Читать книгу The Vagabond Duchess - Claire Thornton - Страница 9

London, Friday 31, August 1666

T emperance kept a wary eye on her surroundings as she followed the link boy through the dark streets. It was nearly midnight, and the bustling daytime crowds had long since gone home. Normally she would never venture out so late, but business had been slow all summer. She could not afford to lose the potential sale at the end of this journey. She listened for threatening sounds in the shadows and kept a firm grip on the stout stick she held by her side. She maintained an equally firm hold on the carefully packed goods she carried in her other arm.

The link boy stopped abruptly, lifting his torch to illuminate the sign of the Dog and Bone tavern. Temperance was so startled by the snarling beast revealed in the flickering light she took an involuntary step backwards.

‘Here you are,’ said the boy.

Temperance released a careful breath. After a second glance, she decided the sign was badly painted, not deliberately vicious. All the same, she wished her apprentice hadn’t been taken sick that afternoon. If Isaac hadn’t been near blind from the pain in his head, he could have come with her. His presence would have increased her status in the eyes of her potential customer.

She slipped the stick through a side opening in her skirts and hung it from a concealed belt. She took a coin from the pocket, which was also hidden beneath her skirts, and gave it to the link boy. Then she braced herself and pushed open the tavern door.

A thick fog of wine and tobacco fumes and too many closely packed bodies rushed out to greet her. Temperance stepped inside, realising at once that something unusual was happening. She’d anticipated the unpleasant smells. She hadn’t expected to be presented with an impenetrable wall of male shoulders the moment she stepped over the threshold. The men were all looking at something she couldn’t see, and blocking her from moving any further into the room. For an alarming moment she thought they might be watching a fight.

Her first instinct was to leave. She’d rather lose the sale than risk being caught up in a brawl. Then she realised the mood of the crowd was good humoured. She edged further into the room, trying to see what the men were looking at. She was tall enough to peer over the shoulders of most of those blocking her view, but the crowd was a couple of rows deep. Heads kept getting in her way. It was infuriating.

At last she tapped on the shoulder of one of the men. When he looked around, his eyes widened in surprise. She was about to ask him where the tavern keeper was, but he grinned and said, ‘Can’t see, lass? I’ll wager you’ll take more pleasure in looking than most of us will. Come through.’ He stepped back so she could move in front of him.

Temperance hesitated for half a second. It wasn’t sensible to let herself be hemmed in by a crowd of strangers—but curiosity got the better of her. With a murmur of thanks she accepted his offer. From her new position she could see all attention was focussed on a figure sitting near the unlit hearth. She’d just noticed he was holding a lute when he began to play. The crowd immediately fell silent.

At first Temperance couldn’t believe it. What kind of musician could hold a tavern of drinking men in thrall at nearly midnight? But after a few moments the music reached out to her, drawing her in as surely as it held the rest of the audience. She craned to one side, trying to get a better look at him. She saw a head of black hair and the flash of a white shirt before someone got in her way.

Then he began to sing. To her astonishment, she felt goose bumps rise all over her body. His voice curled deep down inside her, stirring nameless urges so intimate and disturbing part of her wanted to run away and hide. The rest of her wanted to get a lot closer. Such a thing had never happened to her before. Half-angry at her inexplicable reaction, but unable to deny her compulsion to look at the singer, she pushed forward until she was at the front of the standing crowd.

She clutched her bundle against her chest and stared at the musician. His black hair nearly reached his shoulders. It glowed like a raven’s wing in the candlelight, but it didn’t look as if it had ever been tamed by a barber. He’d taken off his coat, and his white shirt was open at the neck. She was fascinated by the movement of his strong throat as he sang. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to touch him there. To explore beneath the plain white linen.

When she became aware of the improper nature of her thoughts she flushed and directed her attention elsewhere. It didn’t help much. The soft linen revealed the breadth of his shoulders, and he’d pushed his sleeves back to his elbows. She watched the play of sinews in his forearm as his long fingers plucked the strings. He had clever hands, she thought dazedly, watching the swift surety with which his left hand moved over the neck of the lute. It was both exciting and unsettling to watch him play with such skill. The room seemed even hotter than it had a few moments ago.

He lifted his head and glanced around his audience. His dark brown eyes were set deep under black brows. He had a nose like a hawk, cheekbones to match and more than one day’s growth of stubble on his strong jaw. His voice might hold the allure of a fallen angel, enticing her to commit all kinds of sinful folly, but he looked like a vagabond.

His gaze passed over her in the crowd then returned to focus upon her face. His eyes locked with hers. Temperance stood rooted to the spot. He had seen her. His dark eyes seemed to pierce straight to her heart. A hot wave of self-conscious awareness rolled over her.

Just for a second she thought she heard a slight hesitation in his supple voice. Then she was sure she’d imagined it, because he continued to sing with utter confidence—and his lips curved in a small, but unmistakeably arrogant smile.

That smile jarred her out of her stupefaction. No doubt he took it for granted he could turn a woman’s knees weak with a simple song. He was surely a seducer and a vagabond who left broken hearts and lives behind him without a qualm. Temperance wrenched her gaze away from him, furious and embarrassed she’d fallen under his spell for even a few seconds. She gripped her bundle of goods so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She refused to look at the musician again, but she couldn’t stop listening. It was an irritating, tormenting pleasure. She wanted to listen to him, she just didn’t want to feed his arrogance by seeming to enjoy his song. She stared at the fireplace to one side of the musician and pretended she was indifferent to him. To her indignation a note of humour crept into his voice. Even though the taproom was full of people, she was certain he was singing to her—and laughing at her. It was insufferable. She glared at the mantelpiece. In an effort to distract herself she focussed on a crack in the plaster of the chimney breast, allowing her eyes to follow it all the way up to the ceiling. The amusement in his voice grew more pronounced; even the lute seemed to be laughing at her as he plucked a lively, teasing melody from its strings.

She realised too late it must have looked as if she’d stuck her chin in the air in response to his initial amusement. Very slowly, by casual degrees, she allowed her gaze to drop until she was once more looking at the mantelpiece. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and hoped the song would soon come to an end. How many verses did it have? Was he even singing the same song he’d started with? Or had he slid seamlessly into another one so he could deliberately prolong her discomfort? She stopped looking at the mantelpiece and stared at him suspiciously.

The fellow had the gall to grin at her! His fingers didn’t fluff a single note and his voice remained perfectly in tune—but he grinned at her!

How dare he! The urge to box his over-confident ears was almost too strong to resist. She imagined a discordant jangle and the pleasing sight of the dark-eyed vagabond wearing a necklace of lute strings and small fragments of wood around his cocksure neck.

A man beside her chuckled.

‘Jack Bow is singing for more than his supper now,’ he murmured. ‘Does he take your fancy, lass? You’ve surely taken his.’

‘No!’ Temperance’s denial emerged more forcefully than she’d intended. She saw several heads turn to look at her, and some men began to smile in an obnoxiously knowing way.

Her skin burned. She forgot her reason for coming to the tavern. All she wanted to do was remove herself from the mortifying situation at once. She was about to push through the crowd to the door when the musician ended the song with a flourish.

He was rewarded with applause and whistles. Several men called out to him, offering to buy him a drink. For a moment Temperance lost sight of him as the tavern patrons moved into new positions. She belatedly realised she wasn’t the only woman in the room—though at this hour of the night she was most likely the only respectable woman present. And she was only here because the plague that had devastated London the previous year had been so bad for business. The City was almost back to normal now, but if Temperance was to restore her shop to a sound footing she needed every sale she could make.

Where was the gentleman whose servant had roused her to wait on his master? She resisted the urge to glance in the direction of the singer and instead tried to locate the tavern keeper.

A door on the far side of the taproom crashed open. Temperance couldn’t see who came out, but then an irritable voice shouted, ‘Where the hell’s the draper I sent for?’

Temperance pushed her way towards her still-unseen customer. When she got closer she saw he’d just emerged from a private room that led off from the main taproom. He was a fashionably dressed young man, but his clothes were the worse for wear. He was also at least two inches shorter than Temperance.

He scowled at her when she stopped in front of him.

‘I want a draper, not an overgrown doxy,’ he said.

Temperance swallowed an angry response. His appearance was at least as unappealing as hers. Worse, in fact. She might be unusually tall and no great beauty, but at least she was sober and well groomed and didn’t wantonly insult strangers.

‘I am the draper,’ she said coldly. ‘Your man said you want a length of linen and a length of muslin.’

‘You have them?’ His red-rimmed eyes focussed on the bundle in her arms. ‘Show me.’ He stepped back into his private room and she had no choice but to follow.

She didn’t particularly want to do business in public, nor did she relish the thought of being alone with this well-born lout—but when she entered the smaller chamber she saw he had a friend with him.

‘Has that damned caterwauling finally stopped, Tredgold?’ the other man demanded.

Temperance bristled with indignation at the insult to the musician. Caterwauling? The dark-eyed vagabond might be as arrogant as the devil, but he had the finest voice she’d ever heard, and his musicianship was remarkable.

‘Give me the linen.’ Tredgold grabbed the bundle of goods from her arms and tore it open.

‘Be careful!’ Temperance protested, as the piece of muslin fell into a puddle of liquid on the floor.

Her customer ignored both her and the muslin. He shook out the length of linen and tossed it over his head. Temperance watched in disbelief as he stuck his arms out and swayed from side to side. Then he started to moan and groan.

‘OoooOOOOooooOOOOoooo…Arghhhh…. OOOooooooOOO!’

His friend stared at him with an open mouth for several seconds, then clutched his head and cowered in his seat.

‘Oh! Oh, I’m so scared. Oh, my poor heart! Oh, I’m dead!’ At his last dramatic exclamation, he collapsed sideways, disappearing from view beneath the edge of the table.

Temperance’s own heart thudded with alarm and confusion. For an instant she almost thought he really was dead, then she realised he had been sitting on a high-backed bench. He’d just fallen sideways on it. Now he was lying there, laughing like a lunatic.

‘Do you think it will work?’ Tredgold demanded.

‘The old goat might die of laughter—but not fear,’ his friend replied, sitting up again. ‘Whoever heard of a ghost with brown velvet arms? If you take off all your clothes and wrap the linen around you, you could pretend you’ve risen from the grave. That might work.’

‘Hmm.’ Tredgold threw the length of linen across the table—where it soaked up some spilled wine—and took off his coat. For a horrified moment Temperance thought he was going to disrobe further but, to her relief, he seemed content to experiment in his shirt sleeves and breeches. He wrapped the linen around himself in untidy folds.

‘Give me the muslin, wench,’ he ordered, pointing at where it still lay on the floor.

Temperance handed it to him and hastily stepped back. He twisted it round his upper body and head and turned back to his companion.

‘Now what do you think?’

‘I’ve never seen a corpse wrapped in pink,’ said his friend, looking at the spreading wine stains on both the muslin and the linen.

‘It’s blood, of course!’ Tredgold said impatiently.

‘Not that colour. You’ll never frighten the old man to death in pink muslin.’

‘What are you trying to do?’ Temperance asked.

‘Scare his grandfather into his grave,’ the friend said.

‘What?’

‘He’s nearly ninety. Until he dies I can’t claim my inheritance,’ Tredgold said as if he had a genuine grievance.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’ Temperance exploded. ‘I won’t be party to such an evil scheme. Take off the linen at once!’

‘I am taking it off,’ Tredgold snarled. ‘It’s not going to work. I’ll have to think of something else.’ He tossed the fabric on the floor, flung himself into a chair, and poured some more wine.

Temperance stared at the stained, crumpled cloth. She couldn’t sell it to another customer now.

‘You must pay for the goods you have spoiled,’ she said, trying to control her anger.

Tredgold laughed. ‘I’m not paying for those useless rags.’

‘I did not bring you rags. I brought you lengths of fine linen and muslin—as you requested,’ Temperance said. ‘It is you who have ruined them. You must pay for what you have played with and spoiled.’

Tredgold raised his eyebrows superciliously, allowing his gaze to move up and down Temperance’s body in an insulting assessment. Then he shrugged one shoulder. ‘Send your master to claim his dues,’ he said. He turned away from her, tilting his chair on to its back legs as he reached for the wine jug.

Temperance kicked the nearest chair leg as hard as she could. Tredgold crashed backwards with a shout of alarm. The wine jug flew into the air, its contents drenching Tredgold and splashing Temperance’s skirt. It hit the edge of the table, then smashed to the floor.

Temperance stood over Tredgold as he blinked up at her. Her heart was pounding, but she was far too angry to be afraid.

‘You will pay me,’ she said. ‘Get up and give me the money.’

Tredgold stared at her for a few seconds, then his dazed expression turned spiteful.

‘You bitch!’ he raged. ‘I’ll teach you—’

She took a step back, reaching through the slit in her skirt for her stick. She was taller than Tredgold, but under no illusion she could match his strength.

Tredgold disentangled himself from the chair and staggered to his feet. He was too dazed to move quickly. There was time for Temperance to flee, but it wasn’t in her nature to run away. She cursed her decision to come to the tavern, but she held her stick by her side and kept her watchful attention on Tredgold and his friend.

Tredgold shook his head and winced. Then, without warning, he lunged towards her.

She only just had time to lift her stick and jab him in the stomach. He swore and reeled away. He hadn’t realised she was armed.

Temperance released a jerky breath. The first victory was hers. But though the stick extended her reach, she hadn’t managed to get as much power behind her blow as she’d hoped. Tredgold wasn’t incapacitated, and now he was forewarned.

Since there was no further need to conceal the stick she held it in both hands in front of her, ready to defend herself from Tredgold’s next attack.

He came at her in a rush, faster than she’d expected, his mouth drawn back in a snarl of rage. Both fists were raised—

The next instant he was spun around and slammed back into the edge of the heavy table. The table screeched across the floorboards until it hit the end wall. The vagabond musician had come to Temperance’s aid. Now he waited, a mocking smile on his lips, for Tredgold to recover.

Tredgold leant on the table, his head bowed over his braced arms as he took several heaving breaths. Suddenly he reared up and around with a feral growl. He threw a wild punch, which the musician easily avoided. He blocked another flailing punch, then replied with a blow of his own that laid Tredgold cold on the wine-soaked floorboards.

Temperance started breathing again, her wits slowly catching up with events. She didn’t know when the musician had entered the side room. She’d only become aware of him after his lightning intervention saved her from Tredgold’s charging attack. She stared at him. He looked back at her, absently flexing his left hand, the one he’d used to hit Tredgold. Apart from that small gesture he seemed unperturbed by the brief, violent incident.

Temperance’s thoughts and emotions were in total disorder. She should be making a dignified exit from the tavern, but she kept staring at the musician. It was the first time she’d seen him standing up. He was a couple of inches taller than her own five feet ten inches. It was so rare for her to have to look up to meet a man’s eyes, she couldn’t stop looking. He was lean-limbed and graceful, but there was unmistakeable power in his broad shoulders. Even dressed only in shirt and breeches with his hair ungroomed and his chin unshaven, he was the finest figure of a man she’d ever laid eyes on.

His mouth quirked up at the corners as if he was well aware of her admiration.

She jerked her gaze away from him.

‘Cocksure,’ she muttered, annoyed with him for being so arrogant and with herself for being so easily bedazzled.

He grinned. ‘What does he owe you?’ he asked, indicating Tredgold with a nod of his head.

‘For the linen and muslin,’ Temperance replied, trying to collect her wits. Even when she was still half-dazed with shock she was determined the musician understood she was a respectable tradeswoman. ‘He ruined them.’

‘How much?’ The musician searched for and found Tredgold’s purse.

‘Hey!’ Tredgold’s friend exclaimed.

‘How much?’ The musician looked at Temperance, ignoring the half-hearted protest.

She told him, and watched as he counted out the coins in full view of Tredgold’s friend.

‘There,’ he said to the gape-mouthed youth. ‘You can tell him you witnessed a fair accounting of his debts when he recovers.’ Tredgold was already stirring and groaning. The musician dropped the purse on to his stomach and gave Temperance the price of her linen and muslin.

‘Thank you.’ She blinked at the coins, hardly able to believe she’d been paid after all.

‘And now I’ll escort you home,’ said the musician.

‘Escort me?’ Temperance looked up. ‘Oh, no, sir, there is no need—’

‘Are you not here alone? If you have an escort, he did a poor job of protecting you,’ the musician said.

‘My apprentice is sick,’ said Temperance, standing straighter as she consciously gathered her dignity and authority. ‘I will hire a link boy—’

‘Certainly,’ said the musician. ‘And I will escort you.’ He headed for the taproom as he spoke. The watching men fell back to allow him easy passage.

Temperance followed him. She had no choice. He’d created the only clear path through the room. But she couldn’t help being exasperated at the way the men parted for him just like the red sea had parted before Moses. After all, he was…

‘Just a man who doesn’t own a comb,’ she muttered. And nearly bumped into him when he stopped suddenly.

He grinned at her over his shoulder. ‘But I do have a useful left,’ he said. ‘And I’m even better with my sword. I doubt a comb would be much protection against footpads.’

Temperance opened her mouth, then closed it again. However much she wanted to put him in his place, she couldn’t forget he’d saved her from Tredgold’s attack, and made sure she was paid for the spoiled goods. She was in the musician’s debt.

She watched as he buckled on a sword belt with a brisk familiarity that suggested he was indeed competent with the weapon.

‘Are you a soldier?’ she asked.

‘A soldier?’ He quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘No. The only cause I’ve ever fought for is my own.’

One of the men in the crowd laughed. ‘Jack Bow’s a soldier of fortune, lass. He goes a-venturing with his sword and his lute. He’s got a host of tales to tell about the far-off lands he’s visited.’

‘Oh.’ Temperance’s gaze focussed on the musician’s hands as she considered that unsettling information. It sounded as if he was a mercenary. He’d saved her from Tredgold when there were witnesses to applaud his actions, but was it wise to be alone with such a man in the dark city streets?

‘I’m afraid there are no interesting adventures to be had in Cheapside,’ she said, making a final, half-hearted attempt to dissuade him from escorting her. ‘You will be very bored, sir.’

‘The man hasn’t been born who could be bored in your company, sweetheart,’ he replied, shrugging into a plain olive-green coat. He slung his lute case over his back and grinned at her dumbfounded expression. ‘Let’s go.’

Temperance followed him out of the tavern. ‘I am not your sweetheart!’ she said as soon as the door closed behind them.

‘So where is your man?’ asked Jack Bow. ‘The one with the right to call you sweetheart?’

‘There isn’t one,’ said Temperance. Her public status as a virtuous spinster was essential to her continuing right to trade in the City as a member of the Drapers’ Company. It didn’t occur to her until too late that she should have been more circumspect with this stranger.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Why…? That’s none of your business.’ She strode off down the road.

‘Such a pretty, hot-blooded wench must have suitors queuing at your door,’ he said, falling into step beside her. ‘Do you beat them off with that stick?’

‘Just because you helped me doesn’t give you the right to make fun of me!’ Temperance exclaimed. ‘Go away and vex someone else.’

‘Oh, sweetheart, the night’s young—and I haven’t finished vexing you yet,’ he replied. ‘You do respond so charmingly.’

‘What?’ She blinked at him in the darkness. ‘You are a cocksure knave. I don’t believe anyone who speaks so brazenly can possess a scrap of delicacy or proper modesty.’

He laughed.

Temperance walked faster.

‘What of father or brothers?’ he asked, easily keeping pace with her. ‘Why did they send you to answer Tredgold’s summons?’

To her surprise she detected an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.

‘Surely a man of your ilk would have no qualms about sending a woman to the Dog and Bone?’ Temperance said, dodging his question. ‘It ill behoves you to criticise others.’

‘A man of my ilk…?’ he mused. ‘What a pretty picture you have of me. Are your menfolk sick or just lazy?’

‘Isaac is sick,’ said Temperance, uncertain what to make of his persistence. ‘Otherwise he would have come with me.’

‘And Isaac is?’

‘My apprentice.’

‘Your apprentice?’ he repeated. ‘You are the mistress?’ He laughed softly. ‘No wonder you did not take kindly to Tredgold’s insolence.’

‘It is my draper’s shop,’ Temperance said proudly. ‘I am my father’s only surviving child. I inherited it from him and I manage it in every particular. I do it very well.’ She refused to let her voice falter as she made the last statement. There were many things in her life she couldn’t claim, including a queue of suitors calling her sweet names, but she had worked hard to learn her father’s business. ‘I have no wish to marry and be ruled by a man.’

‘But you could continue to do business as a feme sole, could you not? As long as your husband had his own trade and took no part in yours?’

‘In certain circumstances. But if my husband wasn’t a freeman of the City I might lose the right to trade completely.’ Temperance paused, surprised by Jack Bow’s knowledge of City practices.

‘How do you know that?’ she demanded.

She sensed, rather than saw, his shrug. ‘My great-grandfather was a grocer,’ he replied. ‘I know a little about the customs of the City.’

‘A grocer! Why didn’t you follow in his footsteps? If you didn’t care to be a grocer, there are many trades in which a strong, quick-witted man can prosper.’

‘He died before I was born,’ Jack explained. ‘I followed in my father’s footsteps.’

‘And he was a rootless vagabond.’

Silence followed her hasty retort. As it lengthened she wished her words back. She hadn’t meant to insult a man she knew nothing about. There was something about Jack Bow that prompted her to speak far too recklessly.

‘I’m sorry—’ she began, wanting to apologise for her slight to his father, though she had no intention of softening her manner to Jack himself.

‘Uprooted,’ he said at the same instant. ‘Uprooted, not rootless. He knew where he came from. He was thwarted in his efforts to return there.’

‘I do not know him. I should not have said such a terrible thing,’ Temperance said.

‘Why not?’ said Jack. ‘It was me you were describing, not my father, after all.’

‘Well…’ Temperance swallowed. She could sense the change in Jack’s mood. For the first time humour was absent from his voice. He spoke quietly, with perhaps a hint of fatalism in his manner.

‘Where do you come from?’ she asked. The simple question took more courage than she’d anticipated.

‘Most recently from Venice—by way of Ostend and Dover,’ he replied. ‘I must have lost my comb along the way.’

‘Venice! Truly?’

‘Very truly,’ he said. ‘The biggest wild goose chase I’ve ever taken part in. I might as well have stayed in London and lined my barber’s pockets for all the good I achieved. What’s your name?’

‘Temperance,’ she began, disconcerted by the sudden question. ‘Temperance—’

‘Temperance?’ He started to laugh. ‘You were misnamed, sweetheart. Restraint of any kind seems to be completely alien to your character. Tempest would be far more apt.’