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  She gave a quick laugh, then turned away. “It, er, feels a little strange not to use your title.”

  “We are to be intimate, Emily, so have no need of titles between us.”

  Intimate? Geoffrey was the only man with whom she had ever been that...

  “It is agreed then? We announce the match at the Royal Oak on November 5th, and then arrange the wedding itself for Christmas Eve?”

  “Yes.” She forced herself not to shudder as his fingers touched her hair.

  “Just one thing, Emily. While it is obvious that we do not wish Geoffrey’s treason to become common knowledge, I also think it best if we keep the lOUs secret as well. It is our business and ours alone, and for Peter’s sake I think it best not to harm Geoffrey’s memory in any way at all.”

  She managed to nod.

  Chapter 8

  Cora had just returned from Temford with her purchases when she found Emily waiting for her in the low-ceilinged hall, which was directly below the grand parlor. A bowl of chrysanthemums stood on the octagonal table in the great bay window facing the courtyard, where the coachman was carefully turning her chariot in order to take it around to the stables. Firelight danced in the stone hearth and cast moving shadows over the oak paneling and green-and-white painted medieval plasterwork.

  Cora’s footsteps sounded on the stone flags as she put her packages on the table. Her glance rested shrewdly on her daughter’s face. “You’ve accepted him?” she asked as she teased off her gloves. She was dressed in a pelisse and matching gown, coffee trimmed with wine red, and there was a flouncy ostrich plume in her hat.

  “Mama, you knew that was why he was coming here today.”

  “Nevertheless, I still hoped...” Cora broke off, for Peter had appeared in the doorway that opened into the passage from the courtyard through to the knot garden at the rear of the house. He stood there, his face very pale and still, and although Cora knew she should tell him to go away, she did not have the heart. After all, this concerned him as well.

  So she continued to speak to Emily. “Yes, I knew why Sir Rafe was coming here today, but I confess I rather hoped it would not happen.”

  “It is done now. The betrothal will take place at the Royal Oak assembly.”

  “I see.” Cora surveyed her. “Are you pleased with your decision to take such an odious creature as your next husband?”

  “Pleased is hardly the word I’d choose.” Resigned is more appropriate, Emily thought.

  Cora eyed her. “Answer the question, Emily. Are you pleased with your decision?”

  “I’m satisfied it is the right one. And before you start wagging your finger and telling me that my once-in-a-lifetime man is waiting somewhere for me to find him, let me remind you that a lifetime can be very long. I might not find this paragon until I am in my dotage, by which point I will be past caring how wonderful he is!”

  Catching up her skirts, Emily turned toward the doorway, then immediately halted as she saw Peter. “I suppose you are about to berate me as well?” she said.

  His eyes—so like Geoffrey’s—were accusing. “Only if you are really going to be Lady Warrender. Please say you will look for another way to—”

  “Have either of you paused for a single moment to consider what is going to happen if I do not do this?” Emily broke in.

  “We can manage, Mama,” Peter said.

  Cora backed him. “Yes, I’m certain we can, Emily. Why, we can close half the house, sell some—”

  “We can’t manage!” Emily cried. “Do you honestly imagine I would be considering this marriage if I didn’t have to? Things are far worse than you know—worse than even I realized until a short while ago!”

  Cora looked urgently at her. “There is something new, isn’t there, Emily? Something you aren’t telling us?”

  Emily faced her. “Nothing that you did not know already,” she said untruthfully. “The matter is settled, and I will not hear any more argument. The match will be announced at the Royal Oak on Bonfire Night, and the marriage will take place on Christmas Eve.” Gathering her skirts again, she fled into the passage and then out into the garden.

  No one followed. For a long, long moment there was silence in the hall, broken only by the ticking of the longcase clock in the corner. Cora closed her eyes to compose herself. When she opened them again, her gaze fell upon Peter, who had not moved from the doorway. “Well, young man, you are about to wish you had scuttled off when you had the chance.”

  “Oh?” he looked warily at her. Which of his sins was he to be upbraided for now?

  “On my way back from Temford, I was waylaid at the gatehouse by Mr. Bradwell, who informed me that you have been stealing his apples.”

  “Only one!” the boy protested indignantly.

  “One, two, or a dozen, the crime is the same. You are not to do it again, is that clear?”

  “Yes, Grandmama.” His lower lip jutted. “Are you going to tell Mama?” he added.

  “Not this time, for I think she has enough to think about right now.”

  “I’m not doing any harm,” Peter grumbled.

  “You are, sir, for you are stealing. And when you insist upon creeping around after people, spying on them, you are intruding most grievously upon their privacy. I daresay you think nothing of it, but I’ll warrant you would not like it if someone followed you to the privy, mayhap even spied upon you through a knothole!”

  “That’s different!” he cried indignantly.

  “Is it? Where do you draw the line between what is acceptable and unacceptable? I’m told you watched the maid Betsy meeting her sweetheart in the stables last night. Is it true?”

  He didn’t reply. There were tittle-tattlers at every corner in this horrid house!

  “Ah, the eloquent silence,” Cora said. “Clearly you did do it. It has come to something if young lovers cannot meet after their duties for the day are over without being observed by a Peeping Tom. It is not to happen again, do you hear? Either you behave like a responsible young man, or you will rue it. That is all. You may go.”

  He turned on his heel and dashed away before she could change her mind. “Oh, Peter, Peter what has come over you of late?” she murmured sadly.

  Chapter 9

  That evening found Jack Lincoln dressed modishly again for the first time in years. It was after dinner, and he leaned against a brightly lit streetlamp on Bristol’s Broad Quay, wearing a caped dark green greatcoat over a pale gray coat and cream breeches. A top hat rested at a nonchalant angle on his head; there were gloves on his hands, and he carried a cane. The figure he presented now was a far cry indeed from the Jack Lincoln who had boarded the Stralsund at Callao.

  One of Bristol’s finest tailors, on being offered a handsome bribe for his trouble, had produced from a storeroom two outfits and a greatcoat that had already been made for another customer. The garments had just been completed for a gentleman who had fallen ill and therefore would not be able to attend his final fitting for another month or more. The tailor knew he could easily make the clothes again within that time, and so parted with them most willingly, well satisfied with such unexpected and lucrative business.

  Jack had then purchased shirts, neckcloths, hats, gloves, night attire, and all the other accessories a gentleman of fashion might require. Now he was once again the stylish English gentleman—except perhaps for his hair, which he had not been able to bring himself to have cut. Instead, he had tied it back with a length of black corded-cotton ribbon. He felt he needed to retain some part of him that was unconventional.

  Darkness had fallen several hours before, and Broad Quay, known as the Street of Ships, was quiet at last. The night air was cold, and his breath was visible in the lamplight, but he didn’t feel the chill. The quay had grown up along a channel of the River Avon that reached into the heart of the city. Here the tide rose and fell between twenty-five feet, accommodating even the largest seagoing vessels.

  The masts and rigging of what seemed like a hundred sh
ips formed an almost impenetrable forest on the water, among them the Stralsund. Because the tide was out, her deck was well below the level of the quay. Earlier, when the tide was in, the decks had been too high to see onto.

  Jack’s greatcoat was unbuttoned, and his thumbs were hooked over the waist of his breeches as he surveyed the scene. Opposite the moored vessels was a line of shops, inns, and gabled houses, and between these and the water’s edge was an area of cobbles where casks of molasses and rum were piled beside drums of tobacco and bales of silk.

  Children’s laughter made Jack glance over his shoulder. Turnip jack-o’-lanterns bobbed as some little boys, faces blackened, ran past dressed as mummers. The mark of Halloween was all around, even in so busy a port, and most of the houses on the quay had lanterns in the windows. The flickering faces had greatly alarmed Manco when he saw them just after dinner. An explanation about All Hallows’ Eve had not helped. A festival of the dead? Of wicked spirits roaming the night? Manco knew enough wicked spirits of Inca origin without encountering those feared by the Christian church as well! He fled to his attic bed at the inn, and vowed not to emerge again before the safety of daybreak.

  Footsteps sounded on the sturdy wooden plank that stretched up to the quay from the Stralsund and Captain Gustavus came ashore. Jack called out to him. “Good evening, Captain.”

  The Swedish captain turned, then came over to him. “Good evening, Lincoln,” he said in his impeccable English. “Are you longing for the Stralsund already?”

  He was a short man, broad-shouldered and ruddy-complexioned, with keen blue eyes and a gruff voice. He did not so much walk as roll, which strange gait resulted not from his years at sea but rather from the fact that one leg was very slightly longer than the other. He was dressed for traveling, in a fur-edged cloak and new tricorn.

  Jack grinned too. “Damn it all, Gustavus, I’ve had enough of your leaking old scow to last me a lifetime.”

  “I will have you know she’s one of the best vessels on the ocean.”

  "Then heaven help the rest.”

  The captain laughed and tugged on his gloves. “I am going to London now, where I intend to live well for a week or so before continuing to Stockholm. Then I fear it is Lima again for me.”

  “You ply the same route all the time?”

  “It is tedious but profitable.” Gustavus drew a deep breath. “So I take it I will not have the pleasure of your company when we sail?”

  “No.”

  “What of Don Cristoval and that Indian fellow he has in tow?”

  “Ah, well, that I cannot say. Don Cristoval has not indicated how long he intends to stay, but Manco is already keen to go home. He decided that England was not to his liking before we even entered the Avon.”

  “I hope he stays here, for he is one of the last passengers I desire to see again.” The captain tapped his new tricorn as he remembered the fate that had befallen its predecessor.

  Jack gave a chuckle. “Once seen, never forgotten, that is Manco,” he murmured.

  The Indian had caused the anticipated astonishment when he came ashore because he proceeded to sing a loud paean in praise of Mother Earth, whom he called Mama Pacha. He then brought the quayside to a complete standstill by performing a stately dance of thanksgiving for the safe passage. Only then had he consented to accompany the others to the Queen of the Indies inn, which Captain Gustavus had recommended.

  The captain turned as a carriage rattled along the quay and halted in front of a nearby chandlery. “Ah, my post chaise has arrived. I’ll take my leave then, Lincoln. Alt god lyckan. Good luck.” The two men shook hands, then the Swede hastened away.

  As the sound of the chaise died away into the night, Jack fell to pondering again. It was good to be on terra firma, especially English terra firma. And it was good to taste English food once more. Only here were to be found such delights as beefsteak pie, with hot yellow mustard and light-as-a-feather puff pastry that had risen to over an inch thick.

  Oh, how he had enjoyed his dinner tonight, starting with smoked mackerel and horseradish sauce, then the beefsteak pie, and finally apple tart made with the sharpest codlings and served with sweet custard. When he thought back to the times he had sat by a campfire under an Andean moon, longing for just such a meal...

  Cristoval had enjoyed the repast as well, but Manco, needless to say, had disapproved of everything. He had produced his plaited-reed box, taken out a selection of spices and herbs, and proceeded to “doctor” every dish placed before him. The result appeared most unappetizing, but he had eaten it all.

  “Looking for some company, sir?” inquired a seductive female voice. Jack turned to see a lady of easy virtue standing there in a pink muslin dress and white woolen shawl. Her hands were provocatively on her hips, and there was an inviting smile on her painted lips. She was in her early twenties, he supposed, and pretty enough, with straw-colored hair and a curvaceous shape that was too scantily clad for such a cold night. He could see how she tried to hide her shivering.

  “No, thank you,” he replied.

  She didn’t walk on, but permitted her glance to move saucily over him. She liked what she saw, and his long blond hair attracted her too, for it made him interestingly different, a little exciting even. “Are you sure, sir? I know how to please a man...”

  “I said no, and I meant it,” he said firmly, but fished in his pocket for a coin. “Here, take this and get yourself something warm to eat. You look half frozen.”

  She hesitated, but then took the coin. “I can come to you later if you like,” she offered.

  “I have other things on my mind tonight.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She?” He looked blankly at her.

  “Whoever is on your mind. It has to be a woman.”

  Jack smiled. “I was thinking of beefsteak pie, as it happens, but if a lady had been on my mind, her name would have been Emily.”

  “She’s lucky, your Emily.” Turning, she hurried away.

  His Emily? Jack smiled. How could she be “his Emily” when she didn’t even know he existed? Well, he supposed she’d know soon enough now, for he had engaged a post chaise to convey him to Shropshire the next day. It would take two days to reach Fairfield Hall. And while he was thus engaged, Cristoval and Manco intended to go on to London. He did not know when he would see them again, or indeed if he ever would.

  Chapter 10

  Jack was still en route to Fairfield Hall when Cristoval and Manco reached London, where they immediately repaired to the nearest coffeehouse for some refreshment after the journey. At least, Cristoval repaired to the nearest coffeehouse; Manco remained outside.

  By now the Indian was convinced that the British made coffee that was as undrinkable as their food was inedible, so he chose to drink fresh water from a nearby horse trough. This action caused some surprise among passersby—and aroused no little indignation from the horse that happened to be drinking from the trough at the same time.

  After this, Manco sat cross-legged on the pavement next to the coffeehouse doorway. He took out his flute and began to play in praise of Viracocha, whose bright orb was beaming down from a flawless blue sky. Immediately, a crowd of onlookers began to collect, including some ragamuffin children who clustered around giggling and staring. Several passing carriages drew up at the order of their gentlemen occupants, who observed with curiosity the strange figure in the colorful hat and poncho.

  Cristoval tried to pretend he had no connection at all with the Indian. He found a quiet corner table, the last unoccupied one in the room, placed his copy of The Times before him, and smiled up at the bonny serving girl who brought him a large cup of dark, sweet coffee.

  Then he settled to relax for a while after the long hours on the road from Bristol. Except that relaxation was not easy to come by when there was an increasing commotion both inside and outside the coffeehouse. Everyone was fascinated by the brightly dressed Indian, and the crowd on the pavement grew by the moment so that before l
ong the street itself was almost completely blocked.

  A bootmaker, whose premises were next door to the coffeehouse, became greatly incensed by the interruption to his trade, and came out to ask everyone to move on. When they wouldn’t, he sent his boy to find a parish constable. Manco played on regardless, so lost in his Inca melodies that he seemed totally unaware of what was going on around him.

  Cristoval wasn’t unaware, however. He was fast becoming weary of the trouble Manco caused wherever they went. The Indian had been a liability on the Stralsund, at the Queen of the Indies in Bristol, and when they had paused briefly in Bath, where he prostrated himself in a puddle on being confronted by a gouty invalid in a sedan chair. As far as Manco was concerned, only great Inca nobles were conveyed in such litters, so the astonished invalid was treated to a grave and respectful display of subservience.

  After that there had been a stir of one sort or another at every stage of the journey. At Chippenham he had been bitten by a disagreeable dog belonging to an equally disagreeable Wiltshire farmer. Manco had promptly bitten the dog in return, and when this provoked outrage from the farmer, the Indian warned him he’d be bitten as well if he didn’t take his Pizarro dog and go away. Fortunately, the farmer had seen the wisdom of obeying. Now there was this fracas in London.

  With a sigh, Cristoval sipped the coffee, which was surprisingly good. All heads in the room were craned toward the goings-on in the street, where the parish constable had now arrived to sort things out. He was a plump, officious fellow, potbellied and self-important, and brandished a cane with which he gestured to the crowd to stand back. Manco played on regardless. Cristoval was sorely tempted to put the Indian on the first ship back to Peru, but feared that Manco would not reach the end of the voyage without provoking someone to murder!

  Cristoval was so lost in his thoughts that he hardly glanced up as a gentleman asked if he minded sharing the table. “No, no, be seated by all means,” Cristoval replied, waving the newcomer to the chair opposite.