feet, leaning heavily on a wooden crutch. His words could barely
be heard as they were aimed at the ground. "The Master gave me my wages
while I recovered."
"What
else?" Jibotts asked.
"Dr.
Farraday came to see me," Gordon admitted, with a cautious look at Bragg. "He
weren't no quack either. He helped me, tied my arm up real good. Gave me a new
crutch, too, on account o' the old one not fittin' me proper no more."
There
were shrugs, uncomfortable looks among the men.
"Get
back to work, then," Nicholas said. He leveled a glance at Bragg, who
glared but said nothing. "I expect any man with a problem to speak
directly to me."
The
workers scattered like marbles. Once they were out of earshot, Nicholas turned
to Jibotts with a frown. "Tell me about Bragg. I don't recognize him."
"He's
a new porter, sir. Joined a few months back. Has a mouth and a temper, but he follows
his time and does his work."
"Keep
an eye on him." Something about Bragg's belligerent stance did not sit right
in Nicholas' gut. "And have Farraday attend to Jim Buckley."
"Yes,
of course, my lord," Jibotts said, mopping his brow with a yellowed
handkerchief.
"In
the meantime, his lordship and I are heading out for breakfast," Paul intervened.
"He shall not be back until after eleven."
"I
will be back by ten, Jibotts," Nicholas corrected, "and I will expect
to review the shipping reports with you at that time."
*****
They
walked the short distance to the coffee house, making their way down a street
crammed with taverns, street vendors, and the swearing, jostling men of the
docks. Eschewing the outdoor tables where the prostitutes tended to ply their
trade, the two entered the indoor premises of Long Meg's. The savory aromas of
browning butter and grilled meat greeted them as they claimed the remaining
table. The small room was packed with customers—merchants and docksmen, mostly—conversing
in earnest tones over generous platters of food. The interior was drab, but
clean, like the apron-clad woman approaching the table.
"Nicholas
Morgan, I han't seen you in a dog's age," Meg said. True to her name, her
frizzled grey hair nearly touched the low ceiling. Her face resembled an apple
left too long in the sun. "Thought maybe you forgot ol' Meg now that you's
'is 'ighness."
"Morgan's
not royalty, yet." Paul gave her a wink. Nicholas scowled and turned his
attention to the menu on the wall. "Just a mere marquess."
"Ooo,
a marquess is it?" Meg cackled. "When are you going to sweep me off my
feet then an' carry me out o' this 'ere dump?"
"Eh,
you can leave 'ere anytime you want!" Bumpy Tim, Meg's husband, poked his pock-marked
face out from the kitchen. His comment elicited boisterous laughter from the
customers.
"'Oo
asked you, ya gotch-gutted bastard?" Meg shouted back. "Mind the eggs
afore I come an' mind you!"
When
Bumpy Tim's head retreated like a turtle's, Meg leveled a gap-toothed grin at Paul
and Nicholas. "What will it be then, boys?"
"Two
ploughman's," Nicholas said. "And coffee, please."
As
Meg strode away, Paul aimed an amused look at Nicholas. "I believe your title
discomforts you, my lord."
"Bloody
right it does." Nicholas ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "You
try being a lowly merchant in the ton and a blasted marquess in the
stews. See how you like it."
"I
don't have to try it. I know I shouldn't like it at all." Paul waited for
Meg to deposit the cups of steaming brew. "How tiresome it must be to
straddle two worlds when one would suffice."
"What
do you mean by that?"
"Tell
me, why do you persist in mercantile labors when there's no longer a need?"
"No
need?" Nicholas felt a surge of irritation as he watched Paul stir liberal
amounts of sugar and cream into his coffee, as if the other man had not a care
in the world. "Easy enough for you to say, when you haven't put in a day's
work—"
"Well,
this is not about me, is it?" Paul replied. "This is about you. When
your father saw fit to declare your legitimacy in his will, you
be heard as they were aimed at the ground. "The Master gave me my wages
while I recovered."
"What
else?" Jibotts asked.
"Dr.
Farraday came to see me," Gordon admitted, with a cautious look at Bragg. "He
weren't no quack either. He helped me, tied my arm up real good. Gave me a new
crutch, too, on account o' the old one not fittin' me proper no more."
There
were shrugs, uncomfortable looks among the men.
"Get
back to work, then," Nicholas said. He leveled a glance at Bragg, who
glared but said nothing. "I expect any man with a problem to speak
directly to me."
The
workers scattered like marbles. Once they were out of earshot, Nicholas turned
to Jibotts with a frown. "Tell me about Bragg. I don't recognize him."
"He's
a new porter, sir. Joined a few months back. Has a mouth and a temper, but he follows
his time and does his work."
"Keep
an eye on him." Something about Bragg's belligerent stance did not sit right
in Nicholas' gut. "And have Farraday attend to Jim Buckley."
"Yes,
of course, my lord," Jibotts said, mopping his brow with a yellowed
handkerchief.
"In
the meantime, his lordship and I are heading out for breakfast," Paul intervened.
"He shall not be back until after eleven."
"I
will be back by ten, Jibotts," Nicholas corrected, "and I will expect
to review the shipping reports with you at that time."
*****
They
walked the short distance to the coffee house, making their way down a street
crammed with taverns, street vendors, and the swearing, jostling men of the
docks. Eschewing the outdoor tables where the prostitutes tended to ply their
trade, the two entered the indoor premises of Long Meg's. The savory aromas of
browning butter and grilled meat greeted them as they claimed the remaining
table. The small room was packed with customers—merchants and docksmen, mostly—conversing
in earnest tones over generous platters of food. The interior was drab, but
clean, like the apron-clad woman approaching the table.
"Nicholas
Morgan, I han't seen you in a dog's age," Meg said. True to her name, her
frizzled grey hair nearly touched the low ceiling. Her face resembled an apple
left too long in the sun. "Thought maybe you forgot ol' Meg now that you's
'is 'ighness."
"Morgan's
not royalty, yet." Paul gave her a wink. Nicholas scowled and turned his
attention to the menu on the wall. "Just a mere marquess."
"Ooo,
a marquess is it?" Meg cackled. "When are you going to sweep me off my
feet then an' carry me out o' this 'ere dump?"
"Eh,
you can leave 'ere anytime you want!" Bumpy Tim, Meg's husband, poked his pock-marked
face out from the kitchen. His comment elicited boisterous laughter from the
customers.
"'Oo
asked you, ya gotch-gutted bastard?" Meg shouted back. "Mind the eggs
afore I come an' mind you!"
When
Bumpy Tim's head retreated like a turtle's, Meg leveled a gap-toothed grin at Paul
and Nicholas. "What will it be then, boys?"
"Two
ploughman's," Nicholas said. "And coffee, please."
As
Meg strode away, Paul aimed an amused look at Nicholas. "I believe your title
discomforts you, my lord."
"Bloody
right it does." Nicholas ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "You
try being a lowly merchant in the ton and a blasted marquess in the
stews. See how you like it."
"I
don't have to try it. I know I shouldn't like it at all." Paul waited for
Meg to deposit the cups of steaming brew. "How tiresome it must be to
straddle two worlds when one would suffice."
"What
do you mean by that?"
"Tell
me, why do you persist in mercantile labors when there's no longer a need?"
"No
need?" Nicholas felt a surge of irritation as he watched Paul stir liberal
amounts of sugar and cream into his coffee, as if the other man had not a care
in the world. "Easy enough for you to say, when you haven't put in a day's
work—"
"Well,
this is not about me, is it?" Paul replied. "This is about you. When
your father saw fit to declare your legitimacy in his will, you
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