Page 16 of Lady Isla and the Lord of Rogue (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #6)
“What would you like?” he asked her. “Just regular tea or something more fortifying?”
“Just tea, please.”
“For me as well,” Teddy told the innkeeper.
“Certainly, right away.” The innkeeper bowed so low that she had a clear view of his bald head.
“It's somewhat of an odd place,” Teddy commented as he took off his top hat and set it aside. “Though the service seems to be good.”
The innkeeper promptly served a pot of piping hot tea that was so strong, Isla nearly gagged.
She added two, three lumps of sugar and a good dollop of milk and stirred, her eyes incessantly scanning the room.
Her forehead puckered into a worried frown as her mind went wild with possible scenarios.
Had Lucian Night deceived her? Was this a hoax?
Maybe Jem would never appear. It could be a scheme to entrap them, to kidnap them, to ask for ransom money from Algie. Worry churned in her stomach.
“Let us finish the tea and leave,” she told Teddy. “It doesn’t look like Jem is about to appear any time soon, and I have a strange feeling about this place. It doesn’t seem safe.”
“It does seem to be a seedy place. Do you think it is a hotbed of criminals? The innkeeper appears to be reasonable enough.”
“It is possible. We’re in St Giles, after all.”
“Never fear, Lala. If something happens, I shall do my best to defend you. I have some skill at boxing, even though I was knocked out immediately after the first few minutes during my last practice.”
He touched his chin, wincing, as if still remembering the punch. “Besides, I have my stick.” He lifted it. “It can serve as a weapon.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on Isla's face. “And I have my umbrella. At least it has a deadly point. I really should ask Algie to give me lessons in shooting. He's one of the best shots in the entire country.”
“Is he, really? Why haven't you done so, yet?”
She pulled a face. “I don't care much for the loud noise. And the smell.” She shuddered.
“Sulphur and saltpetre from the powder that gets ignited.” Teddy pushed up his spectacles. “A sharp, acrid smell. Together with some smoke.”
“I wish they hadn’t invented it. Our world would be a better place.
” Even thinking of the smell evoked an image of her lying under a carriage, surrounded by the harsh, metallic scent of burnt gunpowder, smoke and fire.
There had been a sudden, deafening bang, and she’d found herself flung through the carriage.
The world toppled and turned…and when she’d awoken again, a soft hand was bathing her forehead. Vanya.
“…if you imagine that gunpowder was invented as far back as the Tang Dynasty in China,” Teddy was saying.
Isla jerked back to attention. She was about to tell him to repeat what he’d said, when suddenly the door opened, bringing with it a welcome blast of fresh, cold air.
A tall, lanky man had entered. Dark, long hair hung over his forehead and curled at his nape.
He wore loose trousers stuffed into boots, a shirt and waistcoat with big, shiny buttons, a hat at a rakish angle, and a bandanna about his neck.
He had a moustache twirling over his upper lip.
Isla’s words remained stuck in her throat as she stared.
The man swaggered into the room, hailed the innkeeper, and sat down at a table in a corner on the other side of the room.
His eyes swept the room, took her in, and paused at her companion.
Then he seemed to dismiss them as he hailed the innkeeper for a mug of ale.
Teddy looked at him, fascinated. “I suppose this is our fellow?”
Isla rose. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Isla had never been so nervous in her entire life as she crossed the room from one side to the other.
Her heart slammed against her ribcage, and her knees were weak.
It was a miracle she could walk. Her eyes bored into the man, who lifted his mug to take a deep, long draught of ale.
Was he truly Jem? How could one correctly identify a person one had known twenty years earlier as a child?
The hair colour was correct. Little Jem’s hair, too, had been dark and long, and had curled at his nape.
She could not know about his height, but she supposed Jem would have been tall and lean, like the man before her.
The dress was correct; it was that of the people of the Rom.
His linen shirt was colourfully embroidered with red and blue thread, something which Vanya had liked to do.
Red for strength, she'd said, and blue for protection.
The patterns were spirals and horseshoes, both symbols for luck.
As she approached, she saw the frays at his sleeves, the baggy boots and the threadbare trousers. His face was narrow, his forehead and nose proud, the cheekbones high, his chin square.
It could, indeed, be Jem. An adult version of him. As he lifted the mug, she saw that his wrist was strong and tanned, as if from outside labour. He wore a bracelet around his wrist, one that had been made of red and blue strings.
“Jem Fawe.” She stood in front of his table.
He stared at her, equally incredulous as she must have looked. His gaze travelled down her figure, taking in her expensive dress, her bonnet, her shawl, her reticule.
“Isla?”