Katy still had to serve Lade’s customers in the taproom, where Tom took his meals now that St. Mars was gone. Tom had rejected her friendly advances. He didn’t truck with whores. But he had noticed that, even though she still put on a smile for the men who came into the taproom, she never looked for their attention. If anything, since asking for the job of caring for St. Mars’s clothes, and getting it, she had become adept at fending them off. She managed them with a cheerful goodwill—to avoid angering Lade, Tom suspected.
These observations had been a torment. Tom did not want to admire her. Staying away from her would be so much easier if he could only find fault. He wanted nothing at all to do with a whore, former or otherwise. His father had died of the pox, and Tom knew that there was no greater torture on earth—maybe not even in hell.
If only St. Mars had not left him here alone!
He was putting away his brushes, about to face the daily ordeal of watching her serve his dinner, when he heard the rare sound of hoof beats in the yard and a man’s voice calling out for service.
Avis, the stableboy, dropped his pitchfork and ran running to take charge of the man’s horse. Tom stayed out of sight. He tried to get a glimpse of the rider, but the man disappeared into the inn with hardly a word to the boy.
The Fox and Goose was a small, ramshackle inn in a hamlet, which had nothing to recommend it but a few hedgerow alehouses. Deep in the Weald, it did not lie on any important road. Nor did it receive the custom of men on horseback, unless they, like St. Mars, had something to hide.
As soon as Avis returned, leading the visitor’s horse, Tom accosted him. “Who’s the stranger?”
Avis answered cheerfully, “Oh, Mr. Menzies ain’t no stranger. He stops every now and then. And he tips me a George, if I’m quick enough.”
“What kind of rogue is he?”
“You mean, is he one of the banditti?” Avis asked, then shrugged, unconcerned. “I don’t think so. But if he is, he’d be one of the gentl’men for sure.”
Tom did not like the thought of any stranger staying at the Fox and Goose. The locals and drovers who came to drink posed enough of a threat to St. Mars, but a gentleman who traveled through on other business might inform the authorities in London about the mysterious Mr. Brown who resided in a place that no respectable person should ever call home.
Walking into the taproom, Tom caught a look at the man, who was dressed in a gentleman’s riding wig, tall leather boots, and fashionable traveling clothes. An arrogant face and bearing, combined with an intolerant manner, did nothing to make him more appealing. Lade, however, had greeted him like a welcome guest, and Katy obviously knew him, too. No curiosity showed in her eyes, but she bustled to serve him with a sort of deference that no other customer received.
Tom seated himself at a table by the fire, near the cage where the dog was turning the spit. As the animal worked its wheel, Tom was only able to observe the stranger a few moments more before Lade conducted him into the private parlour. The parlour that was leased to St. Mars, who had paid for its use.
Katy made trips inside to carry them food and some of Lade’s smuggled French wine. Each time she emerged, her brown eyes grew a little more clouded. And on more than one of these occasions, she threw Tom a glance that contained a mix of hurt and resentment. Tom couldn’t imagine what right she had to be angry with him, but after several minutes of this treatment, he decided it was time he discovered what was going on.
He rose from his bench and sauntered across the tight, mean corridor to Lade’s private parlour. Emboldened beyond his usual state, he did not knock before opening the door.
“What the—!”
He was more than a little disconcerted when the gentleman, seated with Lade, leapt to his feet, scraping his bench against the floor, and pulled out his sword. Tom retreated a step, while Lade, who was a little slow to react, stood up between them and said, “That’s bene, sir! That’s Tom, what works for the gentry-cove I was tellin’ ye about.”
Tom was not pleased to hear that Lade had been wagging his tongue about St. Mars. Taking matters into his own hands, he said, “Why’s this gentleman using Mr. Brown’s parlour, Lade. It’s been let for the time.”
Menzies sneered, “I am not accustomed to having my comfort challenged—least of all by a servant.”
“There’s no need to make ‘im brush.” Lade’s tone was wheedling, which meant he knew he was in the wrong. “Mr. Menzies ‘ere’s one of us. He’s a rum ‘un, ‘e is.”
“And you mean to charge him for a room you’ve been paid for. I know how your mind works, Lade.”
Lade scowled. “Now there’s where yer wrong, ye chub! I haven’t asked ‘im fer a grig. Have I, Mr. Menzies? I would never try to nip one of his Majesty’s men, would I?”
The stranger ignored him. Sitting down on his bench again, he leaned back, the better to examine Tom. He raked him from head to toe, with so much insolence on his face that Tom could hear an angry pulse starting in his ears.
“I should like to meet this master of yours,” Menzies said, finally. “Lade has told me some curious things about him.”
“Has he?” Tom feigned an indifference he could not feel. Every hair on his back had risen in warning. He would have something to say to Lade as soon as this gentleman was gone. “My master would be happy to meet you, too, if only to find out why you and Lade here are so chatty about another gentleman’s business.”
Menzies responded with an angry gleam. “Oh, you mustn’t blame Lade. He has been in my service these past two years. This parlour, which your master has taken,
according to you,
has always been placed at my disposal. I find myself wondering why a man, such as Lade has described your master to be, would bother to stop in such an out-of-the-way place?”
Tom had learned a thing or two these past few months. And he countered immediately, “I was wonderin’ the same about you, Mr. Menzies. What business do you have in these parts?”
Lade gave a guffaw. “Why, the same sort of business we
all
have, chub! Do y’think I don’t know yer Mr. Brown is gone to France? Now what sort of business would he get up to there?”
Menzies regarded Tom closely, as if searching for a sign that he understood. “Indeed, I am very sorry to miss him. I’ll look forward to seeing him on my way back through, but for now—” he turned to Lade— “I would be glad to retire to my room. Is it the same as usual, or has Mr. Brown taken it, too?”
Turning scarlet, Lade rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and squirmed. “Now ye knows I don’t like to disoblige ye, but that room is sort of took. I can turn Katy out of hers for ye, though.”
Menzies grimaced. “I shall want the sheets aired, but you can tell the wench to join me when I’m settled.”
A knot quickly formed in the pit of Tom’s stomach. Katy had been made to entertain Lade’s guests in the past. But that was all supposed to be over—wasn’t it? She had not been used that way since St. Mars and he had come to the Fox and Goose. St. Mars had hired her to tend his clothes, for there was no man in Pigden with the skills to do it. It had never occurred to Tom that Katy would be asked to whore again.
He found himself saying, belligerently, “Katy works for my master now. She’s not Lade’s servant any more.”
Lade threw him a glare, but Tom drew himself up, daring either man to contradict him.
Fortunately, Menzies looked only mildly annoyed as he turned to say to Lade, “If this is the sort of welcome I am to receive in this house, you will be very fortunate if I ever stop here again. But—” he glanced at Tom, with a less than friendly look— “perhaps your Mr. Brown will no longer be here when I return. Either that, or he will find a way to satisfy me for the inconvenience he has caused.”
He picked up his tricorn and riding cloak and, with a sneer for Tom, strode past him and up the narrow stairs.
“Now why did ye go and do that?” Lade asked, as soon as he was gone. “As if yer master had ever lain wif my wench. He don’t even fancy ‘er to my way o’ thinkin’.”
Tom hedged, unable to explain. “The less that gentl’man stops here the better.”
“Well, ye’d better get used to ‘im. He rides back and forth from Lunnon to the coast. I sees ‘im two or three times a year a least. And whenever he’s been, ye always hears of somethin’ goin’ on. There must be somethin’ brewin’ up in Lunnon for sure or he wouldn’t be comin’ through now.”
Tom, who was shaking strangely in the wake of his confrontation over Katy, didn’t bother to attend. He took himself upstairs to his own room, where he tidied his things.
* * * *
Later that night, when he heard Katy’s light footfall on the floor of the gallery, he went out to meet her. Her look of surprise made his innards feel topsy-turvy.
“You’re to sleep in my room tonight,” he said roughly. “That fellow Menzies has taken yours. The master won’t mind if I use his room this once.” He would bed down on the floor, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to turn you out—” she started.
But he stopped her with a glare. “You’ll do as you’re told! Mr. Brown told me to watch over all his belongings, and that means you, too.”
Her eyes grew round, then they relaxed into a cautious, but friendly stare.
Tom could not be certain, but he thought he detected a measure of relief in her gaze.
He knew he should say something cutting—something like, he wouldn’t have her wagging her tongue about Mr. Brown to every man who stopped at the inn. He couldn’t let her think he cared if she slept with Mr. Menzies or anyone else. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, not when it just wasn’t fair.
St. Mars had given no sign that he regarded her as his property. But, Tom reasoned, she had always belonged to somebody or other. Better St. Mars than anyone else he could think of.
She was still staring up at him, as if wondering what had brought his anger on, when he had always been so careful not to take any notice of her.
Tom felt a hoarseness in his throat. “I just don’t like this Mr. Menzies, is all.”
The smile Katy gave him was rather sad. “Neither do I. So I’m glad if Mr. Brown doesn’t want me to please him.”
“I’m sure he don’t. Not him or anyone else. You’ve got enough work to do, and you couldn’t do a good enough job if—well, if—“ His tongue felt tied.
“I understand, Mr. Barnes.” She gave a lift to her shoulders. “Thank you very much for giving up your room.”
Chagrinned by the stories he had made up, Tom lowered his head and mumbled a goodnight.
Then, he did not breathe again until the door to St. Mars’s chamber was closed behind him and locked with a key.
Chapter Two
Fools! who from hence into the notion fall,
That Vice or Virtue there is none at all.
If white and black blend, soften and unite
A thousand ways, is there no black or white?
Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain;
‘Tis to mistake them, costs the time and pain.
II. iv.
His opponent was swift and keen, with a wrist so astonishingly supple that Gideon had been forced more than once to leap sideways to avoid the point of his blade. The two men padded about the empty room, silent except for the sound of their breathing—each breath coming faster now—Gideon’s light and quick, his opponent’s deeper, like the huffing of a bull. Gideon would not make the same error he had made the last time the two had fought. He would not mistake the master’s wheezing for a sign that he had tired. His carelessness on that earlier occasion had almost cost him an eye.
In a moment of recklessness he had pressed an advantage that had existed only in his mind. It was a feeling that had no place either in a master’s classroom or on the dueling field.
“
Attention
!
Parez
...
riposte!
”
He steadied himself for the moves. A sudden lunge. His parry
en tierce
. The master’s riposte and his parry again.
With a quickness that surprised even him, he followed his parry with a lunge. But a start from his opponent made him check himself, even as Monsieur Andolini drew away. At the safe distance of a few paces, the Frenchman touched the point of his small-sword to the floor and regarded his pupil with a cold eye.
“Monsieur le vicomte grows tired of Andolini, oui? He wishes to dispatch him to the
l’enfer?
”
“No, of course not. Forgive me. I would never be so careless. When I see an opening, though, I find myself eager to take it.”
“If monsieur had taken that particular opening, I am not certain that Andolini would have parried it in time. In that case, monsieur would have found himself accused of murder in France as well as England.”
This last was said so wryly that Gideon knew no offense had been meant. Still, he found it hard to laugh at a jest, even a sympathetic one, about his unhappy situation. Perhaps in time he would be able to find a certain irony in it, but not so recently after his father’s death. Only two weeks ago, he had come to the Chateau of St. Mars, his French estate, hoping to find some manner of relief—here, where he was not an outlaw and had the freedom to go anywhere he pleased.
But the relief he had prayed for had not come. Certainly he had welcomed that first day when he could ride out in the sunlight without the fear of being caught. He had been able to breathe with the all freedom of the innocent man he was. But soon, his malaise had returned—not from any fear of being captured, but from a combination of guilt and loneliness that refused to go away. Guilt, because even though he had not murdered his father, he knew that his own foolishness had made it easier for his father’s murderer to kill.
And loneliness, because, no matter how welcome he was here on his own estate, his heart belonged to his home in Kent.
“I have offended my lord.” Andolini bowed, with the serenity of a man who knew the superiority of his fighting skills.
“It is nothing.” Gideon shook off his gloom. “You must not regard my ill-humours. They come upon me with no warning, but they have nothing to do with you.”