Page 68 of Ondine

Clinton and Jake had reached London by then, and it was Jake who discovered where they might glean the most information on the lands held beneath the thumb of William Deauveau.

Not far from the outskirts of London, yet a scant forty-five minutes from Deauveau Place, was a tavern called the White Feather.

It was a bawdy place, most frequently filled with the rougher working class, some honest, some not.

A man, it was said, could buy most anything there, for the right amount of coin—women and ale, chemists’ potions and poisons, and information.

Clinton was the one to recommend caution in their apparel, and so he and Jake, along with Warwick and Justin, first purchased simple woolen garments, unadorned and cheap.

They rode to that tavern as northern laborers, not at odds with those they had served, but desiring to come nearer the great city of London, farther from the foulness of the weather.

They ordered ale by the keg, beef and mutton, and spent much of their first night observing everyone about them.

A buxom blond barmaid had a dither of a time deciding if she best liked Warwick or Justin, so they teased her together, set coins into her bodice, and when, for a few more coins, the innkeeper was persuaded to let her join their table, they plied her with great tankards of ale.

Her name was Molly, and she was a coarse, yet good-natured sort, affording just the type of assistance Warwick felt they needed.

She stayed, quite complacently, between the two brothers, giggling into her foamy ale. Justin talked foolishly to her; Warwick asked the more important questions.

“Tell me, lass, where could a man, good with his hands, find labor about these parts?”

“Ah, matey, but I’ll bet ye’re good with yer hands!” she replied, bursting into gales of laughter. Over her fluffy blond head Justin grimaced at his brother. Clinton cleared his throat.

Jake thought they might have ordered too much ale.

“Most seriously, lass. What of the grand manor I heard talk about? This Deauveau Place?”

“Deauveau Place! Ah, now, ’tis a hard taskmaster rules her now!”

“Tell me of him.”

The girl chuckled. “Ah, now, that’s a story, man, so ’tis!

” she said, slurring. “Once he were a kind man, quiet and reserved. But the waters ran deep, so they say, for it seemed he attempted to kill our good king Charles, along with his whelp. None would have thought it surely, for she were a most beautiful thing, ye kin”—she jabbed Warwick in the ribs and winked—“the like of which our good king, fer all his experience now, might seldom ever see! The rumor is high that the lass was in with her da, yet she disappeared. And now the brother—not even a true Deauveau, but some stepson!—owns it all.” Molly lifted her ale to her lips with a full-lipped grimace.

“Seems a sad story to me, for I hear tell she’s returned and that she’s to wed her cousin.

” Molly shivered. “’E’s a handsome devil, that one, but makes the blood run cold.

The lass, those who served her there say, was always patient and kind, and I pity her, that I do.

Not that it’s too uncommon, mind you, gents, but he looks the type to beat a bride, even a noble one at that! ”

Looks passed quickly around the table; Molly was too far into her ale to note them.

She stared up at Warwick, smiling.

“If you’ve the stomach for such a man as Deauveau, though, they do say that the wages are good.”

“Are they, then? What say you the chances that the man might hire me on?”

Molly stared at him blearily for a moment, then gasped with sudden pleasure. “Why, the old smithy just died, he did! They be needing a man, since the apprentice were just a boy! If ye’ve a mind for solid labor, you might want to try your luck tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? When? Where?”

“Why, in the town center, of course.”

“Thank you kindly, Molly,” Warwick said, rising.

“Well, where ye be off ta now, so quickly?” Molly demanded indignantly.

“A night’s sleep, if I’m to be a working man on the morrow, dear mistress!” he informed her, then lifted a brow in mock apology to his brother.

“But fear not, lass; me brother here be a lazy lout, yet one for fun, if you know what I mean. He’ll take care of you, girl!”

Take care of her! Justin looked stunned, but Molly had already transferred her attentions to him, and he couldn’t do or say a thing to Warwick, since he was well occupied guarding his privates.

Clinton laughed and rose, Jake followed suit, and Justin grew desperate.

“Molly! I’m promised for the priesthood, I am.”

“A finely built gent like you? Noo!”

“Ah, but I am, alas! I’d thought I’d have me a few last flings, but already I feel my soul flying to torment.

Oh! The pain!” With great drama Justin managed to rise, flash Molly one last smile and one last coin, and race after the others, leaving the tavern, though they’d a room there, since taverns were well known for carrying tales.

“The priesthood, eh?” Clinton doubled over with laughter at the sight of Justin, running quickly behind them.

“The pain! The pain!” teased Jake.

Justin grimaced, casting Warwick a baleful glare. “She wasn’t exactly my type!” he accused his brother. “If you must pick up women, you must dispose of them, too, Brother. I damn well was in pain! She’s fingers like a spider!”

None could take him too seriously, and Warwick burst into hearty laughter. But by then they were far along the road from the tavern, and no one was about to hear them. Gasping for breath after laughing in the harsh cold, Clinton leaned against a fence and stared more somberly at Warwick.

“I should go for the blacksmith’s position. I’ve spent half my life around horses.”

“And I haven’t, Cousin?” Warwick arched a warning brow.

Clinton waved a hand impatiently. “You’ve spent your life managing the estate, and on the king’s business. I am the one who knows horses.”

Warwick shook his head. “I know enough. And I have to be there.”

“Perhaps, Lord Chatham,” Jake remarked, “ye’re precisely the one o’ us who should not be about her.”

“I’ll do nothing rash, damn you all!” Warwick swore. “I’ve common sense aplenty, but I must see her. She is my wife.”

Justin ribbed Clinton with his elbow. “Actually, I’d rather enjoy seeing the lord of the manor as a blacksmith. He’s pathetically low on humility, if facts must be faced.”

“Oh, aye, pathetically,” Clinton agreed. Jake sniggered.

“Justin—”

“Just a comment, Brother, nothing more!” Justin said cheerfully. “But now”—he rubbed his chin—“he’s a bit too clean for a man of his means, wouldn’t you say, Clinton?”

“Oh, aye, pathetically clean.”

“He needs a good romp in the mud.”

“Well, there is no mud about, good fellows, so you’d best forget that!” Warwick stated.

Clinton grew sober. “Warwick, ’twould be best if you did not appear so refined. You might easily make this William Deauveau wary. There’s mud near the tavern entry. Ye need some dirt under your fingernails, at least.”

“Callused and filthy! I will enjoy this,” Justin announced.

Warwick stared at his hands. “There are calluses aplenty on them as it is,” he said.

“Aye,” Clinton agreed, “be grateful for them; were they not there, you’d never pass as a smith.”

Warwick shrugged. “All right; lead me to the mud. Justin, you’ll not be around to see anything. You and Clinton are heading back to court.”

“We are?” Justin asked,

Clinton nodded, watching Warwick, aware already of the workings of his mind. He gazed at Justin then. “We’re to see what there is to discover. Surely someone, somewhere, saw something amiss that day.”

“Don’t go to court, but take rooms in London,” Warwick advised. “I think we need to look among the common folk. Perhaps listen to the gossip in the taverns. Someone might be afraid to step forward.”

“And what of Jake?” Justin asked.

“Jake will stay here, should I need him. He can glean the most from the people.”

“And besides,” Jake added, his wizened gnome’s face crinkling into a smile, “I rather like Molly, meself!”

Laughing, they all linked arms and headed for the mud. Justin seemed most talented at applying it to his brother. No man should go slovenly for such an appointment; he simply should not appear as if he enjoyed bathing and indulged in that habit regularly.

After a time, though, the laughter died again, and Justin tensely queried his brother. “How do you know you’ll earn this fine position? Maybe a number of hearty and better known townsfolk will also be applying.”

“I don’t intend to wait for the interviews; I’ll present myself at Deauveau Place in the morning.” He hesitated. “I can’t wait; I can’t hold my distance any longer. I must be able at least to see her, and see that she moves healthy and well!”

* * *

At dinner the following night, Ondine was in a much stronger frame of mind.

She had spent the afternoon riding over the snow-covered estate with Raoul.

She had been pleasant, and he had not come too near.

When they spoke, they talked about things distant: the theater in London, opera, and art.

Raoul was an avid admirer of the great painters; he was well read and had a keen eye for talented men and masterpieces.

She had been painstakingly charming and sweet that day, well aware that charming Raoul might be her only hope of salvation if things went too far beyond her control.

Such as being with child!

She lured herself from the thought continually, for there were no answers to the dilemma, but simply more problems. She could not think that she would adore the child, that she would be pathetically eager to lavish upon it all the love she had never been able to give the father.

She could not wonder if it would be a husky boy, born with rare golden eyes like his sire, or a wee girl, perhaps, golden blond, lovely, and sweet . . .