Page 15 of A Gathering Storm
Sir Edward canted his head to the side, regarding Nick curiously. “You feel . . . insulted by the term?”
Nick scowled. At length, when it became plain Sir Edward was going to wait for his answer however long it took, he muttered, “My mother didn’t like it.”
“You didn’t object when that fellow was using the term the other day, in the inn,” Sir Edward observed mildly.
“You mean the one who kept calling me a ‘Gypsy’s bastard’?” Nick asked, his tone deceptively pleasant. “Do you think a man like Jed Hammett’s going to stop talking to me like that if I say ‘Oh, I say old chap. I’d really rather you didn’t call me that. Would you mind awfully?’” He used the accent of an upper-class buffoon to make his point, edging the words with a little personal contempt.
Sir Edward blinked at Nick, plainly startled. “Oh, I didn’t—” He broke off, considering for a moment before starting again. “Well, it’s clear you don’t like that term, so I’ll be sure not to use it again. I apologise for doing so before.”
In the circumstances, Nick supposed it was a generous apology. He shrugged, saying somewhat grudgingly, “You weren’t to know. I don’t bother objecting when Jed says it, because he uses it deliberately to goad me. He’s the sort that, once he knows a man hates a particular name, he’ll make a point of using it every time he sees you. When we were lads, I went after him every time he called my mother a Gypsy or a whore—needless to say, we were always brawling. But no matter how many times I punched Jed in the mouth, he wouldn’t give up saying it.”
Sir Edward looked shocked. “Why on earth not?”
Nick gave a harsh laugh. “Because helikesfighting. Every time I went after him, I was just giving him what he wanted.”
“So instead you let him win?”
Nick bristled at that, but he said evenly, “He hasn’t won if he isn’t getting what he wants.”
Sir Edward considered that. “But you haven’t got what you want either. And meantime, he’s still using a term you dislike.”
“So, neither of us win,” Nick replied, shrugging. “That’s how some games are. Sometimes the best outcome you can hope for is to lose less badly. Or maybe not to play at all, if the rules are so stacked against you, you can’t ever win. So that’s what I do with Jed, mostly—I refuse to play his game.” He paused, met Sir Edward’s gaze, and added, “But there are some games you’re forced to play, even when you don’t want to.”
Sir Edward said, “What do you do when that happens?”
Nick gave him a steady look. “We’re about to find out, aren’t we?”
Ward stared at Hearn’s grim face.
At some point over the last week, he had almost convinced himself that Nicholas Hearn was a semiwilling participant in his plans. It had been easy to get him to agree to come to the house today. That evening, down by the mill stream, Ward had merely said that if Hearn could see his way to assisting Ward with his work, he saw “no reason for any embarrassment.” To his relief, after a short though uncomfortable silence, Hearn had replied he would come to Varhak Manor on his day off—today—sparing Ward the mortification of having to spell out what he wanted in more detail.
Ward had rather been hoping they might go on like that. If they didn’t speak of the reason for Hearn’s agreement, Ward could even pretend that Hearn had been willingly recruited rather than press-ganged.
Vain hope. Hearn was plainly not pleased to be here. This was a game he was being forced to play.
Just then, a knock at the study door announced the arrival of the tea and a welcome diversion from the tension that had arisen.
“Come in,” Ward called out, and Pipp entered, bearing a large silver tray bristling with crockery.
Pipp deftly arranged cups, saucers, plates, and cutlery on the desk. He set down a tiered china stand, crammed with delicious fancies, followed by crystal dishes of black currant preserves and thick cream. Typically, Mrs. Waddell hadn’t just sent up a couple of her delicious scones, she’d put out half a dozen of them, added a similar number of delicate quince tartlets, and topped the lot off with a pile of Ward’s favourite sugar biscuits. Pipp lifted the teapot and poured them each a cup of tea before finally tucking the empty tray under his arm.
“May I be of further service, sir?” he asked, eyebrows raised in enquiry. When he and Pipp were alone, Pipp was a benevolently nannying tyrant, but in front of others, he acted the perfectly obedient servant.
Ward shook his head. “Thank you, Mr. Pipp,” he replied gravely. “That will be all.”
“Very good, sir.”
Pipp slipped silently out of the room, closing the door behind him with the barest click while Ward gave his attention to the scones on the china stand, examining them as though selecting the best one was a matter of life and death. He grasped one with the silver tongs Pipp had provided and held it up, asking hopefully, “Would you like a scone, Mr. Hearn?”
Hearn looked distinctly unimpressed. “No, thank you.”
Ward wasn’t even hungry but nor was he ready to resume their conversation—and he had to do something with the bloody scone—so he put it on a plate and busied himself with cutting it open and heaping it with dark purple jam and unctuous, pale-yellow cream.
It was probably as delicious as Mrs. Waddell’s scones always were, but it might as well have been ashes in his mouth for all he tasted it. He set it down after two bites, swallowing dryly, unsure how to go forward.
Hearn took the matter out of his hands. “Before we go any further, I want us to agree precisely what it is I am going to have to do here,” he said in the flat, emotionless tone he’d used before. “I do not wish to be at your beck and call permanently, Sir Edward. Tell me what you want of me and let us agree a number of visits, or hours, or whatever is most appropriate, and the limits of what you will ask of me. In return, provided you’re reasonable, I will comply with what you ask.”
Ward stared at him, appalled. It was one thing to imply threats in the hope of getting what you wanted; it was quite another when your victim—and yes, he admitted to himself, Hearn was the victim here—faced up to you and made you talk about what you were doing. Ward’s cheeks warmed and he knew he must look as awkward as he felt. “I—I’m not sure how long it may take,” he managed to stammer as his mind raced. “It’s difficult to estimate—”