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“She slipped the golden chain around my paw.” Llewellyn rubbed his left wrist. “The men fell upon me and stowed me away into a beast wagon hidden around the back of the alley and drove me to my fate.”
Tabitha took the boiling pot off the fire, poured the water into a teapot, and set out the cups, gently; she wondered if he could hear her heart beating like Wellington’s drum corps. She reached to get the honey down and said, “A well-plotted ruse.”
“My senses dulled almost immediately, but before I lost them entirely, I realized the blood was not human but that of a passel of hogs. What I took for an infant was a bundle of rags. The woman tossed it aside as she made a cry like a babe, mocking me, laughing like the villain she was. I never saw her face, but that sound, the cry, and the laughter, I have never forgotten it.”
Tabitha took one shaking breath and willed her voice to stay level. “There is no end to viciousness in men, or women.”
“She was not only a woman,” he said, “but aversipellisas well.”
“What?” Tabitha was sincerely shocked. “But how can that be? Firstly, that she would handle the gold knowing its threat, and secondly, to do that to another like her… It is truly evil.”
“I cannot know if there were others in Drake’s like me.”
“I asked that of the duke, and Mr. Bates is on the case, I believe.”
“But he will have no more luck than I. I do not know who can tell or how they might.”
“That is a problem for another day. May I?” Tabitha topped up his mug. Wonderful things, teapots, which one can wield to redirect a conversation. “I am honored that you confided in me.” She spooned another dollop of honey into the duke’s cup.
He sipped, and as he sipped, relaxed, and in his relaxation, he looked as though the weight of the world had rolled off his shoulders. He sniffed his brew. “Is this honey from that bee?” he asked.
“It is.” Tabitha took more for herself. “Mr. Beckett and his family not only run the coach house and pub but also tend the hives. Of thebeebees.”
“It is not bad,” he said, begrudgingly.
It was the most delicious honey she had ever tasted. “Mr. Giles’s cheese is extraordinary but would not pair well with the chamomile.”
Llewellyn huffed. “And the other suitor? What has he offered?”
“Stones from Edenbrook, which have no practical purpose but are very pretty.”
“That which serves a practical purpose may also be pretty.” He smiled into his mug. “One thing does not preclude the other. Things, and people, are complex.”
Had they not been discussing cheese and stones? “What in the world are you talking about?”
The look he gave was one from his repertoire of male looks: a combination of teasing and humor and frustration. “That nettle I brought you—it is pretty and serves a purpose,” he said. “The flowers are like drops of snow in a winter field, and the plant is good in soup and also helps when one’s muscles are sore.”
“I wish I’d had some when I was making up the tisane for Mr.—Lord MacCafferty? He did not explicitly say he doesn’t use the title.”
“He did not seem very happy with it. Nor, from what I could discern at a distance, O’Mara with him.” They exchanged a wide-eyed look, and His Grace went as far as to waggle those brows of his.
“Her Grace was not apprised of her chamberlain’s essential Shape,” Tabitha said. “I knew, of course, O’Mara was a horse.”
“A horse, of course.” They snickered like children. Llewellyn added, “One did not anticipate the breadth of O’Mara’s vocabulary.”
“There were one or two epithets I have never heard, and I have heard many, and in foreign languages,” Tabitha said; the duke responded with something that sounded very naughty. “I can identify that as French but can make no sense of it.”
“It translates poorly into English.” Must he peep at her through those lashes? She fussed with the teapot.
He cupped his mug with both hands. “Was that bee’s honey any use to your tisane?”
“It was not.” Llewellyn’s crossness concerning Mr. Beckett’s gift was paradoxically lightening his mood. “It is not a sweet cure. Many prefer sweetness when they need such things. I shall send it up to the Hall and whether his lordship takes it or not is up to him.”
“I have a need.”
Her great stores of control prevented her from startling at his request. “How may I help?”
“My hair.” He ducked his head and gestured at it. “As you can see, it is not in its best looks. And for one of my kind, it is…it is a disgrace.” He exuded shame, and every ounce of indignation she possessed rose up, then doubled, as he continued: “I was conscious of it when I dragged Mr. MacCafferty before the whole village, and I wished… It is of course meant to be my crowning glory. Is there a lotion you might apply?” Through the gravel of his voice came the first lyrical notes of the Welsh accent she had yet to hear, a lightness upon the words, like the notes of a song.
