simply fell back under the force of his frown.

"What is all this?" he asked waving a hand to take in the line, the crowd, and the bakery.

An elderly woman spoke up. "It's ginger biscuit day; everyone knows that." A flash of recognition lit her eyes. "At least them as stay hereabouts do. Word mightn't reach Manchester."

Fletch acknowledged the hit with a nod of his head. "I should think not. Since I'm not here for the ginger biscuits, might I pass by?" Several people grudgingly moved to the side so his great bulk could go through the door.

As soon as he stepped inside a waft of ginger—sweet, with a hint of cinnamon and cloves—overwhelmed his senses and momentarily brought him to a halt. Some folks I know would stand in line for the scent alone, he thought. He had to shake his head to clear it.

Resentful glares from those who stood at the front of the line marked his progress to the counter. "I've come to see Anna Hale," he said without preamble.

"I am William Hale. Who might you be to demand to see my daughter?" the man behind the counter retorted, narrowing his eyes. Of middle years with greying hair, the man wore a clean apron over what appeared to Fletcher's expert eyes to be a first quality shirt and cravat. Shelves full of fresh baked bread and pastries lined the wall behind him.

No, the Hale family does not lack for money. "Fletcher Graham of Ravenstone," he replied without hesitation. He didn't often invoke the family name, but it ought to matter at least in Little Ilderdale.

The eyes softened, but only a bit. "Anna handles our contract with the castle, but you'll have to wait."

Irritation welled. No business associate in Fletcher's world would dare tell him he had to wait. A snicker behind him, caught his attention, and he turned around.