Chapter 6
The snow fell thickly that Christmas night, yet the village was lively all the same.
Joshua had thought to pass the evening quietly at Wychwood, but his brothers insisted upon a walk down to the Green.
They claimed it was to see the lanterns and join the carols that would be sung outside the tavern, though Joshua suspected more curiosity than devotion drew them forth.
He had not walked abroad with them in years and found the prospect oddly warming, so he joined the party, pulling his greatcoat tightly to him against the cold.
The village glowed with merriment. Candles shone in windows, evergreen boughs hung over doors, and laughter rose from within the Shaven Crown where most of the village’s men had gathered, the large wooden beams angled to a high point and a roaring fire at the end welcoming them.
Joshua’s brothers soon melted into the throng, greeting neighbours with loud good cheer, while Joshua lingered at the edge, content to observe.
It was then he noticed Tremaine. The man had not joined them at church earlier, nor remained long at Wychwood after his ill-timed gift to Merry.
Yet here he was now, at a table in the corner of the tavern, the light of several candles casting a golden haze about his handsome features.
Cards lay in his hands, a pile of coin and notes already scattered before him.
A painted wench perched upon his lap, laughing too freely, her bodice cut lower than was decent.
Tremaine seemed in high spirits, wagering with reckless abandon, his voice carrying above the din.
Joshua moved nearer, unnoticed in the crush of bodies. He had spent too many years learning how to watch without being watched to forget the habit. What he heard troubled him. Tremaine cursed his luck one moment and boasted of his winnings the next.
Joshua lingered near the doorway, the cold air rushing in each time a new patron entered, and watched the game unfold.
Tremaine’s table grew louder as the night lengthened.
The painted woman in his lap leaned across him, her laughter shrill and grating, while the men at his side grew increasingly unruly with every round of cards.
Joshua recognized one of them now—a stocky fellow with a scar over his brow, known as Jem Kettle, a man once hauled before the courts for cheating dice but acquitted for lack of proof.
The other was a lean squire with the kind of pallor that comes from too many nights spent in smoke-filled rooms. Neither man bore the respectability of good company, yet Tremaine greeted them as familiars.
At first, Tremaine played with easy confidence.
He tossed coins onto the table with a flourish, laughing when he won, laughing louder when he lost. The wench kissed his cheek when his hand triumphed and pouted prettily when it did not.
However, as the pile before the man dwindled, Joshua saw his smile grow tighter.
He drank more quickly, called for another bottle, and leaned forward with a glare that did not match the careless flick of his cards.
“Another fifty,” Tremaine said, his voice raised above the din.
Jem Kettle grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth. “Done, my lord. But mind you can pay when the reckoning comes.”
The squire chuckled. “He has ways. Do not fear for Barnaby Tremaine.”
Tremaine’s colour rose. “I have never failed to pay a debt in my life.”
The scarred man winked. “Then your pa must have deep pockets.”
The next hand was dealt. Tremaine’s fingers drummed against the wood while he studied his cards.
The wench leaned across him again, whispering advice in his ear, though her eyes flicked toward the largest stack of coins on the table.
Tremaine pushed her aside with an irritated jerk of his shoulder, earning a pout and a muttered curse.
When the cards were shown, his hand failed again. The laughter of his companions rang out, harsh and cruel.
“Hard luck, Tremaine,” the squire said, gathering in the notes with long, pale fingers. “It seems fortune does not favour you tonight.”
Tremaine’s jaw clenched. “Deal again.”
The wench tried to soothe him, trailing her fingers along his collar, but he struck her hand away. The gesture was small, yet ugly. His voice grew louder and sharper, as though volume could disguise desperation.
Joshua watched with steady eyes. This was no picture of a gentleman at harmless play.
It was the portrait of a man bleeding coin he could not afford, snarling when the mask of polish slipped.
His losses grew deep, and his temper deeper still.
And Merry—bright, trusting Merry—thought to bind herself to this man—to share in his ruin.
Joshua’s resolve hardened like frost. He could not allow Merry to walk blindly into such a snare.
He stepped back, unsettled by what he had seen. The picture told itself plainly enough. Tremaine was a man living beyond his means, seeking his salvation in cards and wagers—and when the stakes failed him, he would turn elsewhere. To Merry.
It was then that a rough hand touched Joshua’s sleeve. He turned and saw Will Fletcher, an old seaman who had once sailed with his father’s ships and now worked as a steward for them. Fletcher had a face lined like a chart and eyes that missed little.
“Captain Fielding,” the man said quietly. “A word, if you will grant it.”
Joshua followed him out into the cold, where the snow muffled their voices. Fletcher glanced about to be certain no-one lingered nearby.
“I thought you should know, sir,” he began, “there is talk in London of Mr. Tremaine meeting with men of ill repute. Investors, they call themselves, but they are more rogues than merchants. I have seen the sort before, the kind that promise fortunes and deliver ruin. They have had their claws in several young gentlemen this past year.”
Joshua’s mouth tightened. “And you are certain Tremaine was among them?”
“I saw him with my own eyes not three months past, in company with a fellow named Carter who lost a ship in dock through fraud and near cost your father dear. They met in a coffee-house near the Exchange, whispering like two smugglers over a bargain. I marked it, for Mr. Tremaine is not the sort I should expect to see in such company.”
Joshua drew in a breath, the cold air burning his lungs.
The pieces began to arrange themselves. Tremaine’s reckless gaming, his eagerness to dazzle, his sudden attentions to Merry—these were not the pursuits of a man courting for affection.
They were the strategies of a desperate gambler seeking to mend his fortunes by other means.
“You have my thanks, Fletcher,” Joshua said. “You have done me a service.”
The old seaman tipped his hat. “I thought it right you should know. Miss Roxton deserves better.”
So Fletcher knew of Merry’s hopes in that regard, Joshua mused. It would not be long before the entire village knew of Tremaine’s losses, and then surely would its inhabitants speculate about his intentions towards her.
Joshua returned to the tavern only long enough to collect his brothers and steer them homeward. They grumbled good-naturedly at being torn from the merriment, but Joshua had no patience left for their jests. His mind was already turning to what must be done.
Back at Wychwood, he retired early to his chamber and lit a single candle upon the desk. The house lay quiet, the muffled sound of distant carols drifting through the frosted glass. He drew out paper and pen, the familiar ritual steadying his thoughts.
To Colonel Renforth, Harcourt House, London.
He wrote swiftly, the words of a soldier accustomed to reports, though he softened them for a friend.
Sir,
You will forgive me for troubling you in the midst of the festive season, yet I have need of your discretion.
A certain gentleman of Gloucestershire, Mr. Barnaby Tremaine, son of Lord Bruton, has lately made himself a constant visitor among my family’s circle.
His conduct here has raised questions, and I have reason to suspect his circumstances are not what they appear.
Rumours speak of gaming debts and disreputable acquaintances in London.
I beg you to make discreet inquiries among our mutual friends in Town, especially those with knowledge of the gaming houses and the Exchange.
I do not ask for scandal, only for truth.
If there is nothing in it, I shall be glad.
If there is, I must know before harm is done to someone I hold dear.
I remain your respectful and obedient servant,
Fielding
He sanded the page, folded and sealed it, and addressed it for the morning post.
When it was done, he sat back, the quill still in his fingers.
The work was familiar. In Spain and Portugal he had been tasked with uncovering enemy movements, nosing out spies, and protecting his men from betrayal.
Now there was peace, he still worked in a secret capacity, finding himself using the same skills at home—watching, listening, piecing together whispers.
The battlefield had changed, but the duty had not.
Joshua stared into the candle flame, his thoughts returning to Merry.
He saw her as she had been that afternoon, snow caught in her hair, laughter bright upon her lips, the children clinging to her skirts as if she were their general.
She deserved a man who cherished her, not one who sought her fortune.
He clenched his hand until the quill snapped between his fingers. No matter how carefully Tremaine concealed it, Joshua would uncover the truth…and when he did, Merry would be armed with more than rumours. She would have proof.
So much, he reflected wryly, for letting Tremaine bury himself, but matters had changed with the revelations of that night.
He blew out the candle and let the darkness close about him, the letter sealed upon the desk, his resolve to provide facts firm.