by Mia Marlowe
Please, God.
Astrologers would have us believe our Fate is written in the stars. If it is, in what quadrant of the sky will I discover what will happen once I betray Miss Anthony’s trust? I do not say if I betray her. By agreeing to meet with her secretly, I fear I already have.
~ from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn
Chapter Seven
“Leave the jug,” Rowney said to the barmaid who plopped down two mugs, neither of them terribly clean, before him and Oswald. The slatternly wench filled them only half way.
“That’ll be another tuppence if I leave you the rest,” she said, a cheeky, purse-lipped smile tightening her very red mouth. It was as if she knew he didn’t have any more blunt.
He whipped out his hand and reached into her low bodice. The maneuver was performed with only a fraction of the speed he used to have when he was at the height of his pick-pocketing days, but he still managed to surprise her and was in and out before any of the nearby bar patrons was the wiser. Instead of fondling her ample bosom, he’d pulled a coin out of the stash of tips hidden behind the busk sewn into her stays. The maid covered her cleavage with one hand and whacked him over the head with the other. Mildly chastised, he handed the coin back to her.
“Take our tuppence out of this one, there’s a love,” he wheedled. “We’ll pay you back with a spot of interest. You know Oswald and me is good for it.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind, Rowney Jackson.” She ripped the coin out of his hand and stuffed it back down the front of her gown. “Don’t you be taking advantage of an honest working girl.”
“Honest since you stopped kicking up your heels behind the Brass Monkey, you mean,” Oswald said, his eyes narrowing. Rowney’s nephew looked a bit like an angry boar when he did that, but it seemed to put the fear of God into the maid. “The man what pays you to serve his ale don’t know you used to be a common tart, do he, Lil?”
Her glance shifted sideways to the tavern owner, an affable, respectable sort who was pulling pints behind the bar.
“I’ll take that for a no and be taking this for my silence.” Oswald tugged the jug from her grasp and she let it go without a whimper of protest. Rowney grinned wolfishly at her as he scooped up the mugs. He and his nephew carried their booty to the booth in a dark corner.
“Don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting shepherd’s pie the same way,” Oswald groused.
“Not unless you can pull sommat more out of your pockets than a handful of fingers. Threatening Lil got us more than I thought it would.” Rowney slid into the hard bench, glad for a place to sit and rest his bones. They’d covered a lot of ground that day, looking for an opportunity to line their pockets. None had presented itself. “Be grateful for half a loaf, I always say.”
“And I always say half a loaf is never enough.” Oswald took a long pull of his ale and then swiped his mouth with a greasy sleeve. “Never went this hungry when we had Meggie with us. She could always Find where there was a drawn latch or a window what was left open.”
“Well, we don’t got her with us, do we? So shut your face about it.” Rowney would have happily traded ten Oswalds for one Meg. At least she’d been quiet-like so he could drink in peace, especially after he’d give her a bruise or two where it wouldn’t show. It had been several years since he could risk cuffing his nephew in more than jest. The big lug had a temper and his fists were even harder than his head.
They nursed their ale in silence after that. Rowney divided the contents of the jug more or less evenly between them.
“Make it last,” Rowney advised. “Ain’t no telling when our stomachs will see anything else.”
He wished the tavern wasn’t rich with the scent of yeasty bread and thick stew. It made him all the hungrier. It’d been a day and a half since they’d wolfed down a stolen songbird pasty. Then just as Rowney was about to upend his mug and leave, a fresh-faced young man burst into the tavern. He was hailed all around by its patrons.
“Well, would you look at that?” a nearby fellow said. “Here’s young James Goodbody back from the duke’s service to grace us salt-of-the-earth folk with his presence. Hey, Jimmy! Will ye be havin’ some of Lil’s stew? I see ye have a soup strainer now.”
Sure enough, the young man’s smile was ruined by a missing front tooth.
“I recognize that blighter,” Oswald said in a furious whisper. “He was one of them what run us off that night in Mayfair.”
“Shut it, lest he recognize you, too.” Rowney turned up his collar and sank lower into the booth’s bench. Servants borrowed their status from their employers. If a bloke in a duke’s service were to finger him and Oswald as burglars, no magistrate in the world would believe them over him.
The barkeep himself came around from behind the counter and showed James Goodbody to an empty booth, where both food and drink were brought without so much as a shilling changing hands. Clearly, this Jimmy fellow was a favorite at the tavern.
It was just Rowney’s rotten luck that the newcomer had settled into the booth right behind him. He slumped lower in his seat.
“Sorry about your tooth, lad. Now tell me true,” the barkeep said. “Is the duke at least going to give you a good reference?”
“I’ll not need one. I’m not losing my position,” James said. “His Grace isn’t the sort to be put off by a lost tooth. Especially since the accident happened in his service.”
T’weren’t no accident. T’were Oswald’s left jab.
Rowney smiled. Served the pretty boy footman right for interfering with blokes who were just trying to make an honest living by a bit of burgling.
“Well, His Grace is a true gentleman and no mistake.” The barkeep raised his voice so all could hear him. “The Duke of Camden ain’t going to sack my grandson on account of his lost chopper. That calls for ale all around so’s we can toast His Grace’s very good health.”
So the footman was the tavern owner’s grandson. No wonder he got a steaming bowl of stew without paying so much as a farthing.
Rowney clapped his disreputable hat on his head and pulled the brim low, but he held out his mug for the free ale being offered. After cheers for the duke rang through the taproom, the barkeep must have taken a seat in the booth with Jimmy because the two of them continued to jabber on behind Rowney.
“No, I’ve no cause to fear,” James said. “In fact, I may not be a footman much longer. I’m being elevated to valet.”
“Valet? Now there’s grand news and no mistake,” his grandsire said.
“Not permanent like, you understand. The Duke of Camden is planning a long journey and old Dabney—he’s His Grace’s usual valet—well, the duffer is a poor traveler. The duke has a care for his servants’ comfort, you see. ’Specially them as have been with him a long time.”
“Makes him a bit odd, don’t it? Him minding whether or not the old feller wants to go.”
“Oh, Dabney wants to go, make no mistake. But what with the rheumatism and the way his knee gives out sometimes, he’s not much use even when His Grace is at home,” James said. “The duke figures Dabney can give his knee a rest and I can learn some new skills in the bargain.”
Rowney figured the duke didn’t want a bloke with a missing tooth serving at his fine table. No one saw much of a valet except the gentleman he served.
Oswald poked Rowney and whispered, “Did you hear that? No one’s going to be at the Duke of Camden’s house but an old crippled-up fellow.”
Rowney held a finger to his lips to shush Oswald, staring daggers at him. He’d been thinking along those very lines, or would have, if Oswald had given him half a minute. It stood to reason that the silver alone in Camden House would set them up pretty for a good long while, but a fellow ought not to talk about a job when there were so many ears about.
“Where’s the duke going, if I may ask?” the barkeep said.
“Well, we’re off to Bath. Seems His Grace has a new mistress who’s keen on taking the water
there,” James told his grandfather. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “But that’s not the real reason for the trip. After Bath, we’ll head north. The duke is after seeing someone in Wales. I don’t know who exactly.”
Rowney leaned back so he wouldn’t miss a word.
“We’ll be staying at Faencaern Castle so’s we can visit a village called Gryffydd, grandsire,” James said. “A real honest-to-God castle. Don’t that sound grand?”
“Don’t sound grand to me, Jimmy. I’ve enough Welsh to know Faencaern means Devil’s Rock and I don’t like it that you’ll be faring there, not by half. What’s so important that the duke would take you to such an ill-named place?”
“Surely it can’t be as bad as all that. After all, he sent his ward there. You know the one. I told you about Miss Anthony. A very kind, unassuming lady, she is.”
Lady? Ha! Makes me want to puke. The duke’s ward, is that how she styles herself? She’ll have to learn her place all over again once she’s back with us. But if Meg’s been packed off to Wales, no wonder we couldn’t catch wind of her hereabouts.
“Watch yourself, lad. That’s all I’m sayin’. The castle sounds chancy. Places earn their reputations just like people. I don’t want you discovering for yourself why Faencaern earned its name.” The barkeep raised his voice to be heard over the rumble of conversations all over the taproom. “Lil! Bring my grandson some more stew.” Then he returned to a normal tone. “Need to weatherboard you up if you’re about to go traveling. You’ll miss a few meals on the road, like as not.”
When Lil arrived with another steaming bowl, Rowney used the distraction to slide out of the booth and head for the door. If young Jimmy’s attention was diverted by both food and Lil’s tits, he wasn’t likely to mark Rowney and Oswald as the fellows responsible for his gap-toothed smile.
As soon as they were out the tavern door, Oswald said, “So we’re headed to Faencaern Castle, eh?”
Rowney risked smacking his nephew on the back of the head. “Not until we’ve some traveling money, idgit. Do you want to walk to Wales?”
“We can try a few pulls in Leicester Square,” Oswald suggested. “If we wait till the taverns close and the dandies are drunk, we might make off with a couple of fat purses.”
They hadn’t had much luck with pick-pocketing lately. Drunk dandies had usually squandered whatever wealth they might have started the evening with, leaving precious little for enterprising thieves. Besides, Oswald’s thick fingers had never been very deft and Rowney’s had grown too slow. They needed Meg. On top of that trick of finding things, she had lovely light fingers. A mark could walk all the way home after Meg had been in his pocket and never know his wallet had gone missing until he took off his clothes.
“We’ll try the Square, but that’ll only keep us a day or so. The real score will be when we hit the Duke of Camden’s town house. We only need to watch and mark when the duke and his new lady-bird leaves.” Rowney clapped his hands together. “Then once we make off with the Camden House silver, we go to Wales, my lad. And we’ll be going in style.”
Samuel felt seven times a fool, treading down the dim corridor with a basket of food in one hand and a lantern in the other. He ought not to be doing this. It played right into Grigori’s hand. Yet, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spend some time alone with Miss Anthony. He wasn’t sure why she drew him so strongly. Granted, he’d not had much experience entertaining members of the fair sex. But his one Season in London had taught him the difference between a coquette and a genuine person.
Miss Anthony was as genuine as they came.
He set down the lantern to rap softly on her chamber door. She opened it almost immediately.
“There you are. Finally,” she said, peeping from around the thick oak. “The dressing gong sounded half an hour ago. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
He’d thought of little else since they’d parted company in the library.
“I didn’t wish to arrive while you were still…” He’d started down this execrable sentence, so he might as well finish it. Make that eight times a fool. “…still dressing.”
A vision of Miss Anthony in the midst of her toilette, dressed in only frothy lace and clocked stockings rose in his mind. She opened the door a bit wider. He was glad to see she had donned that horrible traveling ensemble she’d arrived in. It made her a little less tempting.
But only a little.
“Oh, I’ve been ready for some time. Cadwallader is nothing if not efficient,” she said. “Oughtn’t we to hurry now if we’re to see that star of yours?”
“We may not be able to see it, remember,” he warned. “It’s just now twilight, so the sky may not be dark enough before it disappears. If we catch a glimpse of Fomalhaut at all, it’ll be the luckiest of chances.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m feeling lucky this night,” she said, draping a blanket from her bed over one arm. Clearly, she intended to spend more time on the roof than viewing the elusive autumn star would require. “Lead on, my lord.”
He offered Miss Anthony his arm. Grigori would have laughed at him, taking orders from a mere slip of a girl, but Samuel didn’t care what his father thought. In fact, the fewer of Grigori’s thoughts that entered Samuel’s head, the better. When Miss Anthony slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, pressing her softness against his forearm, Grigori might as well have been on another planet. She made Samuel feel protective and strong and slightly bewildered because of his reactions to her. They walked the long corridor and down the curving staircase to the great hall. Samuel had heard that women could so meddle with a man’s mind that he couldn’t think straight. He was beginning to believe it.
He led her across the bailey to his tower where the portal was locked fast and he pulled out his key.
“As difficult as it is to enter the castle, what with the guards and portcullis and all, you still keep your tower locked?”
“I do,” he said. “I don’t fear theft, you understand. The keep is locked to protect my work from prying eyes. I apologize ahead of time for the condition of my study. You’ll find it terribly dusty.”
“That’s surprising. The rest of the castle is spotless.” The enterprising servants were always sweeping or polishing something.
“There are a number of delicate instruments and rare charts in my study.” Plus evidence of his investigations into matters philosophical. Those were even more private to him. “I let the maids in once a year and then only under my watch.”
“In that case, I’m honored to be allowed into your study.” She smiled up at him, a hopeful, almost coy expression that had him kicking himself for ever agreeing to this lark. She had no idea what sort of danger she was flirting with.
If she were flirting. It was hard to be sure.
“You have to be allowed in. It’s the only way to the roof.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized they were vaguely insulting. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Instead of being offended, she laughed. “Oh, I’m so glad not to be the only one who speaks first and thinks later.”
“I think all the time.” Now she was insulting him.
“But you don’t speak often.” She laid a hand on his forearm. “It’s all right. I expect it’s because you’ve chosen to be alone so much. To be honest, it makes me feel I can trust what comes out of your mouth when you do.”
But she shouldn’t trust him. She really shouldn’t. He just couldn’t find the words to explain why. If he told her the truth, she’d think him mad.
He pushed the door open and held his lantern aloft to illuminate the narrow stairs hugging the curved walls.
“Those stairs seem rather dangerous,” she said doubtfully. “No railing.”
He began leading the way up the steps. “As I understand it, they are better than what used to be here. This keep is the oldest tower in the castle. It was built by the first Lord Badewyn as a final line of defense. Back then, instead of stairs, the upper flo
ors were reached only by means of ladders which could be pulled up by defenders.”
“On second thought, the staircase is lovely.”
He glanced behind him as he ascended. She followed closely, careful to stay near the gray stone walls.
In the flickering light of his lantern, each of the successive floors was revealed to be littered with crates that used to hold the books and items he kept in his study on the top floor. Seeing it afresh through Miss Anthony’s eyes, he decided he ought to bring order to the lower levels of the tower. It was quickly becoming a boar’s nest. At least, barring the dust, his study was well-organized.
But once they reached it, he realized allowing her into this space was a little like inviting her to tour his mind. In addition to the books in his private collection, she’d see the articulated skeletons of animals he’d assembled when he was making a study of comparative anatomy. On the shelves ringing the room, there were hookahs and swords, ivory carvings and brass protractors, oddments from every land he and Grigori had visited during their extended travels. And of course, his precious star charts and well-used astrolabe.
Everything that meant anything to him was in plain view.
She strolled over to his desk and ran a fingertip along the edge as her sharp-eyed gaze lingered on the books he’d left open. Sons of Anak. The Book of Enoch. Annunaki from the Epic of Gilgamesh. He doubted she was acquainted with any of those titles, but their topic cut far too close to the bone for his comfort.
“We need to hurry or we’ll miss any chance to see Fomalhaut.” With a firm hand under her elbow, he guided her to the final set of stairs and then led the way up them so he could open the hatch to the crenellated roof of the keep.
Once he handed her through the opening, he closed the hatch behind them. The last thing he needed was for the Duke of Camden’s ward to take a tumble down an open stairwell.
He extinguished the lantern so their eyes would adjust to the dark. Then he set down the basket that held their cold supper. Twilight had fallen hard enough to paint the sky gunmetal gray. Only the brightest stars broke through the steel curtain.
