Page 8 of A Gathering Storm

This was going to come to blows if someone didn’t step in. Nick mightn’t altogether mind the thought of Jed Hammett being dragged up before the magistrate again, and Sir Edward might be behaving with the usual high-handedness of the rich, but still, Nick found he didn’t like the thought of that comely face being marked with bruises from Jed’s fists.

With an inward sigh, he slammed his tankard down on the bar. The clatter of metal on wood caused half the heads in the taproom to turn his way.

“Well, Jed,” Nick said. “Even you must admit that driving your buggy arse over tit is apt to do you in.”

There was a little uneasy laughter at that. Slowly, menacingly, Jed turned his attention from Sir Edward to Nick. Nick offered him an insouciant grin, feigning relaxed amusement, though in truth he was holding himself loose and easy, ready for violence should Jed rush him.

There was little love lost between him and Jed these days, but there was, at least, a modicum of respect if it came to a fight. When they were boys, they’d run wild together, playing and arguing and yes, brawling a few times, until Jed had finally realised that, despite being much bigger, he couldn’t guarantee he’d beat the Gypsy’s bastard every time—and he certainly couldn’t cow him, as he could so easily the other boys.

“Well now, if it isn’t Nick ’Earn!” Jed said, all aggressive friendliness. “I was just speaking of you to milord here.” He turned back to the scientist. “Mr. ’Earn is the Gypsy bast—sorry,gentlemanI mentioned to you, milord. He is just the man for you, is Nick. For these ’speriments of your’n.”

Sir Edward’s jaw tightened, eyes flashing with irritation as he anticipated more mockery, but Jed held his hands up in await a momentgesture.

“Now, hear me out, milord. You’ll like this, what with you looking for someone who might be closer to theveilan’ all.” He pointed at Nick. “This ’ere Gypsy, not only did his old mother pass away just last year—which is one of the partic’lars you’re looking for, you said—but better’n that, hesees ghosts. Ain’t that the truth now, Nick?”

Nick’s gut clenched. He itched to ram his fist into Jed’s smirking face, and only the knowledge that that was precisely what the fisherman wanted stopped him. By sheer force of will he maintained a neutral expression, opening his mouth to disavow Jed’s words, only for Sir Edward to beat him to it.

“You’ve seen ghosts?” Sir Edward said, fixing that golden-brown gaze on Nick for the first time. His expression was curious. Avid. And somehow, without intending to, Nick found himself answering.

“I was practically a babe when it happened.” He shrugged. “Probably imagined the whole thing.”

Jed gave a chuckle and wagged a finger at Nick. “Oh no. I remember that night like it were yesterday. You saw something right enough. The look on your face was a sight to see.” He turned back to Sir Edward. “None ofussaw anything, you understand. But, well, Nick’s a Gypsy, see? And them Gypsies? Some say they’re related to the devil hisself, don’t they? Stands to reason Nick ’ere would be able to see spirits.”

Sir Edward didn’t even acknowledge Jed’s words. He canted his head a little to one side, studying Nick intently. Nick felt that unfaltering gaze like a physical touch, his cock stirring in his drawers as another wave of desire broke in his belly.Christ.Why did the man affect him like this?

“What did you see, Mr. Hearn?” he asked.

Nick pressed his lips together and shook his head, annoyed with himself for not laughing off Jed’s charge immediately as he’d usually have done. “Nothing,” he said flatly. “It was a child’s fancy, nothing more.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Jed told Sir Edward. “He saw the Plague Doctor, a ghost as has been walking this village for nigh on two hundred years. He saw it as clear as I see you now, milord. We was”—he glanced at Nick—“what do you think, Nick? Seven? Eight? And you told me everything about that ghost, didn’t you? From the square buckles on his shoes to the beaky mask he wore on his head. When I told old Granny Hammett what you said, she said to me, ‘That Gypsy’s bastard’s seen the good doctor, all right! He’s got him right in every partic’lar.’”

Nick gave a tight laugh. “I’d probably heard your granny talking about what the Plague Doctor looked like and repeated it all back to you. She always did blather on.”

Jed ignored that, his attention on Sir Edward again. “And what’s more, Nick’s mother—God rest her soul—she told fortunes,” he continued, jerking his thumb at Nick. “Read them fancy picture cards to tell people’s futures. Tea leaves too. Nick ’ere probably gets the sight from her.”

Nick’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was the likes of Jed Hammett talking about his mother. But before he could spit a word out, Sir Edward distracted him, his own words tumbling out in a hoarse, rasping rush.

“Mr. Hearn, I must say, this all sounds very promising—would you consider coming to Varhak Manor to discuss these matters with me in more detail? I promise I will pay you generously for your time.”

Nick turned back to Sir Edward. The man’s eyes shone with hopeful eagerness as he spoke and for an instant, Nick contemplated their unusual hue. They reminded him of acorns, he thought. That smooth, nutty colour. It wasn’t just the colour that arrested him though. It was howunguardedthat gaze was. Where was the caution in this man’s soul? Did he always show his thoughts like this? So plain on his face for all to see? He seemed already to have forgotten his brief altercation with Jed Hammett—now he was entirely taken up with Nick, and this nonsense Jed had started about Nick havingthe sight.

Nonsense Nick had no intention of indulging.

Somehow, finally, Nick found his voice. “Thank you for the offer, Sir Edward,” he said politely. “But I already have a position that pays me well enough. I really have no need of any other employment.”

And with one last nod, he walked out of the taproom, with Snow lumbering at his heels.

1st May 1853

Three full days after his disastrous visit to the inn in the village, Ward decided to go to speak to Nicholas Hearn in person. He told Pipp he was taking an evening stroll and set off for the cottage on the outskirts of the village that he’d learned Hearn occupied.

It had been a lovely spring day and even now, at seven in the evening, it was pleasantly warm. The sun, which was still some way off setting, was low in the sky and tiny insects danced in the hazy sunbeams that shafted through the tree canopy.

As Ward strolled, he thought about Nicholas Hearn. A few days before, the man had poured cold water on Mr. Hammett’s claim that Hearn had seen a ghost when he was a child. But even at the time, Ward had felt sure in his bones that there was something to the story. He’d seen Hearn’s face when Hammett had spoken of those long ago events, and somehow he had known Hearn had been genuinely shaken to be reminded of them.

It wasn’t even that Hearn’s face had given him away—in fact, to the casual observer, he would have seemed remarkably unaffected by the whole incident—but something had flashed in his eyes before he blinked it away and resettled his calm expression. It was the briefest of betrayals, but Ward had seen it. Difficult to miss, he supposed, given how intently he had been staring at the man by then.

“Even you must admit that driving your buggy arse over tit is apt to do you in.”