by Stella Riley
* * *
Eden did not see Francis that day but instead received a poetically conceived note full of witty excuses which he was not in the mood to appreciate. And that evening, finding time hanging unaccustomedly heavy on his hands, he was glad to fall in with his father’s suggestion that they leave the Lamb and Flag behind them and sup in the convivial atmosphere of the Bear-at-the-Bridge-Foot.
The capons were juicy, the ale well-brewed and company noisy, cheerful and common; and, if Richard noticed that his son and heir was a trifle distrait of manner, he elected not to mention it. They therefore left at a little before midnight and strolled back across the bridge to look for a boat at the Old Swan stairs. There was only one, its waterman drunk as a lord and singing. Richard, mindful of the tricky currents about the bridge, decided that walking was preferable; Eden, mindful only of his own thoughts, nodded absently and followed his father up towards Thames Street. Richard smothered a sigh and wondered what Dorothy expected him to do if Eden finally unlocked his jaws on the subject of Celia Langley.
They passed Doctor’s Commons and then turned north through the labyrinthine alleyways of Bridewell in order to cross the Fleet. It was an insalubrious area and, fully alive to the possibility of robbery, Richard kept a watchful eye around them – which was how he came to notice the savage proceedings, illuminated by fitful moonlight, in a yard off to his left.
What was happening was happening in near-silence – largely due to the gag which had been stuffed into the victim’s mouth while two pairs of hands held him roughly upright to receive the blows of a third. Richard broke his son’s lethargy with one sharp stab of his elbow and then went plunging in at the assailants with a sort of flying dive that Eden, plunging swiftly in behind him, still found time to admire.
Dropped like a well-roasted chestnut while his captors met the unexpected attack, the victim slithered down the wall into an inert heap on the cobbles. His fall passed unheeded.
Finding himself bereft of his cudgel without quite knowing how, the first man launched himself at Richard and collided with a fist that broke two teeth and loosened several others. Eden, meanwhile, in a series of flawlessly executed moves learned in the Hotel de Cazenove [and a couple of effective but less genteel ones picked up in the taverns outside it], laid one man out cold against a water-butt and sent the other into staggering, retching retreat up the lane with Gap-Tooth in unsteady pursuit.
Richard flexed the fingers of his right hand, winced and grinned companionably at his son.
‘Well. It’s nice to know that your time at Angers wasn’t completely wasted.’
‘And almost as comforting to discover that you’ve still got the hardest fist in three counties,’ retorted Eden with a grin. Then, in a very different tone, ‘The only satisfaction, I suspect, either one of us will get. Have you seen who we’ve rescued?’
Richard dropped on one knee, pulled the gag from the victim’s mouth and peered into the battered, unconscious face.
‘Ah. Didn’t I see him at Far Flamstead last summer? A money-lender, isn’t he?’
‘Amongst other things,’ came the dry response. ‘Aside from pegging him up on the bridge, what do you suggest we do with him?’
Richard looked up, his brows lifting in mild surprise.
‘You don’t like him?’
‘Does anyone?’
‘I’ve no idea. But if they don’t, one presumes they have cause. Have you?’
‘Only indirectly. Not as much, shall we say, as whoever ordered this … but enough to understand why they might want to.’ Eden bent to disentangle one wrist from the human wreckage on the cobbles. ‘He’s not dead, at any rate.’
‘Nor even dying,’ added a thread-like voice with commendable distinctness. ‘Though I confess it feels like it.’
Slowly and with extreme caution, Luciano del Santi opened his eyes on Richard’s face and achieved the ghost of his usual sardonic smile.
‘Ah. Mr Maxwell, I believe?’
‘Yes – but never mind that now. You need some rather prompt attention – so if you’ll tell us where your house is, we’ll endeavour to get you there.’
‘Cheapside.’ The heavy lids fell again, as if in an effort to conserve energy. ‘The corner of Friday Street. It’s too far.’
‘Then where?’
‘Malt Lane … near Blackfriars Stairs,’ came the fading response. ‘The sign of the Heart and Coin.’
Eden met his father’s quizzical gaze with a carefully neutral one of his own.
‘The Heart and Coin?’ he said. ‘It sounds like a bawdy-house.’
‘The word,’ said Luciano del Santi, ‘is brothel. Don’t be shy. Just knock three times and ask for Gwynneth.’
On the difficult but mercifully short journey to Malt Lane, the Italian lapsed in and out of consciousness with a frequency that made his bearers greet the sign of the Heart and Coin with profound relief. It was a modest property but scrupulously maintained and looking more like a comfortable country inn than the stew they had expected. There were even newly-planted window boxes and some kind of creeper around the open door. And inside, the cosy well-lit room was full of people.
The dark, beak-faced individual that Eden remembered from the hawking party was there, one hand resting on his knife and a nasty glint in his eye. In front of him and involved in heated discussion with each other were a slender, soberly-dressed woman with the whitest skin Eden had ever seen and an expression of desperate anxiety, and a small dynamic person who waved his arms wildly as he talked but still managed to look like a large brown nut with moustaches. Behind these three and collected into little tearful huddles, were the girls. Girls with skin of every shade from lustrous pearl to ebony, hair of gold and copper and jet … and apparently only one thing in common. They were all uniquely beautiful.
Eden found that his mouth was open and resolutely shut it. Richard blinked and said something under his breath. Luciano del Santi opened his eyes, summoned his dwindling resources and said vaguely, ‘Pardon my intrusion … but if there is a chair, I believe these gentlemen would be glad to put me in it.’ And promptly passed out again.
For thirty glorious seconds, there was silence; and then the occupants of the room surged forward on a tide of exclamation. Predictably, the fellow with the knife got there first by the simple expedient of brushing the others aside. Nor did he waste time talking but merely removed his master from the hands of Richard and Eden and carried him easily inside to lay him carefully on the soft rug in front of the hearth.
The woman in grey, surrounded by the girls like a dove amongst humming-birds, followed issuing a stream of lilting orders.
‘Marie-Claude – pillows and blankets; Aysha – hot water and cloths; Catalina – salves and bandages; Ghislaine – the best eau-de-vie from the cellar. Firuze and Zorah – stop crying and keep out of the way. Bridie – look after the gentlemen who were good enough to bring the master back to us.’
‘The master?’ thought Eden, hysterically. And then forgot all about it as his gaze was trapped by a pair of pansy-blue eyes, surrounded by shining red-gold curls.
‘Please to be coming in, sirs,’ invited Bridie appealingly. ‘Sure, we were all that worried and Himself gone off to the good Lord knows where without Selim when we all know well what comes of it. But will you not come and take a drop? For it’s plain enough you’ve had to save Himself from the heathen devils coming after him – and you with your good clothes all dirtied up.’
Under this gentle flow of chatter, Richard and Eden found themselves sitting on a cushioned settle while a dazzling blonde pressed glasses of brandy into their hands. Meanwhile, ousted from the hearth by the Welsh woman, the nut-brown rotundity poured Latin vitriol on the man called Selim.
‘Rogue! Idiot! Where is it you are ’iding when all zis is ’appening? I tell you. You ’ide in ze bed with Aysha. And if the signor is killed, ’is blood it is on your ’ead! Ha! Of what use is zat pretty knife if you do not ’ave ze sense to say wiz ’im? I sink
you do not know ’ow to gut even ze fish!’
Selim looked scornfully down his magnificent nose.
‘Take care, son of a donkey, that you do not choke on your own swollen tongue. Or that, one day, I do not cut it out.’
‘You? Ha! Is joke. I spit!’
‘Not in this house you won’t!’ snapped Gwynneth. ‘And if you’ve nought better to do than deafen us with your chatter, you’d best take yourself back to Cheapside.’
The plump face settled into lines of affront.
‘I do not leave ’im. I never desert ’im. Since ’e is sixteen years old in Genoa, I – Giacomo Federigo Arzini – am wiz ’im. I do everysing for ’im. I am valet, cook, friend --’
‘Monkey,’ said Selim. ‘Fool.’
Giacomo ignored the interruption.
‘I am ’is right ’and. I ’ave --’
‘You’ve a bell in every tooth,’ remarked Gwynneth firmly. ‘And if you can’t be quiet, I’ll have Selim remove the clappers.’
The little man swelled with speechless indignation.
Selim gave a slow, wolfish smile and then stalked across the room to confront Richard. He said, ‘You do to the amir much kindness. We do not forget. I make you a thousand thanks.’
A gleam of humour lurked in the grey eyes but Richard’s tone was suitably grave as he said, ‘It was nothing. Anyone would have done as much.’
‘No.’ The hawk face hardened. ‘Sadly, this is not so. The amir has many enemies.’
‘We know,’ murmured Eden, the afternoon’s scene still vivid in his mind.
‘Ah.’ Selim regarded him keenly for a moment and then turned back to Richard.
‘You have seen the assailants, hakim?’
‘I saw them. There were three. But even if I were to recognise them again – which is unlikely – I doubt it would help you. They were hired bravos. The sort that come six to the groat.’
‘Perhaps,’ suggested Eden gently, ‘you should ask the signor for the name of the last person he offended.’
‘You know something.’ Selim’s voice remained courteous but it was not a question.
‘No. In fact, I don’t. But anyone may guess.’
It was fortunate, perhaps, that Gwynneth chose this moment to pause in her cautious examination of the unconscious man’s ribs and sit back on her heels to look across at Selim. She said, ‘There’s some damage but it will need a doctor to say how much. Certainly it’s worse than last time and I really don’t like the look of him.’
‘And that, as they say, adds insult to injury,’ breathed Luciano del Santi from behind closed lids. ‘But I forgive you. I’ll even allow Selim to put me to bed. The only question is – whose?’
A sudden flush stained the lovely skin and Gwynneth lost her calm façade.
‘You fool – you fool! Why do you do it? It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last. You promised not to stir after dark without Selim – you promised us all. One day they’ll kill you.’
The Italian opened his eyes, his mouth twisting with wry amusement.
‘No. Haven’t you realised yet that the devil looks after his own. I’m indestructible.’
‘Yes. You look it.’
He managed a long, extremely careful breath.
‘My looks again? You’re unkind, cara. Don’t cry.’
‘I’m not crying! You think I’d waste my tears on you? You, who are stubborn and careless and too proud to tell us what you’re trying to do?’ She sniffed and cradled his hand in both of hers. ‘Don’t think I care what happens to you – I don’t. But you might spare a thought for what’s to become of the girls and me if you get your throat cut.’
A faint laugh, abruptly checked, caused him to close his eyes again until the pain receded and made Gwynneth reach for the brandy.
‘Here,’ she said roughly. ‘Drink it all. You may as well be drunk as stupid.’
The bruised, fine-boned face lost some of its greyness and he was able, at length, to say mordantly, ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I’d be sorry to suffer like this for nothing.’
Her eyes were bleak but she said, ‘Ah – be quiet. Or, if you must talk, say thank you to the good gentlemen who saved your worthless life tonight.’
Luciano del Santi turned his head to locate Richard and Eden, his brow furrowed with the effort of it. Then he said, ‘Forgive me. I thought you had gone.’
Richard crossed to his side, followed more slowly by Eden.
‘Think nothing of it. The brandy is excellent, so I’ve no complaints. And I’m sure that – for other reasons entirely – my son has none either.’ He paused briefly and then said, ‘Tell me … does this kind of thing happen to you often?’
‘Not often, no. Only when I grow careless.’
‘Only when you go out without Selim, you mean,’ said Gwynneth tartly. ‘Why not tell the truth? There’s scarcely one of those fine gentlemen of the Court who buy their dinners with your money who wouldn’t stick a knife in your back given half a chance.’
‘You talk too much, cara.’ The beautiful voice, though faint, was pleasantly final. ‘There’s no reason why Mr Maxwell should interest himself in my affairs.’
‘None,’ said Richard, ‘save that I’ve already done so.’
‘And thereby placed me under an obligation to you.’
‘Are you suggesting that as my motive?’
The Italian stared inscrutably back at him.
‘No. I’m saying that if there is anything – either now or in the future – that I may do for you, you have but to name it.’
An arrested expression crossed Eden’s face and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better of it.
Richard said, ‘I appreciate the offer and the fact that it isn’t made lightly. But not quite everything has to be paid for, signor.’
‘I know it.’ Luciano del Santi’s smile was crooked but oddly infectious. ‘But you must allow me to observe that you are the first Englishman I have met who knew it also.’
‘If that’s so, I can only deduce that your experience has been unfortunate. But it explains a lot.’ Richard looked with some amusement at the hotch-potch of nationalities surrounding them and then, with none at all, at the man on the floor. ‘But you’ve talked enough and we should go.’
The pain-filled eyes closed again and the Italian gave no sign of having heard. Then, ‘Thank you,’ he said.
At the door, Eden felt a small soft hand slip into his own and looked down into Bridie’s cheerfully admiring eyes.
‘Come again, sir,’ she said with sincerity. ‘Please.’
* * *
On the following day, Eden was reunited with both Celia and Francis but found curiously little satisfaction in the event. Celia was distinctly irritable and plainly disinclined to talk. Francis, on the other hand, talked a good deal more than Eden thought necessary – mostly about the various goings-on at Court and who was sleeping with whom.
Eden left without having said anything that he had meant to say and in a mood of restless depression. If Lord Wroxton was facing financial ruin and Celia being steered into wealthy wedlock, no one was going to tell him of it – and it wasn’t a matter about which he could well ask. And if he did ask and found it was true … what, in God’s name, was he supposed to do then? Run off with Celia? Hardly. Blackmail Lady Wroxton over her affair with the Italian? Unthinkable. And the only thing left was to wait and see how events transpired – a course of action which accorded ill with his inclinations.
The result of all this was that he went back rather sooner than might have been expected to Blackfriars and the Heart and Coin. It was not, naturally, the first time he had visited a brothel. Eighteen months in Angers with Francis and Ralph had made sure of that. But it was the first time he had gone to one of his own volition and on the invitation, moreover, of a very pretty courtesan. Eden found it surprisingly enjoyable; and though Bridie could not banish his anxiety about Celia, she could and did rid him of his restlessness. That she also t
aught him quite a lot was something in the nature of a bonus.
The end of the week saw Richard and Eden established in a small but comfortable house near Old Palace Yard with a pleasant garden running down to the river. And two days later, Dorothy arrived with Kate, Amy, Tobias and Tabitha, two personal maidservants, Eden’s groom and a mountain of luggage. Richard laughed at his wife, swung her crazily off her feet and wondered if he should have leased a bigger house.
Kate, as usual, came straight to the point.
‘How’s Celia?’ she asked Eden, without noticeable warmth. ‘Taking Whitehall by storm?’
‘As far as I know.’
Her brows soared. ‘You mean you haven’t seen her?’
‘Only once.’ He hesitated and then, because he had to confide in someone, said, ‘She wasn’t herself at all. I heard … there was some talk about a wealthy marriage for her. But, if it’s true, she didn’t seem particularly happy about it.’
Kate sighed. Trust Eden to jump to the conclusion that Celia was being forced to the altar. She said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve considered the fact that she’s been in London for almost four months without becoming betrothed? That she may be tired of waiting for the talk to become reality?’
‘No. And I’m fairly sure it’s not that.’ He looked at her, a slight frown in his eyes. ‘Why do you dislike her, Kate?’
‘I don’t. I just can’t see why you’re so taken with her, that’s all. As far as I’m concerned, she’s no different from Amy. And one of those is enough in any family.’
He shook his head. ‘You don’t really know her.’
‘Do you?’
This was such obvious provocation that Eden decided not to answer it. Instead, he said casually, ‘I almost forgot. Father and I came across that Italian fellow who was at Far Flamstead last summer.’
‘Signor del Santi?’ The green eyes sharpened. ‘And how did that come about?’