Page 6 of A Gathering Storm
“It is—not that you’re one for dancing.” She set the tankard down in front of him and lifted the coins he’d laid there.
He took a swig of the ale. “That’s true enough—I’ve two left feet.”
She eyed him, unimpressed. “No use lying to me, Nick Hearn. I seen you dance with Jenny Lamb three years ago, and you were fine. Better than fine.”
Nick forced a smile. “Jenny was a determined lass.”
Martha laughed. “Oh, she’s determined all right! I’ll wager you’re relieved she married the schoolteacher and laid off you. We was all sure she’d set her cap at you.”
Nick’s smile felt fixed and stiff, and he didn’t know what to say. He’d felt a lot of things over Jenny’s marriage to Gabe Meadows, but relief wasn’t one of them.
“Promise you’ll give me at least one dance, Nick,” Martha wheedled. She sent him a wicked look from under her lashes, the sort of look that should have given him a cockstand, but never would.
“We’ll see,” he said at last. “Mayhap I’ll fancy a jig come May Day, if I can get five minutes’ peace and quiet to drink this good ale.”
Martha put her hands on her hips and glared at him, mock-offended. “I swear you prefer the company of that ugly dog to me.”
Nick glanced down at Snow, who lifted his head and gave a little grunt, as though he knew he was being talked about.
“Well,” Nick said. “He talks less.”
Laughing, Martha sauntered off to see to her next customer, and Snow set his heavy head back down on his paws.
The inn was busy, despite it being the middle of the day. On a warm day like this, a working man liked a cool pint of ale to quench his thirst, and the place was full of labourers, fishermen, and other men who worked in the village and on the surrounding farms. There were a number of men his own age who Nick had attended the village school with and played with as a lad. Till the interest Godfrey Roscarrock had taken in him had marked him out as different from them.
Nick turned round to face the room, leaning one elbow on the bar behind him. He raised his tankard and drank deeply, enjoying the light, hoppy ale. He’d been out riding round the estate all morning and had been nursing his thirst in anticipation of this drink.
When he finally lowered the tankard, he glanced around the inn, nodding a few civil greetings at the other patrons without bothering to initiate conversation. He was a man of few words. He knew some people reckoned he thought he was better than everyone else because he’d risen from being Darklis Hearn’s bastard to being steward to the Roscarrock family, but that was their lookout. He couldn’t help what people thought or didn’t think.
When Nick finished his ale and turned to set his empty tankard down on the bar, Jim, the innkeeper, caught his eye. He raised a questioning brow at Nick.
Another?was the unspoken question.
Nick swithered briefly, then nodded, and Jim brought a fresh tankard to him a minute later. He was halfway through his second ale when the door of the inn opened and a newcomer arrived—or rather, two newcomers. The first man was plainly a toff. He was elegantly dressed, all in shades of brown, and had the typical air of a rich man—the air of someone used to getting what he wanted, whenever he wanted it. He strode inside and looked boldly around, not bothering to shield his curiosity about the gathered clientele. The second, older man seemed to be the first man’s servant. He appeared far less comfortable, his gaze flicking nervously about the room from behind his half-moon spectacles.
Gradually, the taproom fell silent. The toff removed his hat and regarded the inn’s patrons with bright-eyed interest. He had a willowy sort of youthful grace—Nick guessed him to be somewhere in his twenties. His neatly side-parted hair was dark blond and his golden-brown eyes shone with intelligence and unconcealed curiosity. There was a delicacy to his clean-shaven face, with its fine, symmetrical features, yet there was firmness there too. Determination in the sharp jut of his jaw, boldness in the unshirking gaze.
Unexpectedly, desire rolled in Nick’s belly, cresting like a wave that broke and flooded through him. The strength of his reaction took him by surprise, and he had to glance away briefly to consciously school his expression before he allowed himself to look back.
The toff offered the assembled company a smile. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said. Or rather barked.
Christ, that voice. The man might be fair, but his voice was scraping and hoarse. Nick waited for him to clear his throat, but he didn’t, merely continued in the same harsh tone.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am your new neighbour, Sir Edward Fitzwilliam. I live close to the Hole—I’m sure you all know it. You may be aware that I’ve built a house there, where I carry out my work.” He offered another of those engaging smiles. “I am a scientist.”
“We know what you are,” a voice assured him from the back of the inn. “You’re the one messing around with ’lectricity and putting up lightning rods.”
Sir Edward craned his neck, trying to find the owner of that voice. “Well, that’s rather an oversimplification, but in essence, yes. I am investigating certain effects of electromagnetism, amongst other things. It is, as I’m sure you all know, an area that is being studied in some depth at this time. No doubt you’re all familiar with the work of Mr. Faraday.”
“Oh, to be sure!” someone else said, with a snort. “We’re regular professors here at the Hope and Anchor.”
That voice was closer, and familiar to Nick. Jed Hammett, one of Nick’s boyhood friends. These days he was a fisherman—at least, he was when his brothers could extract him from the village hostelries. He liked his rum, did Jed, and he was a belligerent drunk as Nick knew too well, having had more than one run-in with the man when he was in his cups, when Jed would decide that Nick had gotten above himself and needed taking down a peg or two.
There were a few muted chuckles at Jed’s comment. Sir Edward frowned, as though not quite sure if he was being laughed at, which he was, of course—at least as blatantly as a group of working men would ever laugh at a titled gentleman in broad daylight. Nick glanced about the taproom, taking in the shared glances and grins of the other patrons. On the other side of the room, Sir Edward’s servant looked like he wished the ground would swallow him up. Nick lifted his tankard and took another swallow of ale, waiting to see what would happen next.
“Well,” Sir Edward said, turning his head to address his comments to Jed. “Perhaps you might be interested in assisting with my experiments then? For that is my purpose today—I am seeking volunteers, and I am, of course, prepared to pay. Generously.”
He gazed at the assembled company with a bright, expectant look that made Nick’s gut twist. There was a spark of something in that hopeful look, something vital and rare. Something that he knew the other men in the taproom would see as nothing more than foolishness. That thought bothered Nick more than it ought to have, and he turned determinedly away to face the bar again, setting his tankard down on the wet wood and hunching over it, wanting nothing to do with that handsome, intriguing young man. Beside him, Snow pressed in close, his short, powerful body warm against Nick’s calf.