Silken Threads (11 page)

His sister, preoccupied with lowering the
bottom shutter, which served as a countertop for her wares, didn’t
answer him. Hugh propped the shutter in place with two more poles
and followed her into the shop.

“He wasn’t, was he?” Hugh asked.

Joanna crouched down to unlock a sizeable
chest with one of the keys on her chatelaine. “Wasn’t what?” She
withdrew from the chest a folded length of white silk, prettily
embroidered around the edges, which she shook out and spread on her
display counter.

“Trouble.” In an effort to be helpful, Hugh
plucked a jumble of embroidered ribbons out of the chest and shook
them out onto the silken cloth.

Rolling her eyes, Joanna separated the
ribbons and arranged them in a tidy row, smoothing them down. “No
trouble to speak of.”

Which meant there was something she was
choosing not to speak of. Hugh knew from long experience that he’d
have no luck badgering it out of her, so he said, “I’ll fetch him
and have him out of here quicker than you can draw your next
breath.”

He smacked a palm on the wall for emphasis
and turned toward the rear of the house, but she stopped him in his
tracks by grabbing a handful of his leather tunic. “He’s staying
here.”

Hugh turned around slowly.

She said, “‘Twas a waste of your time, I’m
afraid, bringing that cart.” She laid three embroidered girdles
next to the ribbons and reached into the box for a scarf. “He
offered me four shillings to rent the storeroom for the next two
months, and I couldn’t turn it down.”

“Four shillings! That’s ridiculous. It’s too
much.”

“I know. He doesn’t seem to care.” At last
she looked directly at him, in that obstinate way of hers. “I
accepted the money. He’s staying. You’ll have to take the cart back
to wherever you got it from.” Looking away, she muttered, “Sorry
for your trouble.”

Hugh leaned against the wall, rubbing his
prickly jaw. “I don’t mind a bit of trouble. What I mind is...well,
the notion of your being alone with this fellow, living with him,
for two whole months. You don’t even know him.”

She turned to glare at him as she spread the
rest of her merchandise out on the counter. “You brought him here,
Hugh, or don’t you remember? You talked me into letting him spend
the night.”

“Yes, but
—
”

“‘He’s a decent fellow,’ you said.”

“I said he
seemed
decent.”

“You said you were sure he was harmless.
Well, now that decent, harmless fellow has offered me four
shillings
—
four shillings,
Hugh
—
to sleep in
my
storeroom,
for pity’s sake, and I bloody well intend to
let him.”

“‘Bloody well’? Since when has my lady
sister started saying ‘bloody well’?”

“Since I stopped being your lady sister and
started being the wife of a
—
widow of a
—
silk
merchant. And not a very
—
”

“Not a very prosperous one, I know.”

“That’s another thing,” she said, a bit
wearily, as she squatted down to lower the lid on the chest. “He
thinks Prewitt is still alive. I’d appreciate it very much if you
wouldn’t disabuse him of that notion.”

Hugh closed his eyes and massaged his
suddenly aching forehead. “And why, exactly, is it that he thinks
Prewitt is still alive?”

“Because I haven’t told him that he’s dead,
obviously.”

“And why
—
”

“Because it’s wiser to let him think I’m a
married woman.”

Hugh opened his eyes to find her staring him
down, hands on hips.

She glanced toward the drawn leather curtain
at the rear of the house and lowered her voice. “Do you remember
what you were telling me last night? About how most men steer clear
of entanglements with married women? About how marriage protects a
woman, shields her from unwanted attention?”

He sighed. “You think Graeham Fox will
pester you with unwanted attention unless he thinks you’re
married?”

“I...I don’t know.”

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look
at him. “What happened last night, Joanna?”

“Naught of any import,” she said
resolutely.

“Did he...”

She wrenched her chin out of his grasp.
“Nay. He did nothing. I would just feel better if he
didn’t...entertain any ideas. He’s not...the type of man I should
be encouraging.”

That was true, certainly, and Hugh found it
reassuring that she had the good sense to see it. Graeham Fox,
regardless of his character, good or bad, was a professional
soldier, without property or prospects. He was the very last type
of man with whom Joanna should become involved, especially given
her dire straits
—
for it was clear that she was all but
penniless, despite her assertions to the contrary. A woman who was
“getting along fine,” as she’d claimed, would not be lighting her
home with lumps of kitchen fat. She would have wine and ale in her
kitchen, and ample food.

She would take no more charity from him, he
knew
—
she’d made that abundantly clear six years ago.
Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all, for Graeham to rent
the storeroom from her. His four shillings would go far toward
making life bearable for her, at least until Hugh could get her
married off to the right sort
—
Robert or someone like him.
And even if he were the type to take advantage of the
situation
—
which Hugh doubted
—
his grievous
injuries would render him harmless enough.

For the time being. He’d be on the mend soon
enough; what would happen then? Hugh had best have a little chat
with the good serjant and get some things straight right from the
beginning.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll go along with
your little mystery play, given that it’s for a good cause. I hope
you manage to pull it off, though. You’ve never been any good at
lying, sister.”

“‘Twouldn’t be lying,” she said indignantly.
“Precisely. I mean, I never actually told him my husband was still
alive, so
—
”

“It’s lying, Joanna.” Hugh patted his sister
on the cheek. “At least be honest with
yourself.
”

Joanna opened her mouth to deliver some
retort, but Hugh cut her off by saying, “You’ve got a customer, I
think.”

She turned toward the fat matron
scrutinizing her wares, and smiled. “Good morrow, Mistress
Adeline.”

Hugh strode to the rear of the house and
knocked on the frame of the storeroom door.

“Fear not, mistress,” came Graeham’s voice
from within. “I promise I’m not naked this time.”

After a moment’s pause, Hugh pushed the
curtain aside and walked in. Graeham, sitting on the edge of the
bed tugging a comb through his damp hair, looked nonplussed to see
him. “Hugh. I thought you were...”

“Evidently.”

To his credit, Graeham didn’t scramble to
explain the “naked” comment; in fact, he might even have looked
slightly amused. “Did you bring the cart?” he asked.

“Aye.” Hugh scraped a wooden cask away from
the wall and sat on it, facing Graeham across from a chest set up
with a wash basin and shaving gear.

“Did your sister tell you it wouldn’t be
needed?”

“She did.”

Graeham lifted his purse from the floor,
whereupon Petronilla darted out from beneath the cot to take a
swipe at the belt that still dangled from it. “I’d like to
reimburse you for whatever you paid for it.”

“‘Twas free. A friend lent it to me.”

Graeham observed Hugh thoughtfully as he
resumed combing his hair. “Do you disapprove of my staying
here?”

Hugh shrugged. “‘Twould matter little if I
did. Joanna is her own woman. She’s always done just exactly as she
pleased.” And been sorry about it afterward, more often than
not.

“You do disapprove,” Graeham said.

Hugh leaned forward, his elbows resting on
his knees. “In truth, I’m torn in two directions. On the one hand,
I’m concerned for my sister
—
for her happiness as well as
her reputation. On the other, I don’t quite see you as the type who
would exploit her trust
—
and mine. I’ve fought alongside
enough men over the years to be able to tell the scrupulous ones
from the blackguards.”

“You’re some sort of mercenary, I take
it.”

Hugh nodded. “A stipendiary knight. I wield
my sword for whoever will pay me the most.”

Graeham’s eyebrows rose, just slightly. Hugh
knew what he was thinking: How did a knight, stipendiary or not,
come to have a sister living above a shop in West Cheap?

Hugh noticed that Graeham had not only
cleaned himself up, he was dressed differently than he had been
yesterday, in a voluminous white shirt and russet braies. “Are
those Prewitt’s clothes?”

“Aye. Your sister’s been most generous.”

“Joanna’s a compassionate woman. She was
that way as a girl, too. Used to take in wounded animals and tend
to them. She has a good heart.”

Graeham nodded, gazing at something through
the open doorway. Turning, Hugh saw that, with the leather curtain
open, the serjant had an unimpeded view of the entire length of
Joanna’s long, narrow house. In fact, through the big shop window
he could see across Wood street and into the apothecary’s shop.
Three gilded discs hung above its door. Inside, a redheaded girl
was measuring powders on a scale.

But it wasn’t the girl who had so captured
Graeham’s attention, Hugh knew. It was Joanna, backlit by the
morning sunshine from the window, holding a ribbon up for her
customer to examine. She laid it back down and lifted another one,
her movements as elegant as if she were dancing a galliard in the
great hall of Wexford Castle.

Graeham was still watching her, the comb
forgotten in his hand. “This isn’t her world,” he said quietly.
“She doesn’t belong here.”

“No, she damn well doesn’t.”

Graeham looked pointedly at Hugh. “Then
what’s she doing here?”

“She married beneath her.”

“Prewitt?”

“Aye.”

Graeham nodded slowly. “She must have been
very much in love with him, then.”

Hugh studied his steepled fingers. It would
hardly do for him to disclose Joanna’s true motivation for marrying
Prewitt
—
that it hadn’t been so much a question of love,
but of gullibility...and desperation, for she’d been sorely in need
of saving at the time. Prewitt Chapman had been a handsome,
smooth-tongued charmer, and she’d been as guileless and trusting as
any fifteen-year-old girl. His many defects of character had
eventually come to light, of course, but it would serve Joanna ill
for Graeham Fox to become privy to them.

Graeham assumed that Prewitt was still alive
to throttle him if he overstepped himself
—
an assumption
that served to protect Joanna. That protection would evaporate
should Hugh divulge the truth of the matter, which was that any
interest Prewitt may have once had in Joanna had vanished within
days of their wedding. Even if he were still alive, Hugh doubted he
would trouble himself to defend her honor, should the need
arise.

“Yes,” Hugh said without looking up. “I
suppose she must have loved him a great deal.”

Graeham’s eyes shifted once more beyond
Hugh, toward the front of the house
—
toward Joanna. Hugh
turned as well, and saw her sitting at her embroidery frame in
front of the shop window, passing a tiny needle in and out of the
blue silk. The sun shone through her veil; it looked as if she were
wearing a halo.

“Then why...” Graeham began, his gaze
straying to the cot on which he sat as he doubtless wondered why
Prewitt had been relegated to sleeping there. “Nay, ‘tis none of my
concern.”

“That it’s not.” Grimacing, Hugh picked up
Prewitt’s razor; it looked dull. Reaching for the whetstone, he set
about sharpening the blade.

Graeham combed his hair in silence for a few
moments, then said, “She runs the shop all on her own, does
she?”

“Aye. Prewitt never could bear the retail
end of things. And, of course, he’s rarely home. I must say,
Joanna’s done quite well as a shopkeeper.”

“Then why is she so...” Graeham tossed the
comb onto the chest and smoothed his hair back. “Forgive me. I seem
to be full of impertinent questions today.”

“Why is she so poor? I suppose because most
of her trade is by barter, so it’s impossible to save any silver,
and Prewitt...well, he’s been gone for quite some time.”

Graeham dipped his hands in the wash bowl,
scooped up a bit of soap and worked it into a lather. “I wondered
why she wasn’t selling silks by the yard. She must be waiting for
him to return with more.”

“That must be it,” Hugh said without looking
at Graeham. He was no more adept at lying
—
or comfortable
with it
—
than Joanna was.

“A pity,” Graeham said as he rubbed the
lather into his half-grown beard, “for a woman as...well, for any
woman...to be left alone by her husband for months at a time.”

“She’s not alone now. I’m here.” Hugh put
the whetstone down and ran his thumb along the edge of the razor’s
blade; it was lethally sharp now, as keen as his sword. “If any man
takes advantage of her in any way,” he said, capturing Graeham’s
gaze meaningfully, “I’ll slice his ballocks off and feed them to
him.” He held the razor out to Graeham, handle end first.

Graeham didn’t so much as blink. “Well, you
won’t have to slice off mine.” He took the razor, propped the
little looking glass open against the wash bowl, and calmly scraped
the blade over his chin.

“Nothing personal, mind you,” Hugh said. “I
rather like you, actually.”

“And I you.” Graeham wiped the blade on a
wadded-up wash rag and ran it over his jaw. “You saved my life,
after all. I wouldn’t repay you by compromising your sister.”