‘My men will take care of him at the Dolphin.’
‘Are you insane?’ said the other. ‘Nicholas Bracewell is no stray poacher you catch on your land and whom you kill to save the law the trouble of prosecuting him. This man is known in the town. He has a family here. He has been seen on the quay, at the house, at the church and at the inn. This is not work for another of your Lampardes. We’d have the whole of Barnstaple about our ears. Call off your dogs. It must be handled another way.’
‘Teach me how.’
‘I’ll speak with him.’
‘We buy him off?’
‘No, Gideon,’ said Sweete with exasperation. ‘Money will not tempt this man. We first find out how much Bracewell knows. Then I will reason with him.’
‘What if he speaks with Mary?’
‘She turned him away and will do so again.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I saw her quail when his name was announced.’
‘Yet the woman sent for him to come.’
‘No,’ said the lawyer. ‘We were wrong about that. Susan Deakin was not sent. She went to London of her own accord.’
‘But why?’
‘That is what Bracewell has come to find out.’
‘Stop him, man. Tie him up in legal knots.’
‘I’ll do that well enough. But we have another problem which vexes us here. We must keep him away from his father.’
‘That is no great matter. He hates Robert Bracewell.’
‘We must feed that hate.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is to our advantage.’
‘Bringing them together might serve us even better,’ said Livermore. ‘Robert is a testy fellow when roused. If father and son come to blows, it will send Nicholas on his way the sooner and all our cares are gone.’
‘You forget something, Gideon.’
‘What?’
‘Matthew Whetcombe’s will.’
‘Forget it!’ Livermore chuckled. ‘Why, man, I damn near invented the thing. You and the others were witnesses. We heard a nuncupative will from a man too ill to speak. You wrote down the terms as I dictated them.’
‘I talk of his earlier will.’
‘You said you destroyed it.’
‘Matthew kept a copy.’
The merchant bristled. ‘Where is it?’
‘Nobody knows,’ said Sweete. ‘But if it is found, it could yet bring us down.’
Gideon Livermore now had an excuse to rail once more at Barnard Sweete. It was the latter’s job to take care of the legalities and to leave no loopholes. A copy of the earlier will could cause as much damage as the unwanted visitor from London. Both needed to be instantly nullified. Purple with rage, Livermore banged the desk and cursed royally. It was only when his temper finally abated that he thought of a question he had forgotten to ask.
‘How is the father involved here?’ he said. ‘What does he have to do with a will made by Matthew Whetcombe?’
‘Robert Bracewell was one of the witnesses.’
Lawrence Firethorn was always punctual for an assignation. He arrived at the rear door of the Black Swan at the time set and found the coachman waiting for him. Firethorn still wore the suit of black velvet that he had on earlier, but he had now added a grey velvet cloak fringed with gold braid. Wrapped around him, it gave him a conspiratorial air that helped to heighten his anticipation. Forbidden joys were the sweetest. The betrayal of a husband spiced the occasion. He and Penelope were confederates in sin.
He followed the coachman up the winding backstairs and along a passageway. The man knocked, received a command then opened the door. He held it ajar so that Firethorn could enter then he closed it after the visitor and departed. Penelope was waiting for him. She sat in a high-backed chair beside a table that was laden with wine and fruit. He could see why she had preferred to entertain him there rather than in the more mundane surroundings of the Jolly Sailor. The chamber was large and luxurious with rich hangings on the walls and at the windows. It was divided by a curtain, which she had drawn back at the edge to reveal the four-poster that waited for them. Feather-bedded delight was at hand. They would drink and sup and fall into each other’s arms.
‘Take off your cloak, sir,’ she purred.
‘I will so.’
He removed it with a flourish, tossed it onto a chair then gave her the sort of bow he used at the end of a performance on stage. Her hand came forward and he kissed it with gentle ardour. The gloves that she had earlier worn had now been discarded. She felt the firmness of his lips and the heat of his breath. She liked the tickle of his beard against her skin.
Ellen was now quivering inwardly with excitement and struggling not to lose control. Fear of discovery had made her precautions thorough. She had placed the candles with judicious precision to throw light away from her. When Firethorn sat opposite her at the table, he could see her through a golden glow that set off her auburn hair while subduing the contours of her face. What she could see was a man in a thousand, an actor whose commanding presence onstage could have an even greater effect in private, a handsome gallant who smiled at her through the gloom. Ellen was safe from discovery but not from herself.
‘Will you take wine, sir?’ she offered.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered, picking up the bottle to fill the two goblets. ‘To you, my jewel!’
‘To us!’
‘Amen!’
They clinked their goblets and sipped at the wine. He peered through the gap in the curtains and let out a soft laugh that was as eloquent as his finest soliloquy. Lawrence Firethorn was no slow and ponderous wooer. A glass of wine was all that he needed to smooth his path to the headier intoxication of the bed. Ellen was in a quandary. Schooled simply to divert the actor, she was being pulled towards him. The envy she had felt while watching Richard Honeydew now surfaced again and her daring eased her on to play the kind of love scene that no boy could even imagine. She would never have such an opportunity again. Twenty minutes in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was a whole career on the stage.
‘Wait for me, sir,’ she said, rising to her feet.
He was distressed. ‘You are leaving me?’
‘Only for a few seconds. Be patient.’
Firethorn understood and raised his goblet to her in acknowledgement. She was going to undress behind the curtain and prepare herself for him. His beauteous Penelope blew him a kiss then withdrew into the other part of the room, tugging the curtain after her to close off the gap. He could hear her picking at the fastenings of her attire.
Ellen was removing her lawn ruff when apprehension came to smother her lust. She was taking too great a risk. If she took him to bed, she surrendered the initiative and removed her disguise. A fiery lover might disturb her wig. Even in the dark, he would recognise her. And if he did not, there was always the danger that her husband would return and catch them there. The loss of a moment of fleeting madness in the arms of Lawrence Firethorn was preferable to the end of her partnership with Israel Gunby. Sanity returned and she put the original plan into action. Gathering up her bag, she stole toward the other door. She would be out of the inn before he even knew that she was gone.
But Lawrence Firethorn had waited long enough. With an impatient hand, he drew back the curtain with a loud swish and stood before her. Ellen spun round in terror. His laugh of triumph filled the room. He drew his sword and advanced.
Israel Gunby walked quickly to the Jolly Sailor, parted with a few coins to learn the whereabouts of Firethorn’s chamber then went straight upstairs. There was nobody about in the dark passageway. Standing outside Firethorn’s door, he pulled out a small knife but was given no time to pick the lock with it. An ancient chamberlain came trudging downstairs from the upper storey. The light from his candle illumined the bald head and the wisps of white hair. His beard was salted with white and he wore a patch over one eye. The man’s whole body had sagged in. Gunby caught the smell of cheese and backed away slightly.