Despite hauling on the oars and generating his own heat, the man was chilled to the bone by the rain soaking through his already sodden wool cape. The wind whipped and howled, and the Thames lashed at his meager curricle, battling its inept captain for control. He knew he could not stop rowing, for the waves would capsize his little boat if they hit broadside. So he mustered his strength and resolve and entered into the match, knowing full well that if he did not succeed, drowning would be his consolation prize.
The Rat Man rode his mistress Thames like a seasoned lover. His posture erect, his black cape blowing and battered, he stood in his wherry as if all around him were calm. He feared no death or soaking chill, for he was beyond all that. Instead, he watched the struggle, amused at the monumental pitch of tempest—both human and non.
And who should be the victor? He’d place his bets on nature. In the end—she always won.
CHAPTER 22
It had not gone well. Instead of luring him back into her arms, Pandy had driven him further away. Damn Jolyn anyway. If Mrs. Beldam hadn’t taken her in, she might well have been the next Mrs. Wynders. She had thought, with Jolyn gone, he would have no further cause to reject her. Hadn’t she indulged him like no other? Men—how short their memory.
Staring at the silhouette of London against the darkening sky, Pandy refused to spend the evening agonizing or listening to Kara’s carping. If she could not have his attentions, then she would have the attentions of many.
She brushed her hair a hundred strokes—a shame to cover it with a rough linen coif, but until she was out the door she had to abide by the rules of Barke House and accept convention. Her lips and cheeks she stained with a squashed currant, and she laced her stays snug at the ribs and less so above.
To Kara’s prying she said nothing, and before she left, she informed her bedmate not to expect her until late or perhaps not until morning.
Now she sat at the Dim Dragon Inn, entertaining a tankard of ale and half a dozen men. Unfortunately, the ale was more interesting than they, and she stared fondly into her drink while the men stared fondly at her. But she remained unmoved.
Her mood spiraled in an ever-quickening whorl. The one man she wanted did not want her. She wished he could see her now, surrounded by fawning and attentive men so keen to impress her.
But it was for one thing only and she knew that. None of them had the tempered manner of Wynders or the finer dress to go with it. There were all manner of charlatans and scalawags—a moneylender who preyed on yeomen and countryfolk new to town; a jackman practiced in forging licenses for sellers and beggars; a distracted dice cog and a card cheat, their eyes scanning the customers for gullible marks. And, most reprehensible of all, a lawyer.
The Dim Dragon Inn was suffering from a dearth of women this night, especially ones with front teeth. Pandy should have been heartened by the attentions of so many, and she had to admit it was better than being ignored. Still, she sighed.
Pandy took a sip of ale as the lawyer tried to impress her with his latest land acquisition and sale. The land, near Horsleydown, was most probably a bog. He had managed to plagiarize a deed and sell it to a land baron who sold it to a construction-minded gentleman who planned to build another bear-baiting venue in the obliging Southwark. Good moneys could be had by owning such a place, and the recent success of the Bear Garden brought out the money lust and fool in everyone. The man gloated about his deal, which failed to impress Pandy as she noted his doublet was soiled and smelled fusty, and he kept slapping the table when her eyes wandered. She hoped for a savior, or a distraction, someone at least worthy of her notice. It did not occur to her that the pickings might be marginally better across the bridge. So she sat with her eyes glazing over and her desire for attention waning.
Pandy had never had an easy way of it. She was contentious and outspoken, though with Robert Wynders she had been more subdued and agreeable. Not only had she seen him as a man of money and influence who could rescue her from her surroundings, but she truly loved him also. But when Jolyn arrived, he had lavished his attentions on her and promised the girl what Pandy believed was rightfully hers. In the end, though, Jolyn had gotten what she deserved.
“Pandy, what say you to a stroll along the Thames?” asked the moneylender, leaning in. His broad grin she construed as a leer. That, combined with a yellow tinge to the whites of his eyes, did little to convince her that this might be a good idea.
“I think not,” she replied and settled her gaze on the door, which happened to swing open at that moment. A clatter of thunder accompanied the bang of wood against wall, drawing everyone’s attention. Pandy was glad for the distraction.
Henley the muckraker stood on the threshold, his blocky body nearly filling the entrance. His dark eyes and darker countenance exuded weight and gave import to his arrival. He glowered at the denizens of the Dim Dragon, as if holding each patron accountable for some personal insult perpetrated against him. Obviously he was not well loved, and no one called out a greeting or an offer to join them.
Pandy was immediately intrigued. She’d never spoken to him, though she knew Mrs. Beldam had sought his help.
Henley slammed the door shut, and as men settled back to their ales and business, Pandy continued to stare at the dashing young rogue. Her stare did not escape his notice.
He strode over, removed his cap, and asked if he might sit. To the other men’s chagrin, Pandy waved the clutch of clodpolls gone and welcomed the newcomer. He lowered himself opposite and ordered up an ale and bowl of stew.
“I’ve seen ye before,” said Pandy, running a finger around the rim of her drink. She watched him unbutton his jerkin and settle. “At Cross Bones, at Jolyn’s burial, talking to Mrs. Beldam of Barke House.”
He neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead he watched her ambiguous eyes and waited for her to continue. He wondered if she was the sort to meddle—like that girl who had confronted him that afternoon. This was the second time today he’d been sought out by one nearly his own age, and both had been attractive. He wanted to think it was his enviably good looks, but his instinct warned otherwise.
“I live at Barke House.”
The wench returned with his ale and bowl of stew and set it down before him.
“So . . . ye know Mrs. Beldam.” Pandy saw a glimmer of recognition as he stirred his stew and blew on it.
“I know her,” said Henley. He waited to see why she wanted to know.
“But I’ve never seen ye at Barke House.”
“I’ve no reason to go.”
Pandy cocked her head. “But ye know Mrs. Beldam.” Her smile was sweet and without guile.
Henley’s gaze traveled the length of her neck and beyond. This girl was certainly lovely, and he didn’t want to put her off in case he might have a chance with her later.
“We’ve had dealings, aye.”
Pandy took a sip from her pottle pot and watched him through her long lashes. “So, what is it ye do?” Men were braggarts, and a sure way to engage one was to give him the opportunity to spout about himself.
“I trade what I can,” he answered simply.
“Ye rake muck?”
Henley was loath to admit it—especially to a girl as lovely as this. “I might find something on the flats, but I’m capable of other things.”
“Like what?” Pandy teased.
Henley’s brow lifted. “We could leave here now, and I could show ye.”
A thrill ran down her spine. She’d caught his intent, and it wasn’t about business. “I hardly know ye.” Not that she cared.
“We could change that.”
Pandy took another sip to hide her smile. She was not inclined to take up with the first man who dared her, but as she ran her eyes across his broad chest, she liked what she saw. He might not be charming, but he had other qualities that made up for it. “You’re bein’ cagey,” she said.
“Beth,” he yelled, lifting his arm into the air, “bring this lass another ale.”
&nb
sp; Pandy tipped her head and grinned slyly. “I know what ye are about,” she said.
This girl knew how to play the game. This time he let his gaze linger on the white curves of her skin disappearing into a russet velvet bodice. For the time being, this would be more enjoyable than slogging through muck. He would enjoy this sport.
“So, ye lived with Jolyn,” he said when Pandy was settled in with her pottle pot.
Pandy took a long swill of drink. She sensed her judgment falter, but she was content for the moment, warm from the hearth, and the ale tasted better than the first two she’d been served. But maybe her tongue was just numb and everything seemed better. She nodded and glanced away.
“I knew her befores Barke House,” he continued. “Knew her when she was a street urchin like the rest of us. Then, one day, she disappears from the flats. Seems she has taken a room at your Barke House. No one knew where she’d gone.”
Pandy looked around, bored, but Henley went on, curious and enjoying the audience. “So’s how’d she come by Barke House anyways?”
“Don’t know,” answered Pandy. She drummed her fingers on the table while continuing to glance around the tavern. Eventually, her eyes resettled on Henley, who was looking at her expectantly. She took another sip. “Mrs. Beldam took her in. I only knows they met at market and she offered Jolyn a place to stay.”
“How’d you come by Barke House?”
“A girl told me abouts it.” Her brow furrowed as if she were suddenly realizing something. The drink could no longer mask her contentious side. “What do ye care? I can think of more interestin’ things to talks ’bout.” She hoped this cove wasn’t as thick as she was beginning to think.
Henley finished his stew and wiped his bowl with the end of his bread. “She had a ring.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“I was wonderin’ if ye’d seen it.”
Pandy’s patience was at an end. She was hoping for a little attention, but all he could talk about was Jolyn. She finished her ale and slammed it down on the board. “It’s gettin’ late.” She stood and rewrapped her shawl, clumsily winding it over her shoulders and chest in an effort to be warm for her walk back to Barke House. She hadn’t expected the walls to move about her the way they did. She was starting to step away from the bench when Henley grabbed her wrist.
“Let me see ye home.”
Pandy pulled her arm free, stumbling backward. Her head felt stuffed with wool, muffling the sound of her voice and the noise from the tavern. She wished she hadn’t accepted that third pottle pot. “I can manage.” She weaved between the tables, her unsteadiness drawing plenty of notice. She ignored the crude comments and slapped away groping hands, fighting them off to open the door, then pitched herself into the alley behind the Dim Dragon Inn. She had meant to go out the front.
She stood, swaying and blinking, squinting up the alley one way, then down the other. The back alley was as dark as tar, and the smell from rotting kitchen scraps melded with the musty reek of moldy, piss-saturated wood. Either direction was equally long and squalid, so she took a step, incensing a dog she had not noticed. Its head swung up from whatever it was gnawing, and its bared teeth and growl warned her off.
“I don’ wan’ your rotted meat, ye cur,” she said, still possessing enough good judgment to turn and start up the alley in the opposite direction.
She took advantage of the dark to hike her skirts and leave a deposit of her own. As she crouched with her kirtle gathered in her arms, she felt the first pelts of rain on her face. “Aw, the bloody devil,” she cursed. Nothing was worse than walking home in the rain. She stood, shook down her skirts, and laid a hand on a scummy wall to steady herself. Her head spun like a spindle, and she belched, frowning at the taste of muddy swill they called ale.
Above, the thin slit of sky sparked with lightning, and Pandy could at least see to the end of the alley and the lane it opened onto. What she didn’t see or hear was a figure exiting the Dim Dragon Inn behind her.
Pandy stepped gingerly down the alley, as if she could avoid the mounds of offal, but the effort was wasted. She could have done just as well if she’d closed her eyes. Nothing was going to protect her hem and shoes from the hazards of traveling by foot.
By the time she emerged, the rain had begun in earnest, and she scanned the lane to decide which direction might provide the most cover.
Like a crab, she sidled along the fronts of buildings, wishing the teetering overhangs might offer some protection, but within minutes the slanting rain had soaked through to her skin. She had enough wits left to realize speed instead of cover should be her priority. So she stepped out from the buildings and trod heavily down the lane, glad for the occasional plank to lift her over the deepening muck.
Not only was she miserably cold and wet, but she had not succeeded in drowning her feelings for Wynders by finding someone else as worthy. And, it seemed, she could not escape the memory of Jolyn, which only served to further aggravate her. She cursed the dead girl, shook her fist to the heavens, and spouted a torrent of expletives. Anyone watching would think her lunatic.
But she was in Southwark, and most paid no mind to such a sight as it was as common as fleas on sheep. Except someone did take notice.
Pandy’s linen coif stuck to her scalp, and she flung it to the ground, stomping it once for good measure. To the devil with convention and principles. She’d already condemned her soul to hell, so what was one more transgression?
She knew where Wynders lived. She’d followed him once and stood outside, watching his shadow move across the paned window to his wife’s shadow. She’d sacrificed so much to be his. She’d consigned a life to the grave because of him. And all had been for naught. But there was a price to pay for his indiscretion. She’d already paid hers. And she would make sure he knew she was not one to be trifled with.
The cold and wet no longer chilled her. Instead, she burned with anger. Turning north, she set her course for London Bridge and the finer residences of Milk Street beyond. Even though she faced a long, miserable walk, she gave no further thought to it but instead focused on the end result. She would pound on his door and scream until all of London knew. What did she care about being dragged away by a night watch and taken God knew where? The fact that she had been wronged and would avenge her mental anguish was enough to extinguish any thought of better judgment.
But her cause, while understandable, mattered little to the one who crept up behind her.
CHAPTER 23
Rescued from another world, Bianca blinked back into the reality of this one. From a soft, dreamless space she emerged into the hard dark of her laboratory. A rushlight burned behind several heads peering down at her, first four and then two. Their features were a blurred muddle of eyes and noses and concerned looks. She lifted a hand to her brow and was rewarded with a searing pain between her eyes.
“Lay you still. You’ve managed a bit of a strike on that crane. I’ll not have you stand and fall until you are right.” John gently guided her head back onto a mound of rush—a makeshift pillow—and pulled the wool blanket to her chin. “You were layin’ in a heap when I found you.”
Bianca grimaced, then turned her head to see where she was. He had fashioned a pallet of rush near the fire. Rain still fell, but a board was nailed in the window. The doors were shut, and the stoked furnace chased away a damp bite to the air.
“Is it morning?”
“It’ll soon be light.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You came by Boisvert’s earlier.” John checked a pan of boiling water and poured it into a bowl. He sprinkled in mint leaves and set it by to steep. “I heard a rap on the window, but you were already down the lane by the time I answered. I called after you, but you didn’t look back.” He blew on the bowl of tea and swirled it around. “So, I might ask the same question of you. Why did you come by?”
Bianca thought back to earlier in the evening. She remembered talking to Meddybemps
and seeing a house marked with a cross of the plague. All else seemed a sea of confusion. “I don’t remember why I stopped.” She did remember why she didn’t stay. The clouds were gathering, and the wind had started to blow. She raised herself up on one arm, then realized she had nothing on under the blanket.
John tossed her a nightdress. “I promise I didn’t look . . . much.”
Bianca glowered at him as she wiggled into it under the covers. “When did you get here?”
“I had to finish with the forge and by then the rain had started. I almost didn’t bother.” John crouched and handed her the tea. “This might help. I promise—no Capsicum peppers.”
Bianca raised herself on her elbows and accepted the bowl. She smelled the steam just to be sure.
“Good thing I came along when I did,” he said.
Bianca didn’t say anything, but blew into the tea and took a sip.
“You should be glad I cared enough to see what you were about.”
Bianca furrowed her brow, trying to patch together what had happened. She stared into the fire as if it might reveal the answer. She felt she had no time for rest, but her body told her otherwise. The drink soothed her jittery humours.
John stood and took hold of the fire poke, jabbing it into the fire. “Well, you could at least be grateful.”
But Bianca was lost in thought. Had the concoction she’d made Jolyn knocked her out as well? Inadvertently, she had finished the entire bowl. She’d meant to try a little and wait for a reaction. Then the storm hit. The back door had blown open....
“Right.” John hung the fire poke and irritably dumped several dung patties into the furnace all at once. “Well, there you go.” He whisked his wet jerkin off a beam where it had been drying, startling the sleeping red cat, which swiped at him. “Since you won’t be needing me anymore,” he muttered, stomping toward the door, “I shall not trouble you again.”
Bianca blinked, rousing from her rumination. “John, wait! Where are you going?”
The Alchemist's Daughter Page 13
