Page 74 of King's Man

“Already?”

Moses raised an eyebrow. “It’s past noon. You’ve been in here all morning.”

He rubbed at the back of his neck, not surprised it was stiff. Hours disappeared when he was deep in his work. Losing himself like that was a joy he’d missed over the past couple of weeks, and it came as something of a surprise that this room felt like home. He’d miss it when they were back in America. “I’ll be up shortly,” he said, reaching for his loupe again. Whatever Nate needed to say to Hal, he wouldn’t want Sam butting in. Besides, he didn’t want to look too much like a faithful hound sitting at the door awaiting his master’s return. Even if that was exactly how he felt.

Nonetheless, he made short work of the last piece he had to examine — the chatelaine was pretty but, unfortunately for Wessex, only pinchbeck. He made notes for Moses and told him to offer Wessex three hundred pounds for all three pieces together. He’d get more from a jeweler, but if Wessex could sell his ill-gotten gains to a respectable dealer he would, wouldn’t he?

Slipping out of the workshop through the Bowl, Sam hurried across Bainbridge Street to the Brewery. He walked with his hat pulled low and one eye over his shoulder until he could duck into the safety of the yard’s shadows.

Weaving his way through the busy mash room, the air full of hops, Sam ran up the stairs and past the library, slipping through the door into Hal’s private rooms. Only intimates were admitted to the study, which Nate hadn’t been until now. What that meant, Sam didn’t know. Perhaps Nate was asking about Sam’s false papers?

The study door stood ajar and Sam slowed, not wanting to intrude.

Hal Foxe sat behind his desk, immaculate in his black coat, watching Nate with his bright hawk’s eyes. When they’d first met, Sam had tried and failed to judge Hal’s age; anything between thirty and fifty could be right. In some moods, younger even than that. In others, old as old stone. Hard and unyielding. Hal kept his guard high and, as far as Sam knew, nobody had ever glimpsed what lay behind his walls. Rumor had it that his heart had been broken, long ago, by a beautiful young lordling who’d toyed with him and cast him aside. Rumor had it that Hal had faced the noose while the boy floated away unscathed. Rumor had it that’s why Hal had founded the Brethren, why he provided shelter for men like Sam who found themselves in trouble with Bow Street.

But who knew whether any of that was true? Hal Foxe never spoke of his past. Not even deep in his cups.

“When a man hangs for stealing bread to feed his children,” he was saying in his gravelly voice, “I say that the law is unjust. And not worth following.”

“Perhaps.” Though Nate sat with his back to the door, Sam could hear the smile in his voice; Nate dearly loved to debate. “But isn’t the injustice really that the government refuses to provide for the poor, and so leaves them no choice but to steal or starve? The law against theft protects us all.”

Hal spread his hands. “I’ve even less faith in government than I have in lawyers, Mr. Tanner.”

“In this government, perhaps. But, to paraphrase Mr. Jefferson, whenever any form of government becomes destructive of life, liberty, and happiness, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it.”

For a moment, Hal said nothing, but his eyes shone, and his lips ticked towards a smile. “If you’re spreading your revolution to London, Mr. Tanner, then I say all power to you. There’s plenty in St. Giles who’d rally to your cause.”

Sam’s pulse skipped at the notion of Nate leading a mob against Westminster Palace. But Nate only laughed, shaking his head. “The British will have to start their own revolution. All I want is peace, for me and for Sam. I think we’ve earned it.”

“Then I hope you find it.” Hal rose to his feet, his gaze flicking over Nate’s shoulder and landing on Sam. He gave a slight nod, then looked back at Nate. “You’re welcome to stay in the Brewery as long as you need; I dare say I’ll find a use for you.”

Nate stood too, gathering papers into a folder. “Thank you, Mr. Foxe. I’ll endeavor to be useful.”

They parted with a polite bow, and Sam stood away from the doorway as Nate left Hal’s office. His last sight of Foxe was of him sitting back down at his desk and reaching for pen and ink.

Then Nate was before him, closing Hal’s door behind him. It had only been three hours since they’d parted, yet Sam’s heart swooped like a swallow at the sight of him. He smiled and suddenly didn’t care how besotted he looked. “Is it foolish that I missed you?”

Startled, Nate fumbled the papers and then laughed at himself as he turned around. “If it is, then we’re both fools.”

Grinning, Sam strolled closer. “I see you survived your meeting with Talmach. How was it?”

“Difficult. He wasn’t happy, of course.”

“Is he ever? I never a saw a more sour-faced man.”

“He has his reasons to be sour, Sam. Besides, you can’t dislike him too much. If it wasn’t for the colonel, we may never have found each other again.” Nate smiled and shook his head. “I’ll never forget walking into Salter’s and seeing you both sitting there,tête-à-tête. I thought I was dreaming.”

“I thought something else.” Hell, but he’d been angry. Angry and hurt. “And I don’t like to think of what I said to you.”

Nate set down his papers on a console table and stepped closer. With a cautious glance toward the door behind him, he touched Sam’s cheek. “I’m only grateful we met at all.”

Sam briefly covered his hand and then let go, clearing his throat. “So, what did Talmach say? Clearly he didn’t clap you in irons.”

“All he really cares about is clapping Farris in irons. Luckily, he’s still set to sail on Friday, despite my behavior. It seems that men like Farris, men who think the world is there for their pleasure, can’t conceive of losing.”

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy setting him straight.”

Nate didn’t answer, just walked back to the console table and fiddled with his papers. “About that,” he said.

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