Kitabı oku: «The Vagabond Duchess»

Temperance hardly heard the duchess as she gazed unseeingly at the carved legs of the desk, finally allowing herself to believe Jack was alive.

Joyful excitement suddenly bloomed in her heart. She would see Jack again. She would!

New energy surged through her. She leaped to her feet—

And stumbled with shock as she registered what else the duchess had said.

“Your son?”

“Yes, he’s my son.”

“B-but…”

“Sometimes he calls himself Jack Bow,” said the duchess. “

But his full name is John Beaufleur, second Duke of Kilverdale.”

Praise for Claire Thornton

THE DEFIANT MISTRESS

“If you are looking for something decidedly out of the ordinary, this novel is worth checking out.

—All About Romance

“Sweeps readers from Cromwell’s London to France, Italy and back…colorful backdrop, varied settings and vivid details.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

RAVEN’S HONOR

“Claire Thornton has written an exciting historical unlike anything I’ve read this past year…. I highly recommend this intoxicating love story.”

—Romance Junkies

GIFFORD’S LADY

“Claire Thornton is truly gifted in creating stories that are so unusual—with charismatic characters, intriguing plots and subtle humor. Her hero steps off the page and into your heart with his bravery and sensibilities.”

—Romance Junkies

“[Abigail] and Gif share a wonderfully tender and intimate love scene that’s one of the best I have read this year…. It’s a standout.”

—All About Romance

The Vagabond Duchess
Claire Thornton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Author Note

The stories in the CITY OF FLAMES trilogy take place during the reign of Charles II. This was an era of great color, drama and variety. The king scandalized some of his subjects with his many mistresses, but his reign also saw the emergence of modern banking among the London goldsmiths. Actresses appeared for the first time in London theaters, while members of the Royal Society met every week to witness scientific experiments.

Athena Fairchild, Colonel Jakob Balston and the Duke of Kilverdale are cousins, but they’ve led very different lives. Athena grew up in England, Jakob in Sweden, and Kilverdale spent his childhood exiled in France as a result of the war between Charles I and Parliament.

The cousins’ romances take place in various locations, but London is at the heart of the CITY OF FLAMES trilogy. The cousins all meet the one they love in the city—although Athena’s happiness is destroyed almost before it begins.

Athena’s story, The Defiant Mistress begins in May 1666 in Venice and the events span the rest of the summer. Jakob’s story, The Abducted Heiress, and Kilverdale’s story, The Vagabond Duchess, both begin in London at the start of September 1666. In the early hours of the morning of 2 September, a fire in Pudding Lane will burn out of control….

While I was writing these books I fell in love with the characters and their world. I hope you enjoy reading their stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Prologue

The Palace of Whitehall, London, April 1666

A French youth sang a love song. A group of courtiers played basset around a large table, gambling huge sums with fashionable disregard for the consequences. The King lounged at his ease, amused by the clever, cynical conversation of his noble companions.

The Earl of Swiftbourne stood aloof from the clamour around him. He was nearly half a century too old to be part of the circle of witty young men who entertained the king, and too hard-headed to risk his fortune at the gambling table. He owed his status at court to the fact he’d been one of the men, along with the Duke of Albemarle, who’d helped Charles regain his throne. Swiftbourne was well aware royal gratitude could be fickle, but he was adept at navigating the hazards associated with power. For the time being, he was confident his position was secure.

A few feet away from Swiftbourne, an aristocratic rogue was trying to seduce one of the ladies of the court. From the tone of her responses, Swiftbourne judged the rogue was close to success. He ignored the couple as he focussed on the group around the King. His grandson, John Beaufleur, the Duke of Kilverdale, was among them.

Kilverdale was just short of twenty-six and in the prime of his youth and power. He looked every inch the courtier in his periwig, silk brocade coat and Venetian lace, but he also had the manners and intelligence necessary to hold his own in the Court of Charles II. It was an environment where little was sacred and noble poets could shred the reputation of a rival with a few anonymously circulated verses.

Kilverdale had been the target of such satires in the past, but now he was doing nothing more scandalous than asking the King’s permission to leave the country.

‘A retreat! Kilverdale seeks a retreat because he has been over-matched by Rochester’s wit!’ Fotherington exclaimed.

Swiftbourne controlled a scornful curl of his lip. The youthful Rochester was a fine poet and a brilliant conversationalist, but he did not intimidate Kilverdale. Swiftbourne was confident his grandson could match wits or swords with any man present should the need arise.

‘I must fetch my cousin from the English convent at Bruges, your Majesty,’ Kilverdale said.

‘A nun, by God!’ said Fotherington.

‘She is a guest of the nuns,’ Kilverdale said, continuing to address the King.

‘I visited the convent at Bruges myself, when I was on my travels,’ said Charles. ‘Remember me to the Abbess.’

Kilverdale bowed gracefully in acknowledgement of the request. His expression, as so often, was courteously unreadable. Swiftbourne knew the English nuns on the continent had done a great deal to help the King’s cause when he was in exile. The Abbess might justifiably have expected a little more from Charles than his remembrances now.

‘Is she beautiful?’ asked Fotherington. ‘I have heard rumours her name is Athena and your mother sent her to the nuns because she is so beautiful.’

‘You must present her to us,’ said the King, his interest caught.

‘I thank your Majesty for your kindness. She will be honoured to attend Court—but I must present her to my mother first,’ Kilverdale replied. ‘Athena has lived retired from the world for several years. She must become accustomed to society by degrees.’

‘Is she an heiress?’ asked one of the fops crowding around.

‘That depends on the quality of the man who courts her,’ Kilverdale said, a cold glint in his eye.

The fop opened his mouth and then shut it again. It was well known that, unlike many of the debt-ridden noblemen adorning Charles’s court, Kilverdale’s title was backed by a large fortune. The implication in his words was clear—if he approved a suitor for his cousin’s hand, he would bestow a dowry on her. If he didn’t approve of the man, he would be ruthless in preventing access to his cousin.

Of course, Kilverdale’s cousin was also Swiftbourne’s granddaughter, but Swiftbourne had no intention of interfering with Kilverdale’s plans for her. Athena had been living in the convent to hide from her abusive husband, but she’d recently been widowed. It seemed Kilverdale had decided it was time for her to return to England and make a more satisfactory second marriage. Despite his sometimes eccentric reputation, the Duke had always had a well-developed sense of responsibility for those who depended upon him. Swiftbourne was curious to discover what kind of matchmaker his grandson would prove. So far he’d been notably reluctant to enter marriage negotiations on his own behalf.

Kilverdale took formal leave of the King and turned to make his way out of the chamber. As he did so he looked straight at his grandfather for the first time.

Even after fifteen years it still shocked Swiftbourne to be confronted by that flat, hard gaze. There were times when he was convinced Kilverdale hated him, other times when he was sure ruthlessly controlled rage seethed behind the polite stare. And sometimes he caught glimpses of the devastated eleven-year-old boy whose world had been overturned by a few short words. It was those occasions Swiftbourne found most disturbing, though he always concealed his feelings behind the impenetrable mask of the professional diplomat.

‘My lord.’ Kilverdale paused to acknowledge his grandfather. ‘I am glad to see you in good health.’

‘Thank you,’ said Swiftbourne, allowing just a touch of irony to shade his cool response. ‘It’s an inconvenient time to cross the channel, now we’re at war with the French as well as the Dutch.’

Kilverdale raised one eyebrow. ‘I dare say the enemy will come to more harm than I if we encounter each other,’ he replied. ‘Good evening, my lord.’

‘Good evening.’ Swiftbourne watched Kilverdale walk away. Two sons and a grandson had already predeceased him—he did not wish to receive the news of this grandson’s death. Of all his children and grandchildren, Kilverdale was the one who most resembled him. Swiftbourne had survived seventy-four years with his health and wits intact and his fortune significantly enlarged. He comforted himself with the thought Kilverdale was more than capable of equalling that achievement.

Kilverdale was approached several times as he made his way out by his friends—or those who sought his friendship. Swiftbourne watched with cynical amusement as one enterprising girl nearly tripped up at Kilverdale’s feet in her efforts to catch his eye. It was far from the first time such a thing had happened. The young, unmarried and wealthy duke had been a target for matchmaking parents and ambitious daughters ever since he’d returned to England six years earlier.

Kilverdale restored the girl’s balance with a deft gesture, spoke a few coolly courteous words and moved on. The next attempt to waylay him was far more determined. The Earl of Windle stepped away from the basset table and moved directly in front of Kilverdale. Even at this distance Swiftbourne could see the bullish expression on Windle’s face. It was well known the Earl’s fortune was in a desperate state. His plans for recovery centred on finding a rich husband for his daughter. At first he’d tried to lure Kilverdale into marriage negotiations. Recently his attempts at persuasion had become less subtle. Swiftbourne began to stroll towards the two men.

‘I regret I do not have time to linger tonight, my lord,’ Kilverdale said.

‘You can spare the time to take some wine with me, I’m sure, your Grace,’ Windle replied unctuously.

‘Unfortunately not. I’m bound for Flanders at first light,’ said Kilverdale. ‘I—’ His eyes narrowed as Windle caught his coat sleeve.

The Earl flushed angrily, but released his grip. He was naturally inclined to be a bully, but Kilverdale’s prowess with a sword was too well known for Windle to risk forcing a quarrel on the Duke. ‘I will be pleased to travel with you to the coast so we can conclude our discussions before you leave,’ he said.

‘I do not recall starting a discussion with you that cannot be concluded with a simple “good evening”,’ Kilverdale said, turning away.

‘By God, Kilverdale, you must take a wife soon!’ exclaimed Fotherington. ‘Why not Windle’s daughter?’ He glanced between the two men, clearly hoping his meddling would incite some entertaining fireworks.

‘With all due courtesy to the Lady Anne, I am already committed to another,’ Kilverdale snapped. ‘Good night, my lords.’ He turned on his heel and strode out before any of them could respond.

After a second’s shock Swiftbourne found himself the focus of all eyes. He’d been as startled as the rest of them by his grandson’s announcement, but his expression remained impassive as he said, ‘Do not expect me to reveal Kilverdale’s secrets, gentleman. No doubt he will provide further enlightenment when it suits him.’

‘Are you in his confidence, my lord?’ Fotherington asked. ‘I had not realised you were on such warm terms with him these days.’

Swiftbourne raised an eyebrow. ‘I am pleased to assure you that Kilverdale and I enjoy terms of more than adequate warmth, sir,’ he said, and took even more pleasure in the way Fotherington wilted under his icy gaze.

There was a sudden commotion at the basset table as one of the players won a considerable sum. It was a signal for a general regrouping and a few moments later Swiftbourne discovered the King at his elbow.

‘Committed to a bride, or a paramour?’ Charles asked, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘Either will be something of a novelty for Kilverdale—if there was any truth in what he said to Windle. Let us hope he returns swiftly to Court so we can enjoy the next act in this drama.’

Chapter One

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.’

Chapter Two

Saturday 1 September 1666

I t was a warm, sunny afternoon as Jack strolled through the City. The wooden shutters of all the shops were opened for business. It was fortunate Cheapside was such a broad thoroughfare because in some cases the lower boards projected as much as two and half feet beyond the shop front. The upper shutters were raised to provide a modicum of protection for the goods displayed on the lower board. Shopkeepers stood or sat in their doorways to guard their goods and attract the attention of potential customers. Often it was women who occupied the carved seats in front of the shops. Cheapside was one of the fashionable meeting places in the City. It had become famous for the pretty tradesmen’s wives who bantered with the men-about-town sauntering past. More trestles and stalls were set up in the street itself, though hundreds of other sellers sold their wares from nothing more than a sack or a basket on the ground.

Jack was in no hurry. He paused to exchange compliments with the blue-eyed wife of a goldsmith, then strolled on a few more yards. He was taller than most of those around him, and an instant later he was grateful for the advantage it gave him. Coming towards him was the last man he wanted to meet in London or anywhere else. He ducked into the nearest shop, which happened to be a mercer’s, and watched the Earl of Windle walk past the door and on towards St Paul’s. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Windle since their encounter at Court six months ago. As far as Jack was concerned, the longer their next meeting was delayed the better.

He left the mercers and continued along Cheapside, his blood quickening in anticipation as he approached Temperance’s shop. He’d enjoyed his encounter with the hot-tempered draper the previous night. They were well matched in several pleasurable ways. For once he was in no danger of getting a crick in his neck when he talked to a woman. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but he’d felt the pull of attraction to her from the moment he saw her in the taproom. It had been impossible to miss her in the crowd. Her personality was so vivid that, even when she was standing quite still, her thoughts and emotions had been easy to read.

Most of all, he enjoyed the way she challenged him at every turn. She was very different from the women who tried to win his favour at Court. He could not imagine Temperance heaping him with false flattery or pretending to trip up at his feet to catch his attention. She’d thanked him for his help with Tredgold, but she clearly wasn’t the woman to gush her undying gratitude. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him to discover she believed she’d been capable of dealing with the contretemps in the tavern on her own.

As he drew closer he saw the shutters of the draper’s shop were open and goods were laid out on the board, but Temperance wasn’t sitting in the doorway. Mildly surprised by her absence, Jack lengthened his stride.

‘Go back to bed, Isaac,’ said Temperance.

‘But, mistress, I must not shirk my work,’ he protested.

‘You are not shirking,’ she replied. ‘You spent all yesterday afternoon and most of the night groaning about the pain in your head or throwing up. You know when these headaches come upon you, you are fit for nothing the next day. Go upstairs and rest. I will expect you to work doubly hard on Monday.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Even though he tried to hide it, she saw the relief in his face.

He was turning to the stairs when the light from the open doorway at the front was suddenly blocked. They both looked towards the customer.

The newcomer had his back to the light, and his appearance had changed in one, very startling way since she’d last seen him, but Temperance recognised Jack Bow immediately.

‘What have you done to your hair?’ The disconcerted question escaped before she had time to think better of it.

He grinned. ‘I traded it for someone else’s,’ he replied, stepping into the shop. ‘No doubt a buxom country lass was glad to sell these locks for a profit.’

He was wearing a black periwig. The hair was as black as his own but, instead of the wild, shaggy mane of the previous night, it fell in thick, graceful curls around his shoulders. It was longer than his own hair, and changed his appearance considerably. He was smooth shaven as well, and Temperance caught the faint scent of orange flower water when he moved. Today he looked far less like a rogue and a lot more like a gentleman. But he still wore the same travel-creased coat, and his lute case was slung across his back just as it had been when she’d last seen him. His hawklike nose and piercing eyes were those of a vagabond.

Her heart began to beat triple time. She was nervous and excited all at once. She wanted to invite him in. She wanted to send him on his way before he turned her life upside down. She was conscious of Isaac staring at her. For pride’s sake she wanted to treat Jack Bow like any other customer, but for several long seconds she couldn’t think of anything to say. All she could do was look at him.

He returned her gaze just as intently. She wasn’t used to such concentrated scrutiny from a man—not unless he was bargaining with her. But Jack Bow wasn’t looking at her like a tradesman. He was just…looking at her. Heat rolled over her body.

‘Mistress?’ Isaac said uncertainly.

With an effort Temperance wrenched her gaze from Jack’s face. She could see from Isaac’s expression that he was worried, unsure what he should do.

‘Go to bed,’ she said. Her voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to her.

‘Bed?’ said Jack. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’

‘He is not well,’ Temperance defended her apprentice.

‘Ah.’ Jack’s shrewd gaze rested on Isaac for a few moments. He nodded as if accepting the accuracy of her claim. ‘You may safely obey your mistress, lad. I’ll not do her any harm.’

‘No, you won’t!’ Temperance retorted. ‘And I’ll thank you not to make so free with your orders in my shop, sir!’

Jack grinned. ‘Why don’t we step outside so you can keep an eye on your goods?’ he suggested.

Temperance followed him to the door as Isaac went upstairs. She looked across the width of board, automatically checking nothing had gone missing while her attention was elsewhere. She smoothed a piece of linsey-wolsey beneath her hands, then glanced up to see he was watching her with a half-smile on his lips.

‘Why were you so extravagant?’ she burst out. ‘There was nothing wrong with your hair. If you’d only combed and dressed it properly—’

‘Don’t you admire my new locks?’ His long fingers briefly caressed one of the black curls that lay against his shoulder. The gesture reminded her of the preening fops she sometimes saw strolling past her shop, but there was nothing remotely foppish about the wicked gleam in his dark eyes.

‘I suppose you’re bald underneath,’ she said, feeling disgruntled and not sure why.

‘Not quite. Are you regretting the lost opportunity to run your fingers through my hair? You should have mentioned your preference last night.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ Temperance ordered, alarmed at his indiscretion. She glanced around to see if anyone had heard him. Fortunately, Agnes Cruikshank, her neighbour to the left, was engaged with a customer.

‘Yes, Madam Tempest.’ Jack grinned.

‘All my cloth is of the finest quality,’ she declared. ‘Are you thinking of a new coat, sir? Something to do honour to your fine new hair. This pink would go nicely with the sweet little curls.’

‘Black or blue might be more appropriate,’ he mused, testing the quality of the fabric between his fingers and thumb. ‘To match my bruises when you pull out the stick banging against your thigh.’

‘I never beat my customers—’

‘Unless they refuse to pay,’ he reminded her.

‘I didn’t! I just kicked his chair. It was you who—’ She broke off. How on earth had he lured her into this ridiculous argument? But all he had to do was look at her with that exasperating, disturbing gleam in his eyes and she forgot all proper reticence.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

‘I came to make sure you’re none the worse for your adventure last night.’

‘Thank you. As you can see, I am very well,’ Temperance replied, trying for a note of sedate formality.

‘Very well indeed,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are as clear as the summer sky…’

‘Blue,’ she said weakly.

‘Obviously, otherwise I’d have compared them to something else. And your hair…’

‘Brown,’ she said.

‘Are you determined to destroy the poetry of the moment?’ He frowned at her. ‘I am famous for my sonnets, you know.’

‘You are?’

‘Humorous, witty or romantic, as the occasion requires.’

‘I’ll bear you in mind, should I ever find myself in need of a rhyming couplet,’ Temperance said.

‘Excellent. Would you, perchance, accept a sonnet in praise of your beautiful eyes in exchange for a length of this nearly as fine blue broadcloth?’

‘No.’

Jack put one hand over his heart and assumed a pained expression. ‘You’re a hard woman to do business with, Mistress Tempest.’

‘I can’t buy coal with pretty compliments,’ she said, feeling flustered.

‘Have you ever tried? The coal merchant might be susceptible to cornflower blue.’

‘I don’t think so. He… You do talk nonsense!’ She pulled herself together.

He smiled, and butterflies swooped in Temperance’s stomach. His smile was quite different from his teasing grin. It revealed a kinder, quieter side of his personality and called forth a much more profound emotional response from her than his cocky grin.

‘How long have you been mistress here?’ he asked.

‘My father died nearly two years ago,’ she said.

‘A difficult time to take on such a responsibility.’

‘Yes.’ She pushed a strand of hair back from her face, her eyes unfocussed as she remembered that time.

‘Did you stay in London?’

‘During the plague?’ She glanced at him. ‘I had nowhere else to go. We all survived.’ She shuddered as she recalled some of the terrible things she’d seen. ‘But it does seem the worst is past now,’ she added optimistically. ‘And I pray it will not return.’

‘So do I,’ Jack said quietly.

‘Were you here then?’ She looked at him curiously.

He shook his head.

‘Venice?’ she asked, remembering his comment the previous night and wanting to lighten the mood. ‘Or some other exotic location?’

‘Last year I was very dull. I went to Bruges…Oxford…but mostly I stayed in Sussex.’

‘Oxford? The King and Court went to Oxford to escape the plague.’

‘So they did,’ Jack acknowledged with a half-smile.

‘Did you…? Have you ever played for the King?’ Temperance asked, and held her breath waiting for the answer. He would surely laugh at her for asking such a silly question. But he was such a fine musician she could easily imagine him entertaining kings and queens.

Jack grinned.

‘What does that smirk mean?’ she demanded.

‘The King has more appreciation for my sonnets than you do,’ he replied. ‘The witty ones at any rate. He particularly admired one I composed about a lady’s—’

‘Never mind,’ Temperance interrupted, sure it would be scandalous. ‘Have you really spoken to the King? Or are you just teasing me?’

Jack smiled his quiet smile. ‘I have spoken to the King,’ he said. ‘And played my lute for him. I’ve played for Louis too, though that was several years ago.’

‘Louis? The King of France?’ Temperance stared at him. ‘We’re at war with France.’

‘We weren’t when I attended the French Court,’ Jack replied. ‘But the war was a cursed inconvenience when I was making my way back from Venice this summer. I got stuck at Ostend, waiting for the packet boat to form part of a convoy. By the time I’d languished in an inn for several days I could hardly afford to pay my fare home.’

‘What did you do?’ Temperance was half-fascinated, half-horrified by his revelations. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than being stranded so far from home.

‘Played my lute, of course.’ This time his grin was shot through with pure wickedness.

Temperance knew—she just knew—his next revelation would be outrageous, but she had to hear what he did next.

‘Did you convince the captain of the packet boat to exchange a sonnet for your passage?’ she asked.

‘No. It was the good housewives of Ostend who showed the greatest appreciation for my talents,’ he replied.

‘What?’ She looked at him warily. ‘They gave you money when you sang?’

‘Yes, they did,’ he recollected. ‘I was sitting on the beach and they came to watch and throw me coins. Then a couple of them invited me to go home with them—to sing for them privately. Because they so greatly admired my talents.’

‘You are a rogue and a scoundrel!’ Temperance wanted to cry.

‘Only if I accepted their invitations,’ he said.

‘I’m sure I don’t care to know how you paid your way home,’ she said coldly.

‘I was rescued by my cousin,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sell me some of this blue cloth?’

‘Not for a sonnet. And after buying that ridiculous wig I doubt you’ve enough coins left.’ She crossed her arms and glared at him.

‘How much?’

When she grudgingly named a price he delved in his pocket and produced the necessary coins.

‘Cut me a length,’ he ordered.

‘Yes, sir.’ She mutinously complied.

He leant his hip against the edge of the board and watched her.

‘There I was, playing my lute to pay for my supper, wondering how I could afford the packet fare without sacrificing my virtue—’

‘Your virtue,’ Temperance exclaimed, then snapped her mouth shut.

‘Indeed. When who should I see approaching but my cousin. A splendid, prosperous fellow. It turned out he was waiting for the packet too. So I prevailed upon him to sponsor me.’

‘Really?’ Temperance didn’t even try to keep the scepticism out of her voice. ‘What a coincidence. What was your cousin doing in Ostend?’

‘He’d gone to visit another cousin of ours in Bruges. But she wasn’t there.’

‘She? You may cease with this nonsense.’ Temperance folded the broadcloth with quick, angry hands. ‘And pay for your purchase.’

‘I really do have several cousins.’ Jack’s eyes twinkled at her as he handed over the coins. ‘One of them was a guest at the English convent in Bruges for several years. It was her fault I went to Venice this summer. I went to Bruges in April to fetch her home and found she’d already left for Italy, so I had to follow her.’

Temperance held the folded cloth in front of her and looked at Jack. Was it possible he was telling her the truth? He’d already mentioned visiting Bruges, and he’d told her about his trip to Venice more than once.

‘Is your cousin a Catholic?’ she asked, noting his reference to the convent.

‘No. At least, she wasn’t when she first became a guest of the nuns. She may have become more sympathetic to their mode of worship over the past few years,’ Jack replied. ‘But I can assure you she doesn’t have horns and a tail.’ There was an unusually acerbic tone in his voice. ‘My other cousin, the one I travelled with to Dover, is a good Swedish Lutheran. No doubt far more acceptable to your English sensibilities.’

Temperance stared at him, trying to unravel everything he’d just said.

‘Aren’t you English?’ she said. ‘I thought you were. You sound like an Englishman. You said your great-grandfather was a grocer here in London.’

‘Yes, I’m English. By birth at least,’ he replied.

‘But you have a Swedish cousin?’

‘Half-Swedish. One of my uncles decided to make his fortune in Sweden and married a Swedish lady,’ Jack explained. It was only when she noticed a slight relaxation in his posture she realised he’d tensed in response to her earlier question.

‘Don’t you feel English?’ she asked.

‘No. Yes.’ He lifted one hand towards his head, then abruptly lowered it.

‘You nearly forgot it’s not your hair,’ she taunted gently. ‘If you hadn’t wasted your money, every time you feel frustrated you’d be able to tug at your hair to your heart’s content. As it is…’ She let the words fade aggravatingly away.

‘Why are you prejudiced against my handsome periwig?’ he demanded. ‘It is no different from that of any courtier—even the King himself. Would you make fun of his Majesty if he came to buy linen from you?’

‘Of course not. But you must cut your coat to fit your cloth.’

‘Very apt. Are you ever going to give it to me? Or just clutch it against your breast until Judgement Day?’

‘Are you thinking a gentlemanly appearance will help you win another audience with the King?’ Temperance asked, experiencing sudden enlightenment. ‘I can see, if you believe it will help you win greater advancement, it might be worth the investment.’

‘I’m glad I’ve finally won your approval.’

‘I didn’t say that. If it was from pure vanity—’

‘Diable!’ Jack snatched the periwig from his head and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘There, are you satisfied?’

Her breath caught. His black hair had been cropped close to his head. Now there was nothing to soften his angular features and the predatory jut of his aquiline nose. His dark eyes simmered with impatience. He looked lean and dangerous. A hard, dark man capable of unimaginable deeds. Her first instinct was to take a step back, but she refused to give ground before him. Why had she allowed herself to forget her first impression of him? He was a vagabond.

Then he started to laugh. ‘You would try the patience of a saint, Madam Tempest. And Heaven knows, I am no saint. Let us call a truce on the subject.’

‘As…as you wish.’ Temperance’s hands felt unaccountably shaky as she turned away to finish preparing the cloth for him. ‘So where is your cousin now?’ she asked over her shoulder.

He shrugged. ‘Somewhere between London and Dover, I imagine.’

‘You left him behind?’ Temperance exclaimed.

Jack grinned. ‘I was in a hurry. There was only one good riding horse at the inn, so I took it. It was his own fault for going for a walk around the town.’

‘You abandoned him after he paid for your passage across the Channel?’ Temperance forgot her resolve not to get embroiled in any further arguments with Jack. ‘How could you have repaid his kindness so ill?’

Jack raised one eyebrow at her. ‘I took his clothes as well,’ he said, casting a disparaging glance down at the olive coat he wore. ‘Surely you didn’t imagine I normally wear such drab attire? But my own clothes had been worn to a thread by the time I reached Dover.’

‘You stole—’ Temperance clapped her hand over her mouth. Accusing a man of being a thief in the middle of one of the busiest shopping thoroughfares of London was a sure way to call unwanted attention upon them.

‘How could you be so ungrateful?’ she demanded in a furious under-voice, smacking the bundled cloth against his chest. ‘Heedless! Have you no conscience? What will you do when he catches up with you?’ she asked. ‘He’ll disown you—or worse.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Jack said. ‘And if he did, it would just mean one less relative to worry about.’

‘To be worried by you, you mean.’ Temperance pushed her hair away from her overheated face. ‘You’re a heedless knave. If you’re not careful, you’ll end at Tyburn.’

‘Would you come to wish me farewell?’

Temperance glanced sideways at him, furious with herself because she did care what happened to him. Just the thought of him meeting the hangman’s noose filled her with sick anxiety.

‘Folly,’ she muttered under her breath. She’d known him for less than one full day, and he done nothing but irritate her the whole time. Except for when he’d saved her from Tredgold and made sure she received fair payment for her linen and muslin. But apart from that….

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

‘Stupid.’ She turned on him. ‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Go and play your knavish tricks on someone else.’

He grinned. ‘I’ve played no tricks on you at all, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘But if you prefer me gone, that is easily arranged. Allow me a moment to restore myself.’