Page 13 of Libby's London Merchant
Benedict picked up his business cards in Fleet Street, suffering through an interview with the printer, who leered at him, laughed, and wondered aloud what kind of havey-cavey business the gent was attempting. The duke could only manage a weak smile, overpay the man, and beat a hasty retreat.
“Nesbitt Duke, agent for Copley Confections,” the cards read. He stuck them in his pocket, closed his eyes, and wished that it would all go away and that he would wake up in his own bed, with a bottle nearby.
When he opened his eyes, there was only the rumble of carts and tradesmen jostling him about on the crowded sidewalk. As he stood there, miserable in the clutch of reality, he heard a voice at his elbow.
“Major? Major Nesbitt?”
He turned around, surprised, and stared down at a man crouched by the shop entrance. He had only one leg and a begging cup, but he was military from the proud set of his shoulders to the dignity of his voice. Nez knelt beside the man, and a slow smile made its way across his face.
“Yes, Private Yore, it is I.”
The man hesitated a moment and then saluted. “I didn’t see you when I went in,” Nez said, heedless of the people who growled and swore and circled around him on the busy sidewalk.
The man set down the cup and tried to brush it under the edge of his cloak. “Sir, you had a preoccupied look on your face, sir.” He grinned. “I don’t think you’d have noticed Father Christmas, from the set of your glims. Like I say, preoccupied. I seen that look before, sir.”
Benedict grinned back. “I daresay you have. We were both a bit ‘preoccupied’ about this time last year, if memory serves me.”
“ ’Deed we were, major. Glad to see you’ve recovered, sir.”
“I’m fine, Yore,” he said quickly, and crossed his fingers behind his back.
The two men looked at each other. The ex-private lowered his eyes as the shame of what he was doing spread up his neck and heightened his sallow complexion. “It’s a good corner, sir,” he said finally.
Nez could think of nothing to say. His mind was racing. You’re the lad who defended my back, he thought, and I have allowed this to become of you? When did I become so thoughtless? “What have I…”
“Sir?”
“Nothing, Private. I was just. . . thinking.”
“Doesn’t pay to do too much o’ that, sir,” Yore replied quietly.
“Maybe it should,” Benedict said. He reached in his pocket and sent a handful of coins clinking into the cup; then he rummaged in his pocket for a pencil and tablet. He scribbled something on the back of one of the Copley Confections order forms, folded it, and pressed it into Yore’s hand.
“Take this ’round to Clarges Street, Private. That’s an order, lad,” he added gruffly when Yore protested.
‘‘Aye, sir,” said the beggar, “if the need arises. Thank ye.”
The duke stood up. “I should thank you. 1 wonder that I never did.”
“You didn’t need to, sir. You kept us alive, and we should be thanking you.”
“You’re kind, Yore,” he murmured, and felt unfamiliar tears behind his eyelids. “Now, take that note ’round, do you hear?”
The man nodded. He held up his hand this time and Benedict shook it, managed a small salute, and strode off down the street.
He had a close call at the corner of Fleet and Barkham, turning away and staring at the colorful message on a beer wagon as a high-perch phaeton bearing two of his best friends careened down the street, scattering pedestrians. He turned to watch after they passed, watched them take their careless way from one side of the street to the other. He thought about following them, calling to them to pull over and make room. He knew the public houses they would frequent, the liquor they would drink, the lies they would tell to each other and anyone who would listen. The temptation to catch up with them made him clutch tighter at the reins.
But he had promised Eustace. Even worse than that, he had promised Luster. He smiled in spite of himself and said out loud, “If a man can’t keep a promise to his butler ...”
He turned the gig toward the Dover road.
The duke arrived at Rumleigh after dark, just shy of the shire line, but too tired to drive any farther. His head pounded until he could almost hear it, and he had a raging thirst.
He drove slowly down High Street, remembering an inn from one of his earlier visits, where the ale was of mythical color and strength. As he peered at each overhead sign in the gathering gloom, he began to shake, so badly did he want a drink. Surprised, he held his hand up close to his face, watching the fine tremor that had seized him and wondering if he was coming down with something.
The thought cheered him. If he fell sick, truly sick, then Luster would surely take him back. Eustace would be breathing deep of Brighton’s sea air and need never know Benedict Nesbitt had gotten no farther than Rumleigh. He felt his forehead, and it was disappointingly cool. He shrugged, tightened his grip on the reins to stop the tremor, and stopped at the nearest inn.
It was not the place he remembered, but there was a taproom. He sank down in a chair and ordered, snatching the cup from the barmaid’s tray when she brought it, and drinking deep.
