“Maybe the drugs affected you,” Phoebe suggested. “It can happen with some of the more powerful simples. Do you know what he gave you?”
Olivia shook her head. She found that she didn’t care for Phoebe’s explanation for her entrancement. It negated so much of what she had actually felt, and perversely she didn’t want that to happen. Even while she was trying to forget it, while she shrank in revulsion from what it had thrown in her face, she seemed still to want to keep some of the golden aura of that adventure.
There was a knock at the door, and Mistress Bisset entered with the posset. She set it on the table and regarded Olivia gravely. “Should we send for the physician, Lady Granville? Lady Olivia looks right peaky.”
“No, she had a bad bump on the head, but I can take care of it myself, thank you,” Phoebe replied.
The housekeeper hesitated, but Lady Granville’s skills as a herbalist were well known. Her ladyship might not be adept at the running of a household, but no one denied her other talents.
“Very well, m’lady.”
“That will be all, then, Mistress Bisset,” Phoebe prompted when the lady still remained, her curiosity evident.
“Yes, madam.” The housekeeper curtsied and left.
Olivia couldn’t help a half smile. “A year ago you could never have routed Mistress Bisset like that. She never took any notice of you.”
“No,” Phoebe agreed, momentarily distracted from Olivia’s situation. “And she calls me Lady Granville now instead of just Lady Phoebe. I think I’ve acquired a deal of gravitas since the boys were born.”
That made Olivia laugh, for a moment banishing her melancholy.
But it was a short moment. Then she said seriously, “My father mustn’t know anything of this, Phoebe.”
“Good God, no!” Phoebe exclaimed. “It wouldn’t do him any good at all!” She eyed Olivia seriously. “Do you want to see this man again?”
“No!” Olivia shook her head vigorously. “It was… it was almost a fantasy, a dream. It’s over, Phoebe, and I don’t want to think about it anymore. The most important thing now is to manage to keep it from my father.”
Phoebe hesitated. Something about the denial didn’t quite ring true. But Olivia was exhausted and mustn’t be pressed further. Phoebe handed her the sack posset. “You need to sleep, Olivia. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Yes.” Olivia returned Phoebe’s hug with sudden urgency. She wanted everything to be the way it used to be, and for a moment as they embraced she could almost imagine that it could be.
Phoebe went out and Olivia sat on the bed, sipping the sack posset. It was nursery comfort. She set the empty cup down and stood up to undress herself. As she took off the ruined dress she felt the bulge in the pocket. She took out the pirate’s kerchief and almost without thinking pushed it beneath her pillow, then she fell into bed and sought oblivion.
Godfrey, Lord Channing, entered the taproom of the Anchor in the little village of Niton, just above Puckaster Cove. He peered through the blue wreaths of pipe smoke at the taproom’s inhabitants and could see only locals nursing tankards, puffing pipes, for the most part in a silence that could have been morose, except that the island folk were not in general gregarious and spoke only when they had something they considered worth saying. This Friday evening it appeared that no one had anything of moment to impart.
Godfrey approached the bar counter. He leaned back against it on his elbows with the appearance of a man taking his ease and surveyed the room again. Was one of these taciturn villagers the man who would buy his culling? They all looked unlikely, not a man among them with the wherewithal to be a customer for Godfrey’s ill-gotten gains.
“Yes, sir?” The landlord spoke behind him and Godfrey jumped. He turned to front the bar counter.
George regarded him with a malicious eye. “What can I get ye, sir?”
“Who’s the man I’ve come to see?”
“Don’t know as yet,” the landlord said. “What can I get ye?”
“Porter.” Seemingly he had no choice but to play the man’s game.
The landlord reached for the leather flagon and filled a tankard. “Threepence.”
“Since when?” Godfrey demanded. “It’s always a penny three farthings.”
“Price ‘as gone up, sir. Supplies is short,” the landlord said meaningfully.
“You don’t order porter from me,” Godfrey snapped.
The landlord shrugged indifferently. “Supplies is powerful short when it comes to cognac.”
With difficulty Godfrey controlled a surge of rage. The man’s insolence was intolerable and yet Godfrey knew he had no suitable comeback. “I’m waiting for the ship,” he said, burying his nose in his tankard.
“A bit overdue, is it, then?”
“You know damn well it is!” His knuckles whitened around the tankard. The man knew he was desperate, knew he could needle him all he wanted. But Godfrey could see a way out now, a permanent solution to his financial needs. And then, oh, and then the landlord of the Anchor and his ilk would watch their manners.
“Then per’aps I should be lookin‘ to place me orders elsewhere, sir,” the landlord said. “But I’d need me earnest money back, o’ course.”
Godfrey ignored this. Deliberately he turned away again and resumed his examination of the taproom’s inhabitants. He was damned if he was going to ask for George’s help again.
“The one ye wants is sittin‘ in the corner, by the inglenook.”
George finally spoke into the studied silence. “Been waitin‘ fer ye close on an hour, I’d say.”
Godfrey shrugged with apparent indifference. He knew he’d have to pay for the information; George would have his price. But if tonight’s business went well, the price would be easy to find. He looked closely at the man George had indicated and was immediately disappointed. A villainous-looking customer in the rough garb of a fisherman with a lank, greasy mustache and a raddled countenance.
“Over there?” he demanded incredulously, finally stung into a response. The man didn’t look as if he had the price of his drink.
“Aye.”
“What’s his name? I’ll pay for his name.”
“ ‘Tis not one he gives to all who asks,” the landlord replied.
Godfrey pushed himself away from the counter, took up his tankard, and approached his would-be customer.
“Can I buy you another?” he offered.
The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and he grinned, revealing foully blackened teeth. “Lord bless ye, sir. That’s kind o‘ you. I’ll ’ave a drop o‘ brandy. Jest tell George to make sure it’s from the special cask. None of that thin piss he passes off to those what don’t know any better. You an’ me does, o‘ course.” He leered and offered a conspiratorial wink.
Godfrey shuddered but held his tongue. He could only guess what George would charge him for a drop of the best. However, with every appearance of good cheer, he called over to the counter, “Two cognacs, George. The best.”
“Well, sit ye down, sir.” The man gestured to a stool. “Can’t do business on yer feet.”
Godfrey hooked the stool over with his foot and sat down. The sawdust on the floor at his feet was clotted with spilled ale and other things that Godfrey didn’t want to consider. A mangy hound chewed a marrow bone and growled at him, hackles raised, when he inched his stool away from something particularly noxious-looking and came a little too close to the bone for the beast’s liking.
The landlord gave the animal a kick as he put the two pewter cups of cognac on the table between the two men. The hound sloped off, the bone gripped in his jaws.
“That’ll be a shillin‘ apiece, sir.”
“That’s daylight robbery!” Godfrey couldn’t contain himself.
“ ‘Tis in short supply, sir.” The landlord sung his tune again.
“Here, George.” Godfrey’s companion dug in his pocket and tossed a pair of silver coins on the table. “But we’ll ‘ave a free fill-up fer that.”