Part 18 (2/2)

He walked and explored for hours. It was well into the afternoon before he realized that he really should eat. He was walking past a tavern called the Three s.h.i.+ps, which seemed as good a place as any. Grey entered, inhaling the tang of hops and good English ale mixed with the scent of fish and meat and baking. England. Home.

Eight or ten men were cl.u.s.tered in small groups in the taproom. Stevedores by the look of them. Kirkland had given Grey cash to tide him over until he had his affairs sorted out. In a mood of reckless generosity, Grey called to the landlord, ”I'm just back to England after too many years abroad, so I'll stand every man here a drink. Including one for you, sir.” He laid coins on the counter.

That raised a murmur of approval from the other patrons. A grizzled older man raised his refilled tankard. ”Here's to your health, sir, and welcome home!”

Most of the customers collected their drinks with thanks, but good will wasn't universal. A particularly burly stevedore sneered, ”What's a flash cove like you doing in our tavern?”

So much for the disguising effects of a shapeless coat and hat. ”Buying beer for my fellow Englishmen,” Grey said mildly. ”Would you like one?”

The man spat. ”I don't need nuthin' from a so-called gentleman like you.”

”What kind of fool doesn't want free beer, Ned?” the grizzled man asked indignantly. ”I'm happy to drink the gentleman's health.”

The significant glance he cast at his tankard had Grey putting more coins on the bar. ”Seconds all around for those who want them.”

This suited everyone except Ned. He swaggered up to Grey, smelling like sour gin. ”Don't need you here, puttin' on your airs!”

Using his most supercilious voice, Grey drawled, ”I do believe that you are looking for a fight. Am I correct?”

”b.l.o.o.d.y right I am!” Ned swung a furious punch.

Fierce joy coursed through Grey's veins. He'd been spoiling to smash his fists into someone, and finally his opportunity had arrived.

He dodged to one side so he wouldn't be trapped against the bar. Ned was taller and three or four stones heavier, but his fighting was based on strength, not skill. Grey easily blocked or avoided his punches while landing several good hits himself.

When Ned swung a particularly wild blow and became unbalanced, Grey caught his wrist, then flipped the man onto his back. Ned landed with a mighty ”Ooof !”

”Take it outside!” the landlord barked.

Grey balanced lightly on his toes, ready to move in any direction. ”Had enough?”

”No, by G.o.d!” The stevedore lurched to his feet. ”No skinny gent like you can lick Ned Brown!”

”Then let us move outside.” Grey made a sweeping bow that he knew would irritate the stevedore, then exited before Ned could attack again.

They resumed their fight outside on the windy street. The patrons from the Three s.h.i.+ps followed, beers in hand and placing bets on the outcome. Ned was apparently a well-regarded street fighter and he was favored at first over the ”skinny gent.”

But Grey had been trained well at Westerfield, where sparring with other boys was the favorite sport. Later he'd had boxing lessons at Jackson's Saloon before traveling to France. His muscles remembered the feints, strikes, and kicks.

He reminded himself that this was no fight to the death, just a tavern brawl as an outlet for his churning emotions. Though he was careful not to cause real damage, he gloried in the physical release.

Ned managed to connect with a few glancing blows that would leave bruises, including one across Grey's cheek, but Grey was faster and more agile. When Ned started wheezing dangerously, Grey decided it was time to end the brawl.

He threw Ned onto his belly, put a knee in the stevedore's back and twisted the man's arm up behind his back. ”Well fought, sir!” he panted. ”Shall I break your arm, or buy you a drink in the Three s.h.i.+ps?”

After a startled pause, Ned chuckled hoa.r.s.ely. ”You're the d.a.m.nedest fellow, but you sure as b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l can fight. I'll go for the drink.”

”You're likely right about the d.a.m.ned part.” Grey released Ned. When the big man got up, the two of them led the parade back into the tavern.

The older man asked, ”Where were you in foreign parts?”

”France.” Grey took a swig of ale, testing how he felt about saying more. Since these men were strangers, he decided to continue. ”Ten b.l.o.o.d.y years in a French prison.”

The grizzled man gave a low whistle. ”No wonder you're so glad to get home! Here's to a healthy future here in England!”

Even Ned drank to that. Grey bought several more rounds, downing his share. He'd always been good at talking to men from every station in life, and he found that he hadn't lost the knack.

When his head started feeling disconnected from his body, it was time to leave. Evening was coming and he wanted to get back to Ca.s.sie. He emptied his tankard, then called out, ”My thanks to you gentlemen for helping me celebrate my homecoming.”

He left the tavern followed by a chorus of invitations to return to the Three s.h.i.+ps any time. Maybe he'd do that, too. It had all been blessedly uncomplicated.

Summerhill would not be uncomplicated.

Grey took the direct route home, but it was nearly dark when he reached Exeter Street. Even though his feet were sore, he was whistling and pleased with life. By most standards, it had been a wasted day-but he felt better able to face Summerhill.

His step quickened as he went up the steps to the front door. Surely Ca.s.sie would be back by now. It was absurd to yearn for her company so much when it had been only a few hours, but the world felt right when she was near.

He had to fumble a bit to find the key to the house. He probably should have stopped a drink or two earlier. He finally managed to open the door and he stepped into the lamp-lit foyer.

Grey was removing his coat when he heard light steps coming down the staircase. The steps sounded like Ca.s.sie's, so he looked up hopefully, but the woman was a stranger.

Granted, she was a stunner, with bright auburn hair and a splendid figure. Even though Grey was out of touch with current fas.h.i.+on, he recognized that the elegant blue-green gown had to have come from one of London's best modistes. It took talent to make a woman look ladylike and deeply provocative at the same time.

She must be one of Kirkland's agents. If so, that decolletage made clear how she coaxed information from the enemy. Trying not to stare too obviously at her neckline, he bowed as well as he could without falling over. ”Good evening, mademoiselle.”

She stopped three steps from the bottom of the stairs and said in an icily aristocratic voice, ”I beg your pardon, sir, but have we been introduced?”

That voice ...

He gasped. The perfect height and proportions, the delicate, vulnerable features, the blue eyes with unknowable depths. ”Ca.s.sie?” he asked incredulously.

”I'm surprised you recognized me, given where you were looking,” she said with tart amus.e.m.e.nt.

”Ca.s.sie.” He moved forward and embraced her. Since she was standing on the stairs, his arms went around her waist and he rested his head on the delicious softness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Lilac and rose blossoms and other scents he couldn't identify, all of them adding up to make her smell even more like Ca.s.sie. ”I've missed you.”

Smiling, she looped her arms around his neck. ”It's only been a few hours.”

”Too many hours.” He slid one hand over her perfectly curved backside. Yes, everything was just as it ought to be.

”What do you think of my fine feathers?” she asked shyly.

He pulled back and surveyed her from bright hair to slipper-shod feet, missing nothing in between. ”I have an intense desire to make mad, pa.s.sionate love to you,” he said with complete sincerity.

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