The Sorcerer (The Witch Trilogy Book 3)

by Cheryl Potter

  Chevalier looked at him with new interest. ‘You are a gambling man, cards perhaps?’

  ‘Cards, dice, horses, dogs, cockpit.’

  Chevalier sighed with satisfaction. ‘Then we speak a common language, captain.’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘Frank.’ After sauntering on for a few moments in silence, he said, ‘There is a coffee house on Freeman’s Dyke I could show you.’

  ‘Do you mean to go out gambling with Pierre?’ Louise asked François later as they stood together in the indigo light of dusk, concealed by the side wall of the house in St Martin’s Lane. The carriage had been sent back to Chatterway’s; Pierre had stayed in town and Isabelle had gone ahead into the house to greet her father. It was their first moment alone since Christmas Eve.

  He lifted her chin. ‘You must not be anxious.’

  ‘You know the truth, don’t you?’ she breathed, pressing the side of her face against his. He could smell the rosewater in her hair; pushed his fingers up through it and clutched her head against his shoulder to stifle her sob.

  ‘The child is Pierre’s,’ he murmured. She nodded and drew apart again.

  ‘If he would only leave me be ....’

  ‘I will find a way to make him leave you alone.’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t understand; he wants to hurt Arnaud. He does not care for himself or for anyone.’

  ‘Then it is time he did.’

  ‘No, François,’ she pleaded, ‘swear to me that you will say nothing to him. For my sake, for the sake of my father’s livelihood, you must promise me‒’

  He thought of his men who by now would be ready and waiting for him; with ill-concealed frustration said; ‘You ask me to stand idly by.’

  She clutched his hand and shuddered so wretchedly that he immediately regretted his sharpness. He held her to him then, stared over her head at the sullen sky, and murmured a few parting words; a promise that he would never speak of her to Pierre Chevalier.

  That much he vouchsafed. No more than that.

  Toby Caulk had a memory for faces. It was a talent he prided himself on. He had been employed by Tom Brewster of Tom Brewster’s coffee house, Freeman’s Dyke on the strength of it – that and his ability to winkle out the backgrounds behind the faces. For the reputation of the gaming house rested on such knowledge – preserving it as a haven for punters within and without the law.

  Business was lively tonight. Eight times now Chokes, the money-lender, had written a name in his spidery hand and produced coins from his drawstring bag – seven times as far as Master Brewster was concerned, for Toby Caulk was entitled to his cut. To judge by the squealing antics from the warren of side rooms it was set to be a lucrative night. Surveying the company his gaze came to rest on one face; one he had not seen in the coffee house before tonight though he had already come across it.

  The dark-haired cove showing some skill at the brag table; the one with the intense eyes, with wrists which, despite the smoke and the shadows, now and then revealed the scars of the manacle. The soldier admitted as Chevalier’s guest.

  He knew the face well enough – had first spotted him outside Newgate during the recent disturbances. Captain Fuller of the Orange Army: knowledge gleaned of a brat, the son of a camp laundress, who had bragged of his billet in a rich man’s kitchen and of the captain who had got them there. Awed whispers about the Englishman who had escaped French chains and now lived in style with his French whore. Then there was the news on the street about the army raid on Templeyard last night: a dozen Jacobites arrested by a company of Protestant French under the command of an Englishman named Fuller.

  ‘Sure it’s him?’ Brewster asked him. ‘Do you reckon he’s sounding us out?’

  As for that Caulk could not say. Captain Fuller’s eyes did not have the sly curiosity of a spy, or for that matter, an agent of the law. No, his gut told him that the captain’s focus was on his companion, Monsieur Chevalier.

  As the night wore on and the game of brag was overtaken by a rowdy round of Queen Nazareen which, as was customary, went further than the holder of the knave of clubs merely kissing the possessor of the queen of diamonds; and a new set of birch rods bundled through to the back rooms, Caulk made his way over to Chevalier and his guest.

  ‘Not out of pocket I hope, gentlemen?’ he enquired.

  ‘Am I ever?’ Chevalier joked. ‘Tom meet Captain Frank Fuller, the conquering hero who has taken my sister’s fancy.’

  Another link in the chain, another scrap of information.

  ‘Will you be wanting your usual room at the back, Mister C?’ Caulk asked. ‘And you captain, is there anything you might fancy ... anything we might tempt you with?’

  François shook his head and picked up his hat. ‘Another night, perhaps ... duty calls.’ He clapped Chevalier’s shoulder. ‘We will do this again.’

  ‘Ah well,’ sighed Chevalier watching him leave. ‘A dark horse, our captain.’

  Caulk rubbed his hands together. He had no love of the Frenchman – he was too high and mighty, too much the young weasel for his taste. But, his money was as good as the next. And a gent would pay good money to learn that his sister’s suitor was keeping a French piece in the same town.

  ‘The captain’s reputation goes before him‒’ he said casually.

  Priming

  Cassy had a way with Anna. When the girl was at her most unreachable, Cassy knew how to find her – she could provide the succour that Anna would not take from her mother. But in the hours following Cassy’s brutal treatment by the thief-taker, it was she who was beyond reach. Consciousness came and went. Her battered face was blackened by bruises and so swollen that she could barely see. She did not know Clarry or the other girls, at first; seemed far removed from anyone she had ever known.

  On her return home, Kate sat on the edge of Anna’s bed and related some of the night’s sad events into the stony silence. When at length she moved away, the girl who had not once stirred during the telling, suddenly sat up and reached out to her.

  ‘Why would Clarry send for a priest, mother?’ She was fully awake. ‘Cassy has no need of priests ... we must go to her.’

  Kate was astonished by such animation but took care not to show it. And though she had only just left Cassy, though tiredness made her head swim and her ears ring, she did not hesitate. Just before dawn she was back in Crich’s Lane. Anna slipped in ahead of her ... past Joanne who was sitting at the foot of the stairs with her head in her hands ... up the stairs and by the priest – head dropped on to his chest, wig askew – in a chair just inside the door of Cassy’s room. Kate reached the chamber door in time to see Clarry give a startled lurch from her stool at Cassy’s bedside as Anna took Cassy’s hand and knelt down close to her face.

  ‘Christ Anna‒’ hissed Clarry, ‘what are you doing?’

  Anna seemed oblivious to all but the figure in the bed. Stroking Cassy’s injured face, she began to murmur to her; words made unintelligible by their soft rapidity. As Clarry hovered uncertainly Kate drew her aside.

  ‘You should not have brought her‒’ Clarry scolded. But as she spoke the figure in the bed stirred.

  ‘I’ve come, Cassy,’ Anna said distinctly.

  A feeble cough was followed by a congested growl. Cassy was attempting to speak.

  ‘Leave her be, Anna!’ Clarry’s voice stirred the dozing priest. ‘Can’t you see she’s dying?’

  Anna paid no heed. She nuzzled the limp hand. ‘It’s me....’

  Cassy rasped, ‘Kate ... you’re here.’

  The priest collected himself. Striding across to the bed, he attempted to steer Anna aside. She squealed and shook herself free of his grasp.

  ‘Do not hinder the Lord’s work, child,’ he boomed, trying to keep his balance, ‘I am called to shrive this woman‒’

  Cassy strained up on to her elbows and cut across him; ‘Begone.’

  ‘Madam,’ objected the priest, ‘you know not what you say ... this may be your final hour.’


  ‘Go, I said. Have done with your piety.’

  He stood his ground, placed a hand on Cassy’s forehead and pressed a gold crucifix to his lips. With an impassioned cry Anna hurled herself at him. The priest reeled away then, holding his face where she had scratched him. Anna pursued him, caught the sleeve of his vestments and spat at him. Kate wrapped both arms round her daughter, hauled her away.

  ‘I told you to bugger off!’ groaned Cassy.

  Struggling to contain her child, Kate gasped; ‘Please, go ... you have done what you can.’

  He straightened his collar as he stood glaring first at Anna then at Kate. Then Anton spoke from the doorway.

  ‘Come, sir, the lady is right.’

  Muttering indignantly, the priest gathered his things. He took the coin Anton offered him then, looking back from the doorway, pointed at Anna.

  ‘That girl is possessed,’ he proclaimed. Then he swept out.

  Anton was uncertain, Kate knew. His hope, his secret desire since the death of her husband, John Jeakes, had been to make her his wife. To bed her under any other circumstances offended his sense of honour.

  Despite their recent differences over Anna, he had long been a valued friend. But Kate had no intention of forfeiting a widow’s independence – however honourable the man. And by now, she suspected that even he was beginning to realize it.

  He hesitated before following her up the narrow staircase to the second floor of Crich Lane; held back for several moments before mounting the bare treads to the parlour above the room where Anna had finally fallen asleep alongside Cassy – her daughter and her oldest friend sharing one pillow under Clarry’s mistrustful watch.

  The need was in him, though he hung his head to avoid meeting her eyes, she felt it. Slants of morning light came through the grubby roof lights, illuminating the room with its sharply angled ceiling timbers and plum-coloured velvet.

  It had been many years since she had plied Cassy’s trade. Prostitution had saved her then. With supple limbs and an instinct for creativity she had been popular with Cassy’s well-heeled clientele. Thanks to Cassy she had never had to work the streets. The profession had been her lifeline but it had taught her besides the importance of physical intercourse to men and to women.

  Anton wanted her, but she also wanted intimacy; when so much else was unsettled, she needed to give and be given the ultimate physical reassurance.

  ‘What the priest said about Anna‒’ he began. She locked the door behind him and pressed two fingers against his lips to silence him. The air was cold, the house shifted and creaked as Cassy’s girls moved about downstairs.

  Kate replaced her two fingers with her lips and kissed him. Her hunger roused him almost at once. With a strangled groan, years of restraint fell away. She broke from his crushing grip to loosen her clothes. His large warm hands pushed her shift down over her shoulders as she sank down to unbutton him. At her first teasing touch he flung his chin upwards with a moan. Fired and impatient, he wrenched her to her feet and dragged the shift down over her hips to leave her naked. His great hands smothered her then; delved and explored.

  Long ago Matthew Marsden had taught her that ecstasy and agony were two sides of the same coin. Trembling with arousal she held Anton off; baiting him until they were both near mad with desire. She provoked him until he could endure no more, until unbridled frustration vented itself in masterful aggression.

  And on the parlour wall her arching shadow was subsumed by his.

  For those few minutes in the parlour she recaptured something of the ecstasy she had once experienced with Matthew Marsden. But Anton was not Marsden. With Anton there was none of Marsden’s cruelty or subjugation – only shared passion. And when that passion was spent, he curled around her among the scattered cushions until at last she fell asleep on the thin rug.

  They were still lying there hours later when Clarry showed Louise in.

  When Pierre walked into the study just after dawn, Arnaud was writing a letter extolling the virtues of marriage to a recently betrothed nephew. Signing with a flourish, he looked up at his son who was idly flicking through a book from the shelves.

  Arnaud pursed his lips. ‘You should take a wife‒’

  Something dangerous flared inside Pierre; the callous old bastard calmly talking of a match as if Eleanor and the baby had never existed. He suppressed his anger; reined it in completely, knowing that what he had discovered would be retaliation enough.

  He rubbed his mouth then, feigning awkwardness said; ‘There is something you should know about Captain Fuller.’

  He watched his father’s eyes narrow at the mention of the name. Since the disturbance in the early hours of Christmas morning, the old man seemed to have taken a dislike to Isabelle’s suitor.

  Arnaud had laid down his pen. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have learned that Captain Fuller keeps a mistress at the house in Pall Mall ... a French peasant called Margot.’

  Arnaud leaned back in his chair. With a heavy sigh he dragged his hand over his face.

  ‘You are certain of this?’

  Pierre drew up a chair. ‘I did not mention it sooner because I thought it would be safer to make my own enquiries first.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Lord Herries has allocated them his wife’s own chamber while she is staying in France.’

  ‘Recognition indeed,’ Arnaud commented sarcastically. ‘Then there is no question about it: Isabelle will not associate with this man again.’

  ‘It will be hard on her.’

  ‘Nevertheless.’

  Pierre studied his fingernails in silence. At length he added; ‘I fear that is not all, sir....’

  Hesitantly at first, Pierre revealed the things he had gleaned from the son of the laundrywoman with Fuller’s company; the fact that when they were alone, the woman Margot was wont to call Fuller not Frank but François ... how that had led him to recall Fuller’s claim that he was a close friend of François Jeakes who had once lived under their very roof. Surer now, he explained that he had since questioned Ursula who had worked for the Jeakes family; that their maid had conceded there was a similarity between Captain Fuller and François Jeakes – the son of her former employer.

  Arnaud frowned. ‘No more than a similarity?’ Pierre watched the vitality drain from his father’s face as the implications of what he was being told began to sink in: if Captain Fuller was in truth François Jeakes, then there was no doubt that Louise was party to the deception. How could a woman not recognize the man she had once intended to marry?

  With no real proof, Pierre worked on instinct. The boy had spoken with awe of his captain; a man who had suffered at the hands of the French authorities – had seen the scars on the captain’s wrists and back. A man with the gift of healing. By all accounts François Jeakes had possessed such a gift.

  ‘It seems likely that Jeakes did not die in a Paris gaol, after all,’ he concluded.

  ‘Send for the servant Ursula,’ Arnaud said quietly.

  Pierre replaced the book on its shelf. His father had connections in France – corroboration would not be long in coming, he was certain of it. He felt a flicker of pity seeing the old man absently screwing up the letter he had just written.

  But only a flicker.

  Disclosures

  Kate found Louise outside the door where she had retired in some confusion. Clarry who had unwittingly led her upstairs thinking she would find Kate alone in the parlour, had retreated downstairs to sit again with Cassy.

  She started forward from the shadows. ‘Forgive me Kate, I had to come.’ There was a quaver in her voice, such agitation in the way she wrung her hands that it was clear the discovery of Kate lying with her father on the parlour rug was the least of her troubles. Besides, Louise knew Kate well enough; after their experiences together in France following François’ arrest and disappearance, Louise had seen too much, endured too much, to be unduly upset by such a sight.

  Anton emerged from the p
arlour behind Kate.

  ‘Daughter?’ he murmured, coughing to clear his throat. Louise had her head in her hands now. She trembled as Kate put an arm around her shoulders and led her back to a settle in the parlour. Anton hung back in the doorway.

  ‘What is it?’ Kate coaxed. Stroking Louise’s face with the back of her hand she found her very hot to the touch. ‘Are you unwell?’

  Louise shook her head dolefully.

  ‘François has come back, Kate ... he’s alive.’

  ‘You have served more households than mine under his roof,’ Arnaud Chevalier declared, rising from his studded leather chair.

  Ursula had a fair idea why the master had sent for her. Since Monsieur Pierre cornered her days before she had been half-expecting the summons; steeling herself for it. She had hardly slept a wink – by turns wondering and worrying and becoming angry with herself for allowing it to get on top of her.

  ‘If anyone can be said to be the eyes and the ears of this house, surely it is you ... all I ask is the truth.’

  The truth. She had only half-realized it at first. The name was different, after all, and he had been little more than a boy the last time she had seen him. God’s Truth, the poor lad was supposed to have perished in a French prison. The entire household had been grief-stricken; shattered by the death of the son so soon after the father. As far as she had been concerned François Jeakes was no more, except in spirit, and Lord forbid that she should ever see one walk.

  ‘A passing similarity, do you swear to that Ursula?’

  The truth might never have dawned on her if it had not been for Mistress Louise’s reaction: wearing that old-fashioned gown and disappearing all flushed to oversee her progress in the kitchen and not hearing a word that was spoken to her.

  It was that made her study the captain’s features more closely next time she carried food through; that which set her wondering. There was a likeness – the same dark hair and brown eyes but in the captain’s face she saw such manly gravity as utterly conflicted with her memory of the fresh-faced youth who had hugged her and tipped her a half crown the day he left for France.