A Broom at the Masthead (The Drowned Books Book 1) (41 page)

"Oh,
Thankful," she said softly, and her eyes prickled again. "We are so
lucky."

He
had his hand to his shoulder, massaging the scar, at that moment, and he looked
at her with that wry smile in his eyes. "Oh? I'll let you know when the
wind is out of the east quarter, tibber. Hurts like hell at the minute."
Then he'd closed his eyes with a sigh of contentment. "Aye, we are lucky,
though I should count myself a fortunate man to live in a cottage, so long as
you were with me. Though I hope the next set of neighbours are a little less
prone to arson than the last."

Lady
Birstall, five miles hence, had retired to live with her married daughter after
the tragic death of her husband, and the house put up to let. It was understood
that he had been carried off by the plague, poor man, like so many of the other
citizens of the capital - like poor Major Russell almost had been, poor dear,
and he coming home so wan and thin and weak - quite unexpected, and they had
buried him in London. Very sad. They did not talk of it here – by mutual
agreement, that was how it was. Poor, dear Chas Fairmantle was an innocent
victim of the sweating sickness, and not a murderer with the morals of a
hunting stoat who would have killed all of them – all
three
of them –
with less thought than he would have given to crushing a flea, with no better
reason than because he craved John Wilmot’s undivided attention.

It
seemed such a paltry reason to murder. But then, Wilmot himself had been sent
to the Tower of London in disgrace for the boisterous abduction of a young
woman, at the end of May. A young woman he had intended to marry, by all
accounts, but the King did not approve of his methods of proposal. Wild, all of
them, and growing wilder, unchecked – and, yes, Thomazine thought murder was a
little extreme, but on their current showing it seemed about the only vice the Merry
Gang had not yet seized on with both hands, and so – well, it was a thing that
perhaps a logical mind might look to, as the only thing they had not yet tried,
to fix their wandering notice.

Russell
had given her one of his wry looks at that. “Logical,” he said. “You suggest
that the late Lord Fairmantle was possessed of a logical mind?”

“If
disordered,” she said firmly.

“Indeed.
A charitable perspective, my tibber.”

The
which she had to be, for if she was not – if she allowed herself to think that
a man might murder another out of a childish desire for attention, because he
could not bear that a fellow creature might be decent in truth, and would have
had him smeared with the same libertine slime as Fairmantle and his friends
were themselves –

Well,
then, she would be no better in her heart than the late and unlamented Master
Fairmantle, and that she could not bear. "I think we might be a little
more popular than your sister," she said gently, "someone might miss
us
."
For it seemed that in the end Fly-Fornication's only claim to significance to
anyone in this world was that she would not be missed, for Fairmantle to try
out his new-found capacity to murder. And that was a little tragedy all by
itself.

"So
if Prince Rupert his own self were to write to us, to
both
of us, and
ask if we might consider a post - in an informal capacity, you understand - to
carry on with our valuable intelligence work -"

"I
should tell Prince Rupert his very own self to go to hell," she said, and
closed her eyes, and settled her hands over her belly. (He was restless again
in there, and she felt an elbow, or a knee, shift under her ribs.)

"I
imagine you could buy a deal of baby clothes, with the consideration he is
offering," he said, and set it on the inlaid table at his side with a soft
chink, in its fine soft leather purse.

She
opened her eyes again. "Thankful-"

"Both
of us. He asks that both of us consider it. Together."

"Together?
Well. That might be different." She put his hand on the violent activity
of his offspring. "Do you think we might put off making any decision for a
while, though?"

"What
shall I tell him, then?"

"Tell
him he can wait the same nine months as everyone else, dear," she said.