The King's Man (3 page)

He refilled both their cups and sat back, crossing his arms and stretching out his long legs in anticipation of the tale that would follow.

Thamsine's eyes darted around the crowded taproom as if seeking inspiration or an escape route.

Kit tried again. “All I wish to know, Thamsine Granville, is what has brought you to this impasse?"

"Captain Lovell.” She looked up at him, her eyes steady. “What has brought me to my present position is of no interest or concern to you. It's a story that I don't wish to confide in anyone, whatever the debt I owe them. Suffice to say that I have lost everything in the world I hold dear and what little I brought with me to London has been either stolen or sold. I have nothing of interest or value."

"So you're reduced to selling yourself?"

The blunt words caused a flush to rise to her pale cheeks. She looked away, resting her chin on her hand and looked out of the window at the grey evening. He thought he could detect the glint of tears on her eyelashes.

"All right. What did you hope to achieve by killing the Lord Protector?” He tried a different line of enquiry.

She stared at him, confusion in the brown eyes. “Killing the Lord Protector? I didn't mean...” Then she recollected herself and looked down at her cup.

Kit leaned forward. “You won't kill him with brickbats, Mistress Granville.” He lowered his voice, “There are better ways to kill a king."

She looked up, her eyes sharpened and her voice dropped. “Is that what brings you to London?"

He laughed and sat back, taking a draught of ale. “Me? No, Thamsine. All that brings me to London is the pretty face of my mistress and the promise of some lucrative games of cards. I'm done with soldiering and conspiracy. As far as I'm concerned Cromwell is welcome to England.” He spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “Like you I've lost everything. There are some that would say that the only thing I have left is my honor but, believe me, even that is a poor commodity."

She tilted her head, her eyes scrutinizing his face. “Where are you from?"

He raised a finger. “Ah, now the arrangement was that you told me your story, not that I tell you mine."

"There is something in the way you speak. Your accent..."

"My accent?"

"It's not quite ... English."

Kit's eyes widened with surprise. “How very perceptive of you, Mistress Granville. You're quite right. My mother was French and by dint of my parents’ unhappy marital arrangements, I didn't actually learn a word of English until I was eight. The accent has never quite left me. My friends tell me it only becomes noticeable when I'm in my cups.” Kit smiled and looked at his tankard. “Obviously I've reached that point. Now you've elicited far more information from me than I have from you so, in fairness, I must insist, no more questions."

She smiled and drained her cup. “I'm the last person to pry into others lives,” she said. “I should be going and leave you to return to the arms of your pretty mistress."

He regarded her for a moment. “Where should you be going to?"

She looked up at him and before she could answer he raised a hand. “I've not gone to all the trouble of pulling you out of the gutter just to send you back there on a cold, February night. The landlord of this establishment, Jem Marsh, is a friend of mine. He'll give you lodging."

"But I've no means of paying."

"Can you cook?"

"No."

"Wash dishes?"

"I suppose so."

"Make beds?"

"As long as I'm not expected to lie in them.” An ironic smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

Kit sat up. “May!” He hailed the twin.

She sauntered over to the table and he put an arm around her waist, drawing her into towards him. “May, my dear. Can you fetch your brother for me?"

May looked disappointed. “That all?"

"That's all.” He released her and gave her a playful slap on the rump. The girl gave a squeal and with a coquettish glance over her shoulder to him disappeared into the kitchen.

Wiping his hands on a grubby apron, Jem Marsh appeared in the kitchen door and lumbered over to the table. He loomed over them.

"Well, Cap'n Lovell. The girls said you was out of the Clink. You must have the luck of the devil. I thought you was locked away for a goodly time."

The badly tied patch over his left eye didn't quite disguise the ugly scar that ran from his temple to his cheekbone. Out of the corner of his eye, Kit saw Thamsine recoil.

"Mercifully, Jem, that little misunderstanding was resolved. Now, old friend, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Anything, as long as ‘tis legal.” The big man laughed.

Kit indicated Thamsine. “This is my friend, Thamsine Granville. Mistress Granville is a lady, who through the vicissitudes of fortune with which we are all familiar, finds herself in somewhat dire circumstances."

Jem peered closely at Thamsine's shabby person. “She doesn't look much like a lady."

"Well, she is and she needs some work, Jem, to pay for lodgings and food."

"What's she good at?"

Kit gave Thamsine a quick, appraising look. “Not much that is useful, unfortunately, but I'll warrant she's a quick learner."

Doubt creased Jem's brow. “You wouldn't want to work here, love."

"I have little choice, Master Marsh.” Thamsine looked up at him.

"Jem to me friends, miss.” He scratched his head. “Well, if you've a mind to it and can manage a few rough sorts I'll take you and...” He lowered his voice and tapped his patch. “...if you've a mind to making a few shillings on the side, I'm willing to turn a blind eye, lady or no."

"No,” Thamsine said hastily. “I've no need of those sorts of shillings. I am happy to serve drinks, sweep floors, wash dishes, anything, Master Marsh."

"Well, if the Cap'n vouches for ye, tha's good enough for me,” he said. “You can doss in with the girls. You met my sisters, Mistress Granville, Nan and May? Nan's a bit of a tongue in her head but she don't mean much by it. You won't mind, will you, girls?” he bellowed across the room.

Nan and May poked their heads out of the kitchen. “Mind what?” Nan asked.

"This here's Cap'n Lovell's friend, Thamsine. She's coming to work for us for a little while. You don't mind her dossing down wiv you?"

The ensuing pause indicated that neither girl thought this arrangement particularly satisfactory.

"Just as long as she's the open-minded sort,” May said at last.

"Good. That's settled.” Kit drained his cup and rose to his feet. “If you'll excuse me, Thamsine, I have an appointment to be kept."

"Will I see you again?"

He inclined his head. “Undoubtedly. My friends and I meet here often for a drink and a game of cards. In fact you will probably see me tomorrow night."

She stood up to face him and held out her hand. “Good night, Captain Lovell, and thank you."

He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He smiled. “Until next time, Thamsine. Keep her away from brickbats, Jem."

The big man frowned. “Brickbats?"

Thamsine stared at Kit, the alarm shining in her eyes.

"Doesn't matter,” Kit said and winked at her. “Until tomorrow."

"Private parlor?” Jem asked.

Kit nodded, shrugging his cloak across his shoulders. As he opened the door on a flurry of snow, he turned to look back.

Thamsine had turned to face the Marsh twins, who regarded her with such intensity that she looked like a moth trapped in a flame, her wings singeing under their gaze.

"So, m'lady, fancy yourself as a taproom wench, do you?” Nan flung a grimy apron at Thamsine. “Well, you can start with washing the platters."

Kit smiled and shut the door.

Kit walked through the snow-driven streets to High Holborn where Lucy Talbot, the widow of the late Martin Talbot, wine merchant, had a small, comfortable house.

"Kit!"

He barely had time to shut the door against the snow, as Lucy hurled herself down the stairs and into his arms, covering his face with kisses.

"Where have you been? Where have you been?” she cried between kisses.

He disengaged her, allowing himself the luxury of one last, lingering kiss. “Lucy, dearest, I'm cold and wet and longing for the warmth of your fire."

She was already fumbling at the sodden knot on his cloak, pulling the wet garment from his shoulders and abandoning it in a soggy pile on the floor. Kit picked it up and, carrying it before him, escaped upstairs into the warmth of Lucy's parlor. He flung the cloak over the back of a chair to dry, together with his hat and gloves. He gave the dispirited feather in his new hat a regretful glance, setting it down to take the glass of wine that Lucy offered him.

He held up the fine glass, his fingers ridiculously large for the slender, twisted glass stem, and swirled the ruby contents, watching the play of light from the candles through the liquid before taking a deep draught. He silently thanked the good fortune that had thrown him in the path of a wine merchant's widow—a wealthy, wine merchant's widow.

"You haven't answered my question.” Lucy pouted. “Where have you been these last weeks?"

"Ah!” Kit set the glass down and took a seat by the fire, stretching out his long legs to dry the damp boots. He took Lucy's small hand and drew her down onto his lap. “I have a confession, Mistress Mouse."

Lucy traced a finger across his brow and down his nose. Her touch sent lightning bolts of desire shooting through his body.

"What confession?” she asked, dreamily.

"I've been in the Clink."

"Again!” Lucy gave a squeak of indignation and thumped him firmly in the chest. “What over this time?"

"The small matter of a horse."

"A horse is not a small matter!"

"Well, no, it was quite a large horse."

"And who"—she gave a derisive snort—"who paid your debts this time?"

"The matter was settled amicably."

"Cards, I wager!” she spat at him. “Really, Kit Lovell, you are incorrigible."

"But you must admit you missed me,” he wheedled, curling his mistress’ blonde locks around his finger.

"Not for a moment!” she protested without conviction, her head tilting backwards as his fingers strayed to the soft part of her throat, tracing a line down to the top of the bodice.

He replaced his finger with his mouth, blowing soft butterfly kisses on her clean, soft, white skin, while his fingers grappled unsuccessfully with the knot on her bodice laces. She moaned as his kisses dropped lower, the bodice laces giving way and allowing access to her full, pert breasts.

His hand fought with the layers of skirts and petticoats, finding its way up past the wool of her stockings to the smooth skin of her upper thigh and heaven where he could lose himself.

As he fumbled with his own belt, Lucy took advantage of the distraction and with a shriek of laughter, gathered up her skirts and ran from the room. He caught her on the stairs and together they slithered and tripped upstairs to her large, tester bed. He threw her back on the coverlet and lifted her skirts. Her back arched beneath him, her need for release as great as his own.

Desire spent, he rolled off her and lay on his back beside her. She propped herself up on one elbow and smiled down at him.

"Haven't done that for a while, have you?"

"No,” he agreed.

Her fingers pulled at the laces of his shirt, dancing provocatively through the hairs on his chest. “So was that it?” she teased, dropping small kisses onto his face, his nose and his lips.

"Demanding wench, aren't you?” Kit grinned and, pinning her to the bed, rolled over on her again.

Thamsine wiped her hands on a dirty rag and surveyed the pile of dishes stacked neatly on the kitchen table. She looked down at her fingers and sniffed them, wrinkling her nose. The tips were shrivelled like dried sweetmeats and smelt of grease. She wiped her hands again and sighed.

Her father would turn in his grave if he could see her now but when she considered the alternative, she gave a silent prayer of thanks. The Ship Inn offered her a respite, time to consider what path to take. For now the mindless repetition of physical tasks was a balm to her weary soul and she turned to the basket of carrots that Nan had set her to peel.

She sat down on a rickety stool, picked up the first carrot and regarded it from all angles. Her life, until relatively recently, had never required the skill of peeling carrots. She picked up the knife. Flinching from its sharp blade she attacked the vegetable.

"You don't hold the knife like that!"

Thamsine looked up to see Kit Lovell standing over her, his green eyes dancing in amusement. Flushing, Thamsine nicked her finger. With a yelp of pain she dropped carrot and knife. Kit retrieved them and squatting down in front of her, deftly demonstrated the correct way of separating a carrot and its skin.

"Didn't your mother teach you anything?” he asked, straightening and handing it back to her.

"My mother? No, she didn't.” Thamsine retorted, removing her cut finger from her mouth and picking up another carrot from the pile. “She died when I was nine after a long illness that kept her from teaching me any form of useful domestic skill."

"So how did you occupy your time instead?"

"I shared the schoolroom with my brother. Nowhere did my books include a lesson on how to peel carrots."

Kit pulled up a stool. “Look, I'll demonstrate.” He picked up a carrot and a knife from the table and with remarkable dexterity managed to peel four carrots in the time it had taken Thamsine to produce one badly mutilated vegetable.

"Well, well, look who's here?” Nan swaggered in carrying a tray of empty platters. She set them down and put her arms around Kit's neck, pressing her ample bosom to his back and blowing in his ear. “Where've you been, lover?” She sniffed. “You smell nice. Been off visiting your lady friend?"

Kit looked up at her and smiled.

Nan straightened and cuffed his ear. “Ah, you're no fun these days, Cap'n Lovell.” She winked at him and sauntered out of the kitchen.

Kit met Thamsine's eyes. “What are you smiling at?"

"Is there a woman in London you don't share a bed with?"