Page 39 of King's Man

“I guess we both need to spruce ourselves up if we’re to pass muster,” Sam said, gaze running over Nate’s body with an interest that thrilled him. “And we’ll need some breakfast.”

Still smiling, Nate turned back to the cottage to fetch his shaving kit.

“Wait.” Sam grabbed his wrist, tugging him back around. His mouth moved as if rehearsing words, but after a pause he dropped Nate’s arm, fingers flexing at his side, and only said, “Be careful today.”

Nate smiled, his heart full. “You, too.”

∞∞∞

As they drove across the bridge some hours later, the great monstrosity of Marlborough Castle loomed before them as if torn from the pages of a Gothic romance. Gloomy even on this summer morning, Nate wouldn’t have been surprised to see a ghostly figure haunting its faux battlements.

Imitation it might be, but MacLeod’s castle still had the power to chill. That had more to do with the bastard who owned the place than any fear of malevolent spirits.

Sitting next to him on the trap, Sam nudged their shoulders together and they shared a quick smile as Nate drew the pony to a halt. They’d driven from the cottage, Nate posing as Sam’s driver, and he stayed put while Sam trotted up the stone steps to rap on Marlborough’s ostentatious front door — all gargoyles and grotesques. Sam tugged at his coat sleeves as he waited for an answer, the nervous gesture so painfully familiar that Nate had to smother a sharp pang of affection lest it show on his face.

“Mr. Hutchinson for Lord Marlborough,” Sam said when the front door opened to reveal a lavishly liveried footman. “On a matter of business.”

Nate held his breath as the footman looked Sam up and down, no doubt assessing his travel-worn appearance and threadbare cuffs. “I’ve come direct from London,” Sam explained with his easy smile. “On behalf of Mr. Farris.”

Oh, how Nate loved that smile.

Evidently it was enough to charm the footman because Sam was admitted into the dark maw of Marlborough Castle. At the last moment, he glanced over his shoulder just as one of MacLeod’s men approached to direct Nate toward the stables. Sam turned away, stepped into the shadows, and was gone.

Nate swallowed his unease and reminded himself to focus on his own business. Sam could take care of himself, for heaven’s sake. He’d been doing so for long enough. Nate’s plan, such as it was, involved speaking to the servants and gleaning, if possible, any information that might prove useful.

To that end he handed the stable boy a coin in exchange for keeping an eye on his horse and asked the way to the kitchens. “I could do with some breakfast,” he said with a smile.

“You’ll be lucky.” But the lad pocketed his coin, nonetheless, pointing him toward a small black door at the side of the house.

It opened with a creak into a scullery. Two girls were working hard, sweaty beneath their caps and up to their elbows in dirty, greasy water. They spared Nate a curious look but said nothing as he crossed the room and stepped into the heat and bustle of a busy kitchen. A dozen delicious aromas assaulted him at once — baking bread and roasting meat chief among them — and his stomach growled even though he’d eaten some of the leftover bread and cheese for breakfast.

“Can I help you, sir?” A girl looked up from rolling pastry on the large table that dominated the room. She wore a pale dress and white apron, her sleeves pushed up to the elbows and ruddy hands covered in flour. Nate guessed she was no more than fifteen years old.

He doffed his hat and sketched a bow, conscious that he was somewhat too well-dressed to pass as a servant. “I beg pardon for the intrusion,” he said, hoping his accent would distract the girl from any other inconsistencies in his performance, “but my master’s visiting his lordship this morning and I was hoping for a bite to eat while I wait.”

The girl glanced toward the head of the table where a tall, broad-shouldered woman stood surveying the kitchen much like a general on the field of battle. The cook, he surmised. “I’d have to ask Mrs. Sturge, sir,” said the girl

“I’d be much obliged if you would.” He offered her a smile and was amused to see her blush as she wiped off her floury hands on her apron.

The cook — Mrs. Sturge — fixed the maid with a beady look as soon as she left her station, her quick gaze darting to Nate as the girl talked to her in low tones. He watched the woman straighten while she scrutinized him, no doubt taking in his too-gentlemanly appearance and cautious about what it might signify.

“My name’s Reed, ma’am,” Nate offered. “And I don’t mean to put you to any trouble.” He spread his hands and attempted to mimic Sam’s charming smile.

Mrs. Sturge folded her arms, uncharmed. “We’re not an inn, sir, and we’re busy. We’ve house guests.” Her expression tightened. “Viscount Rowsley and his retinue.”

Nate regarded her carefully, noting her intelligent eyes and meticulous neatness of dress. This was a woman with professional pride, but not a woman impressed by Viscount Rowsley. Nate allowed himself a more honest smile. “Well, naturally the needs of a viscount must come before a man such as myself.”

“Naturally.” Her expression remained entirely proper, save the sparkling of her eyes.

“No matter which of us is the most deserving.”

Mrs. Sturge’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t respond. Instead, she said, “You’re an American, Mr. Reed?”

“Indeed I am. You recognize my accent? There’s many who wouldn’t.” Few outside Britain’s largest port cities would ever have heard an accent like his. “You’ve heard it before?”

Mrs. Sturge’s expression narrowed and she looked away. “Sarah, fetch Mr. Reed a slice of ham and the heel of yesterday’s bread. And a glass of beer.”

“Well, thank you, ma’am,” he said. “I’m much obliged.”

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