The Gilded Scarab (27 page)

Winter leaned on the counter. “Look, Rafe, I truly am very sorry about the other day. It comes from being Gallowglass. I’ve had it drummed into me since I was a child to be suspicious, really.”

“Not a nice way to live.”

“No. No, it isn’t. But it’s all I know. And I am very fond of Mr. Pearse. I was terrified something had happened to him. I did not react well, and I am truly sorry.”

I nodded, a little stiffly. He chose to take that as acceptance of the apology.

“Thank you. I appreciate you hearing me out. Listen, I’ve been to Eastbourne and had a long talk with Mr. Pearse. He’s very well. He asked me to give you this.” He offered a sealed envelope, the twin of the one I’d given him.

I accepted it. “Is there no public post office in Eastbourne?”

“I think he was saving the cost of a stamp.”

I really didn’t smile. My set expression may have relaxed a little, because it was rather hard to maintain, that’s all. It made my jaw ache. But I really didn’t smile.

Winter did, though. He let his mouth twitch again into one of those little secretive smiles. “Could I have a cup of coffee while you read it?”

I suspected the major Houses trained their sons to be encroaching. I told him so. But I also gave him a coffee, because he smiled again when I said it. He got one of the new drinks, a mocha-and-chocolate blended coffee with a dollop of whipped cream on the top. “Try that and tell me what you think of it. I’ve been experimenting with some new flavored blends.”

He looked down at the coffee a little dubiously, I thought. “Thank you. It looks delicious. Sam drinks tea.”

“I don’t have any.” I was not in a forgiving mood, not when it came to overzealous House guards. Besides, it was true. I didn’t have any tea. “You can have a fairy cake, though.”

Will’s cakes are works of art. I have never known whether to sell them, eat them, or donate them to the National Art Gallery in Trafalgar Square. The chocolate cakes were stuffed with fudge and marshmallow, and the frosting alone towered a good three inches high. I put two of them on a plate.

Winter gaped. “Thank you. I think.” He took the cakes over to Hawkins and left me to read the old man’s letter.

My dear Rafe,

I hope this finds you well. I had your letter of a fortnight ago, thank you, detailing all you’ve done. Ned said you’ve done wonders with the old place—as did Sir Tane, when he wrote to me recently. I hope your hard work is paying off and success is within your grasp. Don’t forget to free yourself of obligations as quickly as you can.

Ned tells me he got off to a very bad start with you. If half of what he confessed to is true, then I don’t blame you one iota for getting irate. In part, though, I’m writing to apologize for not telling you about him and to ask you to give him another chance.

I thought long and hard what I could tell you to alert you to Ned’s being First Heir, and that your tenants import and export little but instead watch an area Ned visits a great deal. They are there to assess potential threats to him and to help Sam Hawkins if needed. In the end I hoped the hints thrown out, that Gallowglass sent its agent to oversee the purchase, would be enough to set you on your guard. I couldn’t say anything directly because I swore an oath to the Gallowglass, and I don’t do something like that lightly. Still, I am sorry you were unprepared for this. That was ill done of me.

As for Ned himself, well I’ve known him for many years, and I can vouch for it that he isn’t at all as arrogant as he must have appeared. He’s really the best of good fellows.

Ned is very dear to me, Rafe. I’d known him when he was a child, as it happened, but had little contact with him for some years until he started as a student at University College, a good dozen years ago. He’s been a regular at the coffeehouse ever since. I had been there three or four years by then, after my own boy left me. In many ways, I now think, Ned came to fill that gap.

He’s unlike the scions of most Houses. Don’t mistake me; he’s Gallowglass through and through—he’s responsible, dedicated, mindful of the requirements of duty and public service. For himself, I don’t think he wants to do anything other than his Aegyptology, but when he inherits the Gallowglass mantle, then I doubt he’ll ever see Aegypt again. He won’t like it, but he will shoulder the responsibility and do his best, as always. And if he’d been left to himself, I don’t believe he’d have married. But his sense of duty and service, the need to insure an heir of his own… they were paramount.

I tell you all this in confidence, my dear Rafe, because I wish you to understand Ned better. You and he have a lot more in common than you might believe, and I would like to think you could be friends. Both of you are victims of your Houses, to begin with, albeit in different ways. I hope you can put this unfortunate start behind you, forgive Ned and Sam (who is, I know, fiercely protective because he too loves Ned dearly), and let Ned continue to see the coffeehouse as one of his safe places. He has few enough of them, if truth be told. I should hate him to lose the coffeehouse.

Ned also told me he’d let slip who I am. As you’ll have realized, I gave up being the Jongleur more than fifteen years ago. My nephew runs the House, and although the law won’t allow me to give him my title too, I no longer think of myself as anything to do with it. I have had nothing to do with my House since my boy died. Only someone like Ned would think that his being Gallowglass and my once being Jongleur was still a link between us, another strand to tighten the connection, at all events. It’s in the past for me, and there it may stay. I was always a very reluctant House princeps. I’m no Ned Winter, imbued with that strong sense of duty. Don’t think on it any longer. I don’t.

The other reason I’m writing is purely about you. I want to know how you get on and what you’re doing. Your last letter amused and delighted me, so do write again soon. I enjoyed our few months’ friendship, and I’m too old now to give up easily on the friends I have. Keep in touch, my boy.

Yours ever,

Howard Pearse.

I was reading it for the second time, when a clear, cut-glass accent disturbed me. I looked up, startled. I’d been so intent on the letter I hadn’t noticed the bell.

“My dearest boy! When did you get back?” Sir Tane crossed the room to the booth, both hands outstretched. The old man was beaming, and Ned Winter jumped up to take his hand, looking equally as pleased.

“Five days ago,” Winter said in answer to a stream of inquiries from Sir Tane. “A very successful season, sir. We excavated around Sais, in the north. Quite a new area for me, up in the delta. As I intend taking Harry out with me next season, and Sais isn’t quite as healthy an area, I’m handing the dig over to Flinders Petrie and taking his concession at Luxor. But it was very, very successful, and I must take you to the museum to see my finds. Oh, the boys are very well, sir. Harry is seven now, you know. Jack is two, and running about everywhere and getting into everything. I’m considering hiring a tutor for Harry soon, but I think he’ll be impervious to instruction, somehow, unless they teach him mathematics by counting bones.”

Sir Tane laughed. “It has been a few months since I saw young Harry, but I was left with the impression he rather likes bones. He was very proud of a father who keeps bodies in the cellar.”

“Over at the museum, I assure you! My housekeeper would have the vapors if I took them home.”

And Ned Winter smiled such a bright, incandescent smile that my breath hitched. The man was, well, beautiful. Really, it was quite unfair on the rest of the population. I was beginning to think I was too susceptible by half.

I took Sir Tane his usual drink and half listened while he and Winter talked about Saite mummies, whatever they were. I knew a little about mummies and caches and shabtis, of course, but Winter might as well have been speaking in tongues, for all the sense he made when he started talking about things that sounded like
tet
and
de-jed
. I didn’t know what they were. But he had a nice voice, a light tenor that rang with passion and enthusiasm.

I came to the conclusion that, given the museum was literally on my doorstep, I was shamefully ignorant of Aegyptology.

And far, far too susceptible.

There was an influx of customers to deal with just then, luckily providing some distraction from my reflections upon my own weakness. Three German couples looking for
kaffee und kuchen
, followed swiftly by five Americans and a Frenchman. And before I could turn my attention back to Ned Winter, another half dozen visitors came through the door. Business was very brisk indeed, and when I looked up again, Sir Tane had left, and Winter was leaning on the counter.

“Busy,” he commented. “Mr. Pearse never seemed to bother much with the passing trade.”

“Which is why he had to sell up.” I sounded more cynical and abrupt than I intended, but he was altogether too close.

A slight grimace from Winter and a nod. “I spoke to Feldane, the agent. He told me Philtre Coffee was very interested.”

I was coming to believe that Philtre had been very interested indeed, yes. “Mr. Pearse would never sell to them.”

“Feldane wouldn’t have allowed it, in any event.” Winter’s smile faded, and he looked at me soberly. “For all his protestations, Mr. Pearse is very loyal.”

“To his friends, I think.”

“Rather than merely to Gallowglass, you mean?” Winter nodded. He looked a little sad, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I understand the distinction, and I’m grateful for it. I would not have been happy with Philtre here.”

Of course. It had been a Philtre delivery wagon that had smashed into his autophaeton, hadn’t it? When his wife was killed. The Stravaigor had been mockingly unsympathetic. Mr. Pearse had said they’d had their son with them, and had been grieved.

He forced a smile. “Not least because Philtre’s coffee is abysmal. The new blend you gave me was very good, by the way.”

“I know, but it’s nice to have my opinion confirmed by an academic. It gives it more validity, somehow.” I paused, waited for his smile to widen. “Mind you, if that was an underhanded plot to get a free refill, I’ll expect the endorsement in writing.”

Winter let out a choke of laughter. “My word on it, Rafe.” He smiled at me for a moment, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He held out his right hand. “Shall we start again? Edward Fairfax Winter, at your service. Call me Ned. The only person who calls me Edward is my father, usually when he’s about to come over all paterfamilias on me.”

“Ned,” I conceded and gripped his hand. The palm was warm and his fingers strong as they curved around mine. “Rafe Lancaster, at yours.”

He gave me the little smile I liked and squeezed my hand before letting go. “Really? I heard it was Raphael.”

Oh, that was a low blow! Very unsporting. I shot a look of acute dislike at Hawkins. He returned it, narrowing his eyes at me. Distrustful brutes, House guards. “I take it Hawkins made some inquiries.”

“All the archangels couldn’t stop him.” Winter laughed when I rolled my eyes at him. “Sam takes his responsibilities very seriously.”

I touched the letter from Mr. Pearse, now in my pocket. “So I gathered from Mr. Pearse.”

“I’m afraid Sam still harbors some suspicions about the Stravaigor’s interest in you and in this coffeehouse.”

I snorted. I couldn’t help it. “He is nowhere near as suspicious as I am.”

“Yes. We rather gathered that you were not an active member of your House. Mr. Pearse appears to view you as a kindred spirit.”

“Good. That’s about right.” I gave a decisive nod. “He pleads your case too.”

“Then I’m grateful, if it’s working.” He pushed back from the counter. “We had better get on to the museum. I have a meeting, and Nurse is bringing the boys to join me later.” He gestured to the table where he’d spoken with Sir Tane. “You’ll have gathered I have two boys? I promised the elder one, Harry, a treat today. I think he’s pretty much sated on the Aegyptian artifacts I have at home, and he always likes to go and look at the collections at the museum.” He half turned, paused, and said, raising an eyebrow at me, “Do you still go to Margrethe’s?”

“I’ve been once or twice since… while you were away. Why?”

He wasn’t smiling so widely now. He reached out and tapped my watch chain with one finger. “I wondered who you’ve met there, that’s all.”

He stepped back and gestured to his own watch chain. His scarab watch was enameled a deep green, the wing cases picked out with diamonds and emeralds.

Oh. Oh, damnation.

“How is Daniel?” he asked.

I opened my mouth, not having the faintest idea what I was going to say. Thank the Lord the door opened and half of Australia appeared to flood in to save me. I shrugged, apologetically, and Winter grimaced, nodded, and departed, a dour Hawkins in tow.

Damn.

Well… damn.

Chapter 18