Page 19 of The Return of the Rake

“You might do something with that, improve things for yourself, it’s your choice, but if not, do the world a favour and drink yourself to death,” King remarked savagely, heading for the door as he heard Bill calling for another bottle. It had been needlessly cruel perhaps, but Bill always had brought out the worst in him.

He pushed outside, sucking in a gasping breath the moment he could, as if he’d been drowning on dry land, sinking into the murky depths inside the building. He took another deep inhalation, slower this time, savouring the clean, crispness of the sea, filling his lungs and feeling as if the sweetness of it might rid him of Bill’s foul stench. But the pictures the wretch had conjured danced in his mind, tangling with the ghosts that had grabbed at him earlier in the day, clinging to him and demanding he look, take a good hard look at who he was and where he’d come from.

“Go to the devil,” he snarled, and strode back towards the town, leaving Bill behind him, but finding the ghosts far harder to shake off.

The Mermaid’s Tale was a welcome sight after such a tangle with wretchedness, clean and wholesome and still lit up, though the hour was growing late. Even better was the sight of Mrs Adamson as he stepped inside.

“At last! I feared I would have to ask poor Mr Cogger to wait up for you,” she said, her tone disapproving. “The doors are locked at eleven p.m., Mr King, and it is now a quarter past the hour.”

“Have you been waiting up for me, Mrs Adamson?” he asked with a knowing smile, certain this would irritate her. He politely removed his hat as he closed the door behind him. “I am touched by your concern for my wellbeing.”

“Your wellbeing had nothing to do with it. I merely did not wish myself nor the entire town to be woken by you pounding on the door at some ungodly hour of the morning,” she replied tersely.

“Well, as you see, I am whole and returned to you, so you may stop fretting over me.”

“I was not—” she began, only to press her lips together. He could see the effort it took for her to gather her temper, and it only stirred the devil inside him to try harder to rile her. “Then I shall bid you a goodnight, Mr King.”

“Oh, but not just yet, if I might detain you for just a moment, for I was hoping for a nightcap,” he said with the utmost courtesy. “If it is not too much trouble.”

For a moment he saw her war with herself, her desire to tell him to jump off the nearest cliff battling with the businesswoman who would not wish to risk upsetting a well-paying client.

“Very well,” she said, striding off.

King followed her into the guests’ parlour though he had not been invited to do so. A comfortable and cosy room, the embers of a fire burned low in the hearth, giving off a warm golden glow.

Mrs Adamson took a key from the bunch that hung on a chain at her hip and unlocked the cabinet.

“Brandy?”

“Perfect. Won’t you join me, Mrs Adamson?”

She hesitated for a moment, which surprised him, as he’d assumed she would refuse outright. Instead, she further challenged his expectations by taking down two glasses.

King sat in the well upholstered armchair by the fire, watching as she poured two healthy measures. She recorked the bottle, replaced it, and locked the cabinet once more before turning, drinks in hand.

King watched her walk back to him, taking in the lush curve of breasts and hips, now encased in a gown of bottle green. With her striking red hair, she put him in mind of a pagan woodland deity, the kind the people of this ancient isle might have worshiped and sacrificed to before they became civilised. Not that the world seemed so very civilised to King, not when children starved on his streets and decent folk rotted in poverty. Yet here in this room he could believe in it, believe in a better world, if the likes of Mrs Adamson were in it.

He'd sacrifice at her altar should she demand it of him, and willingly at that.

A good woman.

The words came out of nowhere but resounded in his mind as he looked at her, holding out the glass of brandy to him. Was she? Or was she a cruel goddess, the kind that crushed the weak under her heel, the kind to use her beauty to addle a man’s mind and take his money along with his pride? Hadn’t she stolen her grandmother’s jewels? But Mrs Fairway had said they’d owed her that much. Had they been unkind, her parents, unloving and cruel? He felt a sudden urgent desire to know, to know everything about her. Who had been her husband, how long had she been married? Had she loved him? Did she love him still?

As if the answer was written upon the fabric of the building, King felt compelled to glance up, seeing the portrait of a man hanging over the fireplace. He had perhaps been thirty years of age when the likeness had been made and was not handsome, but he looked… decent. Kind. Tidy brown hair and peaceful brown eyes, the sort never troubled by debt or hunger or the threat of getting a knife in your guts for nothing but the worn-out boots on your feet.

“That Mr Adamson?” he asked, affecting disinterest and nodding towards the painting.

Mrs Adamson avoided his eye and did not look at the portrait. “It is.”

King felt a sudden and unreasonable swell of intense dislike for the fellow and looked down at the fire instead.

“To your good health, Mrs Adamson,” he said, raising the glass.

She did not sit precisely, choosing to perch on the arm of the chair, like a bird determined to take flight at any moment, but she raised her glass and drank.

“Will there be anything else, Mr King?” she asked politely, apparently determined to be an excellent hostess.

“Only if I might persuade you to sit and bide awhile with me. It’s been a night filled with ghosts and the voices of the dead. I’d as soon not sleep just yet.”