“Heaven forbid, the rogue has sensibilities.” Rakecombe chuckled, tugging on his black leather gloves.
“And a good thing too or I would have said yes when your god-daughter asked me to sh–”
“I’ll take yer empties, gentlemen,” interrupted the barmaid as the duke’s fist flexed upon his venomous walking cane. “And that’ll be a shilling and thruppence for two mutton pies, one peas, mash and six ales.”
Jack raised a brow. Whilst Rainham enjoyed his honeymoon, the duke was in charge and surely there were expenses.
Despite a narrowing of green eyes, coins were tossed in the air to be caught by a practised female hand. She checked the edges for signs of clipping, much to Jack’s delight and Rakecombe’s irritation, before slipping them within her bodice.
The duke unfolded from the bench, toppling this morning’s fencing paraphernalia with a clatter. “Do you expect your wooing to be completed before Rainham’s Michaelmas Ball?”
“Without a shadow of doubt, and I have promised to attend.” He winked. “Lily says my ‘man-about-town’ reputation would guarantee their event’s success.”
Rakecombe’s face rutted with disgruntlement – well, his normal expression, in fact. “I am a superior duke of the realm. Would I not guarantee success?”
“Rakehell, my dear fellow, whilst I cherish your friendship, you could not guarantee doxies in a brothel.” Jack chuckled until such moment as the duke’s frown transformed into a peculiar grin.
“Off you flit to Cornwall, then.” The duke shooed his hand. “And do not pause too near any beguiling flames or…” He twirled his gloved fingers. “…poof.”
Jack scowled. Was that an attempt to make humour of hisnom de guerre?
Lord Rainham took a disproportionate amount of time in selecting codenames and everyone knew they were carefully chosen for their pertinence to the spy involved.
Others had been assigned The Wolf or The Bear, but surely Rainham had taken leave of his senses in choosing…
The Moth.
Quick and inventive, his superior had explained, silent on the wing, he’d flattered, but…
Damn it all, a dull grey creature of dust and nothing?
“I prefer to recall,” Jack retorted, standing to gather his own fencing foils and equipage, “the moth’s ability to create sudden and unseen destruction, as demonstrated this morning upon your shirt. Don’t forget, Rakehell, as winner of our bout, you forfeited eight guineas, three bottles ofMoëtand sole use of your box at the opera for a month. Stick to pistols, dear friend, as agile flitting is not your forte.”
Chapter Two
The future is nigh.
Penrose Manor, Treloor, Cornwall.
“I see a man. A man polishing…silver.”
“Ooohhh.” Lowdy’s mouth gaped like a freshly caught pilchard, fingers knocking over the teacup. “Am I coming into riches?”
Rolling her eyes, Tamsyn reached across the kitchen table to filch another slice of hevva cake. Sweet and crumbly with huge currants, it dried the inside of one’s cheeks, preventing sceptical smirks.
Her paid companion, and Tamsyn liked to think unpaid friend, sat rapt, gawking into the blackness of old Mrs Mildern’s scrying mirror.
“Do you thin–”
“Shush,” shushed Mrs Mildern. “The spirits do not like to be disturbed. And pass me another lump of cake, dearie, my bones are playing up.”
The butler’s grandmother had a keen habit of sitting in the Penrose kitchen with her mirror and terrifying the maids with predictions of wicked downfall if they didn’t maintain their petticoats firmly about their ankles. Footmen never fared much better, with dire warnings of hideous deformities if they loosened their breeches, and many a man had stumbled away, clutching himself.
If ever there was a deterrent to indulging in activities of a carnal nature, it was Mrs Mildern and her readings.
As fortune would have it, this day marked three sennights before the autumnal equinox with a waxing moon and the seagulls flying east – which meant, according to Mrs Mildern, that the gentlewomen of Penrose Manor were due their turn.
Pursing her lips and ignoring Albert, the grinning butler, Tamsyn broke off a hefty chunk of the flat cake and slid it over. Perchance the old lady’s tongue would be too occupied by currants to predict Tamsyn’s lot.
