Chapter 7 #3
“Most of them,” Alfie said with a grin. “And a nice bit of business it was too. I’ve a mind to take it easy for a while and enjoy life, seeing as how it’s good for my health.
I’ve one or two pieces remaining, but I think I’ll hold on to them for a rainy day, just in case.
Portable property is not something one ought to turn one’s nose up at. ”
“No, indeed, it is not,” King replied with a laugh. “I hope you’ve told no one else about your place here?”
“What d’you take me for?” Alfie grinned, which diminished suddenly.
“What?” King said at once.
Alfie shook his head. “Nothing. Probably nothing,” he amended, a worried glint in his eyes. “It’s just, the last piece I sold, on the way home, I had that feeling. You know, a prickle up the back of my neck.”
“Bloody hell,” King said, knowing exactly what he meant. “You’d best be on your guard, Alfie. Lock your doors and look after that sister of yours.”
“I will. Swear to God.” Alfie nodded, his expression grave, but he was a young man of high spirits, and his amiable nature could not keep him down for long.
“What about you?” he asked with a smile, though his tone was wary as he helped himself to another thick slice of ham.
“What plans have you got, then, once Lawson has fallen into your nets? If you don’t mind my asking. You know it won’t go any further.”
King regarded the fellow, whom he thought of as little more than a boy. He was a slender fellow, handsome too, in a youthful, fresh-faced manner. “I’m leaving St Giles and the business,” he said, shocking Alfie so much he dropped his fork with a clatter.
“You never are,” he said, so astonished his eyes looked like they would start clear out of his head.
King laughed. “I am. I’ve been putting things in place for years now, slowly.
But what Lawson said to you, and the information you found out about how the land lies at the docks, made my mind up to speed things along.
If the fellow is so keen to take my place he may do so and gladly, may it bring him joy,” he added, seeing Alfie shiver at the tone of his voice.
“You’ve set him up,” he said in a whisper, all admiration.
“Alfie, you wound me,” King said, shaking his head mournfully and placing his hand over his heart. “As if I would do such a despicable thing.”
Alfie gave a bark of laughter, looking utterly delighted. “It couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow,” he said, stuffing a large piece of ham into his mouth and chewing contentedly, for there was no love lost between him and Harold Lawson.
“But what about you?” Alfie said. “What will you do?”
King shrugged. “The same as I’ve always done, except I’ll be a legitimate businessman. Respectable,” he added, widening his eyes at Alfie in amusement as he spoke the awful word out loud.
“Well, you could knock me down with a feather,” Alfie said in wonder. “Never thought I’d see the day Jasper King took the straight road.”
“You might consider trying it,” King added, frowning, for he worried for the young man, who seemed to him to be ill-equipped for a life of crime, though he was clever and quick and had never yet put a foot wrong. “You’ve got your sister to think of.”
“Ah, you met Alice, didn’t you?” Alfie said with a smile. “What did you think of her?”
“A forthright young woman,” King replied carefully.
His friend laughed heartily. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said with a grin.
“Does she know what you do?”
Alfie shook his head. “Leastways, she suspects, but does not know, and I do nothing to give her any details, for what she does not know can’t hurt her, nor me either.”
King sighed and got to his feet. “Right, well, that’s my duty done, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll push off.”
Alfie rose too and held out his hand, which King shook. “I’m very grateful to you for coming all this way to warn me. It was good of you.”
King shrugged. “I don’t like being indebted to people. However, if you ever have the good sense to get out of your line of work, you might think to come to me. I could use a quick-witted fellow like you, should you like some respectable employment,” he added with a smile.
Alfie looked surprised by the offer. “Do you mean it?”
“Certainly, I do,” King replied. “I’ll be in town for a while longer, though I’m not sure how long, but come and see me or send word to me in town. I’ll meet you somewhere out of the city to save you getting your throat cut.”
“That’s most kind of you, King. I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes, please,” King suggested with a wink, before laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Think on it, eh? I’m at the Mermaid if you want to talk about it before I go.”
With that, he bade the man goodbye and showed himself out.
Seagull Heights was a handsome house of elegant proportions, which led many to wonder why on earth it had been built where it had, so far outside of the town and requiring such exertions upon any visitor forced to climb up the hill to get to it.
The answer was that the original owner had been an elderly man who disliked conversation in general and company on purpose and eschewed it whenever possible.
It had come as a surprise to no one when he had died alone towards the end of the last century, his passing neither noticed nor commented upon for some weeks.
This much Eustacia Foxworthy had discovered upon first meeting the fellow’s younger sister and her landlady, though younger had long since ceased to be an apt description of the woman, who was fast approaching her seventieth year.
Eustacia, though by no means as antisocial as the previous resident, had fallen in love at first sight, not only with the old house—whose beauty and fine architecture pleased her critical eye—but with the stunning view.
The room which she had promptly earmarked for her studio, before her brother had even seen the property, had the greatest part of it, with large windows that opened onto a small terrace and gave a view of the coast for miles on either side and an endless stretch of blue before.
Now, wrapped in a morning gown of emerald green trimmed with black blonde lace she knew very well was most becoming to her rather wild beauty, she stood sipping her coffee and admiring the rather stormy looking sky over the sea as she thought about her latest canvas which was an utter disaster.
Despite being delighted by her wonderful new studio and eager to work, she had not achieved a single piece she was happy with since they had arrived.
“Coffee,” muttered a husky voice from the door with a plaintive air, causing Eustacia to turn.
“On the table. You’re welcome,” she said with a smile, regarding her brother, Sebastian, with a fond if exasperated eye.
“Oh, hell,” he moaned, and sank into a chair, long limbs sprawling and exuding the air of a dying poet, which was not so surprising as he put it about that he was one, though in truth he was a writer of some renown.
He caressed his temples with a delicate touch, his eyes closed against the glare of the day.
“Serves you right,” Eustacia said tartly, pouring him a cup of coffee before picking it up and leaving the saucer behind. She handed it to him, watching as he inhaled the rich scent with a sigh of relief. “Not that you deserve my tender care.”
“Tender care,” Seb replied with a snort. “That’s rich. You’d throw me out the window if I interrupted your blessed painting.”
“So I would,” Eustacia replied with a smile, reaching out and ruffling her big brother’s hair.
“Leave off,” he said crossly, batting her hand away though it looked no worse for her treatment considering he adopted a slightly careless and windswept look to go with his poetic lifestyle.
“You ought not to drink in that wretched place,” she said, once her smile had faded, and she remembered where he had been last night. “It’s dangerous.”
Sebastian sighed, unwilling to revisit a conversation that had ended in a heated argument the last time they’d visited it.
Both siblings had rather fiery tempers and no one could fan the flames of an argument better than the other.
“Don’t nag, pet,” he warned her. “You can’t expect me to write convincingly about smugglers and desperate sorts without getting some firsthand experience. ”
“Whyever not?” she demanded indignantly. “Do you think all the readers who gobble up your stories with such devotion have ever seen a smuggler in their lives? You have an imagination, don’t you? Use it, for heaven’s sake.”
“Very well, you go and paint a vase of daffodils without having them in front of you,” he shot back, returning to his usual argument.
“It’s not the same, and you know it isn’t, for a vase of daffodils is most unlikely to turn around and slit my throat, you ridiculous creature!” she cried, vexed beyond bearing.
“Oh, ridiculous, am I?” he said, glaring at her and getting to his feet. “Just how much money did my last book make, and exactly how many paintings have you sold this year?”
Eustacia blanched at his words, and Sebastian cursed, immediately contrite. “Damn it, Stacy, I didn’t mean that. I’m a wretched fellow and you know I have a foul temper when I’m hungover. Forgive me.”
Eustacia looked around as he came to stand beside her. He was a handsome devil, with that same wildness of look and spirit she had, though they only shared a father, not a mother, and his hair was a tousled dark blond where hers was a dark mahogany.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” she said with a shrug, turning away, but Seb caught her hand.
“No, don’t look so despondent, sis,” he begged. “We both know you’re the one with the talent, I just got lucky. One day someone with half a brain will discover your work and then any success I might have will be cast entirely into the shade.”