Marsh rose from the bench he shared with Mr. Smiles. “’Ere now, young Bedegrayne, squat yer bones an’ sip some gin-punch wit’ yer sire. We’ve done our business. An’t that so, yer lordship?” He squinted at Sir Thomas, despite the dim lighting.
“Indeed, gentlemen. I will expect a weekly accounting of your efforts,” Sir Thomas reminded them.
“We’ll do it up right for ye, sir,” Mr. Smiles promised, sidestepping his partner. “Leave it to us.” Tugging on their hats, the pair departed.
Brock settled down on the vacated bench. Picking up the abandoned pint-pot, he sniffed the contents. “Well,
Father, if your choice of establishment was not enough to arouse my interest, your new business partners have succeeded. What are you about?”
Sir Thomas chuckled and signaled a barmaid. “Marsh spoke the truth. It was just business.”
Checking in all directions to make certain they were not being overheard, Brock leaned closer before he said, “Your standards have lowered in my absence.”
Sir Thomas quirked his brow. “Bilge. I am at heart a merchant. What better place to do business than an establishment that lures sailors, poets, laborers, statesmen, and noblemen?”
“Spare me the Jacobinic rhetoric. Do you want to incite a mob before I can get you out of this hovel?”
The barmaid slammed down two pint-pots in front of them, ending their conversation. He sent the barmaid an easy smile, but her dour features did not thaw. “That’ll be two shillings an’ eightpence, gentlemen, ” she said, stressing the last word as if she had her doubts.
Brock slipped the coins into her open palm. Clasping the coins, she gave them a dismissive sniff and flounced off.
“A man has spent too much time abroad when he cannot win over a simple English gel,” Sir Thomas chided. He sampled his gin-punch.
Three drunken men in the corner started chanting her name. The harried barmaid changed directions. Confident the woman could handle the unruly summons, Brock returned his attention to his father.
“My ambition was somewhat higher than what lies betwixt her plump thighs.” He picked up his pint-pot. “She would have had my enthusiastic gratitude for swill void of spittle and piss.” Sir Thomas barked with laughter. Brock took a sip and grimaced. Setting down the punch he
said, “So why are the Bedegraynes undertaking business with the criminal class?”
The older man cringed. “Have care, my boy. The wrong word spoken here brings unforeseen consequences.”
“That is exactly my point.”
Understanding lit his father’s cutting stare. “Bugger me. You came charging in to rescue your dotty old sire. Is that it? I wasn’t too senile for you when you ran off like your coldhearted brother and left the care of the business and family to me.”
Brock closed his eyes, feeling the stirrings of a headache. Anger and scandal had impelled his brother Nyle to cut his ties with his family more than seven years ago. As far as anyone knew, the younger Bedegrayne had left England, leaving a wound within Sir Thomas that had never healed. Brock felt he had spent most of the time afterward paying for his brother’s sins. “Christ, there is no reasoning with you when you throw Nyle’s name down like a damned gauntlet. Come along, I will see you home.”
His father pounded a fist on the table, knocking over several of the pint-pots. “I am not some old woman who needs a strong arm to walk a straight line. I can find my own way home, if it is all the same to you.”
Temper matched temper. He stood, bracing his hands on the table. “It isn’t. The punch has rotted your common sense if you think I will abandon you to a room of brigands. Get up.” He reached out, intending to haul him to his feet. His fingers barely grazed his father’s sleeve. Someone grabbed him from behind.
“Jus’ a gang of cutthroats and whores, are we?” his captor jeered in his right ear. The crowd around them had become unfriendly yet
“Indeed, gentlemen. I will expect a weekly accounting of your efforts,” Sir Thomas reminded them.
“We’ll do it up right for ye, sir,” Mr. Smiles promised, sidestepping his partner. “Leave it to us.” Tugging on their hats, the pair departed.
Brock settled down on the vacated bench. Picking up the abandoned pint-pot, he sniffed the contents. “Well,
Father, if your choice of establishment was not enough to arouse my interest, your new business partners have succeeded. What are you about?”
Sir Thomas chuckled and signaled a barmaid. “Marsh spoke the truth. It was just business.”
Checking in all directions to make certain they were not being overheard, Brock leaned closer before he said, “Your standards have lowered in my absence.”
Sir Thomas quirked his brow. “Bilge. I am at heart a merchant. What better place to do business than an establishment that lures sailors, poets, laborers, statesmen, and noblemen?”
“Spare me the Jacobinic rhetoric. Do you want to incite a mob before I can get you out of this hovel?”
The barmaid slammed down two pint-pots in front of them, ending their conversation. He sent the barmaid an easy smile, but her dour features did not thaw. “That’ll be two shillings an’ eightpence, gentlemen, ” she said, stressing the last word as if she had her doubts.
Brock slipped the coins into her open palm. Clasping the coins, she gave them a dismissive sniff and flounced off.
“A man has spent too much time abroad when he cannot win over a simple English gel,” Sir Thomas chided. He sampled his gin-punch.
Three drunken men in the corner started chanting her name. The harried barmaid changed directions. Confident the woman could handle the unruly summons, Brock returned his attention to his father.
“My ambition was somewhat higher than what lies betwixt her plump thighs.” He picked up his pint-pot. “She would have had my enthusiastic gratitude for swill void of spittle and piss.” Sir Thomas barked with laughter. Brock took a sip and grimaced. Setting down the punch he
said, “So why are the Bedegraynes undertaking business with the criminal class?”
The older man cringed. “Have care, my boy. The wrong word spoken here brings unforeseen consequences.”
“That is exactly my point.”
Understanding lit his father’s cutting stare. “Bugger me. You came charging in to rescue your dotty old sire. Is that it? I wasn’t too senile for you when you ran off like your coldhearted brother and left the care of the business and family to me.”
Brock closed his eyes, feeling the stirrings of a headache. Anger and scandal had impelled his brother Nyle to cut his ties with his family more than seven years ago. As far as anyone knew, the younger Bedegrayne had left England, leaving a wound within Sir Thomas that had never healed. Brock felt he had spent most of the time afterward paying for his brother’s sins. “Christ, there is no reasoning with you when you throw Nyle’s name down like a damned gauntlet. Come along, I will see you home.”
His father pounded a fist on the table, knocking over several of the pint-pots. “I am not some old woman who needs a strong arm to walk a straight line. I can find my own way home, if it is all the same to you.”
Temper matched temper. He stood, bracing his hands on the table. “It isn’t. The punch has rotted your common sense if you think I will abandon you to a room of brigands. Get up.” He reached out, intending to haul him to his feet. His fingers barely grazed his father’s sleeve. Someone grabbed him from behind.
“Jus’ a gang of cutthroats and whores, are we?” his captor jeered in his right ear. The crowd around them had become unfriendly yet
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