The bells of the nearby church began to chime the hour as he approached, followed by another set a minute later. It annoyed him they were staggered, rather than together and on time like well-ordered clocks should be, but his annoyance faded when he saw Adam heading in his direction on foot. As dapper as ever, Adam was dressed in a rich green cloak that was heavily embroidered. That item alone would have cost a significant proportion of his salary. James could only think Adam had somehow managed to make an excellent investment at some point and was using it to fund his clothing choices.
“Good day, Mr Dowson. Judging by your most impressive cloak, you will avail yourself of the cloth merchants today.”
Adam stroked the front of his cloak. “I thought you might appreciate this, my lord. I have been truly graced by the skill of my tailor. So much so, I have promised him to keep my eyes open for some particularly promising bolts of cloth.”
James had no such need. His own tailor knew his fancies, but he supposed that Adam doing a service for his tailor may help reduce his costs. “Then let us head into the throng. I did hear there were fire-eaters and tightrope walkers this year.”
“I heard the same, but also heard tell of a group of players performing scenes from Commedia dell’arte,” Adam said, falling into step as they headed towards the rows of stalls.
“The ones with the masks?” asked James, dredging up a distant memory.
“The very same,” Adam said, as they passed by stands laden with every sort of produce imaginable. “I take it you’ve seen it?”
James looked longingly at a mound of figs and regretted not spending more time over his midday meal. “Some years ago, but I have only a vague recollection, so it would be good to refresh my memory if we manage to see them.”
Over the years, he had visited the fair several times, and, like on his previous visits, the swell of people was made up from every corner of daily life. Rich men like himself, with a full coin purse ready to be lightened, standing shoulder to shoulder with the impoverished who snatched time from eking out their existence to enjoy some light relief from their drudgery. Like London itself, all life was there, small children running around, women bustling about, bartering over every purchase, merchants both selling and buying, and a slew of onlookers revelling in everything the fair had to offer.
His stomach rumbled again at the waft of roasting meat. He was sorely tempted, but it wasn’t as if he was really hungry, he had eaten, and he didn’t want to get grease on his gloves this early into his visit. He sighed as he saw, once again, the elements had paid bloody murder on his stockings, barely inside the fair and already he was splattered with flecks of mud.
“I must admit I have a fondness for St. Bartholomew’s fair,” said Adam. “I thought after the fire and plague they might have forbidden it, but people travel so far to visit—it is even known on the continent, it would have been a shame for it to close.”
The noise and the chaos made it difficult to hear Adam, but because the fair was so busy it gave James the perfect excuse to step closer. “It is important to keep the traditions. And knowing the people of London, if this fair had not gone ahead another one would have cropped up to replace it.”
Adam chuckled, a rich noise that, coupled with their proximity, sent a delighted shiver down James’s spine. “You are most likely right. Oh, look, the fire-eaters.”
Adam grabbed James’s arm, and James allowed himself to be pulled along. In theory, etiquette should not have allowed it, but James was happy to have Adam’s hands upon him, even if it was only in this fashion.
The fire-eaters were three Moors, stripped to the waist, wearing baggy silk trousers. James clapped along with other onlookers as they delighted the crowd with their tricks, and he was happy to hand over several small coins in reward. They continued walking, coming to a smallish open space where the stalls hadn’t been able to encroach. A temporary stage had been set up and two men dressed in bright-coloured costumes and distinctive masks were running through a scene. This was the Commedia dell’arte Adam had been so keen to see. James had only fuzzy memories of seeing it before, but the mask…. The mask burned behind his eyelids in the small hours and in his racier dreams. While Adam might have been a player in one or two of his daydreams, at night, when his subconscious was allowed to run wild, it was another man who inflamed him. He knew he had recognised something about the Chivalrous Highwayman; it was the masks and his vague memories of the Commedia dell’arte.
“Are you well, my lord? You look a little startled.”
He didn’t know if he should say something. What if Adam was the type of man who would suggest he report his realisation to help catch the highwayman? He did not wish to do that, but somehow he did not think Adam was the type to see the world in solely black and white. “Let us talk to one side.”
Adam didn’t argue, and James led him away, having to walk for several minutes until James was satisfied they were far enough from the main crowds. “You are aware I had an altercation with a highwayman on the way back to London some weeks ago?”
“How could I miss the stories of your exploits? Especially when they are connected to the Chivalrous Highwayman, who is almost as intriguing as you.” Adam’s tone sounded teasing. “But I don’t see the relevance.”
“This may sound strange, but I have no wish for the Chivalrous Highwayman to be caught and strung up at Tyburn. He might be a robber but he is not like most of their ilk on the roads. He did not hurt me, nor my cousin.”
“Again, where is this leading?” Adam’s tone changed, sounding more terse. “I did not think you wished to debate the morals of a bandit, even if many of them are men who have fallen on poor times and see no other option.”
That was enough to make James think he could reveal his thoughts without concern. “It was Harlequin’s mask—the Chivalrous Highwayman wore a version of it.”
Adam huffed. “That is what has you so excited? You must realise thousands of people have seen the Commedia dell’arte—including most of the English nobles who spent time overseas. You are not suggesting it was one of them?”
“No. I… I thought it would help identify him somehow.”
Adam squeezed his shoulder. “I believe the identity of the Chivalrous Highwayman is safe for another day. If the sheriffs who are chasing him are too slow to make a connection, I see no merit in helping them. I doubt they would respond with anything more than a disdainful shrug.”
James looked back across the fair where he could still just make out the players. Adam was right. Maybe he was too obsessed with the highwayman, and seeing the mask had triggered thoughts he was too old to be having. He had no true desire for a masked robber. His pre-dream pondering meant nothing more than some pleasant thoughts. He would feel the same even if there weren’t the likes of Adam Dowson at court.
“It will not be the first time I have made too much out of a small thing. Come, let us see if we can find a ladle of sack—I am in the mood for some fortified wine to take away the chill that has settled.”
The wind had picked up, and now, away from the main throng, they were more exposed. Heading back into the crowd helped, but James suspected getting drenched earlier had left him with a slight chill, and the alcohol would soon warm him, as he didn’t think he could get Adam to do so.
They approached a merchant who had several barrels and was doling out his wares into jugs the shoppers had brought with them, while others drank straight from the ladle. James had no intention of carrying anything back with him, so unlike the women who were prepared with baskets and pots to take home their spoils, he had nothing.
A woman shrieked, calling out, “Help! Thief!”
James turned to see a boy no older than thirteen push a middle-aged woman to the ground. He snatched her basket out of her hand and sprinted away. James turned to pass a remark to Adam, but Adam was already in chase. James, unsure what else to do, followed.
They darted through the crowd, James only just able to keep up, and he was surp
rised to see the turn of speed Adam was capable of. The boy might’ve been laden down with the basket, but he should still have had the upper hand over a man twenty years his senior. The boy veered sharply right, disappearing for a moment behind the canvas backing of a number of stalls.
James couldn’t make his way easily and instead ran down the main route in front of the stalls, hoping he was travelling in parallel and they had not diverted again. Panting, he came to a halt at the end of the row of stalls, staring about to catch a glimpse of Adam or the boy. He spotted them. Adam had him by the collar of his jacket and was dragging him towards the cover of a tree. James ran to catch up, hearing Adam castigate the boy as he approached.
“What foolhardy game are you playing, Tim? Your mother has enough to worry about without seeing you branded. And your father will be livid if your actions lead the sheriff back to his own.”
James wasn’t sure what Adam meant by that, but he obviously knew the boy and his family.
“We’re hungry. That woman was fat enough to spare a couple of meals,” sneered the boy.
“You should have come to me, not steal on the streets like a petty thief.”
The boy appeared defiant, but whatever he was about to say, he thought better of it when he spotted James. “Who’s that?”
Adam glanced over his shoulder. “A friend of my employer.”
James felt a little hurt he had not warranted being identified as a friend in his own right. “Mr Dowson, you know this thief?”
“Indeed, my lord. I know his father well. It appears they have fallen on harder times than I had realised. I understand that, as a peer of the realm, it is your civic duty to turn in this thief to the beadle, but perhaps, on this occasion, you could allow me to deal with it.”
Ah, so maybe it was not that James wasn’t Adam’s friend, but that, as a noble—in his case a future earl—he was a foil to the boy’s contempt. It looked to have worked by the expression on the boy’s stricken face.
“It is a serious offence.”
“I know, my lord. But if I return him to his father and speak with him, perhaps we can prevent his behaviour turning worse. If he were branded for his crimes, I fear his chances of honest work would be limited, and that could lead to more violent crime.”
James didn’t want to cut short their afternoon, but to say no would make him appear churlish and as much of a brat as the boy in front of him. “Very well, but this is the one and only time I will allow it. I will consider that I have granted you a personal favour.”
The strong words made Adam’s eyes flash, but their expression softened when James raised his eyebrow to communicate he, too, could play along. “Thank you, my lord. Tim, thank his lordship and apologise!”
Tim bowed his head and would not meet James’s eye. “I am grateful, my lord. I am sorry for disturbing your day,” he muttered.
Adam snatched the basket out of the boy’s hand and passed it to James. “Would you be kind enough to give this to the lady who has been wronged, while I deal with the young plague-sore?”
James took the basket. “Of course. I wish you a good rest of day, Mr Dowson, but I fear this is not how you would have wished to spend it.”
Adam smiled softly but did not let go of young Tim’s collar. “Indeed not. Good day, my lord.”
James watched him leave. His infatuation wasn’t waning in the slightest, his feelings not helped by, every now and again, being sure he caught an answering interest in Adam’s gaze. Thunder rolled across the sky like an upturned barrel and the heavens opened. He’d return the basket to its rightful owner, and thought it then time to leave the fair. He hoped he could get a cab; otherwise, he would be as wet as if he had swum home.
Chapter 6
James threw his winning hand onto the table, accompanied by cheers from the onlookers. Marchent clapped and hooted loudly at the win. Basking in the applause, James reached forwards to claim the sizable pile of coins. He’d not had a lucky streak this good in years, so with his fortunes flying he saw no need to give up now. Even if he lost it all on the next few hands he’d be able to crow about emptying several purses in a single sitting.
“You will let me try to win some of those back, won’t you, my lord?” asked Lady Tiller, clutching her cards. James wondered how big her debts were. Nowhere near the infamous level rumoured for Lady Castlemaine, but perhaps sizable enough for her husband to be unhappy.
Before he could answer, a palace servant carrying a message approached. “I am sorry, my lord, but a servant from Crofton Hall delivered this, saying it was urgent and you must be reached.”
James excused himself from the table, taking the message to a quieter room. He broke the seal, which he noticed did not bear his father’s crest.
The Earl is deathly ill. Come at once.
“I saw you leave the table. Is there a problem I can help with, my lord?”
James looked up from the message, which quivered in his shaking hand, to see Adam. “My father has taken ill. I must leave for Crofton Hall immediately.”
Adam moved closer. James took some small comfort from his proximity. Something solid when the rest of his world wanted to dissolve around him.
“If you take a horse and change at the staging points every ten miles you will be back in a matter of hours.”
Marchent entered the room carrying a pouch with James’s winnings. “What’s going on?”
“My father….” James held out the message.
Marchent took it and read it, his usual jovial expression changing to one of sorrow. James knew he understood; Marchent’s own father had passed the summer before. “I will ride with you.”
“No, there is no need.”
“Crofton, you should not travel alone.”
“But I will be faster.” James could not risk delay. If his father was close to death he needed to travel as fast as possible and not have to worry if another had to reduce his pace.
Marchent hummed, clearly not in agreement, but he turned to Adam. “Mr Dowson, run to the stables and have a horse prepared for his lordship. Then go to the palace steward and have a set of riding clothes brought to Lady Abbot’s rooms at the palace.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Adam raced away, and for a moment James wished he had stayed, but that would not have helped him get home.
James was grateful to Marchent for taking charge, and for Adam’s help. He let Marchent lead him away from the merriment to more private rooms, the feeling of dread building in his chest. His father was not a sickly man. He’d had some minor stomach complaints, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off.
“You must be prepared for the worst,” Marchent said, closing the door to the room they had entered. “And be thankful it is not too far to return to Hertfordshire.”
“My father is not an old man,” insisted James, needing to defend his father, as if his illness made him less of a man or earl. “Until I know what ails him I will curtail my thoughts to positive ones.”
“I suppose that is the best approach.”
The room was a small sitting room, and James wondered where its usual occupant was. “Where is Lady Abbot?”
“With her husband—for a change.” Marchent had a number of lovers, Lady Abbot being one of them. Although a pretty woman, she had always been too catty for James’s taste. He doubted she was handling Marchent’s recent infatuation with a certain up-and-coming actress well. “Remove your finery. You should not advertise your wealth if you are too pig-headed to let me come with you.”
“I will be riding too fast for the highwaymen to catch me.”
“Do not say such things to tempt the fates.”
There was a gentle knock on the door and Marchent bade them to enter. Adam came in carrying a set of riding clothes and a box. James busied himself changing out of his red brocade jacket and breeches and into the hardier riding apparel. He saw Adam had also brought him a wide-brimmed hat and travelling cloak. It was not the latest fashion, but he would be grateful for it in case of rain.
His wig was a potential nuisance. James wasn’t about to risk it going flying at he rode, so he swiped it off and placed it carefully into a drawstring bag Adam had brought with him containing a few provisions that James had no intention of making use of. He would be back at the hall before nightfall; his stomach could wait until then.
Adam had his back to him as he changed, busying himself with the contents of the case. It was only when he turned around that James realised he had been readying two flintlock pistols.
“You should not be unarmed,” Adam said. “And you should be ready to defend yourself if needed.”
Marchent nodded. “Mr Dowson is correct. I will have your coach and horses sent back to Crofton Hall with a driver. Is there anything else from here you need?”
“There is paperwork relating to new contracts in the desk drawer in my study at the town house that I would prefer to have safely at the hall, rather than left in London.” He fished out a key and handed it to Marchent.
“I will attend to it personally.” Marchent pulled him into a firm embrace. “Go, my friend. Send word when you have arrived safely, and I hope for the best outcome.”
“Thank you.” He stepped back. Marchent had always been his truest friend, every time James had needed him, he’d been there. It was he who had brought him out of the malaise after David had succumbed to fever.
James bolted out the door, vaguely aware Adam had followed, and headed for the stables where a magnificent black stallion awaited him.
Adam helped him into the saddle and then handed him the pistols, which James tucked into his belt for easy access.
“God speed, my lord.”
“Thank you for your help, Mr Dowson.”
“I have come to think of you as a friend, so it would be my honour if you were to use my given name, if you wish.”
The offer touched him deeply. Such a simple gesture meant so much at this time. “Then thank you, Adam.”
James, Earl of Crofton Page 5