Chapter 19
Nineteen
The four men sat playing a desultory game of cards at the table they’d dragged into the center of the upstairs room of the Hart and Hounds.
The afternoon sun struggled to make its way through a single diamond-paned window on the far wall.
Its rays highlighted the dust that swirled in delicate patterns everywhere, over the two rope beds that were set at angles beneath the window, the nightstand with the chipped pitcher and basin, and the battered desk pushed into a corner of the room.
A trunk, several valises, and a medical chest were piled near the door.
David sneezed, breaking the silence. “It’s been three days since you met with the earl. What do you think, Dinsmore, has he had a change of heart?”
“Not Moreham.” James fingered the scar on his cheek. “When Harcrests set themselves to do something, they see it through. He’ll deliver.”
“And if he doesn’t?” David persisted.
“Moreham said Wednesday at the latest; the information will be here today,” he replied with more confidence than he felt. “And if it isn’t, well, then we’ll make do without it. It will be a bit more of a challenge, but we’ll pull it off.” He smiled. “Consider what we’ve accomplished thus far.”
Andre chuckled. “David’s tumbled the kitchen maid, I’ve won a respectable sum off the crowd downstairs and Marcus”—his eyes settled briefly on the figure across the table—“Marcus has somehow managed to keep his linen immaculate and his hair unruffled. Impressive, really, given he usually has either pen or charcoal in hand.”
“Good hygiene.” Marcus cast a critical glance at Andre’s rumpled stock and unbuttoned waistcoat. “I’d offer you some lessons, but I abhor expending my energies on hopeless causes.”
“Marcus, Marcus, Marcus.” Andre shook his head, loosening several strands of dark hair from his loosely clubbed queue. “What you fail to comprehend is that the ladies can’t resist my style. They take one look at me and are overcome with the urge to clasp me to a nurturing bosom.”
“Which is why, no doubt, after all the time you’ve spent in the taproom, the kitchen maid has been overcome with the urge to sweep our friend David to her nurturing, and, I might add, most generous bosom.”
Andre put down a card. “That is because I did not turn the full force of my attentions upon her.”
“I see.” Marcus studied the card, considering. “Then do tell, my friend, if the object of your attentions has not been the maid, and you emptied the meager pockets of the locals our first evening here, what has kept you so very busy belowstairs?”
“Andre has been spinning tales,” David offered, putting down two cards.
Andre smiled as if accepting a prize. “You would be astonished how many of my new friends have relatives who work in the homes of the quality. Not just locally, mind you, but in London as well. Quite a source of bragging rights, it is. Why, John—the craggy-faced gent with the three fingers, the one who always sits at the table nearest the fire—he has a sister whose youngest daughter is a downstairs maid in the London home of Lady Bessborough.”
“Simply riveting,” Marcus said in a voice that suggested the opposite.
“Oh, but it is. It was Dinsmore’s idea.” He nodded approvingly at James. “He suggested that so long as his presence is to be a source of gossip, it might as well be useful gossip. He’s had me putting it about that he’s waiting here, pining with love for the Lady Elizabeth.”
“A tad heavy on the treacle,” James said without looking up from his hand. “But the sort of sugary stuff the gentlefolk belowstairs enjoy.”
“I had ’em licking their bowls clean and begging for more,” Andre agreed.
“I told them Dinsmore here had sworn to put aside his rakish ways forever if the lady would have him. He called upon the earl that day to beg forgiveness for his grievous impertinence to the lady and implore His Lordship to grant him the unimagined honor of the lady’s hand in marriage. ”
“Did you invent these fascinating details yourself?” Marcus’s question was directed at Andre, but he cast a curious look at James.
James wondered if Marcus knew how often he’d found himself wishing the tale were true.
“Dinsmore helped me with a few bits here and there,” Andre acknowledged, spreading his winning hand upon the table. “I told them Moreham’s said he’ll think upon it and Dinsmore here has sworn to remain until he has got word from His Lordship.”
“Well done.” Marcus folded his cards. “That should neatly explain the presence of the earl’s messenger when he arrives.”
“If he arrives,” David interjected, bringing the conversation full circle, back to its beginning.
James shot him a look of mock disapproval.
“Oh, ye of little faith. The earl’s messenger will bring word of the rejection of my suit.
I will, of course, be distraught. And while you, my faithful servants, pack, I shall be forced to drown my sorrows in countless bottles of this establishment’s fine stock of wines. ”
“And shall you be needing any help with these bottles, a bit of shared comfort in your time of need?” Andre asked hopefully.
“Unfortunately for you, my suffering will be a private affair. Though expressed loudly enough to whet the eager appetite of your new friends below.” He pushed the pile of winnings in Andre’s direction.
“By the time we set out tomorrow, everyone hereabouts should know that I am a desperate, bitter man. That life holds nothing for me here in stubborn, stifling, hopelessly outmoded Olde England. And, like every truly mindless romantic in this day and age, I’m off to a land where I can breathe free, a land of liberté, egalité, and fraternité.
France.” James nodded at David. “With Andre’s assistance, I expect news of my lovelorn state will travel faster than your carefully modified coach. ”
David grinned at the mention of his favorite project.
“If everything goes as planned, my passage through the country will be followed with amusement, with pity, with scorn. With every range of emotion.” James smiled his twisted smile at the men gathered around the table. “Except suspicion.”
The messenger from the earl arrived just before tea, bearing a thickly wrapped package of names, addresses, and letters of introduction.
Marcus immediately sat at the desk in the corner and began transcribing the names and addresses with vanishing ink on sheets of stiff, ivory wallpaper decorated with a delicate gold pattern.
As soon as he finished a sheet and the ink was dry and no longer visible, he would motion to David, who was sitting at the table where the men had been playing cards.
David would take the sheet, brush it with paste from a pot, and then carefully press it into the inside of a small wooden trunk.
The trunk belonged to James. Having examined James’s luggage earlier in the day, David had seized upon it as being the perfect size and shape for his project. Without asking, he’d unceremoniously dumped the contents on the larger of the two rope beds.
“I do hope you intend to repack those when you’ve finished,” James had remarked, eyeing the untidy heap that had been several neatly folded shirts, stocks, a nightshirt, and several pairs of stockings.
David had grinned. “Not to worry, everything will be as good as new when I’ve finished with it. Maybe even better.” He patted the trunk confidently.
Watching him working now, James had to admit the handiwork was that of a master craftsman.
“It does look handsome.” David nodded, as if acknowledging the unspoken compliment. “Marcus picked out the paper, and he’s got tastes nearly as fancy as yours.”
James stepped closer to the table and picked up one of the sheets David hadn’t yet brushed with paste. “The writing disappears quite neatly. How will you retrieve it?”
“I’ve mixed up a special solution. Swab the writing with it, and so long as it stays wet, you can read it. Soon as it dries, poof, it’s gone again.” His smile broadened. “But here’s the best part…”
“I can only imagine.”
David waved a brush full of paste as if to wave away James’s concerns. “I’ve mixed the solution with your cologne. Those Frenchies will never suspect.”
“I don’t wear cologne.”
From the desk, he heard a dry chuckle, followed by a slosh. “You do now.” James turned and saw Marcus holding an elegant glass bottle with a cork stopper.
“At least tell me you picked the cologne with as much care as the paper.”
“Alas, no, though I did suggest he mix in sandalwood rather than musk. If it will make you feel less violated,” Marcus said, taking out the stopper, “later I’ll show you how that philistine has desecrated my writing desk.
” A pungent and not entirely pleasant odor wafted across the room.
“You’ll be grateful when the gendarmes are looking for those incriminating letters of introduction… ”
“Gad, that’s vile.” James fanned a hand beneath his nose. “I believe now would be a good time for me to begin calling for drink. Andre?”
Andre, who’d been silent through this exchange, leaning against the single window tapping his foot restlessly, turned immediately.
In another moment, he was across the room, flinging the door open, and calling loudly down the stairs, “Wine, my master needs BOTTLES OF WINE, DAMN YOUR EYES, not tepid pots of tea!”
He’d always prided himself on being a quiet, well-bred drinker, never noisy in his cups.
However, while much of the wine was poured out the window, a good portion made it down James’s throat.
At first, he felt distinctly uncomfortable striding about the room, loudly bemoaning the perfidy of women.
But soon he discovered it felt rather satisfying to voice some of the injustice he felt at being manipulated by his sister, caught up in Elizabeth’s wiles, and rejected by Rafe Moreham.
And the wines of the Hart and Hounds weren’t half bad.