Chapter 12
New Year’s Day. Joshua was not one for resolutions, but he felt a little lighter in his heart, a bit more hopeful now that Merry had decided to break with Tremaine, and she had seen the man’s perfidy for herself with minimal interference from Joshua.
By noon, the ladies had bundled themselves into shawls and pelisses, and were heading down the lane in the carriage to call upon Mrs. Hargreaves and her new baby.
Blankets, little caps, and lace-trimmed, woollen bootees filled their baskets.
The gentlemen turned toward the village instead.
Someone had declared they should join the annual village skittles tournament in honour of the year’s turning, and that it would be a shame to offend tradition.
The tavern was already thick with warmth when they entered, their boots stamping snow on to the flags. A smell of oak smoke, ale, and roasted onions wrapped the room like a familiar coat. The landlord’s broad grin greeted them before his words did.
“Ah, my fine gentlemen! The barn is prepared, and there are prizes that will make a man proud of his eyesight!”
“Prizes?” Mr. Roxton echoed. “You mean a pint for whoever misses least and infamy for whoever misses most?”
The villagers laughed, and everyone began with a pint.
Before long, Joshua found himself in the barn next door, standing holding the bowl, the hum of good spirits about him.
Chalk dusted the air as the steward kept score, and the small crowd cheered every knocked-down pin as if it mattered to the Empire.
“Steady, Captain,” Mr. Roxton called as he carried a tray with tankards of ale in from the tavern. “No military precision, if you please—let the rest of us have a chance!”
Joshua grinned, threw, and hit the pins cleanly. The company answered with a low, approving murmur.
It was just then that Barnaby Tremaine arrived.
The door swung wide; a gust of cold air curled through the room. He came in, his attire too polished for the company—coat of bottle green, neckcloth stiff enough to hang a hat on. His colour was high, his smile careless, and the smell of gin clung faintly beneath his cologne.
Tremaine’s voice carried above the talk. “Gentlemen! I could hear the laughter from halfway through the village. What game has you all in such good humour?”
“Skittles,” Caleb answered. “Would you care to join us?”
“With pleasure,” he returned, sweeping off his gloves. “But I could not insult such excellent players without adding some interest to the matter. What is a game without a wager?”
Joshua paused with his wooden bowl in mid-aim. “A friendly game remains friendly, Mr. Tremaine.”
Tremaine smiled; there were too many teeth in it. “Friendship without stakes is a dull business, Captain. A sovereign says I can best you in three rounds.”
A hush fell. Men who had been laughing a moment ago suddenly studied their tankards. There was no refusing without the landlord’s interference, and he would not nay-say the lord’s son.
Joshua’s voice stayed mild. “Very well—one sovereign.” He laid the coin down flat on a table beside the alley. “No more.”
The match began. Tremaine’s first toss knocked over several pins; the next, he hit the centre.
He turned with a flourish, one hand out for applause that never came.
Joshua followed, hitting all but the centre pin at once.
The third round ended with a rout by Joshua knocking down all at once, and the crowd’s good humour returned in a rush of clapping and talk.
But Tremaine wasn’t content with that. In a louder voice than necessary, he ordered another round of gin. His laugh grew sharper, his gestures broader. Before long, he was flinging coins on the table at every new opponent, his voice slurred just enough to draw sidelong looks.
Two men unknown to Joshua entered, rougher in dress and manner, and took a corner without ordering. Their eyes swept around the barn once, then stayed on Tremaine.
Joshua noted them without seeming to. Men like that did not come to admire a village skittles tournament. Had they, perhaps, followed Tremaine?
The two men did not drink. Their silence weighed heavier than the talk. One of them—a wiry fellow with a narrow face and eyes like steel pins—took out a pocket ledger, turned a page, and tapped his pencil once. Joshua caught the motion and understood.
The first blow came after the last round of throws.
Tremaine lost badly, cursed the pins, and demanded another go.
When no one would answer, the tournament carried on.
With a furious glare at the assembled, Tremaine walked into the tap-room and demanded more drink.
Surreptitiously, the two men followed him into the inn, crossing the room with unhurried purpose.
Trailing in their wake, Joshua sidled close enough to listen.
“Mr. Tremaine,” the taller one said. His voice had the edge of London in it. “A word with you, if you please.”
Tremaine gave a laugh that had lost its shine. “My dear fellow, can it not wait? You will spoil the sport.”
“It has waited long enough.”
The shorter man jerked his chin toward the back door. The landlord, wiping a pewter mug, looked down and said nothing.
Tremaine hesitated, saw the eyes on him, and straightened his shoulders. “Of course. A private matter. Excuse me, gentlemen.”
Joshua watched them leave, then he moved after them, as silent as a shadow.
The yard behind the Crown was half frozen mud, half puddle, the air sharp with smoke from the kitchen chimney. A cat streaked away as the door creaked open.
Tremaine stood between the men now, still playing at bravado. “I shall have funds within the week.”
“A week?” the shorter man said, his voice a rasp of mockery. “You are lucky the master gave you till New Year’s Eve. You ’ave stretched that, too.”
“I have a new arrangement in hand. A betrothal to an heiress.”
The taller man shifted his stance. “Is that so? We know Dunning left and took ’is daughter with ’im. ’E ’ad you looked into. ’E did not like what ’e found. Called you—what was it, Ned?”
The other man spat into the snow. “A worthless wastrel, sir, and that were the kindest bit. Said if ’e lent you a guinea, ’e wud want the watch off your wrist as proof you couldn’t wager it first.”
Tremaine’s face drained.
“We watched ’is carriage roll out this mornin’.” The shorter man’s boot prodded a patch of ice. “You’d best find another ’eiress to mend your fortunes, an’ quick.” He laughed.
Joshua could see Tremaine’s mind considering his options, and he knew before the man spoke what he would say.
“Dunning was my father’s choice!” Tremaine’s voice cracked. “I have a betrothed—Roxton’s daughter. It only wants a license. Allow me three days and she will be my wife.”
The two men exchanged wary glances.
“I assure you!” Tremaine pleaded.
“What do you think, Marv? Is ’e tellin’ the truth?”
The next sound was the thud of a fist. Tremaine folded against the wall, gasping.
“Mebbe. Mebbe not.” Another brutal fist met Tremaine’s eye then another split his lip.
The taller man gave a dry chuckle, half contempt, half scorn. “See you marry this ’eiress. You ’ave three days, no more. Fail, and you’ll be wishing for my fist instead of what waits fer you.”
The second man gave him a parting kick, precise and merciless, before turning away.
“Three days, and we will be watchin,’” the Cockney said again, his grin all rotten teeth. “We ain’t the sort to count to four.”
They vanished into the lane as quietly as they had come.
Joshua stepped forward. Tremaine was hunched by the barrels, hands pressed to his ribs, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. When he looked up, his eyes flared with resentment rather than shame.
“Fielding,” he spat. “Here to congratulate yourself?”
Joshua bent, caught him by the arm, and pulled him upright. “Save your pride. The ground’s cold.”
“Go to the devil.”
“After you.” Joshua steadied him until he could stand.
Back inside the tavern, clatter of tongues had resumed—and the business of men pretending not to have seen what they had. Joshua guided Tremaine to the table and poured a mug of water, setting it before him.
The man’s hand trembled as he drank. He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and leaned closer. “Were you eavesdropping?”
Joshua did not answer.
“She will have me yet,” Tremaine muttered. “She has promised. Her word is given.”
“Her word,” Joshua said, low enough that only Tremaine could hear, “was taken by deceit. It is not binding.”
Tremaine’s smile twisted. “We will see about that, Fielding.”
He pushed to his feet and swayed, half-defiant yet half-broken. A few of the villagers moved aside to make way for him. He threw down a coin, sneered at its smallness, and stalked toward the door.
Joshua let him go. Outside, the wind was swirling and harsh. The men of Wychwood and Roxton followed him, boots crunching the snow that had already begun to gather in the ruts.
“What happened?” Matthew asked.
Joshua adjusted his gloves. “He is in trouble with moneylenders. They gave him three days’ grace.”
Mr. Roxton frowned. “And that concerns us?”
“It does,” Joshua said. “He is desperate…and desperate men chase whatever they think might save them.”
The older man’s face hardened. “Merry.”
Joshua nodded once. “We must keep her close. He is badly dipped.”
They said no more after that. The wind rose, driving the snow in thin white ribbons along the hedgerows. When the house lights came into view. Joshua’s stride lengthened. He had no intention of ever again letting Barnaby Tremaine come within a hundred yards of Merry.
The visit to Mrs. Hargreaves ought to have been a cheerful one. The ladies had filled the cottage with laughter and admiration, their arms laden with blankets and gowns, their voices softening instinctively in the presence of the new baby.