by C. J. Archer
Got him.
The man sank under the overhanging porch of a nearby building, disappearing into the shadows. Nicholas slowed to a walk and drew his rapier.
"I have you now," he said. "Show yourself."
A grunt that could have been either laughter or an exertion of effort came from the attacker. Then the door behind him opened and his billowing cloak was momentarily silhouetted by the glow cast by a brazier before he disappeared up a flight of stairs.
A woman and children screamed. "Whoa!" a man shouted. "What you think you’re doin’?"
Nicholas ran inside and up the stairs to a chorus of more screams. A woman pulled her two young daughters close and her husband, a short man with a face like a bloodhound, stepped in Nicholas’s way.
"Get out!" the man bellowed, swinging his fist wildly.
Nicholas dodged it. "Sorry," he said. "Just passing through." He ran towards the window where the cloaked figure had climbed through and hoisted himself up. He poked his head out just in time to see a boot descending. He ducked and it skimmed his forehead before disappearing onto the roof.
"Get out of my house!" roared the owner. "Or I’ll call the constable."
"No need. Sorry again." Nicholas sprang up and caught onto the overhanging roof beam. Below him, the man waved a fist, cursing.
Nicholas climbed the steep roof then skidded down the other side on his rear. The houses were so crowded together that those not actually joined were nearly touching anyway, making crossing from one roof to another quite easy. It was their steep pitch that made the chase difficult. Up ahead, the cloaked figure climbed the next roof. When he slipped and slid down into the deep valley between them, Nicholas saw his chance. He dove for the man’s foot but the boot kicked him in the chest, winding him.
Bloody hell! He stood again just as his attacker scrambled up the roof and disappeared over the ridge. Nicholas followed him up and down two more roofs until he saw the man stop ahead. He looked down, glanced back at Nicholas, then jumped.
When Nicholas reached the same spot, he realized why the man had hesitated. The gap to the next roof was too wide to jump across. He peered over the edge to the street below, half expecting the other man to reach up and grab his leg. But there was no one there.
He frowned. Where had he gone? A high scream gave him the answer. Nicholas lay on his stomach, grabbed the frame of the open window below and somersaulted through it. He was met with another scream. He glanced at the woman sitting on the enormous bed not even attempting to cover her bare breasts.
"This here’s a respectable house!" she shouted at Nicholas. "We don’t take customers through windows. If you want servicing go see May downstairs and wait your turn."
The lump of blankets beside her sneezed.
"God bless you, Sir," Nicholas said. With a quick bow to the woman he added, "My apologies, I’ve been most rude. But could you find it in your heart to forgive me and tell me which way the hooded man went?"
She snorted then pointed at the door on the opposite side of the room. He thanked her and headed through it into the adjoining room where he was greeted by another naked woman, this one standing by the fireplace and definitely alone. He would have tipped his hat but he’d lost it some time ago.
"Good evening, ma’am, but did another man come through here? He would have been hooded and puffing."
Her full lips pouted at him and she cupped her heavy breasts in offering, teasing the nipples to points. "Come lie with me and I’ll tell you. No charge for a han’some gentleman like yerself."
"Thanks, but not right now. In a bit of a hurry." He produced a coin. "The other man...?"
Shrugging, she took the money. "Downstairs."
He winked at her then followed the direction of her nod through the door and down the stairs. In a front parlor room, a large, heavily made up woman with bright orange hair put a hand on her wide hip and gave him a glare. He’d expected to be chased away with a broom at the very least so the reception was a pleasant surprise.
"Another one," she said with a click of her tongue. "My girls are respectable, you hear."
"Very respectable. Especially the one in the first room at the top of the stairs. The other gentleman, where did he go?"
The woman he assumed was May, nodded. "Rushed past me like a storm, he did, without even a word of apology."
Nicholas apologized, twice, then ran out the door as she called after him, "Tell all your friends about us. I’ll take off a shilling if there’s more than five."
Finding himself back in the lane, Nicholas ran towards Thames Street and scanned left and right. The knifeman had disappeared. He cursed under his breath and wanted to hit something but since the nearest object was a passerby, he hailed him instead.
"Have you seen a hooded man running past here?" Nicholas asked. "The friend I was just dining with left behind a purse of money which I’d like to return."
The lad, dressed in the blue gown of apprentices, stretched out his hand. "I’ll find him and see he gets it."
Nicholas dangled his own purse over the open palm then snatched it up again. "No, I’d like to speak to him. As I said, he’s a friend. Did he come past?"
The lad shrugged. "Nope. Weather’s keeping everyone indoors today. It’s quieter than an ugly shrew’s bedchamber round here."
Nicholas thanked him and headed back towards Bishopsgate Street and the Four Feathers. His frustration cooled in the crisp air and he decided to think of other matters. Other, more enticing matters. Isabel.
He might as well attempt to talk to her again, although he’d had little success so far. It seemed she wasn’t willing to tell him the real reason why she left. But he had to keep trying or how could he fix the problem?
To get her talking, he either needed to gain her trust again or get her at a moment when her defenses were at their weakest. As he saw it, there was only one way to achieve both of those aims at the same time. Bed her. He smiled. If that resulted in a very pleasing evening—or several—then that was an additional benefit to his scheme.
The thought kept him warm all the way back to the Four Feathers despite the cold and the absence of a coat which he’d left behind at the inn. At the door, he hesitated. After the long chase, he was in no condition for seducing women. He probably smelled of sweat and the contents of a pot thrown out a window that had splashed against his legs as he ran past. With a sigh, he pushed open the inn door and looked towards the table he and Isabel had shared. It was empty.
"She’s gone," Nelly said.
Nicholas blinked at her. "Gone? Alone? Where?"
"Yes, yes and I dunno." She shrugged then handed him his coat. "Thought you’d come back for this."
He took it and thanked her. As he turned to go, she said, "She waited for a while but gave up. You were gone a long time."
He supposed he was. He put on his coat and headed home. It wasn’t until he noticed the shops closing their doors that he realized he had been gone a long time. Feeling a little numb after the chase and from the disappointment at not seeing Isabel again, he unlocked the front door of Mistress Plunkett’s house and crept past the parlor where his snoring landlady had fallen asleep in a chair by the fire. He headed upstairs and opened the door to his study.
And froze.
"You’re back," Isabel said.
He stared at her until he realized he was staring then removed his coat and flung it onto a nearby chest. She sat in his favorite chair by the fireplace, her feet outstretched towards the warmth. She’d freed her hair and it hung in loose curls over her shoulders, just the way he liked it. Her cheeks were flushed and the flames reflected in her eyes danced seductively.
He found he was staring again and forced himself to look around the room. Apart from the presence of his wife and a bottle of wine and two cups on the table, nothing seemed out of place and he thanked his cautious nature that made him always keep the big oak chest locked. If Isabel had gone through the papers in it she would have learned of his spying, and that wo
uld have been disastrous.
"How did you know where I live?" he asked, sitting in the chair beside her. He too stretched his booted feet towards the fire, so close to hers they could have touched if he turned the toes a little to the right.
She handed him a cup, already filled with wine, and sipped from the other one before answering him. "Nelly told me," she said, holding the cup in both her hands. "She knew quite a bit about you, including the names of the last three women you dined with at the Four Feathers."
He knew the ones she meant and they’d all been women who were helping him with his enquiries. But he chose not to swallow Isabel’s bait since he had no defense that didn’t involve lies. "And Mistress Plunkett just let you in, no questions asked?" He tasted the wine, a malmsey.
"She asked. I told her I was your wife."
His jaw dropped. Isabel was full of surprises tonight.
"I don’t think she believed me until I told her the story of how we met."
Ah, yes, the Meeting. He smiled as he recalled the beautiful girl who’d nursed him back to health after he’d fallen ill on a visit to Winchester. He’d sent a servant to the best doctor in town and the doctor had recommended one of Samuel’s remedies. That remedy combined with Isabel’s frequent visits to administer the treatment had cured him and after a week of her easy chatter and ready laugh, Nicholas had fallen in love. When returning home, he courted her with a stream of letters. After only a few months he’d gained the blessing of her parents but not his own. His father had only agreed to him marrying the daughter of an apothecary of little property after Nicholas reminded him (incessantly) that it was his older brother’s duty to marry well, not the second son's. Finally his father had agreed, or perhaps just given up disagreeing, and they’d married the following spring.
"And that changed Mistress Plunkett’s mind?" he asked.
"I told her I saw your member and had to marry you," Isabel said, eyes shining in the firelight.
He grinned. "Well I have been told it’s impressive."
She made a choking sound. "I meant my father insisted on marriage!"
"But it is impressive." He put the cup to his lips and watched her over the rim. "You told me so yourself once."
She huffed. "I must have had too much to drink." She sipped her wine, draining the cup which she thumped down on the nearby table.
"And have you had too much to drink tonight?"
Isabel knew where his line of questioning was heading—straight to bed. She should walk out before that could happen, but relief at seeing him safe and the effects of the wine had made her legs unstable and she didn’t want to test them yet. She would leave as soon as she felt sure she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. Not a moment longer. Absolutely.
She had definitely drunk too much, but that had been to suppress the fear that had enveloped her like an icy lake. After waiting for hours at the Four Feathers, she’d decided Nick had either been injured (or worse) or gone home and tumbled into bed out of exhaustion. Not wanting to entertain thoughts about the former, she found out where he lived and convinced Mistress Plunkett to let her wait in his study when she learned he hadn’t returned. The elderly landlady had agreed but only after checking that Nick’s valuables were safely locked away.
Isabel had stoked the fire to life and settled herself into the grand oak chair which must be his favorite because the embroidered cushion was flat and faded from use. As time wore on, apprehension turned to sickening fear. A fear made worse by her decision not to follow him. She would have easily convinced Nelly to give her the coat he left behind at the inn and used it as a talisman, but she decided not to. Her sudden appearance in the chase would lead Nick to ask questions she couldn’t answer. It was easier, safer, if she just waited.
It was the same reasoning behind her decision not to cause the hooded man to fall when he first attacked. She’d run a great risk by diverting the blade, an instinctive move that she hoped went unnoticed. Afterwards, during the longest afternoon of her life, she hadn’t expected to feel such impotence when she chose not to use her powers to find Nicholas. It was as if she had suddenly lost them.
For the first time since her magic had come in, she was glad to have them, even though she could rarely use them. They were as much a part of her as her skin and life without her powers was just...unthinkable. It was a pity the rest of the world—including Nick—wouldn't see it that way.
His arrival had brought giddy relief and a lightness of heart that had resulted in her banter and the igniting of desire. His disheveled appearance may also have had something to do with the heat rising within her. His black hair, usually so ordered, stuck out at odd angles like it had been wet and then dried in a stiff breeze, his shoes were dirty, his hose ripped at the knees and his leather jerkin lay open down the front revealing the doublet beneath. When he sat, she caught a trace of his male scent, not unpleasant, and something else which was decidedly putrid. Nevertheless, his handsomeness sucked the breath from her body.
"Did you catch him?" she asked, staring at the coals because staring at him made several parts of her body throb.
"No." He sighed. "I lost him somewhere near the river. I’m sorry."
She blinked at him. "Sorry? What for? It was you he attacked, not me."
"Yes, but you must have been terrified." He leaned forward and touched her knee. The simple connection warmed her skin and she didn’t want to move away.
"I suppose so. It all happened so fast, and then he was gone and you too. I didn’t really have time to be frightened." Not then anyway. Fear had come only when she’d had time to think. "But as I said, it was you he wanted to harm." She shook her head which only served to make her dizzy. "Do you have any ideas why?"
He removed his hand and shrugged. The flippant gesture irritated her. It was as if this sort of thing happened every day and was nothing to be concerned about. "He was probably only a footpad or a drunkard, or perhaps a rival to your affections."
His joking about something that had left her imagining his death in a thousand awful ways made her say something she probably shouldn’t have. "Or as an intelligencer, you’ve angered someone with your questioning. An apothecary perhaps."
His gaze flicked over her face, then he threw his head back and laughed. "Intelligencer? Me? Good Lord, Isabel, where do you get such ideas?"
"Lawrence."
His laughter subsided but a smile remained. "Ah, one of the queen’s physicians. No doubt he thinks I’m investigating her poisoning."
"Attempted poisoning. And yes, he does."
"Do you?"
She blew out a breath. "I don’t know. You asked so many questions in Bucklersbury Street that you must either be the poisoner or the investigator. And I know you’re not a traitor."
"Thank you," he said wryly. "But you seem to have forgotten one other explanation."
"Oh?"
"That what I said is true—I was merely pricing rat poison."
"Oh." She frowned, trying to think clearly although her head felt full of mist from the wine and her rebellious emotions. "I suppose that could be possible."
"I think Lawrence Shawe is under a great deal of pressure at the moment. Consider it: he is physician to the queen and he has access to poisons through his father’s shop. He must know he would be a suspect and so he sees investigators at every turn."
"He’s certainly been behaving a little strange lately." She frowned at an insidious thought. "You don’t think he did it, do you?"
Nick’s gaze grew dark as he studied her, the creases in his brow deepening. "I hadn’t given any thought as to who it might be." He drank the rest of his wine then stood and crossed to the table and the bottle. "But now that you mention it," he said, dividing the remainder of the wine between her cup and his (although pouring most into hers), "it’s possible." He returned to his chair, cup in hand. "But what does concern me," he lifted his gaze to hers, "is the fact that you would also be considered a suspect because of your access to the poisons."
/> She waved her hand in the air and yawned. "Anyone who knows me would discount that theory immediately. I’m not a traitor."
"No, of course not. But I am concerned about what other people might think, such as an intelligencer who is..." He stopped and looked at the fire.
"Go on."
"Who is familiar with your father’s case," he said softly.
"Papa?" Her body jerked, suddenly alert. A little wine spilled from her cup and she brushed it off her skirt with the back of her hand. But it seemed no matter how much she brushed, the wine wouldn’t come off and the stain spread. "This has nothing to do with him."
Suddenly kneeling beside her, Nick pressed his hand over hers, stilling it. "Perhaps it doesn’t," he said, quietly. "But consider the coincidence for a moment. Your father was found guilty of attempting to poison the queen and now seven years later his daughter has easy access to poisons after another attempt. Did Lawrence tell you which poisons were used? Do you stock them?"
